Science and technology Essay Example | Topics and Well Written Essays - 1250 words

Science and technology - Essay Example However, even through the years of all the research, the AI project remains a failure (Kassan 1). Despite of this, Hawkins is certain that humans are capable of producing artificial intelligence (qtd. in Kassan 1). Honda, a Japanese mobile company, proved that Hawkins’s statement is rather accurate by creating ASIMO (Advanced Step in Innovative Mobility). The robot is said to be the most human-like creation Honda has ever made. By 2005, ASIMO is â€Å"better, stronger, and faster.† ASIMO â€Å"can do things like turn on light switches, open doors, carry objects, and push carts† (Orbinger and Strickland). Robots pretty much do the things that humans cannot do or simply do not want to do. This is a good deal for people who are too busy to do the chores at home or for someone who does not want additional burden when he comes from work. Yet, the question still remains: â€Å"Do we really need robots to do all these things?† In a brighter perspective, robots ca n do things more efficiently, â€Å"and without the continuous cost and social upheaval† (â€Å"Ethical Issues†). Is this not an insult to the capacity of humans to these jobs? It seems like the term â€Å"more efficiently† degrades the value of human work. Robotics, though a proof of humans’ intelligence, should not be taken as â€Å"slave machines† and made them do all the humans are capable of doing because first, it will affect human resources and job displacements, it would alter the natural, and it would forcibly pass through human limitation and eventually leading to the realization of the concept of â€Å"Singularity.† Necessity is the mother of invention; the seed of all production, or is it? The concept of necessity seems to have changed through the course of dynamic technological revolution. In the different kinds of industry, cutting the production costs without risking quality

Unreachable Dreams in The Catcher in The Rye :: Catcher Rye Essays

Unreachable Dreams in The Catcher in The Rye      Ã‚   Many people find that their dreams are unreachable.   Holden Caulfield realizes this in J.D. Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye.   As Holden tells his story, he recounts the events since leaving the Pencey School to his psychiatrist.   At first, Holden sounds like a typical, misguided teenager, rebellious towards his parents, angry with his teachers, and flunking out of school.   However, as his story progresses, it becomes clear that Holden is indeed motivated, just not academically.   He has a purpose: to protect the young and innocent minds of young children from the "horrors" of adult society.   He hopes to freeze the children in time, as wax figures are frozen in a museum.   After interacting with Phoebe, his younger sister, Holden realizes that this goal is quite unachievable. Holden wants to be the Catcher in the Rye, then realizes it is an unreachable ideal.      Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚   Holden begins his story misguided and without direction.   After flunking out of the Pencey School, Holden decides to leave early.   Before he leaves, though, he visits his teacher, Mr. Spencer.   Mr. Spencer and Holden talk about his direction in life: "'Do you feel absolutely no concern for your future, boy?' 'Oh, I feel some concern for my future, all right. Sure. Sure, I do.' I thought about it for a minute. 'But not too much, I guess,'" (14).   After leaving Pencey, he checks into a hotel where he invites a prostitute up to his room.   He gets cold feet and decides not to have intercourse with her, though.   Later, Holden decides to take his old girlfriend, Sally Hayes, to the theater.   After taking her to the theater, Holden formulates a crazy plan which entails running away with Sally, getting married, and growing old together.   Sally thinks that he is crazy, and she decides to go home.   During his stay away from home, Holden drinks and smokes, showing even more misdirection.   However, when Holden returns home and talks to his sister, Phoebe, his direction becomes clear.   Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚   Holden wants to be the Catcher in the Rye to protect children from the world in which he is forced to live.   While talking with Phoebe, she asks Holden what he would like to be.   He responds saying:

“Bring Back Flogging” Response Paper Essay

