A Godawful Observation

Source: Rita Ip

In my various pursuits, I make a casual study of the Hebrew language. One thing that people acquiring a new language find is that it gives us insight into our own language. For example when I was learning Danish, I learned that the word for circumstance is omstændighed. Om means about or around and stænde roughly translates to stance or standing. Therefore omstændighed literally translates to "the state of things around one." If we break down the English word, circum is Latin for around or about, and stance comes from the Latin word stare, meaning to stand. So circumstance literally means "the standing of the surroundings." It wasn't until I learned the Danish that I realized the roots of the English.

There are many other insights that language learning can provide other than etymology. A conspicuous example finds place in slang. If you were to say "rock on" in Danish, it would literally mean there's a stone on...something. You haven't specified that yet. Another thing, you can say "rock on," but "stone on" comes with completely different connotations. In Danish to express coolness (and not the temperature kind), you say something is fat. "He's a fat guy" = "He's a cool guy/cat." It really makes you examine your own slang and realize how illogical some of it sounds.

But now I come to my Hebrew observation. The word el in Hebrew means god. It finds itself in many modern personal names, e.g. Michael, who is like God?; Daniel, God is my judge; Nathaniel, God has given. You also see its cognate in the Arabic Allah, a contraction of al-ilah (the (sole) God).

However, god or deity isn't the only denotation of el. It also means mighty. Therefore in places like Psalm 82 (which is poetry) you get nice little word plays.

God (elohim) standeth in the congregation of the mighty (el, could also be rendered god); he judgeth among the gods (elohim).

 Elohim is merely the plural of eloah, a derivative of el, and can be translated as God, gods, or powers. It is the name of God in the Old Testament (HEB: Tanakh). You can see here that the poet uses the different connotations of elohim and el to make a nice wordplay.

But all poetry set aside, learning this fact about the Hebrew language made me realize something about my mother tongue. I've heard the expression godawful a decent number of times during my life, but in light of this, it gave the expression a new depth. Something that's godawful is mighty awful, or so terrible that only an omnipotent being could create such a debacle. This makes it possibly the biggest hyperbole known to the English language.

The Beginning of God's Creations

A quasar via Wikipedia.

This post was inspired by a crazy Kolob theory, specifically one that said that God resides at the center of our galaxy and that the extent of his dominion is the fringes of the Milky Way. I'm here to prove that wrong. Deeply wrong.

Our friend Enoch, in Moses 7:30, says, "Were it possible that man could number the particles of the earth, yea, millions of earths like this, it would not be a beginning to the number of thy creations." The Milky Way contains perhaps 300 billion stars, 100 billion planets, 100 million black holes, and is about 120,000 light years across. The number of atoms in the Earth is about 10^50, approximately 10^40 times greater than the number of celestial bodies in the galaxy. Millions of earths would yield greater than 10^56 atoms. And that's not even the beginning of Elohim's creations.

It's estimated that the number of stars in the universe is about 7x10^22; we can round up to 10^23. If we want to be nice, we can say there are about the same number of planets. That brings us up to 2x10^23. If you factor in black holes and nubulae and stuff—being quite generous—you might have double that. That brings you to 4x10^23 astronomical objects, or not even .0000000000000000000000001% of the particles in the Earth (10^-25%). That means to not even reach the beginning of God's creations, you would need approximately 10^32 universes like ours.

For comparison, the sun is on the order of 10^30 kg (~1,000,000 times Earth's mass) and a pineapple is about a kilogram. If you were to compare a pineapple to the universe, you would need enough pineapples to weigh as much as 100 suns, or 100,000,000 Earths. In other words, 10^32 pineapples. One hundred nonillion pineapples.

And you would not have even reached the beginning of how many pineapples God has made.

Dating the Death of Shiz

A question I think most LDS members consider lightly or not at all is, When did the Jaredites perish? I think the reason behind this is most people make sweeping, cursory assumptions about the Jaredite timeline. The common mentality is that as Lehi's foot first pressed the American shores, Shiz' head fell from his shoulders. I would like to show that this is conception utterly false.

