Noam Chomsky, I used to love him. I was seventeen and the world seemed less complex. Listening to or reading Noam was an echo of what it must have been like for 19th century teenagers to listen to Emerson. An eloquent debunker, the anti-Wizard of Oz, an American original. Now Noam is sort of an embarrassment, as if Emerson had calcified into a shrill and predictable downer with no alternative solutions, just an endless debunking that felt like … well, like bunk, and also like that old man smell one can never quite forget from one’s graybearded ancestry in hospitals. I’m sure there is a lot of useful information in the article I just skimmed, but it’s Noam, so the motives behind the information are all wrong. Ad hominem as pragmatic conclusion unfortunately. One thing. If, as Noam assumes, being a good Marxist, $ = SCIENCE, most innovations wouldn’t be here. Murray Feigenbaum, for instance, was an outré mathematician who lived on Coca-Cola and cigarettes and was working on an unrelated project, when, as was habitual during his night-long strolls, he got a clue to the numbers that unlocked sequences in Chaos theory. Qubits in quantum information theory were developed in a Chinese restaurant. One could populate the examples, but I’m sure the point is obvious. A lot of very smart people don’t give an owl’s hoot about money. They think of their projects as beloved callings, as a “that for the sake of which,” the terminus ad quem in Aristotelian causation. They think of their work as Noam must have thought, so very long ago, about linguistics.