The “commonplace book” was the blog of the 16th century

Long before the internet and social media, intellectuals kept bits of writing and images and thoughts in “commonplace books,” which they carried with them. John Milton (whose book can been seen here), Sir Isaac Newton, John Locke, Michael Faraday, Mary Wollstonecraft and, later, Virginia Woolf and W.H. Auden all did it. Milton’s commonplace book contains notes on 90 authors in five languages, and, after his wife left him, exhaustive notes on bad marriages. Newton’s books were written in tight, tiny script describing recipes for making coloured pigments. Sir Francis Bacon kept one he called “A Promus of Formularies and Elegancies).

From a Globe and Mail article by Wayne MacPhail: “In 1584, the then-12-year-old English poet John Donne was studying at the University of Oxford along with his younger brother, Henry. This was when the university was just beginning to get its time-burnished reputation. The revered Bodleian Library had not yet opened its doors. But every day, in his tiny Hart Hall room, the young Donne was creating his own private Bodleian in a bit of technology called a commonplace book, or a commonplacer. Donne was the first to use the word, in a sermon in 1631.

So what did people do with these commonplace books? They wrote as they read, widely and deeply. They jotted down scripture, aphorisms, quotes, turns of phrase, gossip, poems, japes and words of wisdom. They let that harvested jumble of disparate brain fodder clang together in a cacophony and chorus of ideas that echoed down the long halls of human thought. The commonplace book was their way to burn the knowledge of the world into their brains, one inkwell dip at a time.”

Remembering Galley, the anti-Twitter

In 2018, two entrepreneurs — Tom McGeveran and Josh Young — approached Columbia Journalism Review editor and publisher Kyle Pope with a proposition. The two had created a web app called Galley a few years earlier as a kind of anti-Twitter, a place where users could have thoughtful discussions with a group of trusted collaborators. Galley looked more or less like a chat app, but its key feature was the “trust” button, which appeared on everyone’s profile. Once you clicked it, you could then start a discussion and either make it wide open, or restrict it to only those users you had explicitly trusted.

The idea was that conversations could be open to anyone, or they could be restricted. The person who started the conversation was in control, and they could choose specific people to be a part of it, or they could restrict it to only those they chose to trust. Unlike the free-for-all that Twitter discussions often became, no one on Galley had the right to enter your conversation if you didn’t want them to. The idea was to get a free flow of information from as many people as possible, but not at the expense of civility or safety.

Tom and Josh suggested that CJR could use Galley for discussions with readers and journalists, as well as trusted members of the broader community? Josh offered to continue running it and handle all of the back-end software operations if we wanted him to, so Kyle and I discussed it and agreed that it seemed like a worthwhile experiment — and I agreed to work with Josh to get it up and running. Kyle wrote something in November of 2018 introducing Galley as a new forum to talk about journalism:

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The famous Stanford Prison Experiment was a fake

From Vox: “The Stanford Prison Experiment, one of the most famous and compelling psychological studies of all time, told us a tantalizingly simple story about human nature. The study took paid participants and assigned them to be inmates or guards in a mock prison at Stanford University. Soon after it began, the guards began mistreating the prisoners, implying evil is brought out by circumstance. The authors, in their conclusions, suggested innocent people, thrown into a situation where they have power over others, will begin to abuse that power. The Stanford Prison Experiment has been included in many, many introductory psychology textbooks and is often cited uncritically. It’s the subject of movies, documentaries, books, television shows, and congressional testimony. But its findings were wrong. Very wrong. And not just due to its questionable ethics or lack of concrete data — but because of deceit.”

Famous free-climber Alex Honnold’s brain isn’t like yours or mine

From Nautilus: “Alex Honnold has his own verb. “To honnold”—usually written as “honnolding”—is to stand in some high, precarious place with your back to the wall, looking straight into the abyss. To face fear, literally. The verb was inspired by photographs of Honnold in precisely that position on Thank God Ledge, located 1,800 feet off the deck in Yosemite National Park. Honnold side-shuffled across this narrow sill of stone, heels to the wall, toes touching the void, when, in 2008, he became the first rock climber ever to scale the sheer granite face of Half Dome alone and without a rope. When the Explorers Hall presentation concluded, the adventurers sat down to autograph posters. Three lines formed. In one of them, a neurobiologist waited to share a few words with Synnott about the part of the brain that triggers fear. The concerned scientist leaned in close, shot a glance toward Honnold, and said, “That kid’s amygdala isn’t firing.”

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