I just got into my mom’s place a couple of days ago. We stayed up until two in the morning last night, talking, sipping on Jameson’s, and talking. Mom has always had the gift of gab, but since Dad passed away two years ago, she’s got more to say than ever. This is probably because my father was usefully employed as a ‘round the clock sounding board for forty years. Mom has since had to find new places to put her words. As Dad got older, he said less and less. He could speak and speak well when he needed to, but he was far more comfortable as a listener. That’s the way Dad’s people are. The older you are, the less verbal flexing you need to do.
But Mom is Irish. They’re drunk on words and there’s no sobering up with age.
There’s a part in The Being of Analogy where I claim I don’t really know what “scientism” is supposed to mean. That was a bit of disingenuous rhetorical flourish used to distance myself from the term, and I probably shouldn’t have said it. I know perfectly well what it means and why it exists, but I’m still uncomfortable with it. I’ve been uncomfortable with “scientism” ever since I made the transition in graduate school from physical anthropology to English studies, which is when I first encountered the term. I identified then as a lone scientist besieged by an army of deconstructionists, and, as such, “scientism” smacked of glib, kneejerk anti-intellectualism. It still feels pretty kneejerk to me, but I no longer see it as glib or anti-intellectual. My beef with it now is that it’s too ambiguous and it’s often a gateway to either hypocrisy or disengagement with science.
Noah Roderick 