by Philip Graham

While Mary Cappello’s Frost Will Come may seem, at first glance, to be about the stages of death (specifically, the death of her mother Rosemary Cappello, whose “soul was gloriously Rubenesque”), it is also a book that is vibrantly about life; about caring and obligation; about love’s varied and complicated revelations; and about what has been given to a daughter who, now grown, honors those gifts with fierce commitment and compassion.

Rosemary Cappello was by all accounts an extraordinary person, someone who found a way, throughout the challenges of her long life, to both “mother and make art,” and she combined in daily life her interests in nature and culture, solitude and sociality, and film, music, and literature. Rosemary played classical music on the piano, she painted, she wrote and published poetry (I am an admirer of her poetry collection Wonderful Disaster), and she was a central figure of a literary community in Philadelphia.

But the initial portrait of Rosemary Cappello that is most striking in Frost Will Come is that of an almost confoundingly heroic woman, clinging through sheer will to her love of life through every remaining moment.

(Note: Captions for images will appear at the end of this conversation.)

PHILIP GRAHAM: Frost Will Come is a book of such richness that I’ve hesitated how to pick a beginning for our discussion. But here goes!

On the surface, your book’s primary locus might seem to be the bardo of your mother Rosemary’s transition from life to death. But it seems to me that you also recount another bardo, one that unfolds in a different direction: from death to life. As you grapple with your mother’s passing—its own kind of odyssey— you address her still powerful presence: “I have to write this, Mom, because I can’t remember who I was before this happened or imagine who I might continue to become.”

So, a book simultaneously and almost dizzyingly alert to the intricate links between life and death.

MARY CAPPELLO: What an incredibly beautiful précis of the directions in which my book moves, Philip! Thank you for that marvelous insight.

One of the early centers of Frost Will Come focuses on re-finding myself in my mother’s library when my partner Jean and I were camped out in her one-bedroom apartment in the last months of my mom’s life and rediscovering those books that had shaped me, too, but suddenly being made privy to her marginalia. Read more »

by Jonas Gardsby

Annie Dillard is now ineligible for the Nobel Prize. The Swedish Academy won’t award it posthumously. In light of her recent passing, however, I think it is worth reflecting on the idea that she should have won the prize. While you could try to make the case solely on the merit of her style, the implications of winning the Nobel warrant something more than great talent fully realized. So, since each reader is their own judge, I offer for your consideration three reasons why Dillard deserved the prize, any one of which should have been enough. But when taken together, it’s truly apparent she was a global class talent.

She deserved the prize, first of all, as the major practitioner of literary nonfiction. The committee has historically overlooked this genre. Many other literary readers do the same. In The New York Times last year, Joseph Bernstein’s article “Why Did the Novel-Reading Man Disappear?” conflated fiction with all of literature and referred to nonfiction merely as informational. And in Sweden, where local culture incubates the committee that chooses the prize, essayist Nina Burton complained that “fictional prose is hijacking the term ‘literary arts’ and … essayists are confused with critics.” She wondered, “Have we squandered Montaigne’s legacy, and does anyone know how great it was?”

The Nobel laureates who are known for nonfiction tend not to have pursued it as art. Bertrand Russell and Winston Churchill turned clever phrases but lacked artistic structures. Two exceptions are Svetlana Alexievich who ghostwrites memoir, and Annie Ernaux who writes sociological memoir. But memoir is only one part of a much larger, overlooked pie. By contrast, Dillard’s nonfiction was influenced more by the structures of the long poem than by the narrative devices of fiction. The meaning is created not through argumentation or character development but through artistic structure, the relation of parts. Thus you have Pilgrim at Tinker Creek with its bilateral paired chapters, “An Expedition to the Pole” which invented the now popular braided essay, “Total Eclipse” which tells the same story four times through different levels of consciousness, and the nonfiction collage For the Time Being. She reinvented the form each time she wrote it, carving a trail that others then followed and developed in their own ways. Essayist and editor Brian Doyle said her work “changed the direction of American writing.” And she continues to influence younger innovative writers like Ocean Vuong, who repeatedly comments on her importance to his artistic development.