Absolute Upper Limit
If we only take into account one event, namely Mulek's landing, we find that the soonest the Jaredites could have foregone is about 530 BC. We learn that Mulek was the only son of Zedekiah not slain (Hel 8:21). From the Bible, we learn that Zedekiah died at 32 (2 Kings 24:18). By common concession, Jerusalem was razed in 587 BC. The oldest Mulek could have possibly been at the time is 20 years old. The oldest he could have plausibly been is 14-16. The problem with imagining him as a stripling is that all of Zedekiah's sons were killed by Babylon. A teenager, especially the eldest son, would be hard to miss—for invader and historian alike—so it's improbable.

The leading theory is that Mulek was either an infant (so he could have been disguised as a girl or more easily snuck out in a basket), or he was unborn. The leading theory for how Mulek got to the Americas is through the Phoenicians. This is supported by (1) the identification of the Jaredites as the Olmec people, and (2) the fact that Mulek and his party first landed among the Jaredites in the land northward (Alma 22:30). The Olmecs lived primarily along the eastern coast of Mexico, meaning Mulek would have to take an Atlantic route to arrive there.

So the earliest Mulek could have landed in the Americas is 586 BC, five or so years after Lehi. The oldest he could possibly be at that point is about 20, but more likely he would have been an infant. It's more likely that he lived in the eastern hemisphere for a time, gained a few years under his belt, then made the voyage. One of my main sources for that inference is Hel 6:10 where it says, "the Lord did bring Mulek into the land north, and Lehi into the land south." I'm assuming that Mormon is making parallel references to the leader of the traveling parties. It's also easier to imagine a 20+ year-old man as the leader of the party than a baby. That puts a more likely date of Mulek's earliest arrival at ~565 BC, though it could have been even later.

However, we cannot yet assume that 565 is when the Jaredites perished. Omni 1:16 tells us "[the people of Zarahemla's] language had become corrupted; and they had brought no records with them; and they denied the being of their Creator; and Mosiah, nor the people of Mosiah, could understand them." Verse 21 tells us that Coriantumr (the "last Jaredite") dwelt with the people of Zarahemla for nine moons. It may just be me, but a people who put no emphasis on records and who had forgotten God don't strike me as the type to remember a single man who lived with them more than 400 years before. That indicates that the Jaredite civilization ended closer to 130 than 587 BC.

Chemical Degradation Factors
That was a fun exercise using chronology alone, but now I'd like to introduce the factors of corrosion and decomposition. Mos 8:8-11 (the Limhi expedition, ca. 130 BC) reports that Limhi's scouts found

1. Bones (ch. 21 specifies dry bones) of man and beast of a very numerous people
2. Ruins of buildings
3. 24 gold plates
4. Perfectly sound brass and copper breastplates
5. Sword with perished hilts and rusted blades

In my mind, I also identify the Jaredites with the Olmecs, but even if you think they lived in North America, this will be relevant. This brings up some questions, namely

1. How long does it take corpses to skeletonize in the open air, but not for bone decomposition to take place?
2. How long does it take blades to rust in open air, but not oxidize entirely?
3. How long does it take wood to decompose (the hilts)?

Copper and brass don't come into the question because they tarnish and don't rust. Gold also doesn't rust.

I've done a lot of searching on the internet, but haven't found too much conclusive material. To summarize my findings, I set an upper limit for the destruction of the Jaredites at 100 years before the Limhi expedition. A more likely limit in the tropical climate of Mexico is 50 years. Heat and humidity will make all of the applicable processes go faster. Taking decomposition into account, a new time frame for the end of the Jaredites is 180-230 BC.

This site dedicated to "online information regarding the funeral and cremation process" states that "decomposition in the air is twice as fast as when the body is under water and four times as fast as underground." It also states that "When buried six feet down, without a coffin, in ordinary soil, an unembalmed adult normally takes eight to twelve years to decompose to a skeleton." Using these two statements, bodies above ground would take two to three years to skeletonize (in the UK). Add in the higher heat and insect population in Mexico and the number will be even lower.

Wikipedia says that "After skeletonization has occurred, if scavenging animals do not destroy the bones, acids in many fertile soils take about twenty years to completely dissolve the skeleton of mid- to large-size mammals, such as humans, leaving no trace of the organism. In neutral-pH soil or sand, the skeleton can persist for hundreds of years before it finally disintegrates." I looked but couldn't find any good information on the pH levels of the soil in Olmec areas.

