For some reason my post on suffering got an unusual amount of attention and possibly some new readers.  Now I’ll send them all away again by talking about video games.

I’m in the middle of Dishonored 2. Alert readers may recall that I wasn’t sure I liked Dishonored at first, but the DLC won me over. Spoiler: the new game is great. It’s much like Mass Effect 2: adding to what works, quietly removing what doesn’t.

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Basic gameplay: Can you arrange bodies more artfully than the developers?

You play as either Corvo Attano (as in the first game), or as Empress Emily.  I’m playing as Emily, of course, because Corvo? You’re fired. You had one job, Corvo– you are Royal Protector to the Empress– and you’ve fucked it up twice. In the first few minutes of the game, Corvo completely fails to notice an empire-wide conspiracy, sees his charge captured, and gets turned to stone. I expect I’ll rescue him eventually, but really, thanks Dad.

The gameplay is basically that of the first game: you get a target and a small but richly detailed mini-world to find them in. You carefully sneak around, inching forward or teleporting to useful perches, and then curse and reload because one of the frigging guards saw you.

You can fight everyone if you want, which will give you a High Chaos walkthrough– which in turn makes the game world a little nastier. You’ll get more bloodfly infestations, and in general people are more murderous.  E.g. there’s a scene where an officer talks to a woman who’s been stealing for her; in low chaos they are lovers, and in high chaos the officer pushes her off a building. How exactly this is caused by Emily choosing to choke rather than kill guards in another district isn’t quite explained, but it does appeal to our moral intuitions. (It’s very Confucian: the morality of the ruler wafts out to become that of the populace.) However, here and in Deus Ex, I’ve had a lot more fun sneaking and finding all the lore and runes than in combat, so for me it’s Low Chaos all the way.

You get special powers from the Outsider. Intriguingly, you can reject them. Kudos to anyone who can play the game without the teleport; I don’t think I could. The first mission, before you get your powers, can be quite frustrating.

Now, I think the Arkham games are the perfect stealth games, and that’s largely because Batman has so many options. And if you get into a bad situation, you don’t reach for the reload button, you reach for a gargoyle.  Dishonored 2 doesn’t give you the same range of options, though it does move in that direction. E.g. if discovered, Emily can leave a magic clone behind and escape in shadow form. (However, this takes a lot of mana, and mana potions are kind of rare, so I just hit reload.)

More interesting is Domino, which lets you magically link 2 (and later 3 or 4) victims. What happens to one will happen to the others. Most prosaically, you can choke or sleep-dart one, taking them all out. In High Chaos you have more entertaining options– e.g. link that officer to the civilian she is pushing off a building, and she’ll die too.

(Emily’s teleport is technically different from Corvo’s, but you use it exactly the same way.)

The Empire is a pretty fucked-up place. You have the frequent assassinations and coups, the sadistic whale-draining, the rat plague, the trigger-happy guards, the lethal checkpoints,  the witches, and now you have enormous flies that make the rats look cute, a tyrannical duke, clockwork killing machines, and exploitation of the workers. And you’re playing the person who is supposedly in charge of all this. The game occasionally confronts the paradox– e.g. Emily comments to someone that while the workers suffer, the Duke is eating from fine silver, and she’s reminded that she ate from fine silver in Dunwall Tower too. And there’s a story that tells us that Emily’s mother wasn’t exactly a saint.

Maybe this is addressed later, but it does still seem that Emily gets off too easy. She’s 25, which is young, but monarchy is a rough game– if you don’t know what’s going on in your empire by that age, and aren’t pulling the strings, it’s you that’s the puppet.

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The game’s biggest showcase is surely the Clockwork Mansion, created by mad scientist Jindosh Kirin. It can be reconfigured, you see: clockwork turns your bathroom into a study, or your music room into an electric death room. It puts the punk into steampunk.  (Though the Empire is permeated by magic, Jindosh seems to be a tech only guy. His transitions have a pleasing mechanical slowness, as if they were controlled by a punch card somewhere.)

This is absolutely cool, and yet doesn’t quite succeed as level design, because it confuses the player. It’s not at all clear how you are supposed to attack this thing. I had to consult a walkthrough, which mentions among other things that any given room only has two configurations. You also have to defeat a clockwork soldier, and these have been designed so you can’t really defeat them with stealth, which is a little annoying. On the other hand they don’t count as kills, so the most effective way to deal with them is to blow off their heads.

