diff --git a/bun.lockb b/bun.lockb index 74018ffd..db5991be 100755 Binary files a/bun.lockb and b/bun.lockb differ diff --git a/package.json b/package.json index 3d7e5892..ef7d5d55 100644 --- a/package.json +++ b/package.json @@ -35,9 +35,9 @@ "dependencies": { "@fontsource-variable/fira-code": "^5.2.7", "github-slugger": "^2.0.0", - "katex": "^0.16.25", + "katex": "^0.16.27", "mdast-util-to-string": "^4.0.0", - "posthog-js": "^1.293.0", + "posthog-js": "^1.310.1", "reading-time": "^1.5.0", "unist-util-visit": "^5.0.0", "whatamesh": "max-niederman/whatamesh" @@ -53,7 +53,7 @@ "normalize.css": "^8.0.1", "rehype-katex": "^7.0.1", "remark-math": "^6.0.0", - "sass": "^1.94.0", + "sass": "^1.97.1", "svelte": "^4.2.20", "typescript": "^5.9.3" }, diff --git a/src/content/archive/omelas.mdx b/src/content/archive/omelas.mdx new file mode 100644 index 00000000..d0e596b3 --- /dev/null +++ b/src/content/archive/omelas.mdx @@ -0,0 +1,187 @@ +--- +slug: omelas +title: "The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas" +authors: + - Ursula K. Le Guin +published: 1973-10-01T00:00:00-08:00 +--- + +With a clamor of bells that set the swallows soaring, the Festival of Summer came to the city +Omelas, bright-towered by the sea. The rigging of the boats in harbor sparkled with flags. In the +streets between houses with red roofs and painted walls, between old moss-grown gardens and +under avenues of trees, past great parks and public buildings, processions moved. Some were +decorous: old people in long stiff robes of mauve and grey, grave master workmen, quiet, merry +women carrying their babies and chatting as they walked. In other streets the music beat faster, +a shimmering of gong and tambourine, and the people went dancing, the procession was a dance. +Children dodged in and out, their high calls rising like the swallows’ crossing flights, over the +music and the singing. All the processions wound towards the north side of the city, where on +the great water-meadow called the Green Fields boys and girls, naked in the bright air, with +mud-stained feet and ankles and long, lithe arms, exercised their restive horses before the race. +The horses wore no gear at all but a halter without bit. Their manes were braided with streamers +of silver, gold, and green. They flared their nostrils and pranced and boasted to one another; they +were vastly excited, the horse being the only animal who has adopted our ceremonies as his own. +Far off to the north and west the mountains stood up half encircling Omelas on her bay. The air +of morning was so clear that the snow still crowning the Eighteen Peaks burned with white-gold +fire across the miles of sunlit air, under the dark blue of the sky. There was just enough wind +to make the banners that marked the racecourse snap and flutter now and then. In the silence +of the broad green meadows one could hear the music winding through the city streets, farther +and nearer and ever approaching, a cheerful faint sweetness of the air that from time to time +trembled and gathered together and broke out into the great joyous clanging of the bells. + +Joyous! How is one to tell about joy? How describe the citizens of Omelas? + +They were not simple folk, you see, though they were happy. But we do not say the words +of cheer much any more. All smiles have become archaic. Given a description such as this one +tends to make certain assumptions. Given a description such as this one tends to look next for +the King, mounted on a splendid stallion and surrounded by his noble knights, or perhaps in a +golden litter borne by great-muscled slaves. But there was no king. They did not use swords, or +keep slaves. They were not barbarians. I do not know the rules and laws of their society, but I +suspect that they were singularly few. As they did without monarchy and slavery, so they also got +on without the stock exchange, the advertisement, the secret police, and the bomb. Yet I repeat +that these were not simple folk, not dulcet shepherds, noble savages, bland utopians. They were +not less complex than us. The trouble is that we have a bad habit, encouraged by pedants and +sophisticates, of considering happiness as something rather stupid. Only pain is intellectual, only +evil interesting. This is the treason of the artist: a refusal to admit the banality of evil and the +terrible boredom of pain. If you can’t lick ’em, join ’em. If it hurts, repeat it. But to praise despair +is to condemn delight, to embrace violence is to lose hold of everything else. We have almost +lost hold; we can no longer describe a happy man, nor make any celebration of joy. How can +I tell you about the people of Omelas? They were not naive and happy children – though their +children were, in fact, happy. They were mature, intelligent, passionate adults whose