The public and the invisible hand

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At its heart, Poor Economics revolves around the age-old argument of how much and in what ways governments have intervened, and should intervene, in its citizens’ lives. It offers an ambitious buffet spread of case studies across developing economies on the areas of food, healthcare, education, and population control, with the result that the content ends up feeling rather all over the place and examples randomly picked rather than contributing towards a coherent overarching argument. To its credit, the many conclusions it draws from the numerous case studies are nuanced, accompanied with specific pieces of evidence that rarely fall into the trap of generalization.

The closest Poor Economics gets to an overarching thesis is its belief that well-intentioned but harmful policies are driven by three Is: Ideology, Ignorance, and Inertia, and as any civil servant worth their salt should know: it all boils down to implementation. Unfortunately, in the case of the poor, their lived experience has deviated so widely from that of policy-makers and possibly the majority that most assumptions on how they think and live have to be examined.

There is a tendency for the privileged to hold the less well-off to a higher standard of self control; for instance, assuming that an increase in income should be funneled to more tangible goods like food with higher calorie to cost ratios, instead of frivolous wants like better-tasting food, televisions, and expensive funerals. We also tend to discount the indirect benefits from good systems and access to bountiful resources, and are surprised when the poor do not spend their money on goods with disproportionate benefits like chlorine to clean drinking water, iodine-fortified salts, and mosquito nets, forgetting that these are concerns that are abstracted away from our everyday lives. The book examines the many factors that come into play into decisions made by the poor on where to spend their limited funds, and in the process illuminates the basic necessities we have come to take for granted that is provided by a good public system.

A big part of these decisions comes from psychology and social factors; for instance, it is natural to place more value on cure rather than prevention when the latter is not obvious in its effect. As a result, healthcare that has emerged responds to these expectations as well: doctors naturally over-diagnose and over-medicate when their patients think them frauds if they do not give antibiotics or IV drips. Humanity’s short-sightedness with regards to long term value also comes into play, especially when faced with short term costs like journey and queuing time for vaccinations. In recognising these reasons, on-the-ground implementations can then try to minimise the short term pains and make the link from action to positive effect more obvious — even if, as the policy maker, it does not seem intuitive to give extra benefits on top of a policy that is already aimed at improving your target group’s welfare from a top-down perspective.

On education, the book lays out the system’s competing goals with great lucidity: its intention on sieving out the best and brightest through its many entrance exams, vs its desire to equip all with fundamental skills and knowledge. Buying into the former, as is commonly the case, directly affects both how teachers teach as well as how parents decide to allocate their resources among their children: the result is that resources are all concentrated on those who perform well. It’s also a common belief that the benefits of education only come into play upon attaining a certain education level, but the book argues that the curve is more linear than S-shaped: every extra year of education gives the student a proportionate increase in income, and parents would do better to send all their children to school than focus on a single child.

And more such conclusions, although the general applicability of such conclusions bears more scrutiny. Nevertheless, it is universal that the poor face higher levels of risk in their everyday lives, as well as higher barriers to access of credit, insurance, and even saving accounts, further exacerbating their circumstances. The lack of security towards their futures has a debilitating effect on long term planning; cheaper seeds that yield less are preferred to more expensive ones that yield a greater amount more than their cost, and saving a larger amount to make a bigger purchase in the future is less appealing than making installments. The interest rates for loans the poor take up are enormous, because of the risk of default and the increase in cost from ensuring they pay up (moneylenders and their dubious methods are actually highly personalised). In order to buy insurance, the company providing it has to gain credibility that it will pay its customers for the circumstances it insures against, something that is difficult to obtain in systems more given to corruption than otherwise.

The difficulty of solving poverty can seem insurmountable when thinking of all the intersecting systems that need to be solved as well. While the writing in Poor Economics feels rather disjointed, and its examples more random than comprehensive, it’s perhaps a reflection on how messy implementation gets with its many edge cases and variability in different contexts.

Rating: 3.5/5

— Poor Economics (Abhijit V. Banerjee and Esther Duflo, 2011)

A universe where dragons are your air force

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Sometimes you’re looking for a book that’s wholesome and uncomplicated, driven by a straightforward purpose (defend Britain against the French. With dragons.) and helmed by lovable characters. The kind of book where you know who to root for and write fanfiction about, and I’m about 100% sure without searching you will take too many dragon lifetimes to finish the existing fanfiction out there set in the Temeraire universe. His Majesty’s Dragon delivers on all these counts.

