Tuesday, May 9, 2017

Disney's Opening Books

For several years I have been fascinated by the classic image of the book opening at the beginning of many classic Disney films. Wanting to learn more, I watched the opening few minutes of every animated Disney film ever made! If you’d like to see my notes on the films, you can find them here, but the exciting bits pertaining to opening books you can read all about below.  

The first full length animated Disney film was Snow White and the Seven Dwarves in 1937. In that film, the first shots are of an old and beautiful book which opens to show the beginning of the story. This book establishes the film in the tradition of storytelling, with all the authority of such a beautiful and historic volume. Furthermore, the volume appears not only historic and created with meticulous care, but magical, opening itself without the need of an assisting hand.  Though the book does not need our help to open it, the youngest members of its original audience may have needed help to read it, because the text beautifully displayed on the pages of the book was not narrated outloud. Given the age Disney’s current target audience, it is not surprising that this fact has changed, and even their next film, Pinocchio, the lines are read outloud by Jimminy Cricket, after he sings “When you wish upon a star.” In the Pinocchio book,  there are both words and pictures, and by zooming into the picture, the image becomes the animation of the story itself. This opening book motif was used again in Disney’s third animated film, Cinderella in 1950, again, with the illustrations becoming the animation of the film. The book houses the story of the film, as a rich symbol of history and the tradition of written stories. 

From 1950 to 1970 about half the films opened with the image of a book. In addition to Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, The Sword in the Stone, and The Jungle Book all featured the book, Alice in Wonderland, Peter Pan, Lady and the Tramp and The 101 Dalmations did not, even though all but Lady and The Tramp are based on stories from books. By this time, Disney movies were doing well enough that it was not necessary to establish their film’s legitimacy with an appeal to another medium. Merely having the “Disney” name on the film was enough to warrant attention. 

After 1970 the book opening died out almost entirely, with two notable exceptions. In 1973, the Robin Hood film opens with a book filled with text which, like Snow White, is not read outloud. “Long ago, good King Richard departed for the Holy Land on a great crusade. During his absence, Prince John his greedy and treacherous brother, usurped the throne.” Besides the text, on these pages are images of King Richard and his men going off on crusade, and of Robin Hood pulling a bow, (all portrayed as human) and then at the top of the page there’s a rooster with a lute. The image zooms in on the rooster, away from the text (saying something about Robin Hood being the people’s only hope) and the rooster turns to the reader and starts talking. The rooster says, “There’s a heap of legends and tall tales about Robin Hood. All different, too. Well, we folks in the animal kingdom have our own version. It’s the story of what really happened in Sherwood forest.” With that the film directs us away from the human story of Robin Hood, and shows us the cast of animals who will be telling the story of Robin Hood. The most interesting thing here, is that the authority of the book is dismantled. The rooster assures us, we’ll see “what really happened” but he also admits that there are different versions, and that this version will not be the same as other versions. For one thing, it will be told by animals. This film makes explicit what other films do implicitly; it says that tradition does not need to be followed. A tradition can be evoked and rejected.

The other instance of an opening book in the 1970s was the original Winnie the Pooh film in 1977, which opened with a live action portrayal of the bedroom of Christopher Robin. After panning around the room, the camera focuses on a book which becomes animated and opens to reveal the spread of Hundred Acre Woods, and all the animals living there. The Pooh Bear movies have their own little arc. In The Tigger Movie in 2000, the narrator is telling how Pooh is the favorite animal, when an animated Tigger, bounces into the still life action screen, objects to the constant preference for Pooh, pulls the letters off of the book, and writes, “The Tigger Movie” on the title page. It’s a fun invocation of the original movie’s opening sequence, and says, like the Robin Hood opening, that the story can be changed, even something as stable seeming as the book can be altered. 

