Nothing increases one's literary consumption like a coronavirus.
In his 60s and 70s, David Crosby stared himself down, squared up to what he had become, got clean and as healthy as he was going to get, and forged the most artistically productive years of his life.
Dr Essai’s amanuensis writes: It’s like this. I was away with my wife on a four-day road trip to western Massachusetts, the Berkshires, one of our favorite places. All was lovely until I started feeling not so good on the drive home. Once we were home, a swab
Whatever your age, the rest of your life is all you’ve got, so it’s worth thinking about. We embrace a core paradox: Though life has no intrinsic meaning, we can and should lead meaningful lives. If you have any hope of living a meaningful adult life, the one vital question is, “How do I live?”
The doctor fancies himself an opsimath because he now wants to understand things that take 70 years of life to fathom, 70 years of intellectual crop rotation.
The doctor does not have goals. The doctor has a life and an intention. The latter is to spend as much of the former as possible reading, thinking, and writing.
All the best for the holidays, friends, and thank you thank you thank you for reading.
The thoughtful fan faces a daily dilemma derived from what he or she knows about professional sports.
For reasons that ever elude me, I find it much easier to craft language to convey anger or sadness or poignancy or fear than to convey simple joy.
Or, somebody's mom just threw out history When wind and current and vague navigation brought Cristoforo Colombo to the shores of Haiti in 1492 — Yippee! I have found a westward passage to the Indies! I’m gonna be rich! — he kept a diary. A valued document, one should think. Yet