The second reason she deserved the prize? Read more »

by Eli Rarey

Lately I have been drawn to trees. I moved across the country from Detroit to Los Angeles, and while I’ve been looking for a new apartment I have been noticing the trees nearby. If I can’t find a big tree in the neighborhood that I can hang out with, then the apartment isn’t for me.

Many trees, especially fruit trees, have lifespans comparable to a person. I’m almost 50 years old, and many of the trees planted as landscaping on city sidewalks are actually younger than I am. But when I find a tree that looks like it might be older than me, trees that might be a hundred years old or more, that’s when I get excited. I go up to the tree and press against the bark with the palm of my hand or even press my cheek up against it. I feel an intimacy here, as if the tree and I are communing in some shared language humming at the level of our skin.

I have been feeling rootless lately. I spent most of 2026 without a fixed address or a job, and now that I started a new job and I’m moving into a new place, I have the sense that I need a kind of sanctuary. Trees provide that for me—they provide comfort to someone who has felt uprooted in the world. At one point I thought maybe I had some wisdom to learn from trees about being fixed in place or even about photosynthesis—but this isn’t what I really want trees to teach me. The tree is not a role model or a science experiment. The tree is a being, like me, but a being with a radically different experience of its time on this planet. That’s what I’m reaching for, I want the tree to offer me a different sense of time. Tree time.

On September 29, a group of interfaith leaders and community activists began a eight-day pilgrimage. Their walk began at the Adelanto ICE Processing Center, and continued for 96.5 miles, ending in Downtown LA at the Metropolitan Detention Center. This group explicitly uses the word “pilgrimage” to describe this action. They are coming together as spiritual communities and social activists; they do not separate those spheres. On the contrary, these feed each other. Justice is a constant topic of religious texts—both divine justice and the justice or injustice among humans. Demanding justice is a moral requirement. Rabbis, pastors, and ministers all walked together. All of their faiths are deeply concerned with justice and all include long-practiced, ancient traditions of pilgrimage. Read more »

Apple orchards in Vahrn, South Tyrol, with apples ready for harvest. Those are undeployed hail nets (hail can destroy the crop) and the tractor in the background is one of the ones that will tow these apples (once they are picked and put into crates) to a central location from where they are shipped all over the world (someone sent me a photo of an apple being sold in a market in Islamabad with a sticker identifying it as having been grown in South Tyrol). While having 0.125% of the population of Europe, South Tyrol grows about 10% of its apples.

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by Charles Siegel

A couple of weeks ago, I was listening to the SiriusXM “Real Jazz” channel while driving. I had just pulled in to a grocery store parking lot, and was about to get out of the car, when the program host mentioned that they were celebrating John Coltrane’s 100th birthday, which was to occur on September 23rd. Then she played Coltrane’s version of “Lush Life,” which he recorded with singer Johnny Hartman, and I was transported, as I am every time I hear this recording. Even in a grocery store parking lot.

There isn’t anything I could possibly add to the many appraisals written for Coltrane’s centennial. Here are two good quotes I happened to catch: Ingrid Monson, a professor of African-American music at Harvard, said, “I would put it simply: There has never been a jazz artist more profound than John Coltrane, and that’s saying a lot.” And another saxophonist, Immanuel Wilkins, put it this way: Coltrane “shows you that more work actually gets us closer to the divine. He’s the North Star, for sure.”

As I said, I can’t add anything to the discourse about Coltrane’s legacy. I did write, a year ago, about the 65th anniversary of the Coltrane quartet’s recording of “My Favorite Things.”  “Lush Life” is a different kind of experience, but just as sublime.

The song was written by Billy Strayhorn in the mid-1930s. Strayhorn is best known for his long collaboration with Duke Ellington; he wrote “Take the A-Train,” Ellington’s signature tune, and arranged or wrote music and lyrics for many other of his most well-known songs, such as “Satin Doll,” “Sophisticated Lady” and “Mood Indigo.” “Lush Life,” however, was written before Strayhorn began working with Ellington. In Ted Gioia’s excellent “The History of Jazz,” he writes that “Lush Life” was “the piece that caught Ellington’s attention” the night Strayhorn met Ellington when he played in Strayhorn’s hometown of Pittsburgh in 1938. After the show, Strayhorn played a few songs for Ellington.

