Who Knows What The Tide Will Bring?

When I'm traveling on business, I'm too cheap to order in-room movies, so the best I can do is to catch random bits on HBO at the end of a long day. Last night I saw the final 15 minutes of Cast Away with Tom Hanks (which I had seen previously). Stranded on an uninhabited island for several years, Hanks finally escapes through a bit of serendipity: One day, the tide deposits the side panel of a porta-potty, which Hanks uses as a makeshift sail on his raft. After returning to civilization, Hanks recounts what he learned with the line, "Tomorrow the sun will rise, and who knows what the tide will bring?" His will to live, though necessary, was not enough. Deliverance was partly the result of a fluke event. Political crises and downfalls, likewise, are sometimes the product of being blindsided (though just as often they are the fallout of bad judgment). I believe in plans, and in the power of will and persistence to turn the imagined into reality. But fluke events are a force that should not be ignored. In some cases, the tide may wash ashore a crisis; at other times, rising waters may introduce the opportunity of a lifetime.

Jimmy With a Chance of Steak

I'm at my second meeting in DC--more accurately, I'm in National Harbor, Maryland, which is just south of the Capitol. My NRC work is complete for now, so I've picked up registration materials for the IES PI (Institute of Education Sciences Primary Investigator) meeting. Only a half-day remains in a 2.5 day conference--not the way things are supposed to work, I know. The NRC project is important, though, so I stayed with the study committee through two days. Now I'm authentically tired. With a good night's rest, I'll regroup to attend the two morning sessions (my due diligence) before checking out and heading to the airport. The bright spot in my schedule is a dinner with Jimmy Kim in about 30 minutes. Jimmy is a dear friend, colleague, and fellow traveler--the kind of person whose company make a day better. We are both dedicated carnivores, and that's a bonus. The magnificent Gaylord Hotel, where we are staying, has a cavernous glass in atrium that overlooks the Potomac. The atrium contains several restaurants, one of which is a prime steakhouse. I looked at the menu on the way in: The Porterhouse cut is expensive, but it would pair nicely with Jimmy's company.

Smart + Nice + Hard Working

Today I started service on a new committee of the National Research Council, one charged with presenting the current state of Discipline Based Educational Research (DBER). We worked hard all day and tonight enjoyed a prix fixe dinner at Poste, a fancy DC restaurant. As we dined, one person remarked that we really ought to have someone on the committee who would take us to task, questioning the assumptions that the entire committee seemed to accept even though we hailed from different academic backgrounds. I wondered whether this was possible. Would a cantankerous naysayer be allowed in? The people who are invited to serve on project committees, and who are later re-invited, are predictably nice--they interact fluidly and productively with other committee members. Sociability is essential, but so is intelligence and a well-developed work ethic. The NRC tends to draw from a small pool. Is it because of cronyism? I don't think so. It may be that satisfying multiple criteria is rarer than most would guess.

What We Went Through

When together we face tribulations, whether trivial or truly threatening, there's a possibility of drawing closer. I felt this potential today when I traveled from OC with two other members of my department: Greg, a senior professor, and Teya, a graduate student. We were headed to Washington through Chicago O'Hare. Our plane out of OC was delayed, though, and our booked flight out of O'Hare took off without us. We were stranded at lovely O'Hare Airport. After a confusing string of bookings, re-bookings, and cancellations, we sat scrunched with salads at Wolfgang Puck with no idea if any of us would make it to DC tonight. As I write, I'm somewhere over Indiana en route to National, Greg is on his way to Dulles, and Teya is enjoying a quiet night at the Airport Hilton in Chicago. Before our braided paths splayed apart, we got to know each other a little better. Because we faced a common minor plight, friendships were deepened. It was not all bad.

Obeying Myself

Exploration into the nature of the human mind often turns up an interesting speculation: The mind seems to operate as if it were a multiplicity of consciousness rather than a single entity. That's to say: individual cognition commonly operates not as mind, but as minds. Freud believed it when he spoke of the directive superego. The Saturday morning cartoon version depicts a miniature angel on one shoulder and a little devil on the other, each whispering their warnings, pleas, and promises. Cognitive psychologists are likewise comfortable with the idea of a divided mind when they posit models of executive control or "thought about thought" (a.k.a. metacognition). Philosophers of mind, too, are sympathetic. In Consciousness Explained, Daniel Dennett presents the mind as a federation of processes. What's amazing in his view is not that consciousness is spread across multiple modules, but that it's experienced in the individual as unified. We have a strong sense of integrated awareness--a sense of self. I believe we can benefit tremendously from internal division. By means of this mental architecture, we have the ability to say "Do this!" and comply. This is helpful beyond estimation, particularly when the path ahead becomes dull, steep, or scary.

