Category: Books

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Books

Clear Colors

This highlight popped up in my Readwise feed early this morning:

“If you can’t fall in love with the San Juan Mountains during the third week of September, you can’t fall in love. The mountainsides are covered with the world’s largest aspen forests, and they are changing in vast undulating swathes: yellow, golden, orange, vermilion. The sky is a headstrong break-your-heart blue, the air is so clear you can see a hundred miles on a straight horizon, and the river is cold and crisp and possibly even clearer than the air.” (Pam Houston, Deep Creek)

Categories
Books History

The Absence of Cavalry

There is a moment on the second day at Gettysburg, in the trees below a hill nobody had bothered to name until that afternoon, when a colonel from Maine runs out of bullets. He has maybe eighty men left who can still stand. The ammunition wagons are somewhere behind him, or ahead of him, or nowhere at all — nobody has told him, because nobody knows. What he knows is the sound coming up the slope, which is the sound of more men than he has, coming again.

He gives the only order left. Fix bayonets. Then he does something that has no tactical name because it isn’t tactics, not really — he swings the end of his line forward like a door closing, and his men run downhill into an enemy that outnumbers them, screaming, empty rifles held out in front of them like something between a weapon and a prayer.

It works. It should not have worked. That’s the part that stays with you.

I read Michael Shaara’s The Killer Angels years into a working life that had already taught me the plain, unglamorous truth at the center of that charge — that almost every real decision gets made with less than you need to know. Not none. Less. You wait for the number that would make it easy, and the number doesn’t come, and the hill is still there, and eventually you have to move anyway. Chamberlain at Little Round Top is the version of that truth that Hollywood wanted, the one with a bayonet charge and a hill that becomes a metaphor. It’s a fine scene. It is not the one that has stayed lodged in me the longest.

The one that stays is a man who isn’t even at Gettysburg for most of the book he’s in.

Jeb Stuart was supposed to be Lee’s eyes. That’s the literal job — cavalry rides ahead, cavalry finds out where the enemy is and isn’t, cavalry comes back and tells the general the thing the general cannot see for himself. Stuart instead took his troopers on a long, glittering loop around the entire Union army, capturing wagons, making headlines, having — by every account, including Shaara’s — something close to the time of his life. And Lee, the whole time, was moving a hundred thousand men through Pennsylvania blind. Not blind because he was careless. Blind because the one man whose entire function was to prevent that blindness had gone looking for glory instead of information.

By the time Stuart rides back in, dusty and pleased with himself, the battle has already half-decided itself without him. Lee’s fury at him is quiet in the novel, almost tender, which is somehow worse than if it had been loud. There’s no scene of reckoning. There doesn’t need to be. The absence already did its work. Three days of an army feeling its way forward with its hands out, and somewhere behind all of it, a man who could have told them what was there, riding home late with wagons full of things nobody needed.

What stayed with me wasn’t Stuart’s vanity. It was the shape of the thing — the specific, structural loneliness of deciding while the person whose job was to reduce your uncertainty is off somewhere doing something that felt more important to him at the time. You don’t get to know, later, whether the information would have changed anything. You only get to know you didn’t have it, and you went ahead anyway, and now it’s history, or it’s Tuesday, or it’s both.

There’s a way of reading war novels where the tactics are the point, where watching intelligent people arrange forces on a map has an almost mathematical satisfaction. The Killer Angels gives you that if you want it; Shaara knew where every regiment stood on every ridge. But the book’s better trick is quieter. It keeps putting men in rooms — tents, really, canvas and lantern light — where the map has a hole in it, and asking them to act as though it doesn’t.

Longstreet knows the ground favors defense and says so, and is overruled by a man he loves, and does his duty anyway with the full weight of his own doubt still sitting in his chest. Chamberlain doesn’t know if the flank will hold and commits to it as though he does. Lee doesn’t know where the Union army actually is, for three of the most consequential days in American history, and moves his men forward on faith and old maps and the assumption that his cavalry would come back in time to tell him otherwise.

None of them get the number. They all have to decide before the fog lifts, because the fog was never going to lift on schedule, and the enemy does not wait for your confidence to catch up to your responsibility. That’s not really a Civil War lesson. It just happens to be dressed as one, in wool and brass buttons, on a July afternoon in Pennsylvania in 1863. It’s the same lesson wearing whatever clothes your own decade puts on it.