Disney’s films in the 90s did a lot of opening sequences which seem similar to book openings, but did not contain books. Beauty and the Beast has a storytelling narration giving exposition in a similar manner to many of the book openings, but the story is told in the stained glass of the Beast’s castle instead of on the pages of a book. Pocahontas opens with a framed historical print of a sailing ship headed for the new world to give a bit of a historic flavor to the opening of its story. Hercules opens in a museum panning past vases and urns with a narrator telling about classical mythology, until the frame zooms in on a particular urn where the characters come to life and tell the narrator to not make it sound so boring. In Mulan, instead of an already written book, we see Chinese calligraphy being written in the first opening frames. These creative reimaginings extend the reach of the storybook to areas where the book is not the most natural medium for carrying the story, but all of them use an image of storytelling to begin. 

After 2000 the openings of Disney films which referenced books did so in self-referential ways. Once Dreamworks had opened Shrek with a fairytale book used as toilet paper, Disney embraced that sarcastic style in Chicken Little. The movie attempts to open several times each time the narrator stops and says, “no, no, no…” too boring, too cliche for this movie, so they begin in the story itself with a big action scene after rejecting “once upon a time,” an opening book, and The Lion King music. In The Princess and the Frog, the movie opens with Tiana’s mother reading the story of The Frog Prince from a big book to the two young girls. The book is not magical, it’s just reminding the audience of the loose plot connections of the movie with a fairytale story. Enchanted has an entirely new storyline, without any connection a particular fairytale, but in Enchanted they pull out all the stops and show the book in a tower of the Disney castle, with extremely traditional choral music in the background, explicitly referencing the fairytale books from Disney’s early days. While Snow White was establishing its legitimacy by pointing to the tradition of beautiful historic storytelling tradition housed in books, Enchanted establishes its legitimacy by pointing to Disney. The one twist they make to the original motif is to make Enchanted a pop-up book. This appears not only at the opening of the story but also in the final scene sequence as a means of transitioning back and forth between the animated Andalasia world and the live action world of New York City. While some of the most recent films have a stylized opening sequence of storytelling (Wreck-it Ralph, Zootopia, and Moana to name a few) this motif seems so thoroughly used that it has become worn out. Turning it (as Enchanted does) to look back at itself brings the story full circle, and reminds the viewer that whether we notice them or not, books and movies follow scripts, and recycle motifs, all in one giant cycle of storytelling. 

Thursday, May 4, 2017

The Book is a Survivor

One of my favorite classes in my masters’ studies was a course called Textual Culture. Our professor, Paul Menzer, was constantly stretching the ways we thought about text and the technologies used to store and use that text, be they seemingly simple technologies (paper and pens) or the mysteries of microchips. A lot of us were pretty scornful of reading on screens, and he would bring up other times in which people have resisted technological changes. Think of people’s disdain for horseless carriages. A lot of the arguments being made at that time, (the beauty, the elegance, the emotional significance, just liking horses) are similar to the ones being made today. A lot of people said, “I will never ride in one of those horseless carriages.” And they never did. And then they died. His point was that just because some people have an emotional aversion to change, that is not enough to keep that change from happening. However, the analogy never sat quite right with me. Although horses and their owners do die, the books themselves can live much longer than their users. It is true that we are in a large moment of cultural change, and it is true that the role of books and paper in this world will not remain the same as it was in my childhood, but I think there are many reasons why the physical, paper, “low-tech” book has benefits which its digital counterparts cannot replicate, and one of them is longevity.

While moving this past summer the box I was least happy about carting around was the box of dead electronics. The old ipods which can no longer sync with today’s apps, the GPS which doesn’t turn on anymore, the computers we used three years ago, eight years ago, 10 years ago, all shuttered into a closet or something no longer usable for even a fraction of their intended purposes. None of these are more than 12 years old, and all of them are useless or next to useless. People seem to think that computers, phones, and e-reader tablets will threaten the codex, but they seem like flimsy and finicky replacements for a technology which has stayed essentially constant as it shaped the world for well over a thousand years. People are looking at books as if they will be as replaceable as the changes in the dissemination of audio; changing from lps to eight tracks to cassette to cds to digital downloads in less than half a century.