“Lush Life” is like a jewel with many facets. But not a diamond — it’s something darker, like a ruby or a sapphire. Read more »

by Brooks Riley

by Rafaël Newman

My paternal grandfather—my Zaideh—was born in 1912 in Biała, north of Łódź in what was then Congress Poland, the Russian third of the partitioned Polish territory. At the time of his birth, Biała was a “private” town, a shtetl on lands ceded by a local nobleman within the Czar’s Pale of Settlement. My grandfather’s family ran a kosher dairy there, producing, he recalled with pleasure, something called gomolka, a Polish cottage cheese.

Zaideh emigrated with his father, not long after World War I, by way of Gdańsk and Portsmouth to Canada. He spent the rest of his life, until his death in 1997, in Montreal, where he and my Bubbi raised their three children and where he founded and directed a factory supplying the local garment trade with sequins and appliqués for ladies’ apparel. As far as I know, Zaideh never visited any country outside of Canada—except for the United States, to which I know he traveled on at least two signal occasions, to New York on both of them. One of these trips was for business in the early days, to stay at a discount hotel near Times Square and dine, seated on the edge of his bed, on rye bread with corned beef, a meal he remembered as one of the best he’d ever eaten. The other was in the winter of 1968, when he and Bubbi accompanied my parents and a four-year-old me on a sight-seeing trip that included the Rockefeller Center, dinner at a Beni Hana, and the purchase of a pair of child-sized cowboy boots.

Zaideh was an avid but critical follower of American politics, especially during Watergate, while his Canadian patriotism was crystalized in solemn reverence for Pierre Trudeau, the epochal leader of the federal Liberal Party in the sixties, seventies, and eighties. Zaideh saw Trudeau and the Liberals as a bulwark against the crypto-ethno-nationalism of francophone Quebec, his adopted home province, whose superiority to neighboring Ontario was tainted for him otherwise solely by its stupid prohibition against making a right turn on a red light.

The only other country to which Zaideh remained attached throughout his life was Israel. Read more »

Sughra Raza. Rush Hour. Boston, Oct 1, 2026.

Digital photograph.

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by Michael Liss

I have sworn upon the altar of God, eternal hostility against every form of tyranny over the mind of man. —Thomas Jefferson, Letter to Doctor Benjamin Rush, September 23, 1800

To quote the esteemed detective (and Classicist) Lieutenant Columbo, I think you see my problem. Who writes like this? I have spent a great deal of time over the last three months researching and writing about Thomas Jefferson and I do not think I am any closer to understanding the inner Jefferson then the day I started. I need a break. All those books (there are more in another room by other, just as authoritative writers) and every word of original source material I can find in texts and online haven’t shown me what the historian Joseph Ellis asks me to accept as defining qualities: “Jefferson was light, inspiring, optimistic.”

Maybe he was light, inspiring and optimistic. In his personal life melancholy wouldn’t be a description I’d ascribe to him. He certainly loved wine, women, music, good correspondence, and better books. He had a long list of people with whom he communicated, and the ones who were up to it got letters in multiple languages. The missives he and John Adams exchanged, when the two elderly egotists were in the mood, were stuffed with learned allusions. One of Jefferson’s, dated September 21, 1813, included verses that started in Greek and then translated to English, Latin, and French, then finally alit on Italian. You can almost hear the boys getting out their William and Mary and Harvard sweatshirts, dipping their pens in ink, and smirking. And yet, I feel the weight of his words.

During its formative years, America was blessed with several Presidents who were highly gifted. Adams certainly was, as was his son. John Quincy Adams, as was James Madison, but what set Jefferson apart was his unchallengeable status as a Renaissance man. Maybe that’s part of his enduring appeal to the academic community—being smart, talented, and classically educated is cool.

