Steven Johnson, Interface Culture

At last year's CHI, there were many questions raised in the alt.chi sessions about the proper method of evaluation for interactive technologies. The answer, it seemed to me, was obvious: criticism, of the sort applied to art, architecture, literature and other creative endeavors. "Interface Culture" attempts exactly that, covering topics like links or the desktop with the same mix of history, judgement, and speculation that one might find in a book review or a column on an art exhibition. If none of his conclusions seem particularly profound today, Johnson should be commended for the fact that few of them seem dated either - an impressive feat for a book on digital culture written over ten years ago. His examples (Engelbart's famous demo, Vannevar Bush's "As We May Think", Myst, Suck, the Mac GUI, and even HTML frames) feel like the beginnings of a tradition in interface design rather than the passing fads of a previous generation. His comparison of the interface with the novels of Dickens is particularly suggestive: both, Johnson argues, are a way of coming to terms with a massive reordering of society and an attempt to make sense of its new structure. Probably the most interesting and relevant section of the book, however, is the last chapter, a series of opposing imperatives whose conflict and resolution will determine the future character of our interface culture: fragmentation vs. synthesis, mainstream vs. avant-garde, the individual vs. society. These forces continue to contend today, and their struggles we should continue to investigate and comprehend through the medium of criticism. It is for the provocation to do so that I am most glad to have read this book and I trust it will provide a useful touchstone as I attempt the task.

“If a book provides context for a document, a library provides context for all of human knowledge, knowledge that may be found in many documents and all types of information. If a book provides a sense of history of what came before and what is likely to come after the page being read, libraries provide a history of civilization.”
— Marilyn Gell Mason, “The Yin and Yang of Knowing” in Dædalus, Fall 1996.

Milan Kundera, Immortality

While some authors use their novels to espouse philosophies of life (e.g. Mark Helprin: “life is beautiful”), Milan Kundera uses his to compare them, embodied in his characters. In Immortality, he describes two sisters, Agnes and Laura, with opposite methods of expressing their “self.” Agnes takes a negative approach, attempting to strip herself of superficial gestures and thoughts until nothing remains but the essential core. Laura takes a positive approach, relishing her individual eccentricities and expressing herself in their accumulation. Which should we prefer? Kundera doesn't say, and, for me, the power of his work is in the questions he poses. For example, is our image “only an illusion that conceals our selves” or is the “only reality, all too easily graspable and describle, ... our image in the eyes of others”? Or, in the loves we know, do we see a true love which transcends its object (and thus passes easily onto another) or one which cares only for its beloved?

Finally, besides offering insights into culture, history, journalism, death, and posterity, Immortality questions the role of the novel in the age of adaptation. Kundera tells us that he has written it to be specifically resistant to conversion into other media, leaving us to wonder if the presence of film, TV, the Web, have changed literature in the way that, for example, the development of photography altered painting. In this particular case, a non-conclusive progression, an emphasis on specific phrases, references to the author and the wriing process, historical interludes, and code-named characters (A, B, M, etc.) help tie the work to its form, elevating the reading above the story, and, of course, make my few comments incapable of expressing anything of the essence of the novel, which you must read for yourself.

Kevin Mullet and Darrell Sano, Designing Visual Interfaces

A good overview of the application visual principles to the design of user interfaces. This includes topics like hierarchy, balance, harmony, etc. An especially interesting section discusses various visual attributes (hue, value, size, orientation, shape, position, and texture) and their perceptual properties (e.g. we can instantly pick out objects of a particular color, but not shape, from a mixed collection). The diagrams feel old-fashioned, but give an appreciation for the clarity and consistency of the original Mac interface. The color plates are mostly wasted on examples of bad design or diagrams found elsewhere in the book. For better illustrations and an excellent discussion of these same principles applied to data presentation as opposed to UI design, see Edward Tufte's books, especially Envisioning Information.

For more information on Designing Visual Interfaces, see these excerpts and diagrams.

Eliot and Proust

From Tradition and the Individual Talent, by T.S. Eliot:

Some one said: ‘The dead writers are remote from us because we know so much more than they did.’ Precisely, and they are that which we know.