I don’t remember exactly where I was when I read it. This book doesn’t come back to me that way — it comes back as an idea I keep finding uses for, decades later, in situations that have nothing to do with ridgelines or rifles. Which might be the highest compliment a novel about a three-day battle can earn: that it stopped being about the battle, for me, somewhere around the second reading, and became a way of thinking about every room I’ve since sat in where the map had a hole in it and the clock kept running anyway.

Stuart did come back, eventually. Late, but he came back. I think about the men who never got their Stuart at all — who made the call, and never did find out what the missing piece would have told them, and had to live the rest of their lives inside a decision made permanently, gorgeously incomplete.

Categories
Authors Books

More John McPhee

Yesterday I shared a list of John McPhee paperbacks that are in our home library. Using Google Gemini I had it prepare a list of the books from a photo I had taken of the stack of books.

Today as I was on my morning walk listening to an Economist podcast about de Tocqueville in America, it dawned on me that I should come back to Gemini and ask it for a ranked list of McPhee books that I should consider adding to our home library. Here is the prompt I used:

Now give me a list of his books that I don’t own. Rank the list based on recommendations. Include the same info as before.

Here is that list – useful the next time I’m at a used bookstore!

Recommended John McPhee Books (Not in Your Stack)

This curated list ranks the best books by John McPhee that are missing from your current home library. It prioritizes his most historically significant, critically acclaimed, and widely loved masterpieces.

1. Annals of the Former World

Year Published: 1998

Summary: This monumental, 700-page epic is the culmination of twenty years of research and travel alongside geological experts. It traces the deep geological history of the North American continent along the Interstate 80 corridor. The book is actually a compilation of five smaller works (Basin and Range, In Suspect Terrain, Rising from the Plains, Assembling California, and Crossing the Craton), tracking plate tectonics, mountain building, glaciers, and deep time.

How Reviewed: Widely considered McPhee’s magnum opus, it won the 1999 Pulitzer Prize for General Nonfiction. Critics universally praised it for taking what is traditionally considered a “dry” science and turning it into a gripping, human, and philosophically profound narrative about the Earth’s violent history.

An Interesting Story: McPhee originally estimated the geology project would take him about one to two years. It ended up consuming two decades of his life. Because geologists make notoriously distracted drivers—constantly swerving across highway lanes to examine exposed rock formations on roadcuts—McPhee had to do most of the driving during their cross-country road trips just to keep them safe.

2. Coming into the Country

Year Published: 1977

Summary: An extraordinary three-part portrait of Alaska during a chaotic, pivotal era in the 1970s. The first part covers a dangerous, pristine wilderness canoe trip down the Salmon River in the Brooks Range. The second details the political gridlock of trying to establish a new state capital. The third and longest section is an intimate look at the rugged, eccentric, and fiercely independent settlers of the remote gold-rush town of Eagle near the Yukon border.

How Reviewed: A massive bestseller and critical triumph. It is universally regarded as one of the greatest books ever written about Alaska, capturing both the staggering scale of the wilderness and the complex, headstrong psychology of the people who flee to it.

An Interesting Story: While documenting the remote lives of wilderness settlers, McPhee met a man living in a cabin who had survived a brutal sub-zero winter with almost no food. At one point, the man’s entire remaining winter rations consisted of a single, frozen head of cabbage. McPhee’s meticulous fact-checkers at The New Yorker tracked down the source to verify the exact status and size of the cabbage before they would let him publish the story.

3. The Pine Barrens

Year Published: 1968

Summary: An exploration of a sprawling, million-acre wilderness of pitch pines, cedar swamps, and sandy aquifers hidden in the middle of heavily urbanized New Jersey. McPhee describes the unique ecology of the area and profiles the isolated, self-reliant residents—traditionally called “Pineys”—who lived off the land by gathering cranberries, digging bog iron, and hunting.

How Reviewed: A classic of regional literature and early environmental journalism. It was praised for exposing a secret, beautiful world right in the backyard of the busy East Coast, and it is widely credited with helping to spark the political movement that ultimately federally protected the region.

An Interesting Story: At the time McPhee wrote the book, there were major state plans to pave over the Pine Barrens to build a massive, multi-runway international jetport and a brand new city of 250,000 people. McPhee’s beautifully written, highly sympathetic portrait of the area’s quiet wilderness and historic communities turned public opinion so heavily against the developers that the entire project was permanently scrapped.

4. Levels of the Game

Year Published: 1969

Summary: A masterclass in narrative structure. The book is framed entirely around a single semi-final tennis match played at the 1968 US Open at Forest Hills between Arthur Ashe and Clark Graebner. As the play-by-play of the match unfolds stroke-by-stroke, McPhee weaves in the biographies of the two young men, demonstrating how their family backgrounds, races, and political worldviews directly dictate the way they play tennis.