lives were +not wretched. O miracle! but I wish I could describe it better. I wish I could convince you. Omelas +sounds in my words like a city in a fairy tale, long ago and far away, once upon a time. Perhaps +it would be best if you imagined it as your own fancy bids, assuming it will rise to the occasion, +for certainly I cannot suit you all. For instance, how about technology? I think that there would +be no cars or helicopters in and above the streets; this follows from the fact that the people of +Omelas are happy people. Happiness is based on a just discrimination of what is necessary, what +is neither necessary nor destructive, and what is destructive. In the middle category, however – +that of the unnecessary but undestructive, that of comfort, luxury, exuberance, etc. – they could +perfectly well have central heating, subway trains, washing machines, and all kinds of marvelous +devices not yet invented here, floating light-sources, fuelless power, a cure for the common cold. +Or they could have none of that: it doesn’t matter. As you like it. I incline to think that people +from towns up and down the coast have been coming in to Omelas during the last days before the +Festival on very fast little trains and double-decked trams, and that the train station of Omelas is +actually the handsomest building in town, though plainer than the magnificent Farmers’ Market. +But even granted trains, I fear that Omelas so far strikes some of you as goody-goody. Smiles, +bells, parades, horses, bleh. If so, please add an orgy. If an orgy would help, don’t hesitate. Let +us not, however, have temples from which issue beautiful nude priests and priestesses already +half in ecstasy and ready to copulate with any man or woman, lover or stranger who desires +union with the deep godhead of the blood, although that was my first idea. But really it would be +better not to have any temples in Omelas – at least, not manned temples. Religion yes, clergy no. +Surely the beautiful nudes can just wander about, offering themselves like divine souffles to the +hunger of the needy and the rapture of the flesh. Let them join the processions. Let tambourines +be struck above the copulations, and the glory of desire be proclaimed upon the gongs, and (a +not unimportant point) let the offspring of these delightful rituals be beloved and looked after +by all. One thing I know there is none of in Omelas is guilt. But what else should there be? +I thought at first there were no drugs, but that is puritanical. For those who like it, the faint +insistent sweetness of _drooz_ may perfume the ways of the city, _drooz_ which first brings a great +lightness and brilliance to the mind and limbs, and then after some hours a dreamy languor, and +wonderful visions at last of the very arcana and inmost secrets of the Universe, as well as exciting +the pleasure of sex beyond all belief; and it is not habit-forming. For more modest tastes I think +there ought to be beer. What else, what else belongs in the joyous city? The sense of victory, +surely, the celebration of courage. But as we did without clergy, let us do without soldiers. The +joy built upon successful slaughter is not the right kind of joy; it will not do; it is fearful and it +is trivial. A boundless and generous contentment, a magnanimous triumph felt not against some +outer enemy but in communion with the finest and fairest in the souls of all men everywhere +and the splendor of the world’s summer; this is what swells the hearts of the people of Omelas, +and the victory they celebrate is that of life. I really don’t think many of them need to take _drooz_. + +Most of the processions have reached the Green Fields by now. A marvelous smell of cooking +goes forth from the red and blue tents of the provisioners. The faces of small children are amiably +sticky; in the benign grey beard of a man a couple of crumbs of rich pastry are entangled. The +youths and girls have mounted their horses and are beginning to group around the starting line +of the course. An old woman, small, fat, and laughing, is passing out flowers from a basket, and +tall young men, wear her flowers in their shining hair. A child of nine or ten sits at the edge of +the crowd, alone, playing on a wooden flute. People pause to listen, and they smile, but they do +not speak to him, for he never ceases playing and never sees them, his dark eyes wholly rapt in +the sweet, thin magic of the tune. + +He finishes, and slowly lowers his hands holding the wooden flute. + +As if that little private silence were the signal, all at once a trumpet sounds from the pavilion +near the starting line: imperious, melancholy, piercing. The horses rear on their slender legs, and +some of them neigh in answer. Sober-faced, the young riders stroke the horses’ necks and soothe +them, whispering, ”Quiet, quiet, there my beauty, my hope. . . .” They begin to form in rank along +the starting line. The crowds along the racecourse are like a field of grass and flowers in the wind. +The Festival of Summer has begun. + +Do you believe? Do you accept the festival, the city, the joy? No? Then let me describe one +more thing. + +In a basement under one of the beautiful public buildings of Omelas, or perhaps in the cellar +of one of its spacious private homes, there is a room. It has one locked door, and no window. A +little light seeps in dustily between cracks in the boards, secondhand from a cobwebbed window +somewhere across the cellar. In one corner of the little room a couple of mops, with stiff, clotted, +foul-smelling heads, stand near a rusty bucket. The floor is dirt, a little damp to the touch, as cellar +dirt usually is. The room is about three paces long and two wide: a mere broom closet or disused +tool room. In the room a child is sitting. It could be a boy or a girl. It looks about six, but actually +is nearly ten. It is feeble-minded. Perhaps it was born defective or perhaps it has become imbecile +through fear, malnutrition, and neglect. It picks its nose and occasionally fumbles vaguely with +its toes or genitals, as it sits haunched in the corner farthest from the bucket and the two mops. +It is afraid of the mops. It finds them horrible. It shuts its eyes, but it knows the mops are still +standing there; and the door is locked; and nobody will come. The door is always locked; and +nobody ever comes, except that sometimes-the child has no understanding of time or interval – +sometimes the door rattles terribly and opens, and a person, or several people, are there. One of +them may come and kick the child to make it stand up. The others never come close, but peer in +at it with frightened, disgusted eyes. The food bowl and the water jug are hastily filled, the door +is locked, the eyes disappear. The people at the door never say anything, but the child, who has +not always lived in the tool room, and can remember sunlight and its mother’s voice, sometimes +speaks. ”I will be good,” it says. ”Please let me out. I will be good!” They never answer. The child +used to scream for help at night, and cry a good deal, but now it only makes a kind of whining, +”eh-haa, eh-haa,” and it speaks less and less often. It is so thin there are no calves to its legs; its +belly protrudes; it lives on a half-bowl of corn meal and grease a day. It is naked. Its buttocks and +thighs are a mass of festered sores, as it sits in its own excrement continually. + +They all know it is there, all the people of Omelas. Some of them have come to see it, others are +content merely to know it is there. They all know that it has to be there. Some of them understand +why, and some do not, but they all understand that their happiness, the beauty of their city, the +tenderness of their friendships, the health of their children, the wisdom of their scholars, the +skill of their makers, even the abundance of their harvest and the kindly weathers of their skies, +depend wholly on this child’s abominable misery. + +This is usually explained to children when they are between eight and twelve, whenever they +seem capable of understanding; and most of those who come to see the child are young people, +though often enough an adult comes, or comes back, to see the child. No matter how well the +matter has been explained to them, these young spectators are always shocked and sickened +at the sight. They feel disgust, which they had thought themselves superior to. They feel anger, +outrage, impotence, despite all the explanations. They would like to do something for the child. +But there is nothing they can do. If the child were brought up into the sunlight out of that vile +place, if it were cleaned and fed and comforted, that would be a good thing, indeed; but if it were +done, in that day and hour all the prosperity and beauty and delight of Omelas would wither and +be destroyed. Those are the terms. To exchange all the goodness and grace of every life in Omelas +for that single, small improvement: to throw away the happiness of thousands for the chance of +the happiness of one: that would be to let guilt within the walls indeed. + +The terms are strict and absolute; there may not even be a kind word spoken to the child. + +Often the young people go home in tears, or in a tearless rage, when they have seen the child +and faced this terrible paradox. They may brood over it for weeks or years. But as time goes on +they begin to realize that even if the child could be released, it would not get much good of its +freedom: a little vague pleasure of warmth and food, no doubt, but little more. It is too degraded +and imbecile to know any real joy. It has