A different day in that same Textual Culture class, Menzer was talking about early modern printing and so he bought in some books from the college collection. Wearing white gloves he carefully turned the pages, and showed us some of the leaves before handing the book to the closest student to pass around. The student balked, not having gloves, and Menzer just smiled, saying that that book was better made than most books today; the strong, beautiful pages were made of rags, that it was in nearly pristine condition despite being in use for over four hundred years. The gloves were just for show.

Another concern with the rise of ebooks is the lack of substance of what is bought and sold. Rather than buying or selling an object, ebooks function as a sale of a non-object. There is no thing being sold, merely the information. The text without a body. Of course, in some ways this is the appeal of ebooks. No need to burden the book shelves. No need to carry multiple volumes with you while you travel-- your virtual library is with you wherever you need it. But because books are now no longer an object they are not a good that can be sold by anyone other than the publisher or those privileged sources, the companies buying rights to the ebooks. If you loved a book you cannot lend it to a friend (Kindle has a very complicated borrowing policy which I have never heard of anyone using), and if you didn’t love the book, it is still yours forever. You can’t pass it on to a charity shop or leave it in a little free library. Started using a pretty basic Kindle when I lived in western Europe for three years, and I had no access to English libraries. Instead of purchasing the slow-shipping paper books for a book club I was a part of, I would sometimes just buy the ebook. It was however a very strange thing if someone wanted to borrow the book I would need to give up my whole kindle library, and, (since a kindle is very much intended as a private device) there was something very strange about passing off the record of everything
I’d been recently reading to an acquaintance. Passing around a book in a classroom is infinitely preferable to passing around one’s phone. In addition to limiting the reader to the devices they themselves own, ebooks have a certain amount of vulnerability of price. Reading at the beach or in your bathtub is a tricky thing with your $700 iphone-- but a paperback you can just leave on your towel when you go into the water for a swim. If you drop a book into the tub, sometimes the books are well enough made that if you dry it quickly it’s still usable, but if not, you are probably not going to pay more than $20 replacing it. You can leave books in the car without worrying about theft. There are obviously exceptions for rare or collectable books, but for the most part, having one object do one job means that the object can be very good at that job.

Those tear-stains are so good!
The creativity available in book formatting, in their style and variability, is also a tragic loss of ebooks. In an ebook, the text is assembled in an infinite scroll, artificially broken into pages based on each reader’s preferences. You can change where the page breaks are by changing the font or the size of the words. In some ways this is wonderful. It has allowed people with limited eyesight to read books in type as large as they need. But there is a great deal to be lost in such a transition as well. The editors and designers whose job it is to make books beautiful and functional are stripped of their domain. Harry Potter seems impossible out of Adobe Garamond type, yet buy the ebook, and your only options are the three fonts kindle allows, and none of the delightful switches in fonts for letters or pronouncements or even this gem of Hagrid’s tearstained letter. The proportions of the book are also set by the size of the e-reader making picture books or poetry a mess. When it was published in 2012, Chris Ware’s mammoth graphic novel creation seemed to both celebrate the paper book and break out of its confines: The book is sold as a cardboard box full of little booklets of various shapes and sizes all telling stories related to architecture. Odd in that it is not quite a paper book, (made up of too many small pieces, and of course the box) but certainly resisting the possibility of reading on a screen. Picture books are also typically not published for ereader, because they are not designed for a single tablet but a codex, where the turn of the page adds to the drama of the book. The versatility options in a screen based reading experience actually limits the possibilities of design, as everything must flow in a continuous stream of text.