From Remembrance of Things Past, by Marcel Proust:

It was Beethoven's Quartets themselves (the Twelfth, Thirteenth, Fourteenth and Fifteenth) that devoted half a century to forming, fashioning and enlarging a public for Beethoven's Quartets.

Wired Hackers & Painters: can a programming language let us sketch a rough draft of code?

Alan Cooper, The Inmates are Running the Asylum

It is ironic that a book so concerned with the quality of a person's experience should be so callous with that of its reader's. This is one of the ugliest books I've read. A team of thirteen (including an “interior designer” and two “layout technicians”) couldn't keep endorsements from covering both sides of the fly-leaf and the illustrations from looking like clip-art. Cooper claims his illustrator “did a remarkable job”, but his art directors would have done well to omit those images entirely.

No book in recent memory has inspired so many growls and groans. Cooper presents some useful information, but that doesn't redeem his work any more than a hodgepodge of features can save the computer programs Cooper excoriates. Why must using a computer make us feel stupid?, Cooper demands. Well, why should reading a book make us so angry?

Aesthetics aside, The Inmates are Running the Asylum was an insightful read. Cooper believes that software development has been run by programmers, on behalf of computers, for too long. It is time for designers to take over, on behalf of humanity. He's right, of course. As a programmer, I know how easy it is to start writing code before considering what the program has to do, much less what the user hopes to accomplish.

To save you the annoyance of reading this book, here are the main points of the book (Cooper repeats himself often, so there aren't many of them). First, computers should let people get some work done in a pleasant way. Second, programs need to be designed before they're written, by someone who does nothing else. Third, those designers should create personas representing typical users, their backgrounds, and their goals. Fourth, this process should suggest the crucial features of a program, which should be focused on to the exclusion of boundary cases. Fifth, there are numbers between one and infinity: that is, an interface to select from 30 options can simply list them, instead of imposing the hiererarchical format that might be necessary for hundreds or thousands of options.

Altogether, a few useful steps that could dramatically improve the usability and pleasantness of most software. Cooper's descriptions of products his firm designed excellenty illustrate his points. It's a shame there aren't more of them. Maybe if he'd been more attentive to his reader's personal goals, a few of the worthless images of bland-looking people would have been replaced with screenshots from well-designed programs. And maybe then I could recommend this book to others.

Remembrance of Things Edible

Every book about food needs a Proust number – that is, the number of pages it manages before referring to his Madeleines. Letters to a Young Chef, which I just finished, gets an 18. Maida Heatter holds off until page 206 in her Book of Great Desserts, where she provides a recipe for the cookie.

My brother claims this particular Proustian reference proliferates because it occurs very early in Remembrance of Things Past. I've never read the book, but a flip through my brother's copy reveals that the madeleines (“petites madeleines” in this translation) appear on page 48, 30 pages later than Boulud's mention of them, and 10 more than that pages past my bookmark. I hope there are more food memories later on, so that my future cookbook can include a rarer allusion.

An Epitaph – Punctuate to Suit

From a book that Amanda gave me:

He is an old and experienced man in vice and wickedness he is never found opposing the works of iniquity he takes delight in the downfall of his neighbors he never rejoices in the prosperity of any of his fellow creatures he is always ready to assist in destroying the peace of society he takes no pleasure in serving the Lord his is uncommonly diligent in sowing discord among his friends and acquaintances he takes no pride in laboring to promote the cause of Christianity he has not been negligent in endeavoring to stigmatize all public teachers he makes no exertions to subdue his evil passions he strives hard to build up Satan's kingdom he lends no aid to the support of the Gospel among the heathen he contributes largly to the evil adversary he pays no attention to good advice he gives great heed to the devil he will never go to heaven he must go where he will receive the just recompense of his reward.

Also, remember that “woman, without her man, would be a savage.” Or should that be: “women; without her, man would be a savage”?

Herman Hesse, The Journey to the East

A short book with some interesting ideas. For instance, is it necessary to abandon a group or belief and rediscover it in order to participate fully in it? Hesse calls this despair, and says that “Depair is the result of each earnest attempt to go through life with virtue, justice and understanding.... Children live on one side of despair, the awakened on the other side.” He asks if it necessary to serve in order to live long, in the way that artists give themselves up into their work and mothers into their children. Also, he questions the possibility of discovering the truth of an event of the past. When each participant has their own memories and perspective, can any of them be considered true? I happen to believe that there is indeed one true, objective reality, but I'm not sure that it matters when there is no way of determining what it is. Furthermore, of course, in any sufficiently complex happening, the quantity of detail requires a summarizing and organizing which cannot be wholly objective.