Not cool, the slaves—both the mistress and the rest—and, for many, that’s dispositive. The moral opprobria associated with the institution and the intimate relations with Sally Hemings are great and deserved. Contextualization doesn’t really work when you are talking about actions of this type. Read more »

by David Winner

Half a lifetime ago when I first got to New York, I saw a piece of performance art in Williamsburg at a place called The Bog. A young white woman dressed in some outlandish space-age smock (this was still the eighties) jumped menacingly up into the air, shouting, “oppressor,” then crumbled pathetically to the ground, shrieking, “oppressed” to try to interrogate that merciless duality.

Dario Soria, my great uncle, arguably exemplified both labels but never saw himself as either. An Italian Jew, he came to America in the late 1930s, fleeing the Mussolini/Hitler pact, but his move was always framed as American opportunity rather than European danger. The connections of his wealthy musical banking family (Mascagni, Giordano, and other verismo composers banking at the family bank near the Spanish Steps) indeed set him up in America, but Italian Jews were soon to be mortal danger back home.

Still, the whole clan appeared to have survived the Holocaust. The one family story that involved any danger was a comic anecdote about implicitly gay Uncle Arturo who, upon being arrested by the Fascist police, tried to send his manservant for his nightgown. The status of the Soria family in Italy may have felt compromised in Italy by the degree to which society had turned against them as Jews, an inconvenient truth that needed to be deleted from the narrative.

No doubt some embrace their status as victims, but sufferers of oppression can often be stigmatized. Holocaust survivors in Israel (The Seven Million by Tom Segev) were as likely scorned as celebrated. Which is really the thing about the proverbial playground. Kids spit upon those seen as pathetic, and what could be more pathetic than being sent to a concentration camp? Read more »

by Marianne Janack

The distinction between utopias and dystopias is often murky. In Ursula LeGuin’s story, “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas”, a utopian society is built on suffering; Lois Lowry’s The Giver portrays a world in which the absence of pain depends on the absence of choice; Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World portrays a world in which war, poverty and unhappiness have been eradicated because individuality and competition have disappeared.

And then there’s John Calhoun’s experiment with mice. In 1968, Calhoun put 4 breeding pairs of house mice into a mouse utopia that came to be called Universe 25: no predators, plenty of space, lots of clean nesting material, more than enough food and water, weather control, and no disease. Calhoun housed the mice in a large enclosure that would allow them all to live and reproduce in peace, with plenty of resources and no dangers from predators or diseases. It took 104 days before the first litter of mice was born, but after that the population doubled every 55 days, until the population reached 620 on day 315. Calhoun called this Phase B: the phase during which the utopic conditions seemed to encourage population growth and happy mice.. After that, the population explosion slowed down, doubling every 145 days. It peaked at about 2200.

The asymmetrical patterns of nesting and reproduction that Calhoun and his assistants saw as the experiment ran demanded explanation. Calhoun said that the patterns were evidence of a social hierarchy among the mice: the more reproductively successful the mouse, the higher it ranked in the mouse society of Universe 25. The most dominant males were the most active, and had the greatest reproductive success. A pecking order of dominance and reproductive success was the best explanation for the asymmetrical nesting and reproduction patterns that Calhoun and his assistants noticed in the box “utopia.”

At the end of Phase B there were 150 adults and 470 juveniles. In their natural habitats, fewer of the juveniles would have survived. And that, it turns out, was where the trouble started. Read more »

by Christopher Hall

Certain essays hit you like a thunderbolt. As someone who has suffered from episodes of debilitating anxiety, I found Freud’s concept of the death-drive as outlined in Beyond the Pleasure Principle to be a moment of pure revelation when I first read it years ago. I don’t know if there’s anything in Darwino-capitalo-materialist social consensus that specifically encourages anxiety – I have my suspicions – but the focus on Eros as the sole driver of human activity meets a needed counterpart in Freud’s Thanatos. The human body and mind want calm, and the ultimate calm is death. “Das Ziel alles Lebens ist der Tod” –“Ziel” in English could mean something as pedestrian as “destination,” but Freud’s sense seems to have more of the sense of “goal.” All of this getting and earning and fornicating, the centers of evolutionary and capitalist life, are utterly exhausting – and not the good kind of exhaustion which comes after a day of labour, but the kind that comes the moments we are too tired to sleep. If human life is linear, we are nevertheless trapped in endless cycles big and small, and the most impactful one must be the constant interchange between agitation and torpor as we try to find some equilibrium.

