Intraviewing

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Interviews lie at the heart of most personal business interactions.  They are an attempt to cram into a few hours or even a few minutes the whole complicated affair of getting to know someone.  But unlike its social correlate, the process of interviewing is designed to come up with an answer, to pass final judgement on a person's worth.  As a result, there is an unnatural pressure on both the interviewer - to winkle out the 'truth' - and the interviewed - to give the best impression.  The two goals may be mutually incompatible.

Though the subject of the interview undoubtedly suffers more, the good interviewer probably works harder.  Interviewers are confronted with a complex human pinball game: they must ask questions, which presupposes some overall structure to the meeting, even if that structure evolves contingently; they must listen to the answers, knowing when to let silences hang, when to prompt, when to cut off; they must think of the next question which may or may not refer back to the previous answers and may affect later quizzing; they must also watch out for the tell-tale non-verbal clues - the hand covering the mouth, the scratch of the head, the constantly averted glance.  All this they must do, often while they read background information, write notes and begin to form an opinion.

The satisfaction gained from meeting these demands can prove addictive.  Like a deft sports player who hungers for ever more challenging opponents, the interviewer begins to relish the difficult interview where the subject dries up, is deeply inconsistent, or - best of all - responds with an equally dextrous finesse.

But there is another, far more insidious, pleasure to be had from interviewing.  At some point every interviewer realises that for thirty minutes, or an hour perhaps, in that small room, for that one person, they are God.  By attending the interview people implicitly accept your right to ask practically anything.  Their task is to aid you in your discovery that they are indeed the person you are searching for.  To expedite that realisation, they must therefore offer themselves to you for scrutiny as willing and submissive objects.  In doing so, they acquiesce in a state of vulnerability which is probably unique to this context, a vulnerability, moreover, proffered to a total stranger.

Even when an interviewer begins to abuse this submission, most subjects dare not retaliate; they find it hard to jump back to more general etiquettes where such behaviour would never be tolerated.  To disturb the unequal but accepted dynamics between the interviewer and the interviewed would inevitably threaten the format of the interview itself.  And without the interview there can be no success.

For this reason the interviewer must wield this immense if short-lived power with circumspection and responsibility.  An interview is like a profound but concentrated one-sided friendship: the interviewed offer you the chance to understand their deepest hopes and fears, to get inside their mind, but demand no reciprocal soul-baring from you.  This is more than interviewing, it is intraviewing.  It is a great and rare privilege.

(1989)

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Repeatability

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There is an ancient tale about a mighty emperor and a great artist.  The artist creates for the emperor a work of surpassing beauty.  Deeply moved by this work, the emperor asks the artist whether he could ever create another, identical, masterpiece.  'Assuredly, your majesty, I could create a hundred such works,' replies the artist, hoping for patronage.  Instead, the emperor has him instantly put to death, thus ensuring that the work of unmatched loveliness remains unique forever.

At the beginning of culture, there was no such dilemma for the prospective owner.  Every artefact was necessarily one of a kind.  It bore the marks of its maker as surely and indelibly as a child bears the features of its parents.  In this early Workshop of Eden, everything had a name from the moment of its creation.

Society developed.  Central to the idea of the new civilisation was the passing on of knowledge.  As human skills progressed, the concept of the pattern emerged, and with it fashion, the arbitrary and temporary preference for one pattern over another.  The latter soon led to objects being judged by their fashionability rather than their functionality: everybody wanted an amphora, but nobody wanted an ill-formed though perfectly serviceable amphora.  Since copies were to be mutually indistinguishable, they could have no past or future without an owner to redeem them from anonymity.  When things became numbers, the concept of consumerism was born, fashion's younger sibling.

But for centuries thereafter, full consumerism was still only a faint dream for the masses as yet unenfranchised by fashion, and a growing nightmare for the threatened elite of the already fashionable.  As manufacturing technology improved, the nearer the attainment of the grail of perfect repeatability became.  Although history's first assembly line - the ship-building works in the Venetian navy's Arsenal - was more concerned with quantity than quality, it showed the way for the fully-fledged factories of the Industrial Revolution and their later progeny.

Initially confined to material objects, the quest for repeatability has now infected all of modern life, passing from fashion into obsession.  Even our food has succumbed: when we buy a tin of soup we do not buy just soup; we buy the exact taste and consistency of that particular brand of soup.  Which is why we are so shocked when the same brand dares once to be different: like children, we want the world to remain safely and eternally familiar.  And this hunger for the perfectly and reliably repeatable experience now informs every consumer action: we buy a pop star's new album and watch a film's latest sequel in the hope that they will offer more of the same experiences, but with different details.

