by Michael Liss

My dearest Friend, your dearest Friend never had a more trying day than Yesterday. A Solenm Scene it was indeed and it was made more affecting to me by the Presence of the General, whose Countenance was as serene and unclouded as the day. He Seem’d to me to enjoy a Tryumph over me. Methought I heard him think Ay! I am fairly out and you fairly in! see which of Us will be happiest. —John Adams to Abigail Adams, March 5, 1797, Adams Family Papers, Massachusetts Historical Society

Such are beginnings, even when laden with pessimistic prophesy. And such are endings, four years later, as when an angry, bitter John Adams skipped the Inauguration of his successor, Thomas Jefferson, by jumping on a 4 a.m. stagecoach headed toward Quincy. 

Adams had a tendency to hyperbolize, even catastrophize—Ben Franklin, while otherwise giving him style points for intelligence and commitment, said Adams was “sometimes and in some things, absolutely out of his Senses.”  Franklin was being unkind, but he wasn’t wrong. Adams had been tripped up by forces he didn’t expect nor have the tools to combat—the new game of political parties and partisan politics, the tepid support he got from his fellow Federalists, and, finally, the personal betrayal by his successor, his one-time friend, collaborator, and Vice President, Thomas Jefferson.

Such are subsequent beginnings. Jefferson took the job, gave an Inaugural Address filled with the promise of a new and better day, and, in his first term, largely delivered on it. Joseph Ellis, in American Sphinx, calls that first term “glorious.”

Jefferson’s second term seems to have been an extended demolition derby. Europe again was at war, and American interests were targeted—a situation exacerbated by Jefferson’s decision to dry-dock much of American’s navy. To add to this potentially existential crisis, a bit of bizarre betrayal karma came into play. Jefferson’s first-term Vice President, Aaron Burr, allegedly hatched an incredible scheme to detach a portion of the western United States and make it an independent country with Burr in the dictator’s role. President Jefferson was not amused, and went to great lengths (some might say unseemly unconstitutional great lengths) to see that Burr would end up on the gallows. 

In this, Jefferson was too optimistic. Burr was eventually captured and brought to Washington for trial, where an obstacle presented itself in the form of Jefferson’s hated Chief Justice, John Marshall. After the great defense lawyer Lester Martin presented some exculpatory material and testimony, Marshall acquitted Burr on September 1, 1807.

The crises ate at Jefferson. Burr was free, and Jefferson was still bedeviled by his Federalist Chief Justice—indeed, still bedeviled by Federalists everywhere, particularly in New England. Jefferson’s passion for partisanship went unsatisfied, and Britain and France remained hostile. Read more »

by Rafaël Newman

I recently came across a certain Grimms’ fairy tale for the first time, one I had overlooked in the past: Die Boten des Todes, or “Death’s Messengers.” Here it is, in a slightly abbreviated English translation:

Once, a long time ago, a giant was traveling down a country road when suddenly a stranger appeared and cried, “Halt! Not one step further!” “What,” said the giant, “I could squash you with one hand! Who are you to address me like this?” “I am Death,” said the stranger, “whom none withstands, and you too shall obey my command.” But the giant refused, and began to wrestle with Death. In the end the giant won: he struck his opponent down and Death sank to the stony ground. “What will happen,” thought Death, “if I simply remain here? No one will die any longer, and the world will soon be so filled with people that there will be no room for them to stand.” Just then a young man came along the road, whistling a tune. When he spied Death in his parlous state he propped him up, gave him a drink from his flask, and tended him until he recovered. “Do you know who I am,” asked the stranger. “No,” replied the young man. “I am Death,” said the other, “I spare no one and can make no exception for you. But in gratitude for your care I promise I will not come to you unannounced when it is your turn, but will send my messengers ahead to warn you.” “Fine,” said the young man, “I will be happy to know when you are approaching, safe from your grasp at least until that day.” And he went on his way, as cheerful and carefree as ever. His youth and good health did not last for long, however, and soon he was beset by aches and illnesses, which plagued him by day and stole his peace at night. “But I’m not about to die,” he told himself, “since Death said he would send his messengers first.” And as soon as he felt fit again, he would go on living, as happy as ever. But then one day there came a tap on his shoulder. “Follow me,” said Death, “the hour of your departure from this world has arrived.” “What,” said the man, “do you mean to break your word? Didn’t you promise to send your messengers before you came yourself?” To which Death replied: “Did I not send you one messenger after another? Were you not shaken and cast low by fever? Were your joints not pinched by gout? And did Sleep, my brother on earth, not remember me to you each night? Did you not lie abed as if already in your grave?” To this the man had no answer; so he resigned himself to his fate and departed with Death.