I don't think I saw the same connection between this book and Ken Kesey that Tom Wolfe discusses in The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test. There is the fundamental split between believers and non-believers, but in The Journey to the East we learn almost nothing about the believers, whereas Wolfe goes far to initiating us into Kesey's circle. And there is the mythical journey to the East, but we learn almost nothing about that either. The cult of personality seems weaker in Hesse's novel. Yes, the narrator's companions became divided and bitter without the servant Leo, but there seems more to the League than his leadership. Still, it is an interesting parallel, and I think that I would view The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test more critically if I were to reread it after finishing this book.

Julia Child, The Way to Cook

If you only buy one cookbook, and you'd rather learn to cook than look up particular dishes, this is the book to get. The Joy of Cooking has more recipes but won't teach you as much. In The Way to Cook, Julia Child has distilled and modernized the techniques and recipes of her other books. You'll find French classics like Coq Au Vin, Puff Pastry, and French Bread, but the book has an American feel. There's even a recipe for New England Corn Chowder. The pictures are decorative enough to inspire, but with enough shots of Child's wrinkled hands in action to help you through the complicated recipes. The chapter on bread is particulary thorough. As are the directions for a Duck Pâté Baked in Its Own Skin, which Child assures us, is nothing more than a “dressed-up meat loaf”.

The Way to Cook is arranged in traditional chapters (Soup, Poultry, Meat, etc.), but within each chapter, recipes are grouped by method of preparation. Leg of lamb follows roast beef, for example, and all the braised vegetables come together. This arrangement allows Child to spend more time on technique – ideas that apply to more than just the recipes in the book. She also explains many common tricky recipes (like soufflés, hollandaise sauce, caramel, and omelettes) well enough that you'll be able to make them without the book.

The only section where you might find yourself wanting another cookbook is in the desserts. Those chapters seem more French than the rest of the book, despite several recipes from old American cookbooks. There aren't any chocolate chip cookies here, or an apple pie (I don't count the apple tart). Still, you can have fun making truffles, meringues, caramel custard, and, if you're feeling ambitious, a bûche de Noël.

Despite all that, if French cooking is what interests you, I'd recommend Mastering the Art of French Cooking over The Way to Cook. It seems more authentic, and it's more comprehensive. But if you just want to learn to make good food with French flair, The Way to Cook is the way to go.

Word Up

Reading this:

Did I feel [it] was looking down at me? Or that I was smarter than it was? Was it too clingy? Unobjectionable but unexciting? Simply put: Did it make me look forward to spending more time with it?

you probably wouldn't guess that the author is talking about dictionaries. Of course, if you already did, and you're anything like me, you would know exactly what she's talking about. Which is why I was pleasantly surprised to find my dictionary ranked second of seven. Especially because I got it for free from the UA office (thanks Peter).

Now, the article only considers college-type dictionaries, leaving out the shelf-filling OED and others like it. But if you're looking to actually buy a dictionary, and you're not my brother, you might find it useful.

MFK Fisher, An Alphabet for Gourments and The Gastronomical Me

The first thing I wanted to do when I finished these books was to read them again. Of course, I had already begun to bake bread before I finished them. Fisher writes less conclusively than many essayists: she gives the story, but not the moral. It frustrates at times – why won't she get to the point? – but it forces you to read more carefully, to form your own opinions.

Which should not imply that Fisher has no opinions of her own. She does. For instance: that the most perfect meals are those eaten alone on a couch or a hillside, or by a couple in love and in a restaurant, or by six in a home; that timidity can ruin any meal; that waiters are nicer than people; that fruit should never serve as an appetizer. But most of all, she believes in the sacredness and power of food. Eating is for all of us a necessity; for Fisher it is a rite. It shields her when she is alone, enchanting the cooks and stewards who protect and respect her, and serve her unadvertised delights. It is a means to challenge the habits and prejudices of others. It is the foundation for remembrance and nostalgia, a reminder of family and friends.