Here's a site for a high school rusting experiment with pictures. It states that visible rust (Iron (III) Oxide) forms within hours. In this article, Tim Scarlett, archaeologist, says, "Put partly corroded nails in a zip-lock bag, store them awhile, open the bag years later, and end find 'lumps of rust powder,'” I don't know what "end find" means (likely bad editing), but it's clear that iron doesn't have that long of a lifespan. I just can't find exact numbers on that lifespan. Also, everywhere I've found says that heat and humidity will make rusting faster.

Answers.com says that wood an inch in diameter can take 3 years to decompose, and logs a foot across can take ten years. It's safe to say that the hilts of the swords were gone within five years of the final battle.

Conclusion

Pictured: the head of Shiz

There's much more that can be said on the topic, but I think I'll stop here. If you have any further information about rusting and decomposition, please drop it in the comments! I just wanted to point out that the Jaredites lived on the same continent as the Nephites for about 400 years before they perished.

In conjunction with Alma 22:30 (which states that the land northward where Limhi's expedition found the bones was the people of Zarahemla's first landing site), Mos 25:2 talks about "Zarahemla, who was a descendant of Mulek, and those who came with him into the wilderness." That means that some of the Mulekites stayed with the Jaredites, and it also likely means that the two groups had intermarried. So even though Coriantumr is appellated "the last Jaredite," Jaredite blood (and culture) still lived on in the people of Zarahemla. That's probably why their "language [was] corrupted; and Mosiah, nor the people of Mosiah, could understand them."

Anyways, my thoughts.

Emotional Investment and Return

When reading fiction, we look for one of two things (but probably two of two things): mental or emotional stimulation. I suppose there is spiritual, but that's generally classified into a different category. How good a book is hinges on the accumulation of mental and emotional points.

Now, all authors excel at some things and...excel less at others. Some are quite good at making magic with words (like Patrick Rothfuss). Others weave the plot so perfectly that you're reeling for days after you finish a book (like Brandon Sanderson). Others have many cool devices that keep you interested (like sci-fi). Most of these things accrue mental points during the reading. The prose that makes you think. The plot that blows your mind. The devices that intrigue. The political structures. The worldbuilding.

But there's another category in which to score points. This happens when you build compelling characters and convince us of how they react in a situation. Make us fall in love with that girl your protagonist is falling in love with. Make us laugh when a side character does something characteristically silly. Make us cry when loss occurs. Make us furious when the enemy prevails. Make us glory when the protagonist succeeds. Make us feel.

Here's the thing. Every book that you start reading is an investment. An investment of time and emotion. I'm committing to spending maybe ten hours with these characters; they had better well make my investment worth it!

Which brings me to the main point I want to make: POV character deaths. Let me describe exactly what an author does when s/he kills off a POV character. If you've done it right, I've developed an emotional bond with this person. If you've done it right, I'll be devastated when it happens. I might accept that it needed to happen, but that won't make me any less distraught.

Killing off a POV character, specifically the protagonist, is like having a spouse die or divorce you. It's someone you've grown to love, now they're gone forever. For POV characters with less ink to their names, it's like dating someone you love and getting broken up with. It's an important and powerful literary device and can be used very well and to great acclaim.

But imagine this: you start dating someone, even fall in love with them, but you're almost 100% positive they're going to break up with you. That might be okay once. You can take that emotional battering. But imagine there's a slew people waiting to date then break up with you. You're not going to want to go through that turmoil.

It's the same with killing off characters. If you kill off nearly every character you write, I'm getting crappy returns on my emotional investments. It's a tool, but like any tool, it can be over used. It can be the emotional analog to building up to a great climax, and then finishing with a lame cop out. I'm not going to want to read 200 pages about a ton of characters if I know they're just going to die at the end.

Just because something is realistic doesn't mean it's worth writing about. People browsing the internet for hours a day is real, but it would make a crappy book.

This post may or may not have been an A Song of Ice and Fire rant in disguise.