I departed from the walkthrough, simply in that I wandered into a part of the mansion and there he was.  I immediately sleep-darted him.  That left two clockwork soldiers to deal with. I think I blew up the head of one, which made him kill the other.  I’m not sure, it was kind of chaotic. (If you’ve played that level, you’ll love this video on 80 ways to kill Jindosh.)

The next level offers you an interesting choice. To get into the next culprit’s mansion, you need to solve a hard riddle. The district is divided between Overseers (zealous anti-Outsider clerics) and a street gang, and each will help you if you deliver to them the body of the enemy’s leader. Or you can skip all that by solving the riddle! Which is what I did. It’s not that hard, though it probably helps to think like a programmer. Anyway, I could have gone right on to the mansion if I liked, but I scoured the district anyway, so I could get the runes and bonecharms.

I wonder if the studio brought in Anita Sarkeesian for a talk or something, because they’ve reduced the already low levels of sexualization. Emily is a very stylish assassin but not particularly sexy:

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Nice eyes,though

Plus there are no brothel levels, and the gangs and guards now include women.

I like the fact that the protagonists are voiced. The old Valve idea was that we can identify more with a silent protagonist (plus, it was cheaper), but I think that’s wrong: a silent character seems dissociated. If they have no reaction to what’s going on, why should we?

I said the sequel was better, but it’s mostly a bunch of smallish things:

  • The choice of protagonists, and giving them a voice.
  • Emily’s new powers.
  • There are more powers available for stealth. (In the first game it felt like most of them were intended for combat.)
  • The levels are not much larger, but they feel packed with things to find and people to choke.
  • Neat ideas like the Clockwork Mansion; apparently there’s some time travel stuff coming up.
  • Marketplaces in each level, so you are not restricted to five sleep darts per map.
  • They evidently had more money for voice acting… the guards are a lot less repetitive.
  • More civilians around– Dunwall felt dead, Karnaca feels much more alive.
  • Minor, but a satisfying change: Corvo in the first game is just told what to do. Emily (like Daud in the DLC) gets clues but seems to make her own decisions.

It plays well on my PC, but it better– I bought the damn thing a month ago just to be ready for Dishonored 2, which simply laughed at the specs of my old machine.

One thing they didn’t change, and this is just fine: it’s still very linear. “Open world” is a big thing these days, but it’s really hard to do well. The Saints Row and Bethesda games are the models, I think. Mirror’s Edge Catalyst moved to an open world design, and I think it’s too overwhelming. Dishonored 2 takes a different approach: you may only be exploring a few blocks at a time, but they are exquisitely arranged and detailed.

(My only plea for Dishonored 3: please, do not start with Corvo failing to do his job again. The title is a brand by now; you don’t have to make it describe the plot.)

I just finished The Chaos of Empire, by Jon Wilson, which is all about the British Raj. Spoiler: he’s not in favor. In fact, his thesis is that the British never really knew what they were doing; they were constantly and pointlessly nervous and paranoid about their presence there, and alternated between unnecessary violence and out-of-touch bureaucracy.

In the early days, in the 1600s, the English simply didn’t understand how business or government was done in India– which was by face-to-face negotiation.  Whether kings and lords, or nobles and peasants, or authorities and merchants, arrangements were worked out by talk. (A show of force was not incorrect– but the Mughal way was to defeat an enemy, then make accommodations to make the defeated into an ally.) The English basically made outrageous demands (e.g. they wanted to trade tax-free and wanted the EIC to have a monopoly even over other English traders) and hated to negotiate.  They were constantly worried that they would be disrespected, harassed, or overwhelmed by the Indians, and the only way they could ever think of to get their way was by force.

Their first attempt, in the late 1600s, led to a righteous drubbing by the still-powerful Mughals. They did not learn anything from this.

(Now, Wilson may overstate the harmony of Mughal society. The Mughal founder, Babur, certainly found India as alien and unpleasant as any Englishman. But of course they put down roots and adapted, and the English didn’t bother to learn South Asian protocols.)

