I was looking at the stars just now. They inspired Whitman to think about miracles (in contrast to the astronomer’s lecture — a lesson to anyone about to give a presentation). I wouldn’t go that far, but they sure are purty. It is easy to see how humans have found comfort in the skies. And we should be grateful to our ancient academic forebears in this, the year of astronomy. However, superstitious some of their believes might have been, their studies opened the door to modern science.
The stars can also be depressing. Our own insignificance is put into clear perspective when we ponder the vastness of the universe.
Recently one of my colleagues at the university passed away suddenly. He was a friendly man, but we were not really close. Still, it makes me think once again of my own insignificance and the brevity of my academic life. At most 30 more years of active work. It may seem long to you, but a third of my allotted time has already passed. And time flies like an arrow, as AI people say.
Is it too late to accomplish great things? When Jim Hacker got depressed about his lack of accomplishments, Annie suggested something very sensible (and British). Forget about transforming the whole system. Why not just try for one accomplishment?
As usual, I have bitten off more than I can chew for 2009. There is too much hay on my fork, too many irons in my fire, and too many cooks working on the broth. Some of my plans are bound to fail. But that’s OK. As long as just one or two of the important projects succeed, I’ll be satisfied. What’s more, failure can sometimes be fun too. (Insert the usual platitudes about not succeeding without trying.) And we all know that having fun is axiomatic.
Having fun is so important, that I thought I’d stop on that point, but I cannot end without pointing out that sometimes it is even more important for great dreams to fail, than for mediocre dreams to succeed. I’m slowly edging into the “older” category, pushing my poor parents into unknown territory. In science (at least physics and mathematics) there is folklore that say that you do all your important work before 30. I need all the psychological defences I can muster against this thought. My current theory is that as long as one keeps one’s imagination going, there is still hope. Hmm, the “fun” ending was more…fun.
[Unrelated note: it seems that at least some (but not all) of the woes of installing Linux last night was caused by our university's mirror of the Intrepid packages. At home everything worked better, and my new system is set up beautifully.]
When I was very young, I used to play the trombone at our high school’s big band. Being of the shy kind (and to be honest, not really skilled with the instrument), I was always careful never to play very loud. Our conductor, however, wouldn’t accept this. He taught me that it is much better to play a (possibly) false note with full presence and conviction than to hit it right in tone, but timidly. He was (I trust he still is) an exceptional man and teacher, and I try to keep that lesson in mind. Always aim for the perfect tone, and should you fail, you’ll do so with grandeur. Now I would add that one should aim at the tone just for the pure love of it, and not because there’s an audience there whose expectations we have (or want) to meet. So (please allow me the leap), by whose standards do you define “important work” to yourself?
Good point, and good question. What exactly is “important”? It is clearly subjective, and it is difficult to define an absolute standard. But I’m pretty sure that, at least as far as my own field is concerned, most people would agree on a ranking of different work as more or less important. Until now, all my work has been on “small” ideas; I would like to focus on something bigger. Sorry to be so imprecise. And I don’t think it is wrong to consider the audience, but (I’ll admit it) my most important audience member is always me myself.