Even as we crave repeatability, we demand its negation - novelty.  But having found the new, we are doomed to return to it and to ask for the same novel experience.  If we do not, we are still in thrall to the tyranny of life's repeatability.  Yet if we do, we have simply extended the boundary of that tyranny.  Perhaps the tale of the emperor and the artist contains more wisdom in its barbarousness than we care to admit.

(1988)

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Thoughts for your pennies

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First, the doll-like farthing went.  Then the twelve-sided brass threepenny bit, the halfpenny, and finally, in an orgy of numismatic vandalism, the shilling, the florin and the half-crown.  At a stroke, two thousand years of monetary history were swept away, a victim of ephemeral economics and a fetish for decimals.  The penny coin alone lives on, its nominal value increased, though otherwise pitiably reduced.

Holding an old penny today is a curious experience.  It feels so large and so heavy compared to the footling tiddlywink counter we so aptly call a 'p'.  It is a marvel of classic design, with its proud image of Britannia, and its stylised, cryptic inscription - itself almost a summary of English history over the last five hundred years - garlanding the monarch's head.  Moreover, it is not an isolated example like our current coin, which feels like a litter's runt: the same majestic form can be found in a great series which tracks centuries of Royalty in England.

Nor was this a theoretical assemblage.  Until decimalisation - that long, mincing weasel word for British money's equivalent to the destruction of the Library of Alexandria - nearly two hundred years of the past was to be found in your pocket, every day.  Searching through each handful of change made even the most mundane of financial transactions an adventure, a chance to stumble across a treasure subtly hidden by being everywhere.

Coins of Elizabeth II and George VI predominated; but those of George V and Edward VII were common too.  The former looked like the last Russian tsar, or perhaps Tchaikovsky, while the latter had the bald head of an all-in wrestler and the facial hair of an Airedale.  With characteristic formality each succeeding king or queen faced in alternating directions, partners in a regal pavan, making some look back to their predecessor, and others gaze ahead, as if trying to descry the future and the features that would one day in turn look back at them.  

But more exciting than any of these were the coins of Victoria.  In her sixty-five years as queen, billions of pennies were issued.  Though most were recalled to the Mint, surprising numbers survived down to our own day, and were to be found occasionally amongst the coinage of her descendants like an immortal old dowager turning up unexpectedly at a family gathering.  The length of her reign meant that her portrait changed several times, from the delicate young girl at the start - looking like something out of a Jane Austen novel - to the stout and dour old woman at the end, when the empress of a third of the world lived out her long widowhood in sadness and comparative solitude.

Finding any of her incarnations always sent a thrill through me.  This coin, I thought, has seen a hundred years of the world, been handled by half the nation, bought a million objects; what a story it could tell.  And I remembered one of those immortal school essay topics - 'The life of a penny' - which seemed so pointless then, but which now acquired a deeper wisdom.  A wisdom cut off now, just as that great metal river of coins pouring down through history has been cut off, dammed, diverted, and turned into the feeble trickle we know today.

(1989)

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The Turing point

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Most days of our lives we are required to prove who we are.  But communicating our identity to someone else - without recourse to intrusive techniques like genetic fingerprinting - is a tricky philosophical problem: in what true and dependable outward manifestations does the inner self lie?  Clearly, in nothing so mutable as appearance.  Instead, what is needed is some external correlate of the singularity that resides within.  Almost always the sign that is chosen is our signature.

On cheques, documents, instructions, receipts, orders and acknowledgements, our characteristic doodle is deemed to be a true and sufficient token of our participation and implication.  For most legal, economic and historical purposes, we are nothing but our signatures.  Yet how primitive it is: it harks back to an age when the ability to sign was so rare as to be almost magical.  The signature was like a secret rune, an imprint of the soul.  In practical terms, forgery was well-nigh impossible, since so few could write their own name, never mind anyone else's.  Today, the usefulness of signatures is founded on the assumption that, although ubiquitous now, each one remains inviolably unique.

This is about to change.  Technology is reaching the stage where machines will be able to produce perfect copies of any signature, correct down to the details of pen velocity, pressure and inclination to the paper.  At a stroke - or several - the trustworthiness of the signature will disappear.  With it will go our primary means of identifying people.