Taxonomy of Edges

Hard edges are of many kinds, and it may be impossible to generalize across their various manifestations. Some are edges of social censure or embarrassment, the kind that make us comply, keep us respectful, or teach us not to live irresponsibly. Their effects may be good or evil. Other edges are the boot camps of life; they make us stronger through trial and leave us fitter at the end of the gauntlet. Yet other edges are forces of malicious harm: the infliction of pain by one human onto another to exert control, to enslave, or simply to hurt for the twisted delight of it. Still other edges are scenery, the furniture of this existence, which by nature (but not intention) jab and poke the soft flesh of humanity as it tries to find a way. The taxonomy of edges is multi-categorical. We live among edges--with them, despite them, and because of them.

Try Try Again

There is an old aphorism that goes, "If at first you don't succeed--try, try again." At first, the formula appears too simple, too childish, to be of any use. Seen from another angle, though, it is quite powerful. I remember reading some pertinent research a few years ago. The research showed that permanent behavior change was rarely accomplished on the first attempt. Whether the change was to quit smoking, start exercise, or to build or break any habit--success was commonly achieved only on the third, fourth, or fifth attempt. In other words, success followed repeated failure. This is a little surprising because it's easy to form conclusions about what we can and can't do based on direct experience. Failure implies a lack of ability. Apparently, a string of failures can easily support an unwarranted conclusion: that our aspirations outreach our capacity. The inference is wrong because new way of life might well build on the wreckage of previous attempts. Somehow, our stumbles and face plants have educational potential. The experience of repeated failure can teach us how to succeed--but only if we keep trying.

Shadow Charleston

Last night Stephanie and I went out to Atomic Ballroom for a 7 pm class on Intermediate Charleston. I was hoping we would learn how to do the shadow Charleston. That's the move in the '20s era dance in which the the guy stands directly behind the girl, holding her hands in his. They dance the Charleston with identical footwork and hand motions, so that one one is shadowing the other. It looks great, and is a terrific addition to any swing repertoire. Our instructor, James, included the move in the evening's lesson; most important, he taught us how to start and end the shadow segment. Many months ago, I remember seeing other dancers weaving the shadow Charleston into their dancing and being very impressed--it seemed so far beyond what I could do. Last night's lesson was a further reminder that the performances that seem beyond our grasp are probably less so than what we imagine. We are rightly impressed and inspired by the skills of other people, but too often we wrongly conclude, "I could never do that."

Residue

The past reverberates in the future. A chain of good decisions--of investments in hard work, savings, friendship, kindness, goodwill--conveys benefits now. A man reaps what he sows, after all. The past is never merely a record of what once was; it lives on through its residue that defines today's givens. We build from there. How fortunate we are when the residue is good--when the track of investment over time has been bold, prudent, and generous. Bad residue, though, is common enough, in which case people must build off a string of bad contexts, events, or relationships. If the past leaves a residue on the present, then today's decisions will cling to, and partly define, tomorrow's reality. Our history follows us like bride's train. Bridal trains can be very beautiful, but they must be handled with care.

What Technology Dividend?

It's not easy living in the 21st century. The technologies that make life more efficient also raise expectations for efficiency. The supposed information overload perpetrated by the mass media of the last century--print, radio, cable, internet--has now been supplemented with a daily avalanche of e-mail. If you get sick, get slack, or go on vacation, the typical inbox can quickly exceed 100 messages, maybe 1000. A backlog of e-mail is more stressful than a pile of neglected magazines, newspapers, and paper letters delivered to a mailbox. E-mail is often personally directed and requires a personal response. The personal element is critical, because a delay in response or a reply in the wrong tone can convey all kinds of wrong messages--like lack of care or respect. What's the technology dividend here? Perhaps the tools of 2010 open possibilities for greater good and greater achievement than ever before. Social networking devices may make us more connected, and that's good, too. But there is a price. The technology dividend, if there is one, is taxing.