How did the British take over?  It’s not entirely technology, since the Indians were able to buy Western arms and even Western advisors; for that matter, the French at least were keen to oppose the British takeover. As with China, we can attribute much of the problem to poor luck. When the Mughals were strong, they could hold off Europeans, but the empire crumbled after the Afghan invasion of 1739. And the French never really committed to wars in India– probably because they sensed, correctly, that it wasn’t a profitable proposition. The EIC didn’t really want to take over Bengal, and British home opinion was not really in favor of empire; Plassey was more or less Robert Clive’s mad improvised scheme to replace the hated prospect of negotiation with the more appealing direct intervention to install a supposedly friendlier ruler.

In economics there’s the concept of a Winner’s Curse: in a competition to buy something, the winner is likely to be the one who overestimates the item’s value. The Indian empire was something of a winner’s curse. Bengal provided enormous revenues, enough for the armies that slowly conquered the rest of India… but also enormous expenditures, chiefly the army needed to hold all that territory. The company constantly had to be bailed out by London, and all through the 19th century the EIC and then imperial government was most often in the red. But of course it was unthinkable to simply give up and go home.

Ironically, the one time India was valuable was during the World Wars. It provided huge armies and great masses of war materiel, and this very fact made it completely impossible to maintain as an imperial colony without native involvement. To keep the troops and goods coming, Britain had to promise representative government (in WWI) and eventual independence (in WWII).

The British had no notion of developing education, civil society, industry, or self-government.  They did not seem to realize that Indians expected their rulers to respond to complaints and abuses and to provide relief in bad years.  Their idea of government was not much more than maintaining the army, a cumbersome bureaucracy, and a nice lifestyle for an upper crust of expats. Wilson shows that to the extent that civil society did develop, it was purposely done by Indians themselves away from British eyes.

At this point British readers are likely to be saying, “But we built railways, didn’t we?” But the railways were largely built to ferry troops around. They were too expensive for everyday commerce, they ran at a loss, and they did not develop Indian industry since the locomotives and rails were imported. Britain did not allow Indians to make their own steel until 1899.

As for “We taught them democracy, didn’t we?”– I’m sorry, Brits, but you get no prizes for ruling the country as an absolute monarchy for more than a century. The first elections were held in 1920; only 1/10 of the male population could vote, and for only limited domestic powers. This was three centuries after the first legislature in a British colony (Virginia, 1619).

I could go on and on, but then you could also just read the book. Although he is specifically countering old notions of Britain’s imperial glory or at least competence, it’s also a good overall look at Indian history from the mid-1600s till 1950, giving both the British and Indian sides of the story.

A sometimes endearing, sometime exasperating tendency of the British is their tolerance for constitutional muddle. The deal that gave them the administration of Bengal made them theoretical agents of the Mughal crown, and they maintained this fiction until 1857. And rather than conquering everybody, they left 500 “princely states” with various degrees of self-government. When the India-Pakistan border was drawn, hundreds of enclaves were created with tens of thousands of residents– supposedly a relic of ancient Mughal treaties.  All these eccentricities had a price in inefficiency and incompetence. In this light, Nehru’s insistence on central planning and central control start to make a lot more sense.

(This is of course research for my own book, the India Construction Kit. I’m a little over half done with it, I think.  More on that later…)

First of all, I recognize completely how ironic it is that I ask you this a few months after I asked you about the risk that the world might be destroyed. That said…

There seems to be an idea among right-wingers that usually doesn’t get stated directly, probably because it is so unattractive, but that seems to play an important role in the attitudes of many of them. It’s the idea that life needs to suck, at least to some extent, in order to motivate people to achieve things. 

Now, what if that idea is true? It won’t help much to point out that those on the Right who hold that idea are often hypocrites who don’t want their own lives to suck – after all, the statement “murder is bad” is true even if it is said by a murderer.

It does seem to be true, after all, that in wealthy countries with halfway functioning social safety nets, the really unpleasant jobs are usually done by recent migrants from poorer countries without functioning social safety nets. You yourself have pointed out that historically many sons of kings were pretty worthless. And on a personal note, I was raised in the late 20th century in one of the world’s wealthier countries, and I could never imagine myself doing the regular work of, for instance, an average present day Chinese factory worker. 

Saying that similar complaints were heard in earlier times won’t help much, either – as the above examples show, arguably those “warnings” have “come true”. So, what would happen if all countries in the world ended up relatively wealthy? Where would the migrants to do the really unpleasant jobs come from, then?