How Reviewed: Frequently cited by sportswriters as one of the greatest sports books ever written. Critics were mesmerized by how McPhee transformed a simple, brief tennis match into a brilliant, microscopic psychological study of two contrasting Americas in the late 1960s.

An Interesting Story: The book’s structure is incredibly tight—there are no chapters or headers; it reads as one continuous, unbroken volley of text from the first serve to the final match point. Because the manuscript was so structurally dependent on the exact sequence of tennis play, McPhee had to build a massive physical storyboard using index cards on his dining room table to track the score of the match alongside his biographical flashbacks.

5. Encounters with the Archdruid

Year Published: 1971

Summary: A brilliant structural experiment in narrative journalism. The book profiles David Brower, the passionately uncompromising executive director of the Sierra Club (whom his adversaries mockingly called “the Archdruid”). McPhee takes Brower on three separate wilderness expeditions, pairing him on each trip with one of his primary ideological enemies: a mineral engineer in the North Cascades, a resort developer on a pristine Georgia barrier island, and a dam-building commissioner in the depths of the Grand Canyon.

How Reviewed: Highly praised for its absolute neutrality. Instead of taking a side, McPhee steps back and allows both sides of the environmental debate to articulate their values in real-time as they hike, raft, and camp together.

An Interesting Story: During the Grand Canyon rafting trip, David Brower and his fierce ideological opponent, Floyd Dominy (the commissioner responsible for constructing major western dams), were forced to share a tiny rubber raft through dangerous, churning whitewater rapids. Dominy, a tough-talking Westerner, was terrified of the water. Brower, despite hating Dominy’s dams, quietly guided the raft safely through the rapids, forging a brief, surreal moment of mutual respect between the two bitter enemies.

6. Draft No. 4: On the Writing Process

Year Published: 2017

Summary: A masterclass handbook on the art and craft of nonfiction writing. Pulling from his decades of writing for The New Yorker and his legendary writing seminars at Princeton University, McPhee reveals his highly structured, sometimes eccentric methodology for conducting interviews, organizing mountains of research, drawing structural diagrams, and editing drafts.

How Reviewed: Celebrated as an instant classic for writers, students, and journalists. Reviewers loved the book’s warm, humble, and practical advice, combined with hilarious behind-the-scenes anecdotes of the editing world.

An Interesting Story: McPhee reveals that during his early career, he suffered from such severe writer’s block that he would literally tie himself to his office chair with a bathrobe sash to force himself to stay at his desk and type. He also details his “search-and-replace” editing method: on his fourth draft, he reads his work with a dictionary, finding any word that feels slightly lazy or uninspired, circling it, and listing dozens of synonyms beneath it until he finds the perfect match.

Categories
Books Writing

John McPhee Home Library

Im an avid fan of John McPhee having first been introduced to him when he profiled Ted Taylor in the New Yorker in 1973. I’ve collected a stack of his books in our home library. One useful query I’ve used with Gemini is this:

This is a stack of the John McPhee books in our home library. Give me a list with: title, year published; summary; how reviewed; an interesting story about the book.

Here’s the result – good fun!

John McPhee: Library Stack Directory

A detailed guide to the nine books by legendary narrative nonfiction writer John McPhee shown in the library stack. The list is organized in order from the top of the stack to the bottom.

1. Oranges

Year Published: 1967

Summary: An immersive, multi-layered look into the history, botany, and global trade of citrus. McPhee tracks the orange’s journey from its ancient Asian origins through Europe and the Americas, culminating in a detailed portrait of the highly industrialized orange juice concentration plants of 20th-century Florida.

How Reviewed: Celebrated for showing how a single, seemingly mundane topic can be transformed into compelling, poetic literature. Critics praised it as a hallmark text of the “New Journalism” movement and creative nonfiction.

An Interesting Story: McPhee originally intended to write a quick, single article for The New Yorker. However, he became so fascinated by the complex subculture of Florida orange growers and the science of the fruit that he stayed for months, ultimately producing enough rich material to fill this entire book.

2. Pieces of the Frame

Year Published: 1975

Summary: A diverse collection of eleven narrative essays covering eclectic topics, including a family search for the Loch Ness Monster, the landscape and history of Atlantic City, the art of fly-fishing, and the deep geology of the Appalachian basin.