And surely this is echoed in nature itself. When September comes, I struck most with the contrast between my life and the life outside the window. Nature, of course, is preparing for slumber, but my year, with the beginning of the fall semester, is just ramping up. In the moments when the agitations and activities of spring and summer are calming down, I find myself more active, more agitated, driven to a restlessness that often has no clear source or object. The great and eternal – though not, thanks to climate change, eternally unchanging – systems of flux which bring about in nature perpetual resurrection take place within a universe which itself, if we believe in the Heat Death theory, has a definite beginning and end. Inevitably, there is a kind of stasis in spring and summer – the year has settled, so to speak. Fall and winter – where the new year starts and, also, new semesters begin for me – are moments of change and agitation taking place within a setting where the death-drive is asserting its dominance.

German poet Rainier Maria Rilke published his collection The Book of Images in 1902. He was 26; he published a revised edition 4 years later, in which the poems I’m going to discuss appear. Read more »

by Lei Wang

The money of the mind is attention, I read recently in the first line of a poem, which may as well be a poetry x LinkedIn post title collaboration. Meanwhile, I’ve also heard that the definition of poetry is attention, period, so is poetry the money of the mind? (Sorry, I’m not a logician.) And if so, what do we spend our poems on?

Growing up in a tiny town in urban New Jersey, just across the river from New York, I was obsessed with Annie Dillard (RIP). But in recent years, I’ve heard she wasn’t cool anymore: too earnest, interested in the sublime unironically and without drugs. I miss the days when I did not pay attention to what was cool, when I mostly wore free oversized T-shirts from Envirothon, a team natural science competition in sniffing soils and identifying bird calls (my only sport in high school). Except my high school in a converted factory was so removed from nature that the first time I ever saw the shape of deer poop was in the form of rubberized scat our environmental studies teacher ordered as a teaching tool.

In comparison, Annie Dillard felt so wise and cultured, so knowledgeable about nature (though she also grew up in the city—Pittsburgh!). I was jealous of what she recounted in An American Childhood, when her whole family would sit around at the dining table dissecting a joke. Sometimes the punchline of a joke would come a full week later: hers was that kind of family, that knew how to spend well the money of their minds. Humor, after all, is a free gift from the universe: less about the object than about a way of seeing the object, a way of seeing anything, object +1. Read more »

by Tim Sommers

This is the second of two parts [part 1 is here] on whether implanted beliefs can count as knowledge. The question matters outside science fiction. If installed beliefs can be true, reliable, and useful and still fall short of knowledge, then knowledge needs some further condition, one that goes beyond the standard “justified true belief” formula. So, first, what is belief installation?

Belief installation is (i) the direct production of a belief in a person (ii) by an outside process (iii) that skips over her perception, the testimony available to her, and her reasoning. In the cases that interest us, (iv) the installed belief is true, (v) the installing process is reliable, (vi) the belief, once installed, is stable and fits with the person’s other beliefs, and (vii) the belief is available for use in reasoning and action. For example, you are at trivia night. You start to say that Eric Roberts has appeared in more films than anyone else (809 and counting). Then you remember, thanks to the trivia bonus pack that came with your French language implant for work, that the Indian comic actor Brahmanandam Kanneganti has appeared in more than a thousand. Do you know that Kanneganti is the most prolific film actor of all time? Or is this more like cheating by looking it up on your phone? If justification is about reliability, can an outside process’s reliability give you knowledge?

The installation case points to an agency condition on knowledge. Roughly, a person knows that p only if her believing p is an exercise of her own epistemic agency, or is properly anchored in it. In plainer terms, knowledge has to be tied to the person’s own capacities for inquiry, evaluation, and responsiveness to reasons. Installed beliefs, however true and however reliably produced, fail this test. That is why they strike us as less than knowledge, even when we find nothing wrong with them on grounds of reliability.