Phelps' Miscalculation

An obscure tidbit that you as a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints may have heard is that "Joseph Smith said that an eternity is 2.555 billion years long." I heard this again the other day, so I instigated an investigation. Christopher C. Smith, he exposes the origins of this idea in a 2008 blog post. Apparently the number comes from Times and Seasons, the Church's periodical at the time (1844). W. W. Phelps sent a letter to William Smith that was reproduced in the January 1st edition. The paragraph of concern is

[E]ternity, agreeably to the records found in the catacombs of Egypt, has been going on in this system, (not this world) almost two thousand five hundred and fifty five millions of years: and to know at the same time, that deists, geologists and others are trying to prove that matter must have existed hundreds of thousands of years;-it almost tempts the flesh to fly to God, or muster faith like Enoch to be translated and see and know as we are seen and known! (empasis added)

 Bruce R. McConkie quoted this figure in a 1987 speech given at BYU. It was written about in the Mormon Interpreter. So where did this number come from, and does it even make sense?

Look at the universe.

All analysts seem to agree that W. W. Phelps took the statements in Peter and Abraham that 1000 years on Earth is but a day to the Lord, the statement in D&C 77 that the Earth has 7000 years of temporal existence, and the fact that a terrestrial year consists of approximately 365 days, and derived a value from these. 1000*7000*365 = 2.555E9, precisely the number Phelps states. But let's perform unit analysis on this.

1000 Earth years	x 7000 Kolob years x	365 Kolob days	= 2.555E9 Earth years
1 Kolob day		1 Kolob year

Seems kosher, right? Not. There are a few grievous assumptions made in this calculation. First, there is no way of know how many years are in a Kolob year. Even in our own solar system you have planets whose years range from 0.24 to 248.1 Earth years (if you include Pluto). A planet that orbits our sun called Sedna has a year of around 12,000 Earth years. At is aphelion, it's over 900 times father from the sun than Earth is. So assuming a 365-day Kolob year is erroneous when most planets in existence vary from this.

Second false assumption, 7000 Kolob years. First, the 7000 number comes from D&C 77:6 where it's said that the 7 seals on the book that John the Beloved saw are the seven thousand years of the Earth's temporal existence. It further states that only about 6000 of those years have passed, so even if the calculation was accurate, you'd have to replace 7000 Kolob years with 6000. Reading the actual revelation of John reveals characteristics of each of the seals that are identifiable with historical events. The 7000 years are clearly referring to Earth years. It's silly to start assuming every period of time given in the scriptures are not what it appears. That would imply that the Millennium is going to be 365 million Earth years long, the same length as each of the seals.

Another issue. The creation story begins with the Earth; it doesn't touch upon previous events. In Moses 1:35 God says, "There are many worlds that have passed away by the word of my power." He's made countless worlds like Earth that have already passed through existence. If this universe is about 14 billion years old and the Earth 4.5, God's been around a lot longer than Phelp's calculation proposes. And He hasn't done anything that disagrees with what we observe. If we find proof that the Earth is 4.5E9 years old, then goshdarnit, that's when God made it. 

But proof is hard to find. Evidence is easier. You can draw multiple conclusions from evidence. You can only draw one (sound) conclusion from proof. People will debate how to interpret collected data. I am currently quite convinced on the dating of the Earth and universe.

To Letchera: A Nonsense Poem

I started this a while ago but just finished it last night. It's inspired by Lewis Carroll's Jaberwocky. I don't know whether I'll rework it at some point in the future. Hope you like it!

I sopped a bit of bintle in my ebolestic broth,
Though frettled at the farlow that the spintel fellow quoth,
"'Tis lomesy and bewretched whence we letcherants do roam,
The meanest apocarthy wouldn't dare our crembous home.
The alkaline distincture and the lepazani tare
Categorize and extincture proseletics do beware.
Curcudgeon though a phalanx might through frome and slaken dust,
The legion’s mallegoric crow would pitter in the crust."

I tarrowed as I heard the laird escape the fellow's jaw,
Proposity seized and I abbreaved the challenge he laid askraw.
"To haunt an eng toward the same ascriptions you've applayed
Has always been surriliquous, a passion that abade.
So if you chantly danter and consent to be my guide,
To morrow neath a curbid dawn, to Letchera we ride."
Thus two hands struck a crimping twee that eve in Coelath Bray.
We nestled then in giltered dreams as darkness crept astray.