In Jeff Jacoby’s essay, â€Å"Bring Back Flogging,† he strongly reveals his opinions and beliefs on corporal punishment. Jacoby illustrates the use of verbal irony and sarcasm. He applies verbal irony and sarcasm in such a way that by reading what is written is easily understood to interpret what he really means. Jacoby describes what flogging is, how it was helpful, and argues that flogging needs to be brought back to our society. After reading Jacoby’s argument for bringing back the harsh beating and whipping, called flogging, I see that flogging would be helpful if it is brought back. Flogging is exercising the practice of brutal beatings and whippings. Flogging has been practiced by the Puritans in 1632, all the way to 1972 when it was repealed. The Puritans acted in flogging when offenders were sentenced for committing a crime, such as adultery or blaspheme. When convicted of the crime an individual committed, they were tied to a post in public, with no shirt, and severely flogged. By practicing flogging, and displaying the beating to the citizens of the town, the citizens could see what would be done for their punishment if they commit the same or different crime. If flogging were to be brought back and routinely practiced on offenders of certain crimes, and the beating was displayed to the public, it could greatly reduce crimes committed. Being whipped is not any more or less degrading that being locked in a cage, like an animal. Bringing back flogging would inspire possible criminals not to commit a crime that they could be planning. By being whipped in public, the offender will be highly embarrassed and have severe pain. Hopefully this felling of embarrassment and the pain experienced will stay with them, if they think of committing another crime. Also, after beaten the wounds will turn to scars, these would serve as a permanent reminders of the consequences obtained from their actions. Prisons are packed tightly with hundreds of criminals. Some prisoners are violent offenders and others are not. Providing meals, building new jails,  keeping a prison running, and providing prisoners with necessities, is very expensive. If flogging was the consequence of committing crimes, the money spent in and for prisons, could be used for other and more important items, such as books for school systems. In addition, less dangerous offenders will not be abused or raped in prison. The practice of flogging would also increase prison space for more dangerous offenders. Bringing back the punishment of flogging would greatly reduce crimes committed. Also, the public display, pain, and the permanent reminder from scars, will reduce the possibility of participating in the crime again. It would also serve as a physical image to others of what will happen if they commit a crime. Puritan forefathers had an excellent idea of punishment for committing crimes. Flogging was also a very effective punishment. The knowledge of what will happen if a crime is committed, and knowing how painful it is, will allow individuals to think thoroughly if they ever decide they want to commit a crime. I vote to bring back flogging!

Robert Louis Stevensons Classic Essay on Walking Tours

In this affectionate response to William Hazlitts essay On Going a Journey,  Scottish author Robert Louis Stevenson describes the pleasures of an idle walk in the country and the even finer pleasures that come afterward--sitting by a fire enjoying trips into the Land of Thought. Stevenson is most well known for his novels including  Kidnapped, Treasure Island and The Strange Case of  Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.  Stevenson was a famous author during his life and has remained an important part of the literary cannon. This essay highlights his lesser-known skills as a travel writer.   Walking Tours by Robert Louis Stevenson 1 It must not be imagined that a walking tour, as some would have us fancy, is merely a better or worse way of seeing the country. There are many ways of seeing landscape quite as good; and none more vivid, in spite of canting dilettantes, than from a railway train. But landscape on a walking tour is quite accessory. He who is indeed of the brotherhood does not voyage in quest of the picturesque, but of certain jolly humours--of the hope and spirit with which the march begins at morning, and the peace and spiritual repletion of the evenings rest. He cannot tell whether he puts his knapsack on, or takes it off, with more delight. The excitement of the departure puts him in key for that of the arrival. Whatever he does is not only a reward in itself, but will be further rewarded in the sequel; and so pleasure leads on to pleasure in an endless chain. It is this that so few can understand; they will either be always lounging or always at five miles an hour; they do not play off the one against the other, prepare all day for the evening, and all evening for the next day. And, above all, it is here that your overwalker fails of comprehension. His heart rises against those who drink their curaà §ao in liqueur glasses, when he himself can swill it in a brown John. He will not believe that the flavour is more delicate in the smaller dose. He will not believe that to walk this unconscionable distance is merely to stupefy and brutalise himself, and come to his inn, at night, with a sort of frost on his five wits, and a starless night of darkness in his spirit. Not for him the mild luminous evening of the temperate walker! He has nothing left of man but a physical need for bedtime and a double nightcap; and even his pipe, if he be a