Reliabilism, in its simplest form, says that a true belief is justified, and so counts as knowledge, when a belief-forming process reliably yields truths. The installation device is such a process. In fact, by hypothesis, it is more reliable than perception, memory, or testimony. Think of perception in poor light, memory over long stretches of time, or testimony from ordinary, fallible informants. How, then, can the reliabilist deny that Stacey knows her implanted beliefs? Read more »

by Robert Jensen

Conclusive evidence is in from new DNA tests: Thomas Jefferson fathered children with Sally Hemings.

To put it more bluntly: The primary author of the Declaration of Independence and third president of the United States raped one of more than 600 people he enslaved, starting when she was a teenager.

Does that seem disrespectful or ahistorical?

First, let’s deal with the often-heard claim that we shouldn’t judge people of another era by the standards of our time. Jefferson’s defenders argue that, yes, he owned slaves and expressed ugly racist beliefs, but those practices and ideas were prevalent in the world in which he lived, implying there was no way he could have acted or thought differently. This approach avoids a simple question: Were there people expressing alternative ideas at the time?

Of course there were—not only people of African descent but also some of Jefferson’s peers. Among them was Thomas Paine, another major figure in the establishment of the United States who is best known for his 1776 pamphlet Common Sense. What is less well known about Paine is that he was an active opponent of slavery. The year after he arrived in America in 1774, he published an anti-slavery article in the Pennsylvania Journal and the Weekly Advertiser. A few weeks later an anti-slavery society was formed in Philadelphia, with Paine as a founding member. His article started with a clear condemnation of slavery and the Americans who supported it:

That some desperate wretches should be willing to steal and enslave men by violence and murder for gain, is rather lamentable than strange. But that many civilized, nay, Christianized people should approve, and be concerned in the savage practice, is surprising; and still persist, though it has been so often proved contrary to the light of nature, to every principle of Justice and Humanity, and even good policy, by a succession of eminent men, and several late publications.

Jefferson certainly was familiar with Paine and the arguments against slavery. Jefferson certainly was aware of the existence of the idea that all humans had an equal claim to liberty and the argument that Africans should be considered human in these matters. There were many different ideas about the institution of slavery and racism in play at the time. We‘re not judging Jefferson by the standards of our time when we point out how he used racism to justify the barbarism of slavery. We are acknowledging that others in Jefferson’s time—including the man who wrote “These are the times that try men’s souls” in The American Crisis—articulated anti-slavery and anti-racist principles, at the same time Jefferson was in 1781 writing in his “Notes on the State of Virginia” about the natural inferiority of blacks. Read more »

by Jim Hanas

I met Derrida in Memphis in 1993. We were standing by a pool and he was smoking a cigar. I’m sure I was smoking a cigarette. I was twenty-four.

The encounter was brief, the pro forma handshake one could expect as a Ph.D. student at a state university that had lured such a luminary into the interior with a conference in his honor. He was the second most famous person I spoke to during the nine years I lived in Memphis. The most famous was Michael Jackson. (A story for another time.)

Like Emily Eakin, author of The Frenchmen: Or, My Life in Theory, I came of intellectual age in the late heyday—in America at least—of French theory, though from a slightly different vantage point. Far from the lit crit hothouses of the Ivy League—Eakin went to Harvard—I went to a state college where the philosophy department had as many LaRouchies as existentialists. Then I went to graduate school at what was then called Memphis State University (now the University of Memphis), which—the third year I was there—hosted a conference on “Derrida’s Interpretation of Husserl.” That’s where I met him, at a donor’s house near campus.

The event came two years after the publication of Strategies of Deconstruction: Derrida and the Myth of the Voice by American Husserlian J. Claude Evans, which caused a stir in my world, mirrored I’m sure in innumerable disciplines of the day as serious-minded scholars attempted to beat back the post-structuralist threat to their domains.

I understand exactly the thrill Eakin describes as French theory provided a new, often totalizing lens through which to see the world. Particularly thrilling was the insouciance with which Derrida flattened already flat-footed complainants like John Searle—himself defending his own sacred cow, J.L. Austin—in a book like Limited Inc, which I found to be every bit as hilarious as any Spy magazine takedown. Derrida was like the French knights in The Holy Grail, telling the stuffed shirts of Anglophone philosophy to run away lest he taunt them a second time. Read more »