How Reviewed: Warmly praised for its boundless curiosity and McPhee’s signature knack for weaving disparate human interests with environmental science.

An Interesting Story: For the title essay, McPhee brought his wife and young daughters to camp right on the shores of Loch Ness. Instead of writing a cynical piece about a local myth, he embedded with the genuinely dedicated, scientifically minded monster-hunters who spent months using sonar to sweep the deep waters.

3. Irons in the Fire

Year Published: 1997

Summary: A compilation of seven essays focusing on obscure, highly specialized worlds. It features pieces on modern cattle-rustling brand inspectors in Nevada, the lifespan of military cargo planes, the manufacture of forensic charcoal, and the historical journeys of Plymouth Rock.

How Reviewed: Reviewers warmly received the collection, highlighting McPhee’s unique talent for mastering technical jargon and making niche professions completely accessible and thrilling to general readers.

An Interesting Story: In the essay “The Gravel Page,” McPhee introduces the world of forensic geology. He follows an expert who can solve complex criminal cases, like kidnappings or murders, simply by analyzing the microscopic dust, pollen, and soil types caught in a suspect’s shoe treads or car tires.

4. A Sense of Where You Are

Year Published: 1965

Summary: McPhee’s brilliant debut book profiles Bill Bradley during his time as an All-American basketball star at Princeton University—long before Bradley became an NBA champion with the New York Knicks and a U.S. Senator.

How Reviewed: Widely celebrated for its exceptional character development and meticulous analysis of athletic grace, launching McPhee’s legendary literary career.

An Interesting Story: The famous title comes from a moment when Bradley demonstrated his flawless spatial awareness to McPhee. While walking backward away from the basket without looking, Bradley flipped the ball over his shoulder and sunk it. When McPhee asked how he did it, Bradley simply remarked that he just had “a sense of where you are.”

5. The Curve of Binding Energy

Year Published: 1974

Summary: A chilling profile of Theodore Taylor, a visionary nuclear physicist who designed some of the world’s smallest atomic weapons. The book details how alarmingly easy it would be for a motivated individual to steal nuclear material and build a homemade bomb using unclassified, public information.

How Reviewed: Nominated for a National Book Award, this work shocked readers and terrified policymakers by laying bare massive vulnerabilities in domestic nuclear facility security.

An Interesting Story: The book created an immediate national security panic. Because McPhee’s descriptions of security flaws were so detailed and accurate, it acted as a massive wake-up call that forced the U.S. government to dramatically overhaul and tighten security protocols at nuclear stockpiles.

6. The Control of Nature

Year Published: 1989

Summary: An epic three-part exploration of human hubris versus the elements. It profiles three intense battles: the Army Corps of Engineers trying to stop the Mississippi River from changing course, Icelanders fighting a volcanic eruption, and Los Angeles residents combating massive mountain mudslides.

How Reviewed: Frequently heralded as one of McPhee’s ultimate masterpieces, praised for its cinematic tension, incredible environmental writing, and deep philosophical look at humanity’s defiance of nature.

An Interesting Story: During the 1973 eruption on the island of Heimaey, Icelanders refused to let lava swallow their vital fishing harbor. They rigged up miles of plastic piping and pumped millions of gallons of icy ocean water directly onto the glowing molten rock for months, successfully freezing the advance and creating a natural rock breakwater.

7. The Patch

Year Published: 2018

Summary: A late-career compilation split into two sections: immersive outdoor essays covering fishing, bears, and golf courses, followed by “An Album Quilt,” a series of shorter, mosaic-like reflections on historical figures, celebrities, and fellow writers.

How Reviewed: Reviewed as a poignant, comforting, and delightfully nostalgic anthology that showcases a master writer looking back over a lifetime of keen observation.

An Interesting Story: The title essay, “The Patch,” refers to a hidden, pristine pocket of water lilies in a lake in eastern Canada. McPhee’s family kept its exact coordinates a closely guarded secret for generations because it was an unrivaled fishing spot for chain pickerel.

8. Silk Parachute

Year Published: 2010

Summary: An elegant essay collection ranging from the geometric intricacies of lacrosse and the geology of chalk to a loving profile of longtime New Yorker editor William Shawn and deeply personal memories of youth.

How Reviewed: Celebrated for its unique emotional warmth, with critics appreciating the rare, deeply personal glimpses into McPhee’s own childhood and family relationships.

An Interesting Story: The title essay is a tribute to McPhee’s mother. When she was a young woman in the early 20th century, she impulsively went up in a biplane and did a parachute jump just for the thrill of it. In her nineties, she would playfully drop a toy silk parachute out of her window down to her adult son.