smoker, will be savourless and disenchanted. It is the fate of such an one to take twice as much trouble as is needed to obtain happiness, and miss the happiness in the end; he is the man of the proverb, in short, who goes further and fares w orse. 2 Now, to be properly enjoyed, a walking tour should be gone upon alone. If you go in a company, or even in pairs, it is no longer a walking tour in anything but name; it is something else and more in the nature of a picnic. A walking tour should be gone upon alone, because freedom is of the essence; because you should be able to stop and go on, and follow this way or that, as the freak takes you; and because you must have your own pace, and neither trot alongside a champion walker, nor mince in time with a girl. And then you must be open to all impressions and let your thoughts take colour from what you see. You should be as a pipe for any wind to play upon. I cannot see the wit, says Hazlitt, of walking and talking at the same time. When I am in the country I wish to vegetate like the country--which is the gist of all that can be said upon the matter. There should be no cackle of voices at your elbow, to jar on the meditative silence of the morning. And so long as a man is reasonin g he cannot surrender himself to that fine intoxication that comes of much motion in the open air, that begins in a sort of dazzle and sluggishness of the brain, and ends in a peace that passes comprehension. 3 During the first day or so of any tour there are moments of bitterness, when the traveller feels more than coldly towards his knapsack, when he is half in a mind to throw it bodily over the hedge and, like Christian on a similar occasion, give three leaps and go on singing. And yet it soon acquires a property of easiness. It becomes magnetic; the spirit of the journey enters into it. And no sooner have you passed the straps over your shoulder than the lees of sleep are cleared from you, you pull yourself together with a shake, and fall at once into your stride. And surely, of all possible moods, this, in which a man takes the road, is the best. Of course, if he will keep thinking of his anxieties, if he will open the merchant Abudahs chest and walk arm-in-arm with the hag--why, wherever he is, and whether he walk fast or slow, the chances are that he will not be happy. And so much the more shame to himself! There are perhaps thirty men setting forth at that same hour, and I would l ay a large wager there is not another dull face among the thirty. It would be a fine thing to follow, in a coat of darkness, one after another of these wayfarers, some summer morning, for the first few miles upon the road. This one, who walks fast, with a keen look in his eyes, is all concentrated in his own mind; he is up at his loom, weaving and weaving, to set the landscape to words. This one peers about, as he goes, among the grasses; he waits by the canal to watch the dragon-flies; he leans on the gate of the pasture, and cannot look enough upon the complacent kine. And here comes another, talking, laughing, and gesticulating to himself. His face changes from time to time, as indignation flashes from his eyes or anger clouds his forehead. He is composing articles, delivering orations, and conducting the most impassioned interviews, by the way. 4  A little farther on, and it is as like as not he will begin to sing. And well for him, supposing him to be no great master in that art, if he stumble across no stolid peasant at a corner; for on such an occasion, I scarcely know which is the more troubled, or whether it is worse to suffer the confusion of your  troubadour,  or the unfeigned alarm of your clown. A sedentary population, accustomed, besides, to the strange mechanical bearing of the common tramp, can in no wise explain to itself the gaiety of these passers-by. I knew one man who was arrested as a runaway lunatic, because, although a full-grown person with a red beard, he skipped as he went like a child. And you would be astonished if I were to tell you all the grave and learned heads who have confessed to me that, when on walking tours, they sang--and sang very ill--and had a pair of red ears when, as described above, the inauspicious peasant  plumped  into their arms from round a corner. And here, lest you should think I am exaggerating, is Hazlitts own confession, from his essay  On Going a Journey,  which is so good that there should be a tax levied on all who have not read it: Give me the clear blue sky over my head, says he, and the green turf beneath my feet, a winding road before me, and a three hours march to dinner--and then to thinking! It is hard if I cannot start some game on these lone heaths. I laugh, I run, I leap, I sing for joy. Bravo! After that adventure of my friend with the policeman, you would not have cared, would you, to publish that in the first person? But we have no bravery nowadays, and, even in books, must all pretend to be as dull and foolish as our  neighbours. It was not so with Hazlitt. And notice how learned he is (as, indeed, throughout the essay) in the theory of walking tours. He is none of your athletic men in purple stockings, who walk their fifty miles a day: three hours march is his ideal. And then he must have a winding road, the epicure! 