Now, you may understand why I would never have read this particular story to my children when they were young, even if I had know it in the first place; indeed why, despite my Swiss-German grandmother’s taste for the macabre, I had never heard it myself. It might be a cracking yarn for a Hallowe’en party, or for a gathering at a cemetery on the Day of the Dead, but it’s hardly suitable for bedtime, if only because children would likely be kept awake by the troubling paradox of Death himself being on death’s door.

In fact, I encountered the tale first in a book devoted to just such paradoxes—or rather, to contradictions. Read more »

Arthur Melville. Kurrachee, circa 1882.Watercolor over pencil underdrawing.

“In his early twenties, Arthur Melville embarked on a journey to the Middle East, which was to be the defining event of his career. He arrived in Karachi (Kurrachee) in modern-day Pakistan in March 1882, remaining there for only four days before making his way to Baghdad then Constantinople (now Istanbul). He made a few closely related street scenes featuring empty foregrounds and strong contrasts of light and shadow that capture – as noted in his diary – the ‘dusty hot roads, white glare, trees covered with dust’. The particular thoroughfare shown in this painting might represent a section of Clarke Street, not far from Melville’s temporary base at the Sind Club. Melville’s innovative ‘blottesque’ style was more relaxed and informal than much watercolour practice at this time.”

More here, and here.

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—for Danny, my Brother 1949-1976

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by Lei Wang

I have often scoffed at coping mechanisms. I wanted to be better than them. Freud said the end goal of therapy was to take you from neurotic misery to the ordinary unhappiness, but even in the midst of neurotic misery, I wanted more than the ordinary unhappiness. Ordinariness is not very inspiring. Only the unwell (one extreme of the extraordinary), I thought, aspire to be unremarkable.

Anything that freewheeled with emotions I took to be coping mechanisms: journaling, therapy, personal essays, even heart-centered meditations. And yet I did them all. I liked them, they helped me in some way, but it felt like dating someone embarrassing, like when a friend was seeing someone she was actually quite into but whose uncool earnestness she could not stomach in public, so we secretly nicknamed him Zumba. Zumba is inefficient and not how you REALLY exercise. Zumba is cringe. (I know, I know, the snob part of me is really lovable.)

What I thought I wanted was transcendence, the stuff beyond messy incorrigible human emotions, to live in that place where all is always well, at least subjectively. It’s a very attractive state: who wants to be Eeyore when you can be Pooh? I still believe it’s possible to live this way—it is possible to be enlightened—but I no longer think it’s the best or even better way.

Lately, I’ve been finding that my favorite teachings and teachers are post-enlightenment backtrackers, no longer proselytizing the gospel of nonduality/oneness as the ultimate truth but instead how to live in the world of appearances, including the duality of relationships with other people. Read more »

by Nils Peterson

Since I last posted, I fell, broke my hip, and am now in a post-op facility trying to put my life back together. I mention this because the poem I discuss today is exactly what I need as part of my medicine for this and life beyond. Tomas Transtromer prescribes a simple but hard medicine. My piece also contains a quotation from his “Schubertiana” a wonderful poem on music and politics. If you love either or both, you should read it. My piece is also a meditation on home. I hadn’t thought about the Odyssey until this moment, but maybe something of it is here too.