—Raphael

First, you’re not the only one to have believed that conservatives want the world to suck. George Lakoff covers this in depth in Moral Politics. Describing the conservative worldview: “The world is a dangerous place. Survival is a major concern and there are dangers and evils lurking everywhere, especially in the human soul.” Strict moral discipline (he continues) is required to survive, and harsh punishment is valuable. Without struggle, “there is no source of reward for self-discipline, no motivation to become the right kind of person.” (His book was from 1996; here’s his more up-to-date thoughts on the election.)

Now, this is essentially a millennia-old response to the problem of evil. I discussed it in the context of the Incatena here, stating it as a problem for the social planner and for God. To put it as convincingly as possible: people who get all what they want and more get spoiled. They may be vaguely benevolent, but have little empathy and no idea of sacrifice or heroism. Those who have overcome suffering are not only stronger but have a better moral character. We might well worry if everyone could live like the children of the super-rich, they would be either weak nothings (Wells’s Eloi) or hedonistic simpletons (Huxley’s Brave New World).

There is, by the way, a left-wing version of this view. The communists, especially the ones who actually organized factory labor or peasants, liked to paint the socialists and democrats as soft and weak, and turned “bourgeois” into  slur. This was taken to an extreme by Maoism, which was forged in the ordeal of the Long March, and cheerfully sent millions of students to labor in the fields. (There’s also a much weaker, but much more widespread,  view that people should live in rural communes or something.)

You’re right that it’s not a complete answer to say that those who advocate this worldview don’t want it for themselves or their children. But it is a partial answer. This worldview is congenial to the powerful— it justifies permanent injustice and absolves them of any need to ameliorate it. That’s a strong reason to distrust it.

Not coincidentally, the suffering-is-good view primarily targets the poor, women, and religious or sexual minorities.  If suffering is good, shouldn’t its advocates want it to be equally distributed? And if suffering produces good moral character, isn’t it curious that the advocates believe that they, the non-suffering, are the moral ones? Shouldn’t those who suffer the most be the most moral?

But we can also attack the claim directly. Suffering doesn’t build character.  Suffering just makes people miserable. When we don’t have an ideology that makes us sympathize with the oppressors, we see this clearly: Mao, for instance, twice destroyed the prosperity of his own revolution, killed millions of people, and wasted the lives of an entire generation.

Plus, though it’s an old moral lesson that hedonism is bad for you, it’s an even older and more basic moral lesson that participating in injustice is wrong. Even if it’s morally uplifting to get robbed, that hardly means that a moral person should be a robber. The world is a dangerous place, but a policy of adding to its dangers doesn’t make someone a moral paragon, but a sociopath.

It’s hard to deny that life for most people, not just in the global North, is better than it was a thousand years ago. Premodern agricultural kingdoms really did suck for 90% of the population. Even the strictest conservative doesn’t exactly want to bring back slavery, trial by ordeal, the Black Plague, nomad invasions, foot-binding, and the constant warfare and cruelty favored by kings. (If you’re dealing with a Christian conservative, ask them if they think Jesus should have left the world in paganism.)

But if you’ve conceded that some suffering should be eliminated, you can hardly object to removing more suffering, except by offering a further and better argument. If ending slavery was good, why not eliminate racism too? In practical terms the argument is really not “all suffering is good”, but “the suffering that generally existed in my childhood is the right amount of suffering”.  That could be the case, but such amazing temporal coincidences are not very convincing.

Also, whether or not suffering has good moral effects, we’re not really not on the verge of a great suffering shortage. There’s still plenty to go around. The 21st century is going to be challenging, not least because there is, oh, the prospect of total ecological collapse. So there is really no need to increase local suffering by, say, removing everyone’s health insurance.

But there is a conworlding exercise here, and I’ll take the bait and consider it. If we could solve our ecological problems and the right wing totally imploded, we could create a world that is both prosperous and egalitarian. Should we worry about people becoming spoiled?

As Lakoff would say, this is in part a framing problem. If we’re creating an ideal society, of course we don’t want “spoiled” people. As progressives, we want people to be nurturing and empathetic instead. If they’re not, we didn’t design very well. But it begs the question to suggest that the design solution is “more suffering”. Suffering isn’t the best way of producing empathy anyway; better to model it and teach it directly.