To combat this, other attributes will be investigated.  Voice recognition systems are already in use; their proponents claim that they can distinguish infallibly between a human voice and an impersonation.  This may be so, but related developments are subverting their usefulness.  Cognate devices can emulate an input voice by reversing the procedures of recognition, synthesising sound from the resultant data.  According to the original discrimination scheme, the output is necessarily identical.

A similar approach can be applied to any other human attribute.  For every verification test is made up of two processes: analysis and comparison.  The analysed input can therefore be used to reproduce all its salient characteristics - salient according to the test, that is - thus ensuring that the artificially constituted feature passes the test.  Anything that can be measured can be mimicked; and anything that mimics as well as the test can judge is indistinguishable by that test from the original.

So it will be that for any check proposed as a way of establishing personal identity, a machine will be able to mimic the specific feature under scrutiny.  Imagine, then, a machine that can simulate to the point of interchangeability every testable characteristic of a given person.  The aping machine, in all such respects, is that person.  Nor is this limited to the obvious tests of individuality: the same applies to intelligence, emotions and the rest of life's baggage.  This is the Turing point, when the distinction between machine and human vanishes.  And it will come.  Enjoy the uniqueness of your signature - and your humanity - while you can.

(1988)

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The crown in the jewel

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'The Lay of Havelok the Dane' is a thirteenth century Middle English poem written in the transitional language between the inflected Germanic of Anglo-Saxon and Chaucer's more modern tongue.  It is an engaging if unremarkable tale of a young Danish prince who discovers his royal origins and claims his stolen birthright - a kind of fairy-tale Hamlet - written in the period's characteristically fast-paced short rhyming couplets of four stresses.  For the antiquarian the main point of interest is that the step-father of the eponymous hero is called Grimsby, and the Lay purports to explain how he came to found the town of the same name.

More intriguing for the general reader is the plot device used to reveal Havelok's princely birth.  As he lies sleeping, a blinding ray of light issues from his mouth.  This unprepared irruption of the fantastic into an otherwise naturalistic tale may be surprising but it is by no means unique: a more famous and rather better poem in Middle English, 'Sir Gawain and the Green Knight', has a knight who is not only literally green, but who calmly submits to a beheading, then picks up his head and walks off with it.  The link with folklore's figure of the Green Man who dies and rises again - itself based on myths surrounding the cycle of planting and reaping crops - seems patent, as is the thoroughgoing permeation of the Arthurian cycle concerning the Quest for the Holy Grail with references to other pre-Christian vegetation rites.

Havelok's royal light is proof that he, like all kings and queens, is an extraordinary being, endowed with an angelic radiance.  It is an idea that has been part of the iconography of royalty since the very first representations, albeit in a sublimated form: the crown.  Those blinding rays may come from the head not the mouth, but in essence they are the same.  The gleaming crown is a physical embodiment of the halo of semi-divinity which has always clung to kinghood.

To reinforce this idea, the gold and silver of crowns have habitually been embellished with jewels.  Though the initial impulse may have been vanity and a love of manifest pomp, this development was no simple mindless display of the monarch's wealth.  These otherwise useless lumps of mineral were held precious when cut because they radiated another royal light, one that amplified the luminescence of the crown they adorned.

The imagery of gems is so faded, and our perception of them so dulled, that we forget too easily the tremendous presence of a fine jewel.  And if we can lose touch with the simple primitive awe owed to a single stone, how much greater is our need to be reminded of the humbling presence of a magnificent crown?  A useful corrective is a visit to the Jewel House at the Tower of London.  To see close up the Imperial State Crown with its thousands of brilliants, rubies and sapphires, or the noble and ancient St Edward's Crown, to witness the glinting prismatic rays of the Koh-i-noor diamond or of the Sceptre's huge Star of Africa is to experience afresh the raw power of the precious stone, to regain the sense of the mysterious and the transcendental in a true crown, and to reach back to the ancient knowledge that lay behind Havelok's strange but veridical proof of royalty.

(1990)

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Colonising names

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In all taxonomies there is a tension between brevity and limpidity.  At one end of the scale you could simply number every object in a class, a compact but unhelpful approach.  At the other end, you could attach a full, descriptive name, which aids understanding but negates classification's purpose, concision.

One problem common to all labelling systems is coping with the addition of new members.  As more and more are added, so the labelling must become more complex to encompass them.  A case in point is the allocation of telephone numbers.  Demand in London became so great that the capital was split into an inner and outer zone, with respective prefixes 071 and 081 replacing the old 01 code.  An alternative would have been to add an extra digit to every telephone number in the country, preserving London's single 01 prefix.  As usual, people have opted for the easier, though less logical, implementation.

