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When did it all start, you ask, this job of ours, how did it come about, where, when? Well, I'd say it really got started around about a thing called the Civil War. Even though our rule book claims it was founded earlier. The fact is we didn't get along well until photography came into its own. Then --- motion pictures in the early twentieth century. Radio. Television. Things began to have mass.

And because they had mass, they became simpler. Once, books appealed to a few people, here, there, everywhere. They could afford to be different. The world was roomy. But then the world got full of eyes and elbows and mouths. Double, triple, quadruple population. Films and radios, magazines, books leveled down to a sort of pastepudding norm, do you follow me?

Picture it. Nineteenth-century man with his horses, dogs, cargs, slow motion. Then, the twentieth century, speed up your camera. Books cut shorter. Condensations. Digests. Tabloids. Everything boils down to the gag, the snap ending.

Classics cut to fit fifteen-minute radio shows, then cut again to fill a two-minute book column, winding up at last a ten- or twelve-line dictionary resume. I exaggerate, of course. The dictionaries were for rereference. But many were those whose sole knowledge of Hamlet (you know the title certainly, Montag; it is probably only a faint rumor of a title to you, Mrs Montag) whose sole knowledge, as I say, of Hamlet was one-page digest in a book that claimed: now at last you can read all the classics; keep up with your neightbors. Do you see? Out of the nursery into the college and back to the nursery; there's your intellectual pattern for the past five centuries or more.

Speed up the film, Montag, quick. Click , Pic, Look, Eye, Now, Flick, Here, There, Swift, Pace, Up, Down, In, Out, Why, How, Who, What, Where, Eh? Um! Bang! Smack! Wallop, Bing, Bong, Boom! Digest-digests, digest-digest-digests. Politics? One column, two sentences, a headline! Then, in midair, all vanishses! Whirl man's mind around about so fast under the pumping hands of publishers, exploiters, boradcasters that the centrifuge flings off all unnecessary, time-wasiting thought!

School is shortened, discipline relaxed, philosophies, histories, languages dropped, English and spelling gradually gradually neglected, finally almost completely ignored. Life is immediate, the job counts, pleasure lies all about after work. Why learn anything save pressing buttons, pulling switches, fitting nuts and botts?

Empty the theaters save for clowns and furnish the rooms with glass walls and pretty colors running up nd down the walls like confetti or blood or sherry or sauterne. You like baseball, don't you, Montag?

You like bowling, don't you, Montag?

And golf?

Basketball?

Billards, pool? Football?

More sports for everyone, group spirit, fun, and you don't have to think, eh? Organize and organize and superorganize super-super sports. More cartoons in books. More pictures. The mind drinks less and less. Impatience. Highways full of crowds going somewhere, somewhere, nowhere. The gasoline refugee. Towns turn into motels, people in nomadic, surges from place to place, following the moon tides, living tonight in the room where you slept this noon and I the night before.

Now let's take up the minorities in our civilization, shall we? Bigger the population, the more minorities. Don't step on the toes of the dog lovers, the cat lovers, doctors, lawyers, merchants, chiefs, Mormons, Baptists, Unitarians, second-generation Chinese, Swedes, Italians, Germans, Texans, Brooklynites, Irishmen, people from Oregan or Mexico. The people in this book, this play, this TV serial are not meant to represent any actual painters, cartographers, mechanics anywhere. The bigger your market, Montag, the less you handle controversy, remember that! All them minor minor minorities with their navels to be kept clean. Authors, full of evil thoughts, lock up your typewriters. They did. Magazines became a nice blend of vanilla tapioca. Books, so the damned snobbish critics said, were dishwater. No wonder books stopped selling, the critics said. But the public, knowing what it wanted, spinning happily, let the comic books survive. And the three-dimensional sex magazines, of course. There you have it, Montag. It didn't come from the Government down. There was no dictum, no declaration, no censorship, to start with, no! Technology, mass exploitation, and minority pressure carried the trick, thank God. Today, thanks to them, you can stay happy all the time, you are allowed to read comics, the good old confessions, or trade journals.

Ah. What more easily explained and natural? With school turning out more runners, jumpers, racers, tinkerers, grabbers, snatchers, fliers, and swimmers instead of examiners, critics, knowers, and imaginative creators, the word "intellectual", of course, became the swear word it deserved to be. You always dread the unfamiliar. Surely you remember the boy in your own school class who was exceptionally "bright", did most of the reciting and answering while the others sat like so many leaden idols, hating him. And wasn't it this bright boy you selected for beatings and tortures, after hours? Of course it was. We must all be alike. Not everyone born free and equal, as the Constitution says, but everyone made equal. Each man the image of every other; then all are happy, for there are no mountains to make them cower, to judge themselves against. So! A book is a loaded gun in the house next door. Burn it. Take the shot from the weapon. Breach man's mind. Who knows who might be the target of the well-read man? Me? I won't stomach them for a minute. So when houses were finally fireproofed completely, all over the world (you were correct in your assumption the other night) there was no longer need of firemen for the old purposes. They were given the new job, as custodians of our peace of mind, the focus of our understandable and rightful dread of being inferior: official censors, judges, and executors. That's you, Montag, and that's me.

You must understand that our civilization is so vast that we can't have our minorities upset and stirred. Ask yourself, What do we want in this country, above all? People want to be happy, isn't that right? Haven't you heard it all your life? I want to be happy, people say. Well, aren't they? Don't we keep them moving, don't we give them fun? That's all we live for, isn't it? For pleasure, for utillation? And you must admit our culture provies plenty of these.