Laying Low on Father's Day

It's two days post-chemo and I'm doing all right. With Steph working, I am on my own, which is just as well at this point. It's been a good day. I took it slow with breakfast, followed by coffee and an hour of writing, followed by a trip to the gym (two treadmill miles plus weights), followed by two steak tacos del carbon (Del Taco, with change back from $5). It's just amazing how good tacos can taste when you're really hungry. Yes, it's been a good day. My dear daughters are scattered east, west, and south. Our ongoing interactions, our weaving paths through the years, are affirmation to me that I am loved. I take that in now. As I hide out in a semi-cocoon of recovery, I am happy in an enduring reality of blessings deep and rich. It's Fathers Day, and a happy one.

Cycle 30

There was a TV commercial in the 1960s in which a kid expressed appreciation for malted chocolate milk by declaring, "My old pal, Ovaltine!" I can say the same--half sincerely, half facetiously--about Carboplatin and Gemzar. Early yesterday afternoon, an oncology nurse inserted a needle into my right arm and started the IV pumps, which began their slow delivery of toxic chemicals into my bloodstream. The nurses give me other drugs, too--anti-emetics, antihistamines, and steroids--to ease the pain, but last night I felt wretched just the same. Because each chemo cycle typically consists of two infusions spaced a week apart, this was approximately my 50th encounter with my old pals. I don't mind too much; in fact I'm grateful because, blunt instruments though they are, they still hack away the bad stuff. My eye exam last week showed no decrement in vision overall, so even neuropathy appears to be negligible. I am thankful. I appreciate "Carbo" and "Gem," and even more my flesh and blood pals who love me and pray for me.

The Future Bright

I'm ready to start writing again in earnest. Last night I signed three copies of a contract with Oxford University Press to publish "The Future Bright: A Transforming Vision of Intelligence and Human Potential." I first talked to the editor in May of 2009 and submitted a proposal in August. The wondrous wheels of bureaucracies turn slowly: Almost a year later, the proposal was approved. Though the contract has yet to be countersigned, it's close enough to official. I have until January 1, 2012 to submit a manuscript--a full year and a half. This book will be shorter in total word count than my last book. It's also directed to a general audience and is categorized as a trade book--a Barnes & Noble type release, which is different than book 1 (academic) and book 2 (textbook). After a walk-jog around Aldrich Park this morning with Stephanie and equipped now with a cup of Peets coffee (large, black, and strong), I'm ready to go. From my vantage point, the future looks bright.

The Airport La Quinta

Last night my flight departed Dulles so late that I missed my connection in Denver. No problem. Being forced to stay overnight near the Denver International Airport hinted mildly of adventure, and presented a credible excuse to miss a department meeting the next morning. The reality of the La Quinta Inn fell short of what I imagined. Worst, maybe, was a strong hint of cigarette smoke in my room (which Stephanie could not abide). Could this possibly be a designated smoking room, I wondered? Do those even exist nowadays? Maybe smoking rooms are the first assigned (at $68/night) in contracts with airlines. In its favor, La Quinta does offer a free breakfast. My selection: two hard boiled eggs and raisin toast with cinnamon swirls. With a cup of Maxwell House coffee self-served in a mini styrofoam cup, the combo is satisfactory. The next shuttle arrives in 1o minutes, which is just about right. I've already blogged from downtown Denver with enthusiasm; the Airport La Quinta, however, falls short. I'm ready to conclude this grand adventure and head home.

Badlands

The songs of Bruce Springsteen explore common struggles, especially those faced by American men. On the album Darkness of the Edge of Town, the song "Badlands" depicts the clash between dreams of success and harsh reality of disappointment. Springsteen affirms that America is the land of opportunity, but success is not cheap, easy, or guaranteed. Fulfilled dreams are hard won; they often follow a trail of toil and setbacks that, when success eventually comes, we'd rather not remember. Springsteen fights back. He says to his woman, "Badlands, you gotta live it every day; Let the broken hearts stand as the price you gotta pay; We'll keep pushin' till it's understood; And these badlands start treating us good." In the Badlands of America, the Dream is no mirage. It's real, all right, but is never reached by the timid. The Dream is for those who "keep pushin"--not alone, but in the company of people who love them and who also believe.