The same growth in complexity has occurred with personal names.  Look at any long list of past incumbents in an ancient parish church, and it is striking how the names start off simply, perhaps just a Hugh or a Peter, and gradually blossom into John of Wykeham, before becoming full-blown first names and surnames.  Today we find that process taken even further, with middle names a crucial distinguishing factor in certain circumstances, especially bureaucratic ones.

Our hankering after older, simpler schemes manifests itself in social situations.  If we know someone well enough, we tend to think of them by their first name;  any confusion between similarly-named people is usually resolved by context.  This works well enough for business and casual acquaintances, but with names of our dearly beloved it is not so simple.

The closer we get to someone, the more we imbue their name with our feelings for them.  It is perhaps significant that we address our parents not by name, but call them instead by neutral descriptions - 'mother' and 'father'.  Given the strength of this emotional attachment we would probably find it impossible ever to apply their names to anyone else: in effect, that name would become our personal word for 'mother'.

But we have no such linguistic buffer with friends and lovers.  If we know John very well, or love Jane to madness, our reactions to those with the same name will never again be normal: the burden of the past, called up by that incantatory set of sounds, will obtrude between us and the person.  Similarly, once we have hated a Jim, we will find ourselves uncomfortably constrained in the presence of a new, quite blameless Jim.

It is as if each name can carry only one experience for us: once charged, it is used up, set, a mental landmark we must live with and move around.  The people we know and love circumscribe our future acts and relations: we may rebuff the perfect mate for her wrong name, or find ourselves unable to christen our child as we wish without making him a revenant.  In a world of colonised names, we wander poor and dispossessed.  Perhaps it would be easier if we were called by our telephone numbers.

(1989)

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Accidents and substance

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Some people seem to have aerodynamic souls.  They go through life causing barely an eddy in the great stream of the world.  After painless childhoods, they grow up, get a job, get married, get a family, get old and die - all as effortlessly as a fish moves through water.  Often, they are deeply content; but they never appear in history.  They are completely invisible, and live, if at all, only through their children who carry their name and perhaps a faint memory of endless summer holidays spent with a smiling, faceless couple.

Contrast them with those who travel through life with all the grace of a thrown brick.  Whatever smoothness existence requires at a particular moment for an easy passage, they proffer only corners and edges.  They have desperate, terrible childhoods which they carry around for the rest of their lives like criminal records.  Adolescence is a painful cosmic joke.  If they marry at all, it is always the wrong person; if they have children, they have too many or at the wrong time.  Their home is a disaster: constant repairs, burglaries, fires.  In old age they are plagued by illness, and are abandoned by their relatives.  Death, when it comes, comes too late, or at an embarrassing moment, or messily.  But these are people whose days are richly textured, and who wear life's scars like medals.  And you remember the look in their eyes for ever.

Most of us fall between the two, divided between a cowardly desire for an easy, painless path through this world, and a craving for incident.  As ever, we cheat and compromise: we seek comfort in reality and fulfilment in fantasy.  We may daydream about the ideal partner; imagine the success and riches of our own business; begin to think about planning that daring holiday; but we make do with a nice semi-detached, 2.4 kids and a dog.

To compensate, we turn to the great surrogates.  There is entertainment, whose constant, specious excitement fills temporarily the yawning gaps in your soul, without real engagement or risk; and there is art, whose basic premise is that its creators offer you their suffering and exaltation in return for honour, a little money, and absolution for their lives.

Absolution because the greatest artists have always failed, have always been social misfits, bad wives and husbands, spendthrifts, political dupes, cripples and emotional wrecks.  They were profound creators not just because they suffered, but because they were able to channel that anguish into art, to win from it self-knowledge, knowledge about life and death which we gratefully receive.  Genius is never enough; to create a masterpiece, a Mozartian facility must be married with a Mozartian misery.

When we envy unthinkingly the great writers, painters, composers and the rest, we should remember the price they paid - usually unwillingly - for their glory.  And when we are in pain, or robbed or beaten, when we are tricked by shysters, when we are burnt by deep and hopeless love, lacerated by loss of family, or ravaged by disease, we should remember that like those artists we too have the possibility of seizing from vicissitudes something other than raw despair, of gaining through these accidents of life a real and lasting inner substance.

(1989)

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