Colored people don't like Little Black Sambo. Burn it. White people don't feel good about Uncle Tom's Cabin. Burn it. Someone's written a book on tobacco and cancer of the lungs? The cigarette people are weeping? Burn the book. Serenity, Montag. Peace, Montag. Take your flight outside. Better yet, into the incinerator. Funerals are unhappy pagan? Eliminate them, too. Five minutes after the person is dead he's on his way to the Big Flue, the Incinerators serviced by helicopters all over the country. Ten minutes after death a man's a speck of black dust. Let's not quibble over individuals with memoriums. Forget them. Burn all, burn everything. Fire is bright and fire is clean.

Here or there, that's bound to occur. Clarisse McClellan? We've a record on her family. We've watched them carefully. Heredity and environment are funny things. You can't rid yourselves of all the odd ducks in just a few years. The home envrironment can undo a lot you try to do at school. That's why we've lowered the kindergarten age year after year until now we're almost snatching them from the cradle. We had some false alarms on the McClellans, when they lived in Chicago. Never found a book. Uncle had a mixed record; antisocial. The girl? She was a time bomb. The family had been feeding her subconscious, I'm sure, from what I saw of her school record. She didn't want to know how a thing was done, but why. That can be embarrassing. You ask why to a lot of things and you wind yp very unhappty indeed, if you keep at it. The poor girl's better off dead.

Luckily, queer ones like her don't happen often. We know how to nip most of them in the bud, early. You can't build a house without nails and wood. If you don't want a house built, hide the nails and wood. If you don't want a man unhappy politically, don't give him two sides to a question to worry him; give him one. Better yet, give him none. Let him forget there is such a thing as war. If the government is inefficient, topheavy, and tax-mad, better it be all those than the people worry over it. Peace, Montag. Give the people contests they win by remembering the words to more popular songs or the names of state capitals or how much corn Iowa grew last year. Cram them full of noncombustible data, chock them so damned full of "facts" they feel stuffed, but absolutely "brilliant" with information. Then they'll feel they're thinking, they'll get a sense of motion without moving. And they'll be happy, because facts of that sort don't change. Don't give them any slippery stuff like philossophy or sociology to tie things up with. That way lies melancholy. Any man who can take a TV wall apart and put it back together again, and most men can, nowadays, is happier than any man who tries to slide-rule, measure, and equate the universe, which just won't be measured or equated without making man feel bestial and lonely. I know, I've tried it; to hell with it. So bring on your clubs and parties, your acrobats and magicians, your daredevils, jet cars, motorcycle helicopters, your sex and heroin, more of everything to do with automatic reflex. If the drama is bad, if the film says nothing, if the play is hollow, sting me with the theremin, loudly. I'll think I'm responding to the play, when it's only a tactile reaction to vibration. But I don't care. I just like solid entertainment.

-- Fahrenheit 451

Cập nhật 3 lần. Lần cuối: Thu Aug 25 15:22:55+0003 2022

Một cơ thể đủ bề hạn chế. Một tư duy hữu hạn. Khả năng tiếp thu hữu hạn. Một trí tưởng tượng vô hạn. Một tham vọng vô hạn.

Một sinh vật bao gồm cả con thỏ và củ cà rốt trước mặt. Một sinh vật luôn hướng về phía trước dù chả thấy đích đến và cũng không đủ khả năng đến.

Ngay cả cái cách tiến về phía trước cũng không bảo đảm đến đích. Cách tiếp cận tiến hoá chỉ có thể tìm đến tối ưu cục bộ, sau đó là thoái hoá.

Trăm dâu đổ đầu con người, chỉ vì cái trí tưởng tượng và tham vọng vô hạn.

Cập nhật 2 lần. Lần cuối: Tue Aug 08 11:22:15+0011 2017

Some men just want to watch the world go nuts, indeed http://ur1.ca/840q9

And the journey begins http://ur1.ca/8152f

Mần Git từ cuối 2006, tới nay cũng đã 5 năm. Chắc mình mần quá nhiều thì phải. Lần trước cũng có một công ty hỏi thăm có muốn đi làm Git không. Giờ lần nữa, PayPal.

Phải nói là Git có vẻ đang tiến vào các tập đoàn máy tính. Ericsson cũng bắt đầu chuyển sang sử dụng Git thay vì Clearcase ở một số dự án.

Gì thì gì, chắc ko đến Mỹ đâu. Dán cái mail lại làm kỉ niệm.

Subject: Hi Duy! Git Engineer opportunity at PayPal

Hi Duy,

I'm a member of the Talent Acquisition team here at PayPal, an eBay company. I came across your information today, and I was really impressed by what I saw and hoped to be able to connect with you about some opportunities we currently have.

The eBay family is growing exponentially. We're looking for experienced Git Engineer. This is a full time/direct hire position in San Jose, CA. Are you interested in relocation to CA? If you’re interested in discussing further, and hearing more about the description, please send an updated resume to chjames@ebay.com

If this is not a good time for you, I apologize for the inconvenience. However, if you know of anyone who might be interested in opportunities at PayPal, I would be grateful if you would forward my contact information along. Have a great day, Duy!

Respectfully,

Chris James
Sourcing Consultant, PayPal Talent Acquisition

Cập nhật 2 lần. Lần cuối: Tue Aug 08 11:22:15+0011 2017