been afraid too long ever to be free of fear. Its habits are +too uncouth for it to respond to humane treatment. Indeed, after so long it would probably be +wretched without walls about it to protect it, and darkness for its eyes, and its own excrement +to sit in. Their tears at the bitter injustice dry when they begin to perceive the terrible justice +of reality, and to accept it. Yet it is their tears and anger, the trying of their generosity and the +acceptance of their helplessness, which are perhaps the true source of the splendor of their lives. +Theirs is no vapid, irresponsible happiness. They know that they, like the child, are not free. They +know compassion. It is the existence of the child, and their knowledge of its existence, that makes +possible the nobility of their architecture, the poignancy of their music, the profundity of their +science. It is because of the child that they are so gentle with children. They know that if the +wretched one were not there snivelling in the dark, the other one, the flute-player, could make +no joyful music as the young riders line up in their beauty for the race in the sunlight of the first +morning of summer. + +Now do you believe in them? Are they not more credible? But there is one more thing to tell, +and this is quite incredible. + +At times one of the adolescent girls or boys who go to see the child does not go home to weep +or rage, does not, in fact, go home at all. Sometimes also a man or woman much older falls silent +for a day or two, and then leaves home. These people go out into the street, and walk down +the street alone. They keep walking, and walk straight out of the city of Omelas, through the +beautiful gates. They keep walking across the farmlands of Omelas. Each one goes alone, youth +or girl man or woman. Night falls; the traveler must pass down village streets, between the houses +with yellow-lit windows, and on out into the darkness of the fields. Each alone, they go west or +north, towards the mountains. They go on. They leave Omelas, they walk ahead into the darkness, +and they do not come back. The place they go towards is a place even less imaginable to most of +us than the city of happiness. I cannot describe it at all. It is possible that it does not exist. But +they seem to know where they are going, the ones who walk away from Omelas. diff --git a/src/content/config.ts b/src/content/config.ts index 738457fe..7b4de1c1 100644 --- a/src/content/config.ts +++ b/src/content/config.ts @@ -30,7 +30,17 @@ const tradesCollection = defineCollection({ }), }); +const archiveCollection = defineCollection({ + type: "content", + schema: z.object({ + title: z.string(), + authors: z.array(z.string()), + published: z.date(), + }), +}); + export const collections = { posts: postsCollection, trades: tradesCollection, + archive: archiveCollection, }; diff --git a/src/content/posts/omelas/omelas.mdx b/src/content/posts/omelas/omelas.mdx new file mode 100644 index 00000000..c2ce6c11 --- /dev/null +++ b/src/content/posts/omelas/omelas.mdx @@ -0,0 +1,91 @@ +--- +draft: true +slug: omelas +title: "Omelas: The Banality of Evil" +published: 2025-12-26 +updated: 2025-12-26 +crossposts: {} +--- + +> You miss the altar for the corpse. +> +> David Verburg, _A Practical Guide to Evil_ + +[``The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas''](/archive/omelas) is a wonderful short story by Ursula K. Le Guin. +Although it is usually read as a critique of utilitarianism, +this interpretation is not well supported by the text. +Instead, I believe the story is an exploration of the contradiction between +the apparent necessity of suffering for things to be meaningful, +and the human tendency to refuse any compromise with evil. + +If you have not read "Omelas" recently, +you may want to [read it now,](/archive/omelas) +as it is rather short. +Many people [misremember](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/False_memory) the story to better fit the common interpretation, +after hearing it called a critique of utilitarianism often enough. + +## Utilitarianism + +The common interpretation of "Omelas" goes something like this. +In a utilitarian ethical framework, the suffering of the child is more than justified by the great joy of the rest of Omelas. +And yet, people still walk away from Omelas and the reader feels that that the suffering of the child is unjustified. +In this interpretation, the reader and the ones who walk away are rejecting the utilitarian ethic which allows for the suffering of the child. + +At first glance, this seems like a reasonable interpretation of the story. +However, I believe it fails to explain two major parts of the story: +the diegetic necessity of the child's suffering, +and the emphasis on the unbelievability of the perfect Omelas, before the