Watching Obama From The Beltway

After landing at Washington/Reagan around 6 pm tonight, I collected my luggage and got a cab ride out to Tyson's Corner. My driver, originally from Somalia, explained that among the African expatriates living in the DC area, east Africans and west Africans tend to form separate communities. We talked about the Lakers game, World Cup soccer, and differences between DC denizens and Californians. Washington DC, we agreed, is an interesting town. After I checked into my hotel room, I went down to the exercise room and jumped on a treadmill. My modest jog coincided almost exactly with Barack Obama's first televised address from the Oval Office. His speech to the camera (that is, the American people) was devoted almost entirely to his administration's response to the Gulf oil spill. The President talked tough when he announced the demands he would make tomorrow to the CEO of BP. As I looked at the TV screen, I noticed that the twilight glow around the White House matched the crepuscular aura outside my hotel window. I was just 10 miles from Barack, and this changed things. All things political are supercharged when experienced in the DC Metro area. Power and politics, often fascinating from wherever, become more real, more alive.

Negative Splits

Splits are an important concept in track and field. A split refers to the time it takes to run a fraction of the total distance in any event. In the mile, for example, a runner would be interested in his splits for 1/4, 1/2, and 3/4 mile. In fact, stop watches are designed to give total elapsed time as well as splits along the way. Runners can use this information. One strategy is to keep a constant pace, in which case you want the splits to be approximately equal. Another strategy, though, is to keep some energy in reserve, so that each split is somewhat faster than the one before. These are negative splits. Negative splits are exciting, partly because they flow counter to expectations. For any non-athlete, the normal pattern would be that each subsequent split is slower than the one before: As we get tired, the pace drops. Somewhat more dignified are even splits, because they show planning and restraint. Negative splits are the most impressive of all. Not only do they indicate great athletic conditioning and control, they showcase the power of the athlete and eventuate in a strong finish. On the track, negative splits are pretty cool, but does the concept travel beyond the athletic field? Could we practice negative splits in the arena of life?

Playfully Productive

It's a free-form Sunday, a rare confluence of timing in which Stephanie and I have no meetings and no set plans. Yesterday was different: We attended Sarah Hannesson's wedding at 11 am, Willa's baby naming at 3, and Saturday church service at 5. It was a good day, we agreed at dinner. Today is good, too, but in a different way--a free form mix of work and play. It started with a morning run followed by starter cup of coffee with dark chocolate, and the second half of Frequency with Dennis Quaid (we must finish what we start, after all). Now it's 10 am at Peet's, laptops are open and "work" is getting done. What's promised for later is huevos rancheros which should serve as breakfast and lunch. Is this work or is it play? It's a mix, really. The categories of pleasure and productivity happily coexist. They pivot and swirl--one leading, one following--before the roles reverse and the dance continues.

Sir Surly's Ignorance, and Mine

Kobe Bryant was asked by a news reporter why he was so surly in interviews. Kobe answered, "I don't know what that word means." The reporter rephrased the question but might have chuckled afterward. It seems funny that someone who's a fine example of surly can't use the word in a sentence. Though Kobe Bryant is arguably the greatest basketball player alive today, I'll admit that my respect for him dropped just a little. How could he not know what surly means? We judge on so little: the smallest patches of ignorance prompt unreasonable reactions of laughter, incredulity, or shock among those who happen to know. When I was a graduate student, a professor laughed when I pronounced Appomattox with the accent on the second syllable instead of the third. It sounded pretty funny, I guess, but I felt like a dope. It happened again recently, but this time my grad students laughed at me when I pronounced doppelganger with soft g's instead of hard. Very funny! It seems unfair that blips of ignorance should produce such hearty responses, but the reaction seems inevitable, uncontrollable. So place your accent on the right syllable, don't replace hard g's with soft, and whatever you do, don't mis-spell potatoe. Or, if you do and you get laughter in return--don't be surly about it.

Poly-Maniacal With Provisos

"We know what it takes in the academic world," said my friend Matt, a math professor, "You have to be mono-maniacal." In City Slickers, Cowboy Curly had the same idea when he held up his index finger and said to a bewildered Billy Crystal, "Just one thing." Some people focus all of their energies on a single overriding goal, and this may be just what it takes to be President, CEO, or MVP. But for the sake of a single convergence point, many have sacrificed their humanity or dignity, even their soul. Professor Matt is not mono-maniacal; he is at least bi-maniacal with deep investments in abstract mathematics and open-ocean yachting. In City Slickers, Billy Crystal's problem was that he was non-maniacal. He was adrift in midlife, unfocused and unfulfilled. Is there an optimal choice point between mania (make it happen) and passivity (let it happen)? Between singular purpose and splintered interests? I advocate erring on the side of mania (which might not surprise those who know me) and multiple interests. If we can pursue multiple passions without selling out, the path ahead might be pretty glorious. Poly-mania is the prescription.

