Caller: Hey, can you help me? My computer has locked up, and no matter how many times I type eleven, it won’t unfreeze.

Tech Support: What do you mean, “type eleven?”

Caller: The message on my screen says, “Error Type 11!”

From David Pogue.

… in 1946, Winston Churchill delivered his “Iron Curtain” speech at Westminster College in Fulton, Missouri.

Wonder if it needs to be updated to deal with the Putin/Medvedev threat? The first task, though, is to figure out how to pronounce ‘Medvedev’. There was an hilarious discussion on the Today programme yesterday involving John Sargent and the BBC’s pronounciation expert who said that the correct pronounciation involved putting a ‘y’ after each consonant (or something like that). Sargent took an endearingly practical approach to incomprehensible names, recalling that whenever he reported on the doings of the Revd. Ndabaningi Sithole he never attempted the forename without first thinking “rubber dinghy”.

I’ve just boarded a Virgin train at Paddington, bound for Torquay, and found a plug for my laptop. Hooray!

It stands for Internet Addiction Disorder. Amusing piece by Mark Bittman about how he decided to become a Digital Sabbatarian…

My name is Mark, and I’m a techno-addict. But after my airplane experience, I decided to do something about it. Thus began my “secular Sabbath” — a term I found floating around on blogs — a day a week where I would be free of screens, bells and beeps. An old-fashioned day not only of rest but of relief.

Like many, though, I wondered whether breaking my habit would be entirely beneficial. I worried about the colleagues, friends, daughters, parents and so on who relied on me, the people who knew that whether I was home or away I would get back to them, if not instantly then certainly before the end of the day. What if something important was happening, something that couldn’t wait 24 hours?

Or was I just one of those Americans who’ve developed the latest in American problems, Internet addiction disorder?

So he decided to take weekends off from digital communications. How did he get on? Not badly, it seems:

I went back to nonwork, diligently following my rules to do less one day a week. The walks, naps and reading became routine, and all as enjoyable as they were before I had to force myself into doing them. It’s been more than six months, and while I’m hardly a new man — no one has yet called me mellow — this achievement is unlike any other in my life. And nothing bad has happened while I’ve been offline; the e-mail and phone messages, RSS feeds, are all there waiting for me when I return to them.

I would no more make a new-agey call to find inner peace than I would encourage a return to the mimeograph. But I do believe that there has to be a way to regularly impose some thoughtfulness, or at least calm, into modern life — or at least my version. Once I moved beyond the fear of being unavailable and what it might cost me, I experienced what, if I wasn’t such a skeptic, I would call a lightness of being. I felt connected to myself rather than my computer. I had time to think, and distance from normal demands. I got to stop.

Hmm… Why am I typing this on a Sunday evening?

Who wrote this?

Not many today, I presume, read the works of Francesco Stabili, better known as Cecco d’Ascoli. What have survived of his writings are the incomplete epic the Acerba, two astrological treatises and a handful of sonnets, though here ascription and provenance are uncdrtain. On linguistic grounds alone, these vestiges are all but inaccessible to the common reader. Scholars interested in Cecco must study him either in problematical codices or flawed editions. None the less, d’Ascoli’s demanding, often rebarbative works have exercised their spell.

Hmmm… I know what you’re thinking. You detect the distinctive tones of de Selby, the great philosophical magus invented by Flann O’Brien. It has the same air of lofty erudition, of sublime indifference to the ignorance of the masses, of ready access to a thesaurus. And yet it is not the work of De Selby but of this man:

Dr George Steiner of Geneva (and Cambridge), Whom God Preserve, and whose latest book is entitled (if you please), My Unwritten Books (of which there are seven). I’m only on to Book Two at the moment, and so far I haven’t understood a word of it, but his first ‘unwritten’ book — on Joseph Needham, the great Cambridge historian of Chinese science and technology — would actually have been a good read. In fact, Steiner is jolly interesting on the subject of Needham, whose biography he once contemplated writing. One of his other ‘books’ is intriguingly entitled The Tongues of Eros, so perhaps I will give up on old Cecco and move on to that.

Last Thursday, George gave a lecture in Cambridge marking the centenary of the birth of Jacob Bronowski, another polymath who, in the lecturer’s opinion, went churlishly unhonoured by the British Establishment. George, who has felt the chilly disinterest of said Establishment in his own case, spoke feelingly on the matter — though one couldn’t help remembering that he has been granted the ultimate accolade: an appearance on Desert Island Discs.

The lecture was entitled “The Two Voices” and he ended by quoting from Tennyson’s poem of that title:

‘I cannot hide that some have striven,
Achieving calm, to whom was given
The joy that mixes man with Heaven:

‘Who, rowing hard against the stream,
Saw distant gates of Eden gleam,
And did not dream it was a dream;

‘But heard, by secret transport led,
Ev’n in the charnels of the dead,
The murmur of the fountain-head–

‘Which did accomplish their desire,
Bore and forebore, and did not tire,
Like Stephen, an unquenched fire.

‘He heeded not reviling tones,
Nor sold his heart to idle moans,
Tho’ cursed and scorn’d, and bruised with stones:

‘But looking upward, full of grace,
He pray’d, and from a happy place
God’s glory smote him on the face.’