A deeper answer: as people move up Maslow’s hierarchy of need, they develop new and different concerns and disputes. Are Germans of 2016 “more spoiled” than those of 1016? They’re far richer, but surely we couldn’t say that they’re all spoiled like rich children. If anything, a certain level of material ease facilitates spirituality: you can read, meditate, study, give to the poor. In most religious traditions, a simple lifestyle is a virtue— but being born to it is generally not enough. Being a wandering monk is a choice and meritorious; being a wandering beggar is generally neither.

We can call the average German of 2016 “rich” compared to the one from 1016, but that hardly means that she thinks or acts like a rich man of 1016. If our civilization survives until 3016 and attains a general prosperity, the people of 3016 will be “rich” by our standards, but not by their own, and there’s no particular reason to assume that they will act like today’s rich people (or their spoiled children).

As for unpleasant jobs, I don’t see that as an unsolvable problem. In general, tedious jobs are also the ripest for automation. In advanced countries 99% of people don’t work in the fields. But those who really like that kind of lifestyle can take it.

I guess the game is officially called SUPERHOT. We’ll get back to that.

You may have heard about this one: time is way slowed down, and only speeds up when you move. You use the slow-mo time to carefully plan a killing spree: throw a telephone at a featureless red guy, catch the gun that he drops, shoot him, and face the next red guy. A single shot or melee hit will kill you; if you die you start the level over. Once you’ve finished you see a real-time edit of your run, looking like the expert maneuvers of a master spy.

 

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Is it Saturday? No, it’s SHATTERDAY. Get it? Never mind, BOOM

 

The look of the game makes Mirror’s Edge look like Normal Rockwell: everything is white except for weapons you can use (black) and enemies (red). The red dudes shatter when you hit them like they’re made of glass.

If this sounds like a neat mechanic, well, it is.  It’s simple but satisfying. The game description says that “time only moves when you do”, but that’s not right.  Things keep moving– especially bullets– so you really can’t stand there forever thinking about your next move. I think this actually works better than a complete time-stop, because it forces you to try something. You don’t have to be perfect, but you do have to look around and make sure you’ve got everyone. You generally have multiple options. If you die and replay a level, enemies come from the same places but may be armed differently.

There are bullet-time sequences in other games (e.g. Max Payne and Singularity), but it’s almost the whole game here. Near the end you get another mechanic, which makes the action sequences even more insane.

I got through it in five hours, which is comparable to Portal. And that’s probably about right for the concept. I’m not sure twenty more levels would have added much.  When you’re done you get challenge modes (e.g. I did some where you can only use a katana), so you could certainly get more hours out of it.

The designers evidently couldn’t come up with a story, so they threw a sort of cyberpunk atmosphere around it. Outside the action sequences, the game is all 1980s style ASCII graphics, including folders full of pixel art. One section is a pretty hilarious simulation of a chatroom focused on Superhot, complete with spammers, noobs, and ban-happy mods.

The cyberpunk stuff stops short of being a story, though at least it never becomes annoying. The game is maybe a little too infatuated with itself– e.g. when you finish a level, the replay is overlaid with a flashing SUPERHOT logo and someone intoning SUPERHOT. Thankfully you can turn this off with F5.

Basically, it’s a trifle, but a very enjoyable one that’s done before it wears out its welcome.

 

Everyone’s fixating on Donald Trump. As is to be expected! But the fixation can be misleading and counterproductive if people think that he is some aberration that’s taken over the Republican Party, or that Republicans will somehow restrain his worst excesses.

Nope. The problem isn’t Trump, it’s the Republican Party. They won’t save us from Trump; they are Trump now.

But first, some reminders about US party politics.

elections-us

What’s that? It’s the winners of presidential elections from 1860 on, when our current party system emerged. I’ve purposely kept it small and unlabeled so you can see the overall picture, which is: the parties alternate in power. If you look at just the last hundred years (1916-2016), it’s quite even: 13 wins each. (If you look at the whole chart, it’s skewed Republican 24-16; the Gilded Age was the golden age for the GOP.)

The bottom half of the chart shows popular vote wins. There are four mismatches, in all of which the Democrats won the popular vote and the Republicans the electoral vote.  Corollary: Republicans will never touch the electoral college.