Task: to be where I am.
Even when I’m in this solemn and absurd
role: I am still the place
where creation works on itself. —Tomas Transtromer

I have before me a copy of Truth Barriers, a collection of poems by Tomas Transtromer translated by Robert Bly. I was surprised the other day to open it and find it signed by both men. Robert, in his neat, small hand said “another Swede! – ‘Even the grass whispers Amnesty,’” and from Tomas, “Dear Nils, try to feel at home!” Both obscure, and both lovely, and both somehow true. (I just realized that all my life I’ve been trying to feel at home.) I been trying to feel at home with my Swedishness even to the point of fantasizing what my life would have been like if after a couple of years being jobless at the start of the great depression, my parents had decided to go back to Sweden as some of their friends did. What would it have been like to live there during WWII? Where would my father have found a job? He was a machinist. I imagine him working for Saab, or Skania Vobis, or Volvo. So likely we would have lived in a city rather than the farm country one of my mother’s family.

Also, I’ve been listening to a lot of music performed by Swedes having become a fan of The Real Group, that marvelous gathering of 4 or 5 singers (depending on the time frame) with impeccable harmony. They sing both in Swedish and English as do the marvelous Swedish quartet The Ringmasters And yes, I’ve bought into the learn a language app, Babbel, and am trying, painfully to learn Swedish. (I’ve pretty much given this up.) So, yes, Tomas, I am trying to feel at home. Read more »

by Carlota Figueroa

I know that a “boom” sound is usually associated with something negative, like putting tinfoil in the microwave and the inevitable trip to the hardware store for a new one. However, just sometimes, having things explode or implode can actually be very beneficial to us: especially when it comes to harvesting energy. Nuclear power as a whole is a controversial topic, but as a physicist, seeing how much our energy demand is growing year to year, I wouldn’t be able to sleep soundly at night if I didn’t talk about fusion energy and convince you (or at least try to) that it is nowhere near as scary as it sounds.

A 2022 study showed that its participants overestimated the risks of nuclear accidents compared to natural disasters. It also argued that there may be a trigger in our behavioral immune system that makes us much more naturally averse to nuclear energy, as if it were a contagious disease. In my opinion, the main problem is that in many cases fusion is not distinguished from fission: they are both grouped under the general “nuclear energy” umbrella, which evokes that feeling of uncertainty that makes so many uncomfortable. Is there really any difference between the two?

The way fission reactors work is that they take a very large (and radioactive) nucleus and split it, releasing energy in the process. Have you ever tried to buy your geeky, Big Bang Theory-loving friend an original gift with a physics motif? I am sure one of the first things that comes up is a mug with one of the most important equations in physics printed on it: E = mc^2. Well, this little equation is the main reason why we can harvest energy from dividing a heavy nucleus: the two daughter nuclei you get from the split weigh less, together, than the parent nucleus you started with, and that missing mass is released as energy. I won’t go into more detail, but hopefully you get the idea.

Now, let’s turn our attention to fusion, as the story is slightly different. Read more »

by Christopher Hall

Reading Gil Duran’s The Nerd Reich: Silicon Valley Fascism and the War on Democracy is, as I’m sure it was meant to be, a concerning and surreal experience; the anti-democratic fantasias of Silicon Valley’s elite would be laughable if they weren’t having such a deep influence on the modus operandi of America’s kleptocracy. Duran traces the story from Peter Thiel’s encounter with Davidson and Rees-Mogg’s 1997 book The Sovereign Individual which predicts the total collapse of the welfare state, with crypto and other such decentralised mechanisms sustaining whatever emerges after the disaster. Participatory democracy will be replaced by system in which power is granted those cunning enough to win it, now that they have been freed of the fetters of government regulation and the damnable obligation to look after the lesser. The information age, say Davidson and Rees-Mogg, makes this inevitable, and it is thus not very surprising that the advocates of unlimited and unrestrained technological growth find this vision attractive; it naturally places them, as the “cognitive elite,” at the head of the table.

Duran then winds out the story to show how this vision has been articulated among both resplendent would-be John Galts, like Thiel, Elon Musk and Balaji Srinivasan (current CEO of Coinbase), and basement-dwellers who like to think of themselves as Underground Men, like Curtis Yarvin. This is the sort of power fantasy that reassures its votaries that the collapse will happen naturally and their victory is assured; nevertheless, it wouldn’t hurt to move the process along. The Nerd Reich shows how Thiel’s evangelism (literally, now that Thiel has added a version of apocalyptic Christian dominionism into the ideological mix) has snaked its way though a collection of political action groups and venture-capital firms, all culminating in the election of a Thiel acolyte in J.D. Vance, and the vigorous adoption of cryptocurrency by Trump as both ideological signal and as a means of personal enrichment, which is his primary, indeed only, agenda in his second term. Read more »

by Robert Jensen

After finishing required coursework, Ph.D. students in most disciplines take preliminary (sometimes called qualifying) exams to demonstrate that they’re ready to begin independent dissertation research. Faculty members on a student’s exam committee sometimes discuss potential questions ahead of time with students.