Check: British captain Laurence, undoubtedly the most deserving man on board the ship, is chosen by freshly-hatched dragon Temeraire to be his handler. Laurence possesses the manners of an Austen gentleman and the principles of any Gary Stu hero. Despite his initial reservations (a dragon-handler, or an aviator as they are called, is bound to his dragon and essentially cast aside from society), he takes on the role without complaint and grows to love…

…our adorable, handsome, intelligent, well-mannered, skilled dragon Temeraire, on whom all the gifts of the dragon world are bestowed. Check: the chosen dragon. His breed, initially unidentified, is later revealed to be the rarest of rare, to nobody’s surprise. He will be key to all the important battles, also to nobody’s surprise.

Did you notice I said intelligent? Dragons can speak human languages from the moment they hatch. Temeraire, naturally, loves books, except he is far-sighted, so has to rely on Laurence to read to him. Laurence is happy to do so, because Temeraire is PERFECT. Temeraire says things like he would rather have Laurence than a hoard of gold, notices when Laurence is upset, and curls up around Laurence when they sleep together. We all want Temeraire as our lover. I mean dragon.

The universe is set in the Napolean times, so no woman is expected to be doing anything of note, but CHECK: there are women aviators, because there are female dragons who only bind to women. Admittedly not the most desirable reason for female participation, but we’ll take what we can get during the barbaric ages. The women aviators will take no shit, naturally, and are delightfully forward in propositioning the men. Conservative Laurence is shocked, but not so shocked he doesn’t enjoy sexy times.

Laurence and Temeraire train from zero together; a Navy captain previously, Laurence has to adapt to the speed and tactics of air battles, while Temeraire takes to formations and signals with no trouble. Imagine dragons as air ships, each armed with a crew that will fire bombs and fight off boarders (enemies who climb on board the dragon and try to capture them by holding their aviator hostage. Tamed dragons are very loyal to their aviators and will cease attacks upon any threat to their aviators’ lives). Napolean is still a godlike warmonger in this universe, and constantly surprises Britain with his wily plotting. The battles are epic and excellently-paced. An appropriate number of people and dragons die, and they are appropriately inconsequential. Except for that one dragon who had to go, because those are the rules. The dragons bond with their crews and each other, and occasionally question why they and their handlers have to obey the crown and the rules of ownership and property. “We have a duty,” Laurence answers stuffily.

There are 4 books in this series and I’m a good way into the second already, because obviously Temeraire is a dream lover, I mean dragon.

Rating: 4/5

— His Majesty’s Dragon (Naomi Novik, 2006)

The djinn walking amongst us

The Djinn Falls in Love is a collection of short stories by various authors exploring the many conceptions of a djinn through time and culture, whether it be through a contemplation of them as fellow breathing entities fighting for survival, or an exploration of the fear of the Other. It’s an engrossing collection alive with myth and magic, each story promising to reinvent the djinn as it is commonly cast. Some of my favourites:

Bring Your Own Spoon (Saad Z. Hossain) imagines a bleak future overrun with pollution and surveillance, where non-synthetic food is alien, the poorest are hiding in slums, and breathing non-toxic air requires money. Despite that, an unlikely partnership emerges between a man who remembers how to cook and conjures delicious concoctions from the spoils of his foraging, and a djinn who wakes from hibernation into this bleak reality and is offered freshly cooked rice. A restaurant (a radical idea!) is constructed from benches in an abandoned room at the side of the toxic river, and its customers are the poorest who chip in with whatever they find. Unfortunately it’s not long before the surveillance catches up… An utterly heartwarming tale of kindness and food shared among a pure-hearted bunch. Plus the simple fare sounds absolutely mouth-watering.

The Spite House (Kirsty Logan) combines two unlikely ideas: spite houses (houses constructed out of spite, for instance to block a neighbour’s view, which are normally barely livable) and djinns. The djinns have materialized as fellow full-sized inhabitants of the world who need houses to live in; they have been relegated to spite houses and ignored. A half-djinn scavenger is caught in the act of scavenging from a lady’s backyard; the unhappy lady, fresh out of a broken marriage, confides in him and inadvertently makes a wish… Unfortunately this snowballs into another, and another, and out of his volition malevolent events are happening to those who have wronged her, all verbalized with a smile. The story doesn’t take the idea further than that, but I liked the bringing together of the forms of spite: houses, caravans, a woman bent on vengeance.