And while I have saved the personal attachment to books as objects for last (it being the most mutable of these defenses for the book as an object) it is also significant. While the distinctives put on books by the publisher are a significant loss to the book as it loses its bodily form, the distinctives and personal details added by the owners and users of the books are even more significant. An autographed copy, a first edition, a scribbled note in on the flyleaf, these all add value to the book for an individual reader, but am also very fond of books with marginalia from unknown sources. This fall I bought all used copies for my class on the 19th century novel. Some inherited marginalia was appalling-- whoever the scribbly first owner of my Balsac was, they clearly did not understand or finish reading Pere Goriot, but the inscriber of my Bleak House? I felt as though I had the half-blood prince guiding my reading, pointing out themes, exclaiming in neat, witty side comments, and I felt this loving kinship with the unknown reader who sold her (his?) book back to the great sea of textbooks. I love rereading books I marked or marked by my friends, or by myself when I was young, and find a strange representation of my progress, being shaped, learning, ingesting the written word. The ways of doing this via ebooks are so clumsy and so technical that the warmth, the immediacy, the sensory closeness is lost.

Books can also be extremely sensual. One autumn morning when we had gotten in the fall art books at the bookstore it was my job to fix up the art book display table. Now, this table was the centerpiece of the store, right underneath a row of skylights, and the frontlist artbooks in the autumn are the publishers gems of the year. In hopes of surging profits with the holiday wave of shopping, and these huge glossy books are all sold wrapped in clingwrap to keep them from damage. However, in order to sell them, it is necessary unwrap one of each book to have it on display. Coursebook rush had just finished and my own ears were ringing with the hundred times I had told students that books “cannot be returned as a new book without the plastic wrap intact,” as I found myself with a dozen books (each costing more money than I would make working that afternoon) ripping them out of their clinging plastic. As I stood in the morning sunlight holding each one, one at a time in my arms, peeling them out of their sheer dressings, seeing the glossy pages fall open to Japanese botanical prints, or a history of fashion full of texture and color, a book on Rolling Stone magazine its cover slightly embossed, I was both nervous and excited by the gentleness and strength required by these volumes. But books are not just a pleasure to the eye and the touch!
The smell of old libraries is so appealing that luxury candles are sold in the scent of books or libraries. David A. Carter has a pop-up book focused on the sounds of paper as it flips or thuds or crunches. Phones have got to become pretty sexy if they are going to compete with books in the long run.

So what does come next for books? If ebooks are not enough to eclipse paper books what will the buffet of technological offerings look like in the future? My guess is that books will become more multifaceted, that publishers will embrace some of the differences between physical paper books and the other mediums. And to some degree this is already happening. Pop-up books draw attention to the paperiness of books, and the past twenty years has seen innovation in pop-up books like never before. By contrast, digital means of reading are starting to take advantage of the possibilities of that medium. Heuristic Media and Ian McKellen have put out a Shakespeare app which makes reading the play a much more interactive experience. You can read, or have parts read to you, or there are images from productions, graphic novel style art, or even scenes acted all at the disposal of the “reader.” So far, it has very good reviews.

Even more traditional books are taking advantage of the plurality available when published through different forms. Books like A Monster Calls have come out in very different versions in quick succession. The paperback and the ebook have only a few illustrations, but the hardcover is almost a graphic novel, full of double page spreads of moody black and white illustrations. Notably, the fasted growing book industry is neither paper nor ebooks, but audiobooks. Flourishing with the digital dissemination, companies such as Audible, and libraries taking on Overdrive, celebrities reading books, and a new podcast culture, audiobooks are on the rise. Amanda Palmer’s The Art of Asking originated as a TED talk, and became a book, very conscious of its distinct forms. The paper or e-book contained many images, but directed the reader to Amanda Palmer’s website to listen to the music described. At the same time her impressive audiobook (“Written, read and sung by Amanda Palmer”) contained a lot of music, and a great deal of performance even in her reading her own words. Part of the success of audiobooks is this understanding of the ways in which a book may need to change to suit its format. Even stars of the internet (writers of The Oatmeal, xkcd, and Hyperbole and a Half to name just a few) are moving from the screen to the page, translating their writing across mediums, from the new medium to the old. Perhaps this is just to make more money, (they certainly haven’t stopped generating content for the internet) but there is something stable about books compared to the everflickering limelite of the internet. When Allie Brosh talks about her book on her blog, Hyperbole and a Half, she explains that she wanted it to exist on real pages.