9. Uncommon Carriers

Year Published: 2006

Summary: A fascinating look into the invisible freight network that keeps the American continent running. McPhee journeys across the country alongside long-haul truckers, towboat captains moving massive barges on rivers, and operators of cross-country coal trains.

How Reviewed: Highly praised as an eye-opening, deeply engaging look at the modern logistics industry and the eccentric, highly dedicated people who master it.

An Interesting Story: To write the opening chapter, McPhee spent days living in the cramped cab of a chemical tanker truck driven by Don Ainsworth. Ainsworth was an elite driver who treated long-haul trucking like a fine art, teaching McPhee the high-stakes rules, specific lane etiquette, and hidden subculture of the open road.

Categories
AI AI: Transformers Books

The Updating Machine

Tom Chivers puts Bayes’ theorem in plain English and it sounds almost obvious: “the probability of event A, given event B, equals the probability of B given A, times the probability of A on its own, divided by the probability of B on its own.” A formula for revising what you believe when new evidence arrives. You started somewhere. Something changed. Now you believe something slightly different. Repeat.

The obvious part is the mechanics. The hard part is the loop.

Most reasoning errors I catch in myself aren’t failures of logic — they’re failures to update. I hold a view, evidence accumulates against it, and I find reasons the evidence is flawed rather than reasons the view might be.

Psychologists have a name for this: confirmation bias. But I’ve always found that label a bit too clean, like it describes a bug rather than a feature.

The prior isn’t wrong to be sticky. It represents everything you’ve learned up to this point. The problem is when it becomes load-bearing — when the prior stops being a starting position and starts being a conclusion.

“Strong opinions, loosely held” is supposed to solve this. It’s a useful phrase — it captures something true about the right posture toward your own beliefs. But in practice the second half is harder to honor than it sounds. The strong opinion gets stated, new evidence arrives, and changing your mind in public feels like losing. The “loosely held” part quietly becomes decorative.

What Bayes actually demands is something closer to epistemic humility with arithmetic attached. You don’t get to say I don’t know. You have to say I estimate 0.4, and here is what would move me to 0.6. That’s harder. It requires you to specify not just what you believe but how you’d know if you were wrong.

This is why Bayesian thinking keeps surfacing in AI conversations. Modern language models do something structurally adjacent to this — not consciously, but mechanically. Every token generated is a probability distribution revised forward by context. The model doesn’t know the next word; it updates a prior over all possible words, given everything that came before. It’s not reasoning the way humans reason, but it’s updating the way Bayes updates: continuously, contextually, without the luxury of certainty.

Whether that’s comforting or unsettling probably depends on your own prior.

The deeper thing Chivers is pointing at, I think, is that Bayesian reasoning is essentially a description of intellectual honesty as a process rather than a trait. You can’t just decide to be open-minded. You have to build the loop: form a belief, assign it a probability, watch for evidence that should move it, and then actually move it. Most of us do the first three. The fourth step is where it gets expensive.

I’ve been wrong about enough things by now that I’ve started to treat my own confident views with mild suspicion. Not paralysis — you have to act on something — but a background awareness that the prior I’m acting on was formed by a person who had less information than I do now, and less than I’ll have next year.

Strong opinions, loosely held, sounds right. The trick is meaning it.

Categories
AI Books Writing

The Tax We No Longer Have to Pay

When Carol Coye Benson and I sat down to write Payments Systems in the U.S., one of the first problems we had to solve wasn’t about payments. It was about history.

To understand why the ACH network works the way it does, or why checks persisted decades longer than anyone expected, you need the institutional sediment underneath — the regulatory decisions, the failed experiments, the path dependencies baked in by choices made in the 1970s that nobody thought would still matter in the 2000s. The history is the explanation. Strip it out and you have a description of current practice with no account of why it exists or what it cost to get there.

But history takes pages. And pages test a reader’s patience. So you compress. You make judgment calls about what survives the cut and what gets left behind, and you make those calls knowing that every omission is a bet — a bet that the reader can follow without it, that the thread holds without that particular knot.

Writing it taught me something. The act of compressing, of finding the minimum sufficient version of a complex thing, forces a clarity that living inside the complexity never quite delivers. You don’t fully know what you understand until you have to say it precisely enough for someone else to follow.

But compression is always a loss. You feel it as you write. The version in the book is thinner than the thing you know.