5  Yet there is one thing I object to in these words of his, one thing in the great masters practice that seems to me not wholly wise. I do not approve of that leaping and running. Both of these hurry the respiration; they both shake up the brain out of its glorious open-air  confusion; and  they both break the pace. Uneven walking is not so agreeable to the body, and it distracts and irritates the mind. Whereas, when once you have fallen into an equable stride, it requires no conscious thought from you to keep it up, and yet it prevents you from thinking earnestly of anything else. Like knitting, like the work of a copying clerk, it gradually  neutralises  and sets to sleep the serious activity of the mind. We can think of this or that, lightly and laughingly, as a child thinks, or as we think in a morning doze; we can make puns or puzzle out acrostics, and trifle in a thousand ways with words and rhymes; but when it comes to honest work, when we come to gather ourselves t ogether for an effort, we may sound the trumpet as loud and long as we please; the great barons of the mind will not rally to the standard, but sit, each one, at home, warming his hands over his own fire and brooding on his own private thought! 6  In the course of a days walk, you see, there is much variance in the mood. From the exhilaration of the  start,  to the happy phlegm of the arrival, the change is certainly great. As the day goes on, the  traveller  moves from the one extreme towards the other. He becomes more and more incorporated  with  the material landscape, and the open-air drunkenness grows upon him with great strides, until he posts along the road, and sees everything about him, as in a cheerful dream. The first is certainly brighter, but the second stage is the more peaceful. A man does not make so many articles towards the end, nor does he laugh aloud; but the purely animal pleasures, the sense of physical wellbeing, the delight of every inhalation, of every time the muscles tighten down the thigh, console him for the absence of the others, and bring him to his destination still content. 7  Nor must I forget to say a word on bivouacs. You come to a milestone on a hill, or some place where deep ways meet under trees; and off goes the knapsack, and down you sit to smoke a pipe in the shade. You sink into yourself, and the birds come round and look at you; and your smoke dissipates upon the afternoon under the blue dome of  heaven; and  the sun lies warm upon your feet, and the cool air visits your neck and turns aside your open shirt. If you are not happy, you must have an evil conscience. You may dally as long as you like by the roadside. It is almost as if the millennium  were  arrived,  when we shall throw our clocks and watches over the housetop, and remember time and seasons no more. Not to keep hours for a lifetime is, I was going to say, to live  for ever. You have no  idea,  unless you have tried it, how endlessly long is a summers day, that you measure out only by hunger, and bring to an end only when you are drowsy. I know a village where th ere are hardly any clocks, where no one knows more of the days of the week than by a sort of instinct for the fete on Sundays, and where only one person can tell you the day of the month, and she is generally wrong; and if people were aware how slow Time journeyed in that village, and what armfuls of spare hours he gives, over and above the bargain, to its wise inhabitants, I believe there would be a stampede out of London, Liverpool, Paris, and a variety of large towns, where the clocks lose their heads, and shake the hours out each one faster than the other, as though they were all in a wager. And all these foolish pilgrims would each bring his own misery along with him, in a watch-pocket! 8  It is to be noticed, there were no clocks and watches in the much-vaunted days before the flood. It follows, of course, there were no appointments, and punctuality was not yet thought upon. Though ye take from a covetous man all his treasure, says Milton, he has yet one jewel left; ye cannot deprive him of his covetousness. And so I would say of a modern man of business, you may do what you will for him, put him in Eden, give him the elixir of life--he has still a flaw at heart, he still has his business habits. Now, there is no time when business habits are more mitigated than on a walking tour. And so during these halts, as I say, you will feel almost free. 9  But it is at night, and after dinner, that the best hour comes. There are no such pipes to be smoked as those that follow a good days march; the flavor of the tobacco is a thing to be remembered, it is so dry and aromatic, so full and so fine. If you wind up the evening with grog, you will own there was never such grog; at