I think a lot of the success of these forthcoming generations will be found in finding the right medium to raise your voice. I wrote this paper as a blogpost rather than as a formal academic paper, partially because I wanted to include quite a few images, and it is so nice to be able to just click on the links. I also wanted it to be read by more people than just my own professor, and this seemed like a good place to share it. If it had been an academic paper it would have been harder to strike a warm and inviting tone. In the future I hope to have a friendly approach and an effervescent sparkle to my academic prose, but I haven’t got there just yet. But perhaps most importantly, writing words on this blog seemed like the right place for this argument. Reading about the importance of paper on paper would I suppose emphasize the idea, but reading on a screen about the importance of paper is a reminder that this is not the only way to absorb ideas. Perhaps (if you are very lucky) when you finish reading this sentence, you might have the liberty to go shut off your screen, and read a book.

Wednesday, October 5, 2016

Announcement: Owen's blog is moving

Hello dear friends! This is just a brief announcement to say that I'm moving my blog to my new website, which as of this writing is mostly empty but for the blog posts I've copied there.

You can find my new posts, including today's (Three ways to do your to-dos) here:


Does He Collect Butterflies will go back to being Clara's blog with the occasional guest post by me. Thanks for reading!

Wednesday, September 28, 2016

Optimization Metrics

Clara and I have to take a written exam in order to transfer our driver's licenses to Minnesota, so we're studying the Minnesota driver's manual. In the section on crosswalks I found this instruction:

The problem is that you can't leave an intersection both as quickly as possible AND as safely as possible. To leave as quickly as possible would be to sprint the last few yards, raising the chances of tripping and falling. To leave as safely as possible would mean walking slowly and carefully, constantly scanning your surroundings for new dangers, which is not particularly speedy.
This curve represents the boundary of your possible choices for how to cross the street. Anywhere inside the curve, you can increase either your speed or your safety, or both. Combinations of speed and safety outside the curve are beyond your ability, such as trying to go both as fast as you can and as safely as you can, the way pedestrians in Minnesota are charged to do.

Of course, no one is really bothered by this in practice; what we actually do is something like "leave the intersection as quickly as possible while still staying reasonably safe."
But this is only one way of solving the problem: you could decide instead that you need to leave reasonably quickly and then go as safely as you can at that speed. And either way, the choice of how safe is "reasonably safe" or how quickly is "reasonably quickly" is a little arbitrary.

Anyway, the reason I'm bringing this up is to try to make clear the idea that even if two people value the same things, they might disagree on where to allocate their efforts. This is especially relevant these days, as so many people seem to be talking past each other about what they want for our country. We all want everyone to be better off, but there are many ways to gauge the wellbeing of a population, and you can't optimize them all at the same time. Here are some examples:

  • How good the best are. This is how we compare countries in the Olympics, for example.
  • How good the average are. This is what we are thinking of when we worry that U.S. students are falling behind those in other countries regarding their math scores, or when we compare different countries based on their GDP per capita.
  • How good the total is. If a life is valuable in itself, then all things being equal a larger population is preferable to a smaller one. Measures along these lines include total GDP; policy based on improving that might involve promoting birth rates so we have a larger workforce.
  • How bad the worst are. If we want to improve the minimum quality of life in the country, we should concentrate all our efforts on those people who need our aid the most.
  • How far apart the best and worst are. If we want everyone to have equal resources, then we should keep on robbing the rich to give to the poor until there's no difference, regardless of where that middle point ends up being.
  • How many people fall below a certain threshold. If we've drawn a poverty line and only want to reduce the number of people below it, it's better to adjust handouts so that everyone just makes it above the line, regardless of how much worse off those above the line end up being.

