Art Contrarian looks at the work of Edgar Maxence.
Commentary by Michael Wade on Leadership, Ethics, Management, and Life
If there were one key to the Southwest's history and culture, it might well be the river systems of the region. Man goes where water flows, up and down the river trails and back and forth along the river arteries. River banks and valleys are ancient places of human habitation. Rivers are history's circulatory system.
Cultural Offering has the Essential Mixes for John Waite.
It goes by many names: "The Crisis," "The Dark Years," "The Walking Plague," as well as newer and more "hip" titles such as "World War Z" or "Z War One." I personally dislike this last moniker as it implies an inevitable "Z War Two." For me, it will always be "The Zombie War," and while many may protest the scientific accuracy of the word zombie, they will be hard-pressed to discover a more globally accepted term for the creatures that almost caused our extinction. Zombie remains a devastating word, unrivaled in its power to conjure up so many memories or emotions, and it is these memories, and emotions, that are the subject of this book
In his 2014 book "Bring Back the Bureaucrats," [John J. Di Iulio] argued that because the public is, at least philosophically, against "big government," government has prudently become stealthy about how it becomes ever bigger. In a new Brookings paper, he demonstrates that government expands by indirection, using three kinds of "administrative proxies" -- state and local government, for-profit businesses, and nonprofit organizations.
The young person who has not wept is a savage, and the old one who will not laugh is a fool.
I used to love this season. The wood stacked by the door, the tang of its sap still speaking of forest. The hay made, all golden in the low afternoon light. The rumble of the apples tumbling into the cellar bins. Smells and sights and sounds that said this year it would be all right: there'd be food and warmth for the babies by the time the snows came. I used to love to walk in the apple orchard at this time of the year, to feel the soft give underfoot when I trod on a fallen fruit. Thick, sweet scents of rotting apple and wet wood. This year, the hay stocks are few and the woodpile scant, and neither matters much to me.
There is a great difference between knowing a thing and understanding it.
2013 BBC Proms: The theme from "Ben-Hur."
There was snow on the San Francisco Peaks and the city below had cold and strong winds. Even the locals thought it was cold. The desert rat who was teaching ethical decision-making had to scurry from car to training room.
The greatest obstacle to discovering the shape of the earth, the continents and the oceans was not ignorance but the illusion of knowledge.
It was only toward the middle of the twentieth century that the inhabitants of many European countries came, in general unpleasantly, to the realization that their fate could be influenced directly by intricate and abstruse books of philosophy. Their bread, their work, their private lives began to depend on this or that decision in disputes on principles to which, until then, they had never paid any attention. In their eyes, the philosopher had always been a sort of dreamer whose divagations had no effect on reality. The average human being, even if he had once been exposed to it, wrote philosophy off as utterly impractical and useless. Therefore the great intellectual work of the Marxists could easily pass as just one more variation on a sterile pastime. Only a few individuals understood the causes and probable consequences of this general indifference.
When you receive a kindness, remember it; when you do a kindness, forget it.
Emily Dickinson: "Surgeons Must Be Very Careful."
Through all the years of my sad youth Huysmans remained a companion, a faithful friend; never once did I doubt him, never once was I tempted to drop him or take up another subject; then, one afternoon in June 2007, after waiting and putting it off as long as I could, even slightly longer than was allowed, I defended my dissertation, "Joris-Karl Huysmans: Out of the Tunnel," before the jury of the University of Paris IV-Sorbonne. The next morning (or maybe that evening, I don't remember: I spent the night of my defense alone and very drunk) I realized that part of my life, probably the best part, was behind me.
A fanatic is one who can't change his mind and won't change the subject.
The early-morning, late-November sun began to come in low and slow and pale over the railroad bridge at the Dockett Street commuter-train stop on the Dedham-West Roxbury line, cheap-glittering the dirty windows on the southerly side of the yellow cinderblock auto-body shop - the sign on the roof in tall, hollow, red-plastic letters read: BUDDYS' YOUR BRUISED CAR'S BEST BUDDY -and Dell'Appa writhed in the passenger bucket of the blue-and-white Chevy Blazer. He exhaled loudly.