Fisher has known meals and restaurants of envious quantity and quality. She has eaten foods I've never heard of, and some I can only dream of. What inspiration her words are to that basest and subtlest of needs! What a hunger they inspire!

John Lanchester, The Debt to Pleasure

Another book read in a day. This one reminded me, as I'm sure it reminds other, of Nabokov – as one reviewer put it, “John Lanchester, reading reviews of his book, is going to get mighty sick of the adjective ‘Nabokovian.’” It's all there: labrinyth sentences, purposeful interjections – (Dentistry, the compact disk) – (picnic, lightning) – mushroom hunting, even midges. A wonderful book for anyone who's already read all of Nabokov's (though I haven't come close). It combines the obsessions, refinements, and deviousness of Humbert Humbert, the careening ramblings of Charles Kimbote, and the nostalgia of Nabokov himself in Speak, Memory. Besides, it's built upon a foundation of food, including a selection of menus, recipes, and long discussions of such regional specialities as fish soup. I'm not sure whether to be pleased or frightened at recognizing some of Lanchester's culinary references – such as the succesful treatment of an English couple (and their baby) who had accidentally consumed a cache Death Cap mushrooms. Lanchester's allusions, while sharing Nabokov's eclecticism, are neither as obscure nor as hidden. Here, in any case, is a particularly Nabokovian selection from the end of the first chapter:

In all memory there is a degree of fallenness; we are all exiles from our own pasts, just as, on looking up from a book, we discover anew our banishment from the bright worlds of imagination and fantasy. A cross-channel ferry, with its overfilled ashtrays and vomitting children, is as good a place as any to reflect on the angel who stands with a flaming sword in front of the gateway to all our yesterdays.

Thanks to my brother for the unknowing loan of this delight.

Tom Wolfe, Hooking Up

I bought Hooking Up Saturday morning and finished it that day. A few years ago, my Pulitzer-winning journalism professor spent several of our three-hour, once-a-week classes doing nothing but reading from this book. What more of a recommendation do you need?

Wolfe discusses a great variety of subjects – microprocessors, Darwinism, John Updike, Dissenting Protestantism – often in the same story, and yet he weaves a number of common themes throughout the book. His favorites are the increasing irrelevance and anemia of American literature, the profusion of intellectuals and artists lacking in skill and hard work, and the theories of neuroscientists, Darwinists, and digifuturists that promise to revolutionize society but often ignore the truth. And, of course, it's all written in Wolfe's unique style, capable of setting any pace, any tone, and catching you up in his words, even when they're not being read aloud by B.D. Colen.

Ernest Hemingway, The Sun Also Rises

Hemingway's characters are so realistic, and his prose so direct, that at times, it feels like he's not doing anything at all. With some writers (Nabokov), the majority of meaning is in the words themselves. Hemingway creates a story, then gets out of the way and lets the reader experience it for himself.

I read this book on a road trip, which was a mistake. My vacation comprised visits to as many cities and natural wonders as fit in a week. The protagonist of The Sun Also Rises spends a lazy week in Pamplona, and at least half that drinking. There was plenty of alcohol on my trip, but very little of the lingering and savoring of Hemingway's book. Still, it was a good read, and a reminder that there are ways to see the world other than out the window of a Toyota Camry.

José Saramago, Blindness

This is not a book that makes me wonder what its characters experience; when I read it, I do. Saramago tells the story of the first victims of a mysterious white blindness which infects an entire nation. I pause while reading, and ponder, with its characters, where I will get my next meal, how I can live in the midst of such filth and despair.

Saramago delimits dialogue only with commas, and it is sometimes impossible to tell who is speaking, him or one of his characters. The narration alternately approaches and recedes from the blind men and women of the story. We are told with precision of future or distant events, but the narrator suddenly asks what's to come. The descriptions, as the characters, are blind; no colors, shapes, shades are put forth. Sometimes the narrator's thoughts seem to wander. Strangely, these oddities only serve to draw one further into the story. The words do not inspire images, they pass directly to emotions.

This book didn't inspire graditude for my clean bed, my abundance of food, my sight; it made me feel, for a few hours, that I lacked them.