every sip a jocund tranquillity spreads about your limbs, and sits easily in your heart. If you read a book--and you will never do so save by fits and starts--you find the language strangely racy and harmonious; words take a new meaning; single sentences possess the ear for half an hour together; and the writer endears himself to you, at every page, by the nicest coincidence of sentiment. It seems as if it were a book you had written yourself in a dream. To all we have read on such occasions we look back with special favor. It was on the 10th of April, 1798, says Hazlitt, with amorous precision, that I sat down to a volume of the new  Heloise, at the Inn at Llangollen, over a bottle of sherry and a cold chicken. I should wish to quote more, for though we are mighty fine fellows nowadays, we cannot write like Hazlitt. And, talking of that, a volume of Hazlitts essays would be a capital pocket-book on such a journey; so would a volume of Heines songs; and for  Tristram Shandy  I can pledge a fair experience. 10  If the evening be fine and warm, there is nothing better in life than to lounge before the inn door in the sunset, or lean over the parapet of the bridge, to watch the weeds and the quick fishes. It is then, if ever, that you taste Joviality to the full significance of that audacious word. Your muscles are so agreeably slack, you feel so clean and so strong and so idle, that whether you move or sit still, whatever you do is done with pride and a kingly sort of pleasure. You fall in talk with any one, wise or foolish, drunk or sober. And it seems as if a hot walk purged you, more than of anything else, of all narrowness and pride, and left curiosity to play its part freely, as in a child or a man of science. You lay aside all your own hobbies, to watch provincial humour develop themselves before you, now as a laughable farce, and now grave and beautiful like an old tale. 11  Or perhaps you are left to your own company for the night, and surly weather imprisons you by the fire. You may remember how Burns, numbering past pleasures, dwells upon the hours when he has been happy thinking. It is a phrase that may well perplex a poor modern, girt about on every side by clocks and chimes, and haunted, even at night, by flaming  dialplates. For we are all so busy, and have so many far-off projects to realise, and castles in the fire to turn into solid habitable mansions on a gravel soil, that we can find no time for pleasure trips into the Land of Thought and among the Hills of Vanity. Changed times, indeed, when we must sit all night, beside the fire, with folded hands; and a changed world for most of us, when we find we can pass the hours without discontent, and be happy thinking. We are in such haste to be doing, to be writing, to be gathering gear, to make our voice audible a moment in the derisive silence of eternity, that we forget that one thing, o f which these are but the parts--namely, to live. We fall in love, we drink hard, we run to and fro upon the earth like frightened sheep. And now you are to ask yourself if, when all is done, you would not have been better to sit by the fire at home, and be happy thinking. To sit still and contemplate--to remember the faces of women without desire, to be pleased by the great deeds of men without envy, to be everything and everywhere in sympathy, and yet content to remain where and what you are--is not this to know both wisdom and virtue, and to dwell with happiness? After all, it is not they who carry flags, but they who look upon it from a private chamber, who have the fun of the procession. And once you are at that, you are in the very humor of all social heresy. It is no time for shuffling, or for big, empty words. If you ask yourself what you mean by fame, riches, or learning, the answer is far to seek; and you go back into that kingdom of light imaginations, which seem so vain in the eyes of Philistines perspiring after wealth, and so momentous to those who are stricken with the disproportions of the world, and, in the face of the gigantic stars, cannot stop to split differences between two degrees of the infinitesimally small, such as a tobacco pipe or the Roman Empire, a million of money or a fiddlesticks end. 12  You lean from the window, your last pipe reeking whitely into the darkness, your body full of delicious pains, your mind enthroned in the seventh circle of content; when suddenly the mood changes, the weathercock goes about, and you ask yourself one question more: whether, for the interval, you have been the wisest philosopher or the most egregious of donkeys? Human experience is not yet able to reply, but at least you have had a fine moment, and looked down upon all the kingdoms of the earth. And whether it was wise or foolish, to-morrows travel will carry you, body and mind, into some different parish of the infinite. Originally published in the  Cornhill Magazine  in 1876, Walking Tours by Robert Louis Stevenson appears in the collection  Virginibus Puerisque, and Other Papers  (1881).