In Majnun (Helene Wecker) a djinn turns his back on his species by going into the human world and exorcising djinns from the possessed. His latest exorcism involves his old lover, a queen jinniyah who is worshipped and takes on many consorts. She misses his services after he leaves her abruptly; it’s ultimately a sad story of a relationship’s resolution.

Somewhere in America (Neil Gaiman) is an extract from Gaiman’s American Gods apparently, but since I’ve forgotten its content, I enjoyed this like a new story: a newcomer from Oman to New York struggles to sell his wares and with his sense of alienation as well as the rudeness of dropped appointments. He hails a cab whose driver turns out to be a djinn from Oman; after a spicy night, he finds his belongings missing but the driver’s license and cab car keys waiting for him. I loved the circularity and the fresh take on the immigrant’s story.

Reap (Sami Shah) involves an American team conducting a drone stakeout on a Pakistan village; their monitoring has birthed names for all the villagers and their children, as well as an intimate knowledge of their routines. The youngest daughter of a family goes missing one day and returns altered… It’s a great story intertwining voyeurism, interference, injustice, and magical powers.

Some stories I didn’t take to, but all of them presented an original perspective on djinns and wish-granting, and will not be out of place in Scheherazade’s enchanting tales.

Rating: 4/5

— The Djinn Falls in Love (Edited by Mahvesh Murad and Jared Shurin, 2017)

Lost in time and thoughts

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How do I write about Mrs Dalloway when it is such a slippery fish of a work, refuses to settle on one person or spot, exists almost wholly in characters’ meandering thoughts, and only gets called back to the now-and-then by Big Ben’s charming bells?

The book’s named after a character, so you might be led to think that said character is book’s main point, and in a way it is, but not the way you would conventionally expect. We see Mrs Dalloway (Clarissa) crossing the street, thinking about Peter Walsh, an old lover whose marriage proposal she rejected, as she runs an errand for flowers for the party she is giving at night. When is Peter coming back from India? Sudden commotion in the street. A gun shot? Everyone scrambles to take a look. A car with its interior shrouded by blinds; is it the Queen, the Prince, or the Prime Minister? A ripple runs through London wherever it goes. Septimus is held in that moment; Septimus, whose wife is from Italy, prods him to move along; Septimus has lost a dear friend in the war he served, and imagines seeing him in the flesh again. Dear Rezia, Septimus’s wife, is terribly unhappy — her husband talks to himself, gets irritated with her, doesn’t respond to his immediate surroundings — is this what she left Italy and her family for? Clarissa returns home and finds that her husband has gone for a lunch engagement without her; is this the beginning of one’s increasing irrelevance, fading out of existence? She has a dress to mend for her party tonight, but look, who’s bursting in in the middle of her dress-mending? Peter Walsh! Who’s in love with a married lady in India!

And so on and so forth. The entirety of the book’s present takes place in one day, ending with Clarissa’s party, but the present just doesn’t have the same resonance as the past. The present is a vehicle to reminisce about the past, forks in the road, like the choice of who to marry, and then gazing at what could have been, trying to feel settled with the trade-offs one eventually picks. The book captures that sort of lost-in-your-thoughts mood with the kind of truth one finds in art, that is, it feels accurate to your idea of it in some interior part of you; reading it, an image comes to mind, of people’s thoughts floating up and around invisibly in the air, and this book floating on this mixed current, giving us a sample of whatever it captures, along with the peripheral surroundings — bird sounds, flowers, passers-by behaving eccentrically, and that ever-anchoring chime of Big Ben. The people having the thoughts aren’t the point; we can go from their sentiments to another’s in the span of the next line, see them being pitied or judged from an exterior perspective, which likely then never makes another appearance…

I think Mrs Dalloway is about a mood, and I would describe the mood as being lost, maybe once having something to move towards, but having passed that point — the relentless passage of time — one is left only with the sense of vague searching, doing what one does with what’s left. In the end Peter talks to Sally, an old friend of both him and Clarissa, in a room in Clarissa’s house, into the late hours of her party, waiting for Clarissa, who doesn’t appear in their company by the close of the book. A yawning absence; an apropos ending.

Rating: 3.5/5; I like my characters and plot

— Mrs Dalloway (Virginia Woolf, 1925)