Garry Tan uses a term — “tokenmaxxing” — that initially sounds like jargon from a performance optimization thread. The idea is simple: don’t be stingy with context. Give the model everything. Every source document, every relevant article, every piece of background that a human reader would never sit still for. Let it synthesize rather than guess.

The instinct it runs against is deep. We have spent decades building information systems around compression — search engines that retrieve rather than ingest, executive summaries that stand in for reports, one-pagers that distill months of work into something a decision-maker can absorb in four minutes. All of it was a rational response to a real constraint: human attention is finite and expensive. You couldn’t afford to read everything, so you built filters. The whole architecture of how organizations manage information was designed around that limit.

Tokenmaxxing is a bet that the limit has moved.

The model can read everything. The cost of giving it full context — the uncompressed history, the original sources, the institutional sediment — is low enough now that filtering before the model sees it may introduce more error than it prevents. You’re potentially discarding signal when you summarize for the model the way you’d summarize for a human. The model doesn’t need the one-pager. It can handle the report.

This doesn’t dissolve the need for curation entirely. More context isn’t always better — models can lose the thread in noise the same way humans do, just differently. The skill shifts from summarizing to selecting: not what’s the minimum version of this but what’s actually worth including. Different judgment, still essential.

But the deeper change is upstream of any particular project. The compression we built into every research process, every briefing, every book — that was never the goal. It was the tax we paid for human cognitive limits. Part of the process doesn’t pay that tax anymore.

When I think about writing that payments book today, I don’t think the book itself would change much — it still has human readers with finite patience. But the map we drew before writing it, the synthesis work, the “what connects to what across fifty years of regulatory history” work — that could happen at a different depth now. The understanding you bring to the writing can be informed by everything, not just the subset you had time to read.

The payments book was written entirely for humans, with all the compression that implies. But Tyler Cowen just published what he calls a “generative book” — 40,000 words released free online, paired on the same screen with a Claude interface so readers can discuss, interrogate, and extend it in real time. He’s writing for both audiences simultaneously now. The human reader and the model that will help that reader go deeper. The text is optimized not just to be understood but to be used — as context, as a jumping-off point, as raw material for a conversation that the author won’t be in.

That’s a different kind of writing. Not better or worse. Different. The compression decisions change when one of your readers has no patience to protect.

Writing still clarifies thinking. That part hasn’t changed. But what you’re clarifying, and who you’re clarifying it for, is quietly expanding.

Categories
Books Curiosity Living

Working the Seams

This book highlight popped up in my morning Readwise feed recently:

“Fishermen work seams—seams between slow water and fast, between deep water and shallow, between sunlight and shadow. The eddies around rocks, the bubble lines along banks. That’s where the fish are.”

Neil King wrote it in American Ramble, his account of walking from Washington to New York. He was watching fishermen, not fishing himself, which maybe explains why it reads less like instruction and more like revelation. When you’re the observer, you have room to notice what the practitioner is too busy doing to say.

The word seams is doing something I can’t stop thinking about. A seam is a joining. It’s the place where two different things meet and, in meeting, create a third thing: the edge itself. Not slow water, not fast water, but the turbulent conversation between them. The fish aren’t in the slow water. They aren’t in the fast water. They’re in the argument.

I think most of the interesting things in life happen at seams.

The best conversations aren’t the ones where everyone agrees. They’re the ones where two people with genuinely different orientations are standing at the same edge, looking at the same water. The friction between the views creates something neither would reach alone.

The best writing isn’t the settled opinion, the fully-arrived-at conclusion. It’s the essay in the old sense — the attempt — where you can feel the writer at the seam of what they know and what they’re reaching toward. The bubble line between understanding and confusion. That’s where the reader is, too, if they’re lucky.

I notice this on my own blog sometimes. The posts that feel most alive to me aren’t the ones where I knew what I wanted to say before I started. They’re the ones where I began at a seam — between something I’d always believed and something that recently unsettled it — and wrote my way along the edge, not knowing which bank I’d end up on.

There’s a version of this that applies to attention itself.

I dwell on how I pay attention — when I’m reading, when I’m walking, when I’m in conversation. And I’ve noticed that my attention goes flat in the middle of things. Flat terrain. Constant depth. Unchanging light. I have to work to stay present when nothing is in transition.

But put me at a seam — a moment where the mood in a room is shifting, where a piece of music is about to resolve or refuse to resolve, where someone is on the verge of saying something they’ve been circling for an hour — and I’m completely there. Attention is predatory, maybe. It goes where the tension is.