Loved or Liked?

Brennan Manning speaks passionately about the need to understand God's nature (always in part, of course) and to shed false images of his character. A key insight is to know with certainty that God loves each person fully and unconditionally. More than that, though, he likes us--not just collectively but also individually, with (and even because of) our idiosyncracies. It's wonderful that God loves us unconditionally, but in a way this is not too surprising. It's who he is: To love is his nature. But to know that God likes us--that he is truly fond of us--is a great gift because, as Manning says, that realization allows us to look inward and, in turn, to like ourselves. Similarly, to be genuinely liked by another person--a parent, a friend, a spouse--is a great healing force. To be liked tells us that we are likable, not as we should be in some ideal existence, but as we are now. Therein lies restoration.

Goal Stacks

In the 1960s, AI researchers Allan Newell and Herbert Simon modeled human problem solving as the basis for computer programs that could perform intelligently. One important feature of their model was the goal stack. A goal stack is a prioritized list, usually fairly short, of goals formed by the intelligent entity, whether human or machine. When the goal of highest priority is achieved, it is "popped" from memory, and then the next goal is pursued. Sometimes complex goals are subdivided into more manageable subgoals. Consider the ambitious goal of cooking a Thanksgiving dinner, and it's clear that creating subgoals is the way to go. The prioritized goal stack is quite important to intelligent thought and behavior. In humans, though, it is bounded by the limited capacity and fragile evanescence of short-term memory. Sadly, our conscious processor really can't hold much and is in constant risk of dropping items. This is why we write things down: memos to self, to-do lists, and so on. Even so, I have found that I can be pretty efficient when I can concentrate on just a few high priority items. What's important today? Put it in your goal stack--then start popping.

Tensile or Tenuous?

People who study the chemistry of spider webs say they are remarkably strong. The tensile strength of spider silk is greater than steel. But spider silk is only relatively strong. After all, webs can be broken with a casual sweep of the hand, and they are devastated by a quick broom sweep. Whether webs are strong or weak is a matter of perspective. A human life displays the same duality. UCLA Coach John Wooden died last weekend at the age of 99, making a case for the robustness of the human spirit and body. As we look around, though, we see proof of the opposite: the human body and spirit evince surprising fragility. The body is complex--it relies on a sprawling system of antibodies and enzymes, as well as control systems that regulate temperature, respiration, and digestion. Communication is coordinated through sensitive endocrine signaling as well as chains of depolarization in neural networks. Vast interlocking complexity hints of delicacy, and at times we see evidence of the body's vulnerability. I like to think about the body's strength, it's capacity to rebound. I'm less a fan of its fragility, but that feature helps us get over the false assumption of permanence. What is tenuous is also precious.

The OC--Sweet Spot of the World

This weekend Amy and James stopped by for a later dinner after a day riding the roller-coasters at Magic Mountain. Sprawling on a giant bean bag, James glanced over at our open garage door. A native of Michigan, James remarked how nice it was to have the house open and not have to worry about mosquitos. Fact: We are relatively bug-less here in Orange County, the OC. Other benefits are easy to cite, weather being obvious. Winter mornings might require a light jacket, but Polo shirts work great on most January afternoons. Though we northern Californians are chagrined to say it, there are reasons why the nation's population gravitates toward the lower left corner. But in generalizing this way, am I merely rationalizing my own choices or chance path? The human psyche is prone to weave coherence into personal facts, making them sensible and happy stories. Do the citizens of Boston or Beijing or Tel Aviv similarly wake to a certainty, or strong suspicion, that their life conditions are the best of all possible--that they have found a local maximum? To find oneself at the center of an ideal world, an earthly sweet spot, is quite a treat--even if it requires a modicum of self-deception.

Getting So Much Better All the Time

The fourth track of Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band is a typically upbeat McCartney tune, "Getting Better." The lyrics declare that "things are getting so much better all the time." It's crazy, but when I heard the tune on the radio this morning, I could resonate. Can things really keep getter better, or is there a quota on good stuff, an average toward which highs and lows will always rebound? Too often, bad stuff encroaches and attacks--sometimes in ugly streaks. Maybe there's no limit on how bad things can get. But the same might be true of good stuff: An unexpected check, good news from afar, a relationship healed, a breakthrough achievement, an excellent meal, a song, a sunset, a kiss. Why must such things be rationed? A sprinkling of goodness might be followed by a downpour of the same. Why not?