One of these may sound more like your preference than another, even though they're all based on some way of trying to make things better for everyone. It's impossible to optimize with respect to two different metrics at the same time, so you have to choose what to fix at "reasonable" and what you optimize given that, and the choice of "reasonable" is a little arbitrary. So next time you're in an argument with someone, please remember that they might just be trying to optimize according to a slightly different metric, and just because they disagree with you doesn't mean they don't value the same things.

Wednesday, September 21, 2016

Turning token actions into keystone habits

Last time, I talked about the idea of encouraging big life changes by making small changes to your environment:
  • become a writer → keep a journal nearby at all times
  • take charge of your health → put the cookies at the back of the cupboard
  • organize your household → dedicate a spot for give-away things to live until you get rid of them
This isn't the only way of making a life change, but "soaking the nut" by consistently taking small actions in the direction of a new lifestyle is remarkable for how little energy it takes in the long run.

In Charles Duhigg's book The Power of Habit, small changes that provide a structure for adding more habits later are called "keystone habits." Their essential feature is that their small steps encourage "small wins," building momentum and setting the stage for more success. Often these beneficial side-effects are unplanned: Duhigg tells the story of a weight-loss trial in which the participants were merely asked to keep a log of everything they ate, but many of the subjects started unbidden to use the data from their logs to make food plans they approved of and could stick to.

But sometimes small wins don't set you up for more small wins; sometimes they seem to discourage them.

Monday, September 19, 2016

Soak the nut

Growing up in my family, my sister and I took turns with the chore of washing dishes every evening. This was not a job I liked, and there were many ways I tried to get out of it:
  • Before dinner, I would do some other extra chore, so that when the calendar was checked to see whose turn it was, I could exclaim with indignation, "It's my turn? But I set the table!"
  • Right after dinner, I would conveniently have to go to the bathroom. For me, the toilet has always been a place where I feel I can dawdle guilt-free, because after all, who can seriously tell you to hurry it along if you need more time? But this was more procrastination than a ploy to get out of dish duty.
  • When I finally did drag myself to face the mountain of dishes in the kitchen sink, anything that needed to be handwashed or that didn't fit in the dishwasher I would squirt with a generous helping of dish soap and fill with water. If anyone asked, I would say they were "soaking overnight," and—ta-da!—the next day they wouldn't be my problem anymore.
This all changed when I started living on my own, without the never-counted blessing of a dishwasher, and with no one else to wash my dishes if I didn't. I realized that it was much easier to clean up if I did so right after each meal, rather than waiting for food bits to harden and then be soaked and scrubbed later. I resolved never to procrastinate by soaking dishes again.

But when Clara and I moved to the Netherlands, the rhythm of our life changed from me preparing and cleaning up after each meal at home, to me scooting out the door right after breakfast, bringing home dried-out leftovers containers, and doing all the day's washing-up after dinner in the evening. I was back to scraping dried food off of dishes, perpetually wishing I had gotten to them sooner.

One day, I guiltily tried soaking a stubborn pot in soapy hot water. But so as not to break my resolution, I only left it a few minutes before giving it another scrub. When I did so, I was amazed how much was already coming off—not everything, but more than I expected after such a short time. So I dumped the now very dirty water out of the pot, refilled it with more sudsy water, and left it again for another few minutes, after which it practically wiped clean.

This reminded me of what a famous French mathematician, Alexander Grothendieck, had to say about problem-solving. He compared the idea of cracking a mathematical nut by hitting it as hard as you can with your sharpest chisel to the approach that he usually took himself:
I can illustrate the second approach with the same image of a nut to be opened. The first analogy that came to my mind is of immersing the nut in some softening liquid, and why not simply water? From time to time you rub so the liquid penetrates better, and otherwise you let time pass. The shell becomes more flexible through weeks and months—when the time is ripe, hand pressure is enough, the shell opens like a perfectly ripened avocado!
—Grothendieck's Récoltes et Semailles, p. 552
translation by Colin McLarty

Now this soaking technique is a regular part of my dish-doing routine. I look around to see what dishes look most difficult to scrub, give them a quick swipe with a soapy sponge as I get started, and periodically rinse them out and swipe them again as I wash everything else. Usually by the time the other dishes are done, so are they, and with almost no effort.