Which is what the fish are doing, of course. The seam isn’t just a metaphor for where interesting things happen. It’s why interesting things happen there. The fast water sweeps food along; the slow water lets you hold your position; the seam between them is where you can eat without being eaten. The fish are solving a real problem. They’re just also, accidentally, living beautifully.

I wonder sometimes if this is what makes a good editor, or a good friend who reads your drafts. They find the seams — the places where you’ve unconsciously papered over a tension, smoothed the fast water into the slow, given the reader no place to be a fish. “Something’s off here,” they say, and what they mean is: you resolved this too quickly. Stay in the argument longer.

The eddies around rocks, the bubble lines along banks.

I want to be a better noticer of those. Not to resolve them. Just to work them.

Categories
Authors Books Maintenance

The Maintenance of Everything

I’ve been listening to a conversation between Stewart Brand and Ezra Klein, recorded to accompany Brand’s new book on maintenance. At one point Brand reaches back to 1908, to a contrast so clean it feels almost constructed: the Ford Model T and the Rolls-Royce, both introduced in the same year, representing two entirely different philosophies about what a made thing is supposed to be.

The Rolls-Royce was an argument for resolution. Built to a standard so exacting that the implicit promise was permanence — here is a finished object, complete, requiring nothing further from you except appreciation. The Model T was something else. It was a platform. Incomplete by design. Ford’s bet wasn’t on perfection; it was on adaptability. The car would haul grain or pump water or pull stumps, depending on what you attached to it. It would break. You would fix it. That was the relationship.

I know which car I drove.

In the early seventies I owned a VW Bug, and somewhere in the orbit of the Whole Earth Catalog I found a book called How to Keep Your Volkswagen Alive. It was written by a man named John Muir — not the naturalist, a different one — and it was unlike any repair manual I’d encountered. It spoke to you directly. It assumed you were capable. It had illustrations that looked hand-drawn because they were. It said, in effect: this car will need tending, and you are the person who will tend it, and here is what you need to know.

I learned to do things with that book I had no business doing. I learned because the car kept asking. Every fix revealed the next thing that needed attention. There was no arrival point, no moment when the car was finished. There was only the ongoing conversation between me and the machine — me sitting on the ground back by the engine, the book open on the pavement beside me, both of us getting a little dirty.

Brand’s argument, as I understand it, is that we’ve lost something in our preference for the Rolls-Royce model. We’ve come to see maintenance as the shadow side of ownership — the tax, the obligation, the evidence that the thing wasn’t perfect to begin with. We want objects, relationships, careers, selves that hold their shape without further input from us. We want to arrive.

But the Model T knew something the Rolls-Royce didn’t. The tending is the thing. Not a concession to imperfection. Not an interruption of the good parts. The relationship between the owner and the maintained object is where the real ownership lives — in the calluses, the grease, the Saturday afternoons with the manual open on the ground.

I’ve been thinking about this in a different context lately. A lot of people are now building out personal AI systems — assembling suites of skills and automations that handle what someone recently called the “donkey work” of knowledge labor. The tools involved, Claude Cowork among them, don’t arrive finished. They arrive as platforms. You extend them, adapt them, maintain them. The person who builds out a working suite becomes a different kind of owner than someone who just uses a polished app — they understand the machine because they’ve had their hands in it. Every skill added reveals the next thing that needs attention. The conversation between owner and tool is where the real capability lives.

Brand would recognize the lineage. The Whole Earth Catalog was an early attempt to give people the tools and knowledge to build their own platforms — to opt out of the Rolls-Royce consumer relationship and into something more generative and self-reliant. There’s a strange digital echo of that impulse in what people are building now, fifty years later, with entirely different materials and the same underlying instinct.

I don’t still have the book. I wish I did. But I’m still the kind of person who’d rather sit on the ground with a manual than just ride in the back.

Categories
Books Living Quotations

The Smallness of Being Nowhere

There’s a sentence I keep returning to from Blue Highways, William Least Heat-Moon’s account of driving the back roads of America after his marriage ended and his teaching job disappeared in the same week:

“In a hotel room at the geographical center of North America, a neon sign blinking red through the cold curtains, I lay quietly like a small idea in a vacant mind.”

I’ve read it probably a dozen times now and it still does something to me. The question I can’t shake: why does it work so completely?

The setup is all precision and specificity. “The geographical center of North America” — Heat-Moon is actually in Rugby, North Dakota, a place so particular it exists mostly as a fact. You cannot be more specifically somewhere on a continent and also be more nowhere. That’s the first compression: location as the opposite of orientation.