I emphasize the basics here because I’ve seen too many reactions that seemed to expect that the GOP would never win again. Democrats have the demographic advantage, the better candidates, the moral high ground, and surely no one would go back to the party of Bush. Nope. The other party always wins eventually, and if it wasn’t Trump it would be someone else.

Does this mean you shouldn’t freak out, or that things will be fine?  Of course not; freak out all you want. But I think a lot of people on the left have just assumed that the right doesn’t really matter; the real struggle was against moderate liberals. Uh, nope.  Despite all those demographics, the Republicans are very, very powerful.  More people vote for Democrats than Republicans for the House, but their grip on the House is secure, and they control the vast majority of state governments. And your problem in the next four years isn’t going to be moderate liberals; it’s going to be Republicans all down the line.

I’d also suggest that Democrats shouldn’t over-do the soul-searching.  The overall picture of US politics is that the parties alternate in power; also that they stay close to appealing to 50% of the electorate each. It’s not an accident; it’s how winner-take-all election systems work. There are occasional long runs (the Gilded Age GOP; the New Deal Democrats), but in general, if a party keeps losing elections, it adapts its policies and candidates till it reaches 50% again. If anything, voters’ patience is wearing thinner all the time: they’ve only granted a third term to a party once since 1952.

There’s no huge lesson in why Trump won.  He squeaked out a win in two key states, Pennsylvania and Florida, and blew out Ohio, and that was enough to win the electoral college. Hillary was not unpopular; she won the popular vote by more than 2 million votes.

The surprise was that all the infighting in the GOP this year turned out not to matter. It solidified behind Trump.  And that’s why I say that Trumpism is the GOP. The anti-Trump movement disappeared without a trace on November 8.

If you think Trump is still somehow opposed by Republicans, consider:

  • The Never Trump movement and the high-profile defections had no effect. The cold feet of rivals, the worries that Trump was not conservative enough, the preference of Evangelicals for a candidate more like Cruz— no effect. None of that had any impact where it matters, in votes.
  • Republican voters went for Trump. Maybe they didn’t love him, but they preferred him to Clinton. All of his obvious lies and flaws and outrages did not matter, and there is no reason to hope that they will suddenly start to matter.
  • Paul Ryan is eager to work with Trump— and no wonder!  It’s like Christmas for him.  He’s going to get to do what he’s alway wanted to do: give the rich more money, take programs away from the poor, shred 20 million people’s insurance coverage, deregulate the banks, and maybe even destroy Medicare. All things that would have been  done, mind you, if Romney had been elected in 2012.
  • Have you seen the outrage from Republicans as Trump appoints white nationalists to his inner circle, uses the presidency to advance his business interests, or makes grandiose lies about “illegal voting”?  No, neither have I.
  • Is there any more pathetic sight in 2016 than Mitt Romney meeting with Trump, hat in hand, to be considered for a cabinet post?
  • If you have trouble understanding how Republicans can stomach Trump… consider most Democrats’ reactions to 20 years of GOP excoriation of Hillary Clinton. From our point of view, it’s a nothingburger; it’s just noise and absurdity. Dialing up the outrage will not make Republican voters rethink their acceptance of Trump.

About the only positive to set against all this is that the Republican Senate seems like it won’t eliminate the filibuster. That won’t matter for a lot of Paul Ryan’s program— he will be happy to gut Obamacare with a reconciliation bill; he doesn’t actually intend to pass a replacement bill.  But it might mean that (say) Medicare privatization won’t pass.  Unless McConnell changes his mind next session.

There are undoubtedly ways in which a Trump presidency will be worse than (say) a Cruz presidency. (Name three!)  But basically anything that Trump does, that is what Republicans knowingly voted for, and will eagerly help him do.  And honestly, is Trump’s outrageousness really worse than Rush Limbaugh, the id of the Republican Party for the last few decades?

When people worry about “normalizing” the idea of President Trump— folks, that ship has sailed.  I’ll grant you that people probably wouldn’t be freaking out quite so much over a President Jeb! Bush… but, folks, here’s the number of states Jeb! won in the primaries: zero. Here’s the number of delegates he won: four. Republicans were hellbent on electing either a monster or an idiot this year.  And they’ll keep doing it until they start losing elections.