But what really struck me when I thought of the Grothendieck quote was not a low-effort way of washing the dishes, but a low-effort way of making life changes. When I dread the effort required by a change I want to make, I remind myself to "soak the nut" and consider the small things I can do now that will make bigger changes easier later. For example, I've wanted for a long time to be a writer, but I've always felt like I'm not talented enough and don't have anything to say. So last year, I ditched the big heavy journal I never used and started keeping a smaller one nearby, just in case I had any thoughts I considered interesting; I only wrote in it about once every month or two. Eventually that increased to about once a week, and later I committed to writing every day. Then I started picking out the ideas I wanted to share, and wrote a blog post occasionally. Now I've committed to a post a week, and my list of post ideas just keeps getting longer. And it all started by making a tiny change that made it a correspondingly tiny bit easier to write down my thoughts.

Photo by Rusty Clark, under a Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic license


I've decided to officially change my posting schedule from Mondays to Wednesdays. I originally chose Mondays so that I'd have the free time in my weekends to mull over what I wanted to say, but now the weekends are the only days I get to spend with Clara and I have more free time during the week. I'll kick off the new schedule this week by posting a followup to this post, containing more examples from my life and an exploration of when tiny life changes encourage growth ("keystone habits") and when they just defuse the energy that could have gone into something greater ("token actions").

Monday, September 12, 2016

The quest for a dresser

We are making great strides in moving in. We have a books on our shelves, hooks for our keys, and cookies in the cookie jar.

But one of the things that was surprisingly difficult for us was finding a dresser. Most of our furniture came from IKEA, and we were able to check out the various options in the IKEA in Haarlem before we left the Netherlands. That way, we were able to get our new apartment pretty much mapped out before we came.

But while there's much more closet space here than in our place in Leiden, the rooms are more square, so wall space, not floor space, is at a premium. That means using taller, narrower storage whenever possible, so we wanted one of these dressers from IKEA:

But when we looked to see what was available in the states, what we found was more like this:

Where are all the tall, narrow dressers? IKEA isn't offering them anymore in the U.S., the country where they have been sued for the wrongful deaths of several small children who have been crushed in the last few years by chests of drawers tipping over. When we went on our big trip to IKEA last week, signs exhorting customers to affix their furniture to the wall were everywhere.

My knee-jerk reactions:

  • "I don't have children! Why shouldn't I be allowed to buy furniture for myself, just because someone else might do so irresponsibly?!"
  • "The furniture already comes with brackets to mount it to the wall, and the instructions include that step!" (Sure I've ignored that step in the past—living in a cinderblock dorm room does tend to prevent one from making any kind of hole in the wall—but the consequences of that neglect are my responsibility!)
  • "If IKEA really were contrite about these deaths, they'd pull the furniture line everywhere, not just in the one country where they got in trouble!" (It's as if, when they rolled out the slimmer and eco-friendlier KALLAX replacement for their iconic EXPEDIT series, they had only done so in countries that are particularly uppity about environmentalism.)
  • "It's not even that big a problem!" I mean, yes, it is an enormous problem if it's your child, and apparently a child in the U.S. is killed once every two weeks by furniture tip-over, which is awful. But given that there are over 21 million children under the age of 5 in the U.S., this works out to a probability of about 99.99938% that your newborn will survive your furniture.  If we were looking at, say, the Netherlands instead of the U.S., at this rate there would be a high probability of no child ever being killed by an IKEA dresser.

But on reflection, maybe discounting the size of the U.S. isn't such a good idea. Maybe a big country, where precedents are set for many at once and where legislative decisions have an exceptionally wide scope, has an extra responsibility to err on the side of safety. Maybe that's why small countries should belong to supranational organizations that impose annoying regulations.

But what does all this mean for us? It means we got our dresser at a thrift store.