31 Flavors of Goodness

Last night Hilly took a JetBlue flight back to Raleigh-Durham to start a summer internship at Duke. Our house is a little less lively now, and marginally quieter--though Hilly is neither loud nor demanding. This morning, Stephanie and I woke to the simplicity of each other. With no immediate commitments we could sleep late (7:30 or 8!) and then hike the UCI preserve to the rocks overlooking the tollway. Now we are at Peet's, well stocked with reading materials, copious amounts of strong coffee, and two carbo-crammed scones. Life is good--and life was good. Maybe it's all good. No, that's overstatement. But goodness is found in multiple forms and flavors, a fact that Baskin-Robbins placed at the center of its business model. Ice cream is more interesting when we have choices beyond chocolate and vanilla. Life transitions also offer goodness in spectral variety. Try a sample.

Believe Me, There is a Way

Last night the UCI Department of Education held its first-ever standalone graduation ceremony. The commencement recognized master's degree recipients and students who earned their teaching credential. I had the honor of reading the names of the honorees to an audience of several hundred. The featured speaker, Mary Roosevelt, has been my Education Department colleague since 1992. Mary's talk recounted her early teaching career in the slums of London, with later stints at the International School in Geneva and the United Nations School in New York. Mary's life is storied, bold, and lined with unremitting enthusiasm. Her commencement address was a charge to a new crop of teachers to live adventurously, citing the power of human imagination and will. Mary's closing line was, "If there's a will, believe me, there is a way." I followed up this morning with my own real-life application. Though I have an IV needle in my arm as I type, just four hours ago I was 40 feet under the sea in Shaw's Cove. With my friend, Wayne, I enjoyed gliding through the kelp forest in the company of rays, a shy Moray eel, and a reclusive horn shark. I'm listening, Mary, and I'm believing.

Dot Dot Dot

I wondered this morning whether there was really any point to going on my "run." With messed-up back muscles, it would amount to nothing but a pathetic shuffle. I wavered. The "runs" of the last few days were merely symbolic, reminders to myself that I had made a commitment to run every day for a year. The routine was form without substance, a cup without coffee, a pan minus the pie. There is a point, though, to continuity. The fluctuation of human experience means that we all encounter patches where not much is happening. Invoking more metaphors, we need to keep the beat even when the melody fades away. In writing, we use the ellipsis ( . . .) to show that we are not quite done. The ellipsis tells the reader to keep going; it's a promise that more is coming. The ellipsis also suggests, without quite promising, that something really cool is next. We need to appreciate the ellipses in our experience by sustaining the beat, waiting for good times again. So this morning I laced up my Adidas trainers. Turns out that my run, while not magnificent, was a run without the scare quotes. It was . . . real.

We Are Molecules

Though we are much more than the atoms that compose our bodies, we are at root fancy concatenations of the elements. We are manipulated by, and manipulate, the formation and deformation of electron orbitals. Bonding and breaking, in turn, set the internal soup of personal physiology. The molecular soup du jour interfaces with the human psyche, tilting feeling states toward sleep or alertness, pleasure or pain. All subjective experiences--joy and depression, interest and boredom, comfort and anxiety--are in part chemistry. Our feet are planted on the earth, identifying Homo sapiens with the realm of oceans and soil, trees and animals. It's a humble aspect of being human. We soar though the stratosphere of scientific discovery, artistic insight, and spiritual transcendence, yet our feet remain muddy. Muddy magnificence.

Nothing Like a Novel

Last night, after shopping at Lowe's and eating spare ribs at Lucille's, our family subset sat down to read novels. Hilly read Jane Eyre. Respectability thereafter declined, with literary sophistication inversely proportional to the age of the reader. That's okay--we were reading good stories--a past-time few entertainments can rival. Reading fiction is good for you, too, offering the possibility of psychological insight, even self-improvement. A few years ago my friend Scott Wood remarked that fiction can shine light into the nature of consciousness. To me, the insight was remarkable. It's true: Literature is a fairly direct way into the thoughts of another person. What great gifts: The worlds we can enter though a book, and the words that frame those imaginary worlds and reflect back to make sense of our own. Words and worlds. These are inventions, not natural categories, yet they present order to our experience, empower us to extrapolate beyond what we already know, and give us pleasure besides.