That is the opening slide in the movie. This movie intends to tar the objectors to GMO with the “science denier” label. It is probably right, sorta. What I took from the movie is that in there are 3 main reasons to oppose GMO technology. Because it is an effort by giant amoral corporations with a track record of being deceptive to take over the world’s food supply, because many GMO crops are made to be “Round-up Ready” meaning that oceans of Round-up are now being used, and because there is something mad scientistish and ominous about inserting genes from one plant into another. It appears that most of the airtime is taken up talking about the first two of these, in equal measure by both sides. Odd to me that the actual science part seems to be less controversial than the governance parts
|I have a feeling that if you enjoyed “Napolean Dynamite” or any of Christopher Guest’s oeuvre, this is a movie for you. Otherwise, probably not so much.|
| Purkinje neuron illustrated by Ramón y Cajal, in 1887 or so.
Published in The Beautiful Brain, The Drawings of Santiago Ramon y Cajal By Larry Swanson, Eric Newman, Alfonso Araque, and Janet Dubinsky
Reviewed in this great article in the New York Times.
|Excerpt from What’s Wrong with the World GK Chesterton, 1910
This excerpt was published in the fabulous Lapham’s Quarterly, Winter, 2017
But of all the modern notions generated by mere wealth the worst is this: the notion that domesticity is dull and tame. Inside the home (they say) is dead decorum and routine; outside is adventure and variety. This is indeed a rich man’s opinion. The rich man knows that his own house moves on vast and soundless wheels of wealth, is run by regiments of servants, by a swift and silent ritual. On the other hand, every sort of vagabondage of romance is open to him in the streets outside. He has plenty of money and can afford to be a tramp. His wildest adventure will end in a restaurant, while the yokel’s tamest adventure may end in a police-court. If he smashes a window he can pay for it; if he smashes a man he can pension him. He can (like the millionaire in the story) buy an hotel to get a glass of gin. And because he, the luxurious man, dictates the tone of nearly all “advanced” and “progressive” thought, we have almost forgotten what a home really means to the overwhelming millions of mankind.
For the truth is, that to the moderately poor the home is the only place of liberty. Nay, it is the only place of anarchy. It is the only spot on the earth where a man can alter arrangements suddenly, make an experiment or indulge in a whim. Everywhere else he goes he must accept the strict rules of the shop, inn, club, or museum that he happens to enter. He can eat his meals on the floor in his own house if he likes. I often do it myself; it gives a curious, childish, poetic, picnic feeling. There would be considerable trouble if I tried to do it in an A.B.C. tea-shop. A man can wear a dressing gown and slippers in his house; while I am sure that this would not be permitted at the Savoy, though I never actually tested the point. If you go to a restaurant you must drink some of the wines on the wine list, all of them if you insist, but certainly some of them. But if you have a house and garden you can try to make hollyhock tea or convolvulus wine if you like. For a plain, hard-working man the home is not the one tame place in the world of adventure. It is the one wild place in the world of rules and set tasks. The home is the one place where he can put the carpet on the ceiling or the slates on the floor if he wants to. When a man spends every night staggering from bar to bar or from music-hall to music-hall, we say that he is living an irregular life. But he is not; he is living a highly regular life, under the dull, and often oppressive, laws of such places. Some times he is not allowed even to sit down in the bars; and frequently he is not allowed to sing in the music-halls. Hotels may be defined as places where you are forced to dress; and theaters may be defined as places where you are forbidden to smoke. A man can only picnic at home.
Now I take, as I have said, this small human omnipotence, this possession of a definite cell or chamber of liberty, as the working model for the present inquiry. Whether we can give every English man a free home of his own or not, at least we should desire it; and he desires it. For the moment we speak of what he wants, not of what he expects to get. He wants, far instance, a separate house; he does not want a semi-detached house. He may be forced in the commercial race to share one wall with another man. Similarly he might be forced in a three-legged race to share one leg with another man; but it is not so that he pictures himself in his dreams of elegance and liberty. Again, he does not desire a flat. He can eat and sleep and praise God in a flat; he can eat and sleep and praise God in a railway train. But a railway train is not a house, because it is a house on wheels. And a flat is not a house, because it is a house on stilts. An idea of earthy contact and foundation, as well as an idea of separation and independence, is a part of this instructive human picture.
I take, then, this one institution as a test. As every normal man desires a woman, and children born of a woman, every normal man desires a house of his own to put them into. He does not merely want a roof above him and a chair below him; he wants an objective and visible kingdom; a fire at which he can cook what food he likes, a door he can open to what friends he chooses. This is the normal appetite of men; I do not say there are not exceptions. There may be saints above the need and philanthropists below it. Opalstein, now he is a duke, may have got used to more than this; and when he was a convict may have got used to less. But the normality of the thing is enormous. To give nearly everybody ordinary houses would please nearly everybody; that is what I assert without apology.
THE IMPOSSIBILITY OF KNOWING EVERYONE
A profiteer, a Priest of Nebt-het, from Heliopolis, and a Fool were
walking together one day, when they met the grim figure of War belching
flame and fury.
‘Who is that?’ asked the fool and the priest of each other, quickening
their pace. But the profiteer raised his hat, bowed humbly, and stayed
to chat for a few moments with the terrible figure, before rejoining his
Presently, they came upon Death, mumbling to himself by the roadside.
The fool and the profiteer raised their eyebrows, and passed on, but the
priest of Nebt-het touched his forehead and made certain strange signs
with his hands, to which Death replied in like manner.
Then the three spied a beautiful woman who sat among the wildflowers. It
was Love, combing her hair and singing all the love-songs of the world.
‘That is a fine woman,’ said the profiteer, staring hard.
‘I do not know her,’ said the priest, somewhat sadly. But the fool ran
forward and caught her hands in his, and they laughed together. So the
priest and the profiteer walked on, but when they had gone a little way,
they turned round, and there was the fool sitting at her feet and
looking into her eyes as she sang and combed her hair.
‘The fool has all the luck,’ they grumbled.
being Tales Travesties and Epigrams by
J. B. PRIESTLEY