To aft a fortnight of a sudden lingered rife with prints,
And there astride the edgelands skriggled out my frame a wince.
The beasts that bear our burdens tarrowed treadless at the frome;
We lighted of and sauntered in whence letcherants do roam.
“Beware,” said he, “the craddleswee.” And motioned to the dirt.
A flint of fang betrayed the same, a grithing beast alert.
“And fear,” he said, “the straffoged. ‘Twill nay but feed ye death.”
I spied it gripping fast a branch and twithered out a breath.

Of time diurnal or nocturnal no sign I apprehended,
‘Twas a fortnight out from Coelath Bray the sun had last ascended.
The lomesy dank enthronged us so, it leckered in my skin,
And nigh a corpse, with fainting pulse, the destert cough began.
I hearkened half-hearted ‘tween haken hacks to hear the howl of Harn,
The echos embearing a promise that my passing would be warm.
‘Twas all for vain, my eared strains, the yowl not once arose—
Least from the throat of Harn—but me, I howled whilst in remose.

Through hacks and twithering, porous yowls, bemoaned I every second,
Adjuring time to wander back then fail at being reckoned.
“O, currish day in Coelath Bray,” I was so wont to groan.
My sevid guide of Letchera would gander me and done,
“Ye fromey, stanched Gevatheran, ‘twas ye what forced me here!
Ye’ll swiftly feed the craddleswee, and dust shall be yer bier.
I’m brisling o’er with all yer fuss, so twain a choice I lay,
Ye kinter tight yer lips anon, or skraw straight back to Bray!”

So on we strode, our pace unlenting, driven by depravity,
Body ‘long with thoughts yon deeper into obfuscavity.
The bractle waste disumed my flesh and dribbled on my soul;
A baling knell in the hintermind, droned death at each a toll.
The anguish tore me straight and savage, hope was but remote,
I teetered off the brink and wailed a blade out of my throat.
A grisled hand clamped o’er my mouth, and harshly spat my guide,
“You’ve sentenced us, Gevatheran. We’ve functerally died!”

He conjured strength from realms unknown to Gevaths such as I,
And darting ‘tween great palls of gloom, defined the verb ‘to fly.’
I stippled off in idle chase, dread heelnips from from a foe,
To my request for motion rejured back my body, “No.”
My drasted yelp of agony belied our dire state,
‘Twas answered by the craddleswee and teeth preclined to sate.
So there I lay, my folly oozing, pining after home,
My final breath a twithered sigh with lips upon the frome.

Making the Cut and Fictional Hormesis

Book lengths, who doesn't complain about them? I sure do. Sometimes they're too short, but I mostly find myself labeling them as too long. How useful and valid are such statements?

I thought of addressing this topic when I came across this statement in a two-star review of the Mistborn trilogy by Brandon Sanderson:

At around 700 pages per book, Sanderson (or his editors) got really bad at separating what's necessary for storytelling from pointless drivel. In book 2, for example, the first 500 pages could be summed up as city under siege, Eland is a philosopher and not a ruler, gets overthrown.

First off, I'm always interested in reading the contrary side of things. If I liked a book, it helps me understand people better by learning why they didn't. Same for any political of religious issue. I think a certain way, so what is it that convinces you to think otherwise? But sentence 2 quoted above clearly shows the reviewer's lack of understanding of prose.

You see, every single book that you read can be summarized. But that's not the point. No one doing leisure reading just wants the summary. It's all about engrossing yourself in the plot and going through experiences with the characters. When I read the line city under siege, I really don't give a hoot about it. But when I read the book and I know the characters, it comes alive and I feel a portion of what they (theoretically) went through. That's the power of prose.

But certainly there's a point where it becomes too much. I found myself thinking this as I read Name of the Wind by Partick Rothfuss. I definitely enjoyed the book, but I felt as if a little too much time was spent on unnecessary description. I think I would have enjoyed the book a fair amount more had it been 100 or so pages shorter. It would still be over 600 pages long, but the story would move just a bit faster.

In the end, it's up to the writer to decide when the story is far too pregnant or barren. That's a good way to think of it. I've read some stories that were so pregnant I got morning sickness. I'm just sitting there thinking give birth already! But at the same time, you can strip any story down until it's just a plot summary. There are things that I write that don't straightway contribute to the plot, but they contribute to the overall experience. A good author knows when the threshold is crossed where these ancillary anecdotes start detracting. This is called hormesis, or the too much of a good thing model. Figure out how it works.