Then the neon sign. Red through cold curtains. He doesn’t describe the room — the bed, the low ceiling, the highway sound. He gives you the one sensory detail that pulses, that intrudes. Red blinking through fabric. That’s loneliness rendered as light. You don’t need the rest of the room. You already know it.

And then the simile arrives, and it’s the sentence’s whole reason for existing.

Like a small idea in a vacant mind.

What’s strange is that it shouldn’t work. It’s abstract — ideas, minds — in a sentence that’s been building toward the physical and concrete. But Heat-Moon has earned the turn. He’s given us geography, then sensation, and now he cashes both in for something interior. The simile tells you exactly how the previous details felt from the inside: not tragic, not dramatic, not even particularly sad. Just small. A flicker of thought in an empty space.

The word “quietly” is doing more than it announces. He doesn’t lie there awake or restless or afraid, all the words that would have been available and true and insufficient. He lies quietly, which is a posture, not an emotion. It places him in the scene without claiming too much about what the scene means.

This is what I find myself most drawn to: the sentence doesn’t reach for profundity. It doesn’t tell you this moment is significant, doesn’t linger on the loss that brought him there. It just describes, precisely, what it’s like to be a self that has temporarily lost its weight — to exist at the center of something vast while feeling like an afterthought in your own head.

There’s another line from the same book that works entirely differently, and I keep it nearby as a kind of corrective:

“Life doesn’t happen along interstates. It’s against the law.”

The first sentence is a philosophy. The second sentence is a joke about highway regulations that somehow confirms the philosophy. The gap between those two moves — the microsecond where you process that he means both things — is where the humor lives.

What’s funny is also true: the interstate is literally designed to prevent you from stopping, from turning off, from being anywhere specific. You are processed through the landscape like freight. Heat-Moon understood that the road you take isn’t a neutral choice. The blue highways of the title — the old two-lane routes, drawn in blue on gas station maps — were the ones where you might actually arrive somewhere, talk to someone, become something other than your destination.

The joke earns its keep because it doesn’t explain itself. He trusts you to feel the absurdity and then sit with the fact that absurdity is sometimes just accuracy.

What strikes me, holding both sentences together, is how much range lives in a single book. The hotel room passage asks you to feel the weight of smallness. The interstate line asks you to laugh at the systems we build to keep life at a safe distance. Both are true. Both are, in their different registers, about the same thing: what you miss when you move through the world without stopping.

That’s what the geographical center does. At the exact middle of a continent, you are as far from every edge as you can be. You are equidistant from significance. The neon blinks anyway. And you are there, small, in the dark — on a blue highway, not an interstate. Which means, at least according to Heat-Moon, that something might still happen.

I don’t know why I find this more moving than sentences that try harder. Maybe because precision, applied to the right details, is its own kind of tenderness.

Or maybe it’s just that I’ve been that small idea in a vacant mind, and it’s a relief to find it named.

Categories
Authors Books Business

The Whetstone of the Box

Give a team an unlimited budget and no deadline, and you almost guarantee their project will never ship. We spend our careers fighting for more runway, more resources, and a completely clear calendar, convinced that absolute freedom is the prerequisite for great work. Yet, when the walls finally fall away, we usually just freeze.

David Epstein’s upcoming book, Inside the Box, circles this exact paradox. His premise, arriving in early May, is that constraints do not diminish our capabilities; they forge them. We spend so much of our lives trying to escape boundaries, failing to recognize that those very boundaries are what give our efforts shape.

I think about the early days of writing code. We were working with severe memory limits—kilobytes, not gigabytes. Every line had to justify its existence. There was no room for bloat, no excess capacity to mask sloppy logic. It felt restrictive at the time, like trying to build a ship inside a bottle.

But that unforgiving physical boundary forced a ruthless elegance. You had to understand exactly what you were trying to accomplish. The constraint wasn’t an obstacle to the work; it was the whetstone that sharpened the blade.

We see this everywhere, once we learn to look for it. A photographer framing a shot with a fixed prime lens cannot rely on a zoom ring to find the picture; they have to physically move their feet. The limitation forces engagement with the physical world. Without the walls of a canyon, a river is just a swamp. It is the restriction that creates the momentum.

Epstein’s focus on how constraints make us better feels like a necessary corrective right now. We live in an era of infinite leverage and boundless digital canvases. The friction has been removed from almost everything we do.

But friction is where the traction lives. When we strip away all our limits, we don’t gain wings; we just lose our footing. We need the edges of the box to know exactly where we stand.