As a joke, I would tell graduate students in the School of Journalism at the University of Texas at Austin that my question would be simple: “Social science is neither social nor science. Discuss.”

I never asked a student to respond to that prompt, which could have made for a tense exam because not all faculty would find it funny. It was just my way of poking at academics, who seemed to me to be disproportionately socially awkward. More importantly, I wanted students to question whether disciplines such as economics, political science, sociology, and communication studies were sciences in any meaningful sense.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized that I may have been too cynical about the social part of the joke. The larger my sample size—as the number of people I have met in my life grows—the more it seems to me that awkwardness in people is more or less equally distributed among vocations. But I hold firm on the refusal to treat the study of economic, political, and social systems as sciences—not because those fields are less important than physics and chemistry but because they take on vastly more complex subjects that constrain the application of the scientific method. Studying atoms and molecules is hard, but understanding people and societies is more challenging, and often beyond the reach of the methods of contemporary science. Read more »

Cloud behind a mountain in Franzensfeste, South Tyrol.

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by Marianne Janack

In an essay he wrote for Gourmet magazine about a lobster festival, David Foster Wallace considers the ethics of eating “flesh based viands”, and particularly the practice of boiling lobsters alive. Do they feel pain? Comparing human neuroanatomy and lobster neuroanatomy doesn’t really answer the question, he concludes—it could lead us to think that they don’t feel pain, but the same facts might mean that they suffer even more than humans do. The upshot? The answer to the question of whether lobsters feel pain can’t be answered by recourse to physical structure: the evidence is ambiguous.

I. Uncomfortable thoughts about preferences

Wallace points out that lobsters’ behavior seems to suggest that they’d prefer not to be boiled, and seeing such behavior would, in ordinary circumstances, lead us to think that the creature behaving that way is in pain. In fact, he says, anyone who has seen a tank full of live lobsters at the grocery store will see that they prefer the dark. And studies of lobsters suggest that they also prefer cooler waters. So it’s hard to come to the conclusion that lobsters don’t feel pain when they are boiled alive without doing a lot of intellectual gymnastics.

But, of course, the tradition of distinguishing animal pain from human pain is long, going back at least to Descartes. Read more »

by Richard Farr

Ladies and Gentlemen, let us raise a toast to one of the greatest and most loved books ever written, for this October 28th is the tercentenary of Mr. Lemuel Gulliver’s magnificent account of his misfortunes and discoveries, never out of print, Travels Into Several Remote Nations of the World. You may know it by its nickname, Gulliver’s Travels.

I find his four narratives of exotic, accidental tourism so rich and vibrant — so full of old passages remembered and details never before noticed — that I think it will live forever. And, unlike the hapless Luggnaggian immortals he encountered, the struldbrugs, who are condemned to an eternity of vile decline, at 300 it remains as vigorous and youthful (and funny, and cutting, and perceptive, and joyously obscene) as the day it fell from the presses. Somehow indeed its snivelling courtiers and pointless wars seem more relevant than ever. 

Granted, we are never quite sure how much of Mr. Gulliver’s tales to believe. Consider how he introduces himself in the first adventure — both exhausted and pickled. During a terrifying storm in the heat of the tropics, his ship is torn asunder on a rock. He and a few others escape in a lifeboat, which is itself then wrecked, and he nearly shares the watery fate of his companions. In a detail more than strange he admits that, having washed up on an unknown shore, he falls into a profound slumber partly because of “about half a pint of brandy that I drank as I left the ship.” Really? He also gives the last position of the doomed Antelope as “to the north-west of Van Diemen’s Land [Tasmania]… in the latitude of 30 degrees 2 minutes south.” Perhaps some evidence of