introduction of the child. + +## Disbelief + +Almost two thirds of the text is spent simply describing the city of Omelas without the child. +The narrator gives more and more detail, insisting that there is no dark side to Omelas. +The text implores the reader to believe in the perfect city, +even inviting them to imagine their own version of utopia: + +> But I wish I could describe it better. I wish I could convince you. Omelas sounds in my words like a city in a fairy tale, long ago and far away, once upon a time. Perhaps it would be best if you imagined it as your own fancy bids, assuming it will rise to the occasion, for certainly I cannot suit you all. + +When you read the story, though, you are not convinced. +Throughout the description of Omelas, you are always waiting for the darkness behind the utopia to be revealed. +Without any evil, the story of Omelas is not believable, not interesting, not meaningful. + +> The trouble is that we have a bad habit, encouraged by pedants and sophisticates, of considering happiness as something rather stupid. **Only pain is intellectual, only evil interesting.** This is the treason of the artist: a refusal to admit the banality of evil and the terrible boredom of pain. If you can’t lick ‘em, join ‘em. If it hurts, repeat it. But to praise despair is to condemn delight, to embrace violence is to lose hold of everything else. **We have almost lost hold; we can no longer describe happy man, nor make any celebration of joy.** + +## The Child + +After describing the inability of artists and intellectuals to celebrate joy, the narrator introduces the child: + +> Do you believe? Do you accept the festival, the city, the joy? No? Then let me describe one more thing. + +Once the child is described, it is easy to accept the tale of Omelas. +When we are told that Omelas is perfect, it feels shallow, unintellectual, and unreal. +Despite pages of detail on the happy citizens of Omelas, we struggle to remember it. +Instead, we latch on to the child. +The pain of the child is what makes Omelas believable and interesting, +and so the single paragraph of suffering is far more memorable than the six paragraphs of joy. + +The shallowness of perfection is also the diegetic reason that Omelas cannot exist without the child. +The child's suffering is what gives the joy of Omelas' inhabitants its meaning, and they know this: + +> Yet it is their tears and anger, the trying of their generosity and the acceptance of their helplessness, which are perhaps the true source of the splendor of their lives. Theirs is no vapid, irresponsible happiness. They know that they, like the child, are not free. They know compassion. **It is the existence of the child, and their knowledge of its existence, that makes possible the nobility of their architecture, the poignancy of their music, the profundity of their science.** + +The child exists to make Omelas _easier_ for the reader and its inhabitants to accept, not harder. + +## The Ones Who Walk Away + +But what of the ones who walk away? +Like many readers, they cannot accept Omelas even with the child. +They cannot brook any evil, even as the price for utopia. +But if they cannot accept a society without evil because it lacks compassion, +and cannot accept a society with evil because it lacks justice, +what can they accept? +I certainly do not know, and neither does Le Guin: + +> The place they go towards is a place even less imaginable to most of us than the city of happiness. I cannot describe it at all. It is possible that it does not exist. But they seem to know where they are going, the ones who walk away from Omelas. + +Although the ones who walk away "seem to know where they are going," +like those who reject the utilitarian ethic of Omelas, +they do not offer a solution. +Unfortunately, it is far easier to point out flaws in and reject an idea than it is to fix it. +Perhaps there is a way to resolve this paradox, but I doubt it. +Instead, humanity must find a way to cope with perfection on our journey to utopia. diff --git a/src/layouts/DocLayout.astro b/src/layouts/DocLayout.astro index 6292e256..dc1a8f2e 100644 --- a/src/layouts/DocLayout.astro +++ b/src/layouts/DocLayout.astro @@ -65,4 +65,8 @@ const { title, published, updated, wordCount, crossposts = {} } = Astro.props; margin: 0 0.5ch; } } + + main { + margin: 2rem 0; + } diff --git a/src/layouts/PageLayout.astro b/src/layouts/PageLayout.astro index d80b42b1..4d30bd42 100644 --- a/src/layouts/PageLayout.astro +++ b/src/layouts/PageLayout.astro @@ -4,16 +4,16 @@ import BaseLayout from "./BaseLayout.astro"; import type { HeadingTree } from "../markdown/heading-tree"; export interface Props { - title: string; - headingTree?: HeadingTree; + title: string; + headingTree?: HeadingTree; } const { title, headingTree } = Astro.props; --- -