All this isn’t to say that Trump couldn’t get into huge trouble later with Republicans. Nixon managed it, after all, though it took 6 years. But this is the thing with authoritarians: they have enormous tolerance for whatever their leader does. 90% of what he does will be things they either happily support now, or can be talked into. (Repudiating trade deals, for instance. Free trade is generally orthogonal to ordinary party politics in the US anyway.)  I haven’t heard a good story yet on what things Trump is likely to do which Paul Ryan or other Republicans will resolutely oppose. It’s easier, in fact, to imagine things on Ryan’s wish list which Trump will nix– and even that will probably go fine so long as Ryan gets his huge tax cut.

I know you were all waiting to hear what the king said. Here’s a bit more of the passage. The order of the lines is Devanāgarī, transliteration (with sandhi), pre-sandhi words, glosses, English.
एतच्चिंतयित्वा स राजा पंडितसभां कारितवान् ।

etacciṃtayitvā sa rājā paṃḍita-sabhāṃ kāritavān

etad cintayitvā sas rājā paṇḍita-sabhām kāritavān

this-s.nom.n think-gerundive that-s.nom.m wise-assembly-s.acc make-PassPart-caus-s.nom.m

Having considered these things, the King convened an assembly of wise men.

राजोवाच । भो भोः पंडिताः श्रूयतां ।

rājovāca bhobhoḥ paṃḍitāḥ śrūyatāṃ

rājā uvāca bhobhos paṇḍitās śrūyatām

The King said, “O wise men, let it be heard:
अस्ति कश्चिदेवंभूतो विद्वान्यो

asti kaś-cid-evaṃ-bhūto vidvān yo

asti kas-cid evam-bhūtas vidvān yas

be-PresPart-3s who-s.nom-ever such-s.nom.m sage-s.nom.m who-s.snom.m

Is there any sage among you who—
मम पुत्राणां

mama putrāṇāṃ

mama putrāṇām

I-gen son-p.gen

my sons
नित्यमुन्मार्गगामिनामनधिगतशास्त्राणामिदानीं

nityam-unmārga-gāminām-an-adhigata-śāstrāṇām-idānīṃ

nityam unmārga-gāminām an-adhigata-śāstrāṇām idānīm

constantly wrong.way-go-gerund-p.m not-read-PassPart-book-p.m. now

being always wayward and never reading books—
नीतिशास्त्रोपदेशेन पुनर्जन्म कारयितुं समर्थः ।

nīti-śāstr-opadeśena punar-janma kārayituṃ samarthaḥ?

nīti-śāstra-upadeśena punar-janma kārayitum sam-arthas?

behavior-book-instruction-s.ins again-birth-s.acc effect-infinitive with-capable-s.nom.m

can instruct them in reading and proper behavior, [giving them] a second birth?”

 

This is from the prologue to the Hitopadeśa.  The king, whose name is Sudarśana, has a problem many kings have had: his sons are pretty worthless. He asks the pundits for help. (Yep, pundit is a borrowing from Sanksrit.) As he appears in a book written by a brahmin, the dude who steps up to help, one Viṣarma, believes that the answer is that they sit with a brahmin, i.e. himself, and learn moral tales.

I will report back later on the actual fables. But for now let’s look at one of the words in the text:

नित्यमुन्मार्गगामिनामनधिगतशास्त्राणामिदानीं

nityamunmārgagāmināmanadhigataśāstrāṇāmidānīṃ

First, you may well ask, is that one word?  It’s written as one. And by the rules of sandhi, it’s pronounced as one. But Müller transliterates it as four words:

nityam – constantly
unmārga-gāminām – wrong-ways-going
an-adhigata-śāstrāṇām – non-reading-books
idānīm now

The first three words are a description of the unruly princes, and grammatically this can be considered a really big compound. Idānīm ‘now’ probably got dragged in only because it was too tempting to combine the initial i– with the preceding –m.

Sanskrit is extremely fond of these combined words, and this is by no means on the longer end of the possibilities— you can easily have compounds with 20 or 30 roots.

Now, you can certainly do this in English:

“Can anyone instruct my undirected, non-book-reading sons by reading-conduct-instruction?”

But we usually consider this sort of thing inelegant; it reminds of bureaucratic language: “You must submit the project extension protocol revision form to the acting assistant operations and processes group manager.” We’d be more likely to use subclauses:

“My sons are constantly going the wrong way and never read books; can anyone teach them to value good conduct and literature?”

You only have to inflect the last member of a compound, so possibly the compounds were easier than regular clauses. Or perhaps they were embraced for their difficulty. After all, when the Hitopadeśa was written, the spoken language was already very different. A.L. Basham describes classical Sanskrit as one of the most “ornate and artificial” languages in the world. He also suggests that these compounds may be influenced by Tamil, which also encourages concatenations without explicit connectors or inflections.

 

 

 

If someone has gone through and transliterated it and done a word-for-word gloss. But I have worked through the grammar enough that I can at least follow that.

Let’s work through an example. We start, as Westerners have for more than a century, with the Hitopadeśa, a medieval book of sagely advice told through animal stories. I start with Max Müller’s 1864 edition.  Here’s a sample line.

राजोवाच । भो भोः पंडिताः श्रूयतां ।

râjâ   -jan, N.sg.  The King
uvâcha:  vach, 3.sg.Perf.Par.  said:
bho  Ind.  O
bhos  Ind.  ye
paṇḍitâs  -ta, V.pl.m.  wise,
śrûyatâm  śru, 3 sg. Imp. Pass.   be it heard

Now, Devanāgarī is not hard to read. It’s an abugida, meaning that the basic grapheme is a single consonant with an inherent vowel. E.g. it starts with क = ka. Diacritics modify it to change the vowel: कि ki, कु ku, का , and so on. If you really want a naked k, perhaps at the end of a word, you write क्.

If you actually transliterate Müller’s Devanāgarī, syllable by syllable, you get this:

rā-jo-vā-ca bho bhoḥ paṃ-ḍi-tāḥ śrū-ya-tāṃ

Which, if you look carefully, isn’t what Müller provides.  What happened?

Sandhi happened. All languages have processes of assimilation and relaxation that happen as words are uttered in context. Occasionally these become noticeable to people and they attempt to write them down— e.g. someone is represented as saying “I hafta go” for “I have to go”.  Sometimes the assimilations are lexicalized, which is why we write assimilation and not adsimilation.

Well, in Sanskrit there are a lot of such adaptations, and you have to write them all. So for instance the vowels ā + u combine into o: rājā uvāca > rājovāca. (Müller’s â / ch are older transliterations; we now use ā / c.)  The –s at the end of paṇḍitās changes to ḥ before the following  ś, while the final in the last word changes to ṃ, which in this case indicates nasalization. Before a stop, it’s pronounced as a homorganic stop, which is why paṇ- changed to paṃ-.

There are special diacritics for these last two letters: e.g. kaṃ would be कं, and kaḥ would be कः.

So, Müller is providing the pre-sandhi versions of the words, which makes them easier to look up in a dictionary.

(A complication for the actual book I’m writing: It turns out that Word and Illustrator don’t properly handle Devanāgarī. They can’t do the combinations– e.g. nra should be written न्र, but they turn that into न् र, like barbarians. So I won’t be able to use a lot of Devanāgarī except as, shudder, bitmaps.)

Next we need to translate his glosses to a briefer and more modern convention:

king-s.nom say-perf.part.-3s oh wise-p.voc.m hear-imper.pass.-3s

Müller glosses bho bhos as “O ye”, but this is a bit confusing— bhos is not a pronoun. An online dictionary suggests that it’s an interjection often used in addressing people: oh! hello!  indeed!   And it seems that we’re actually dealing with a reduplicated form here, bhobhos.

Finally we can provide the translation:

The king said: O wise men, let it be heard…

That’s enough for today, but on request I’ll tell you what the king wanted heard. And you should request it, because then I can talk about Sanskrit’s insane mega-compounds.

By the way, classical Sanskrit wasn’t written in Devanāgarī— it was written in the local, contemporary script. All modern Indian scripts, and Southeast Asian ones as well, ultimately derive from Brāhmī, which is what Aśoka knew. If you write your vernacular in Devanāgarī, as of course Hindi speakers do, then you write your Sanskrit in Devanāgarī; but if you speak Tamil you use Tamil script, and so on.

How, you may wonder, does this compare to learning wényán for my China book? The script is way easier, of course. But sandhi is a nightmare, and the grammar is far less accessible. You can boldly translate wényán poems knowing little but the glosses, but I don’t think I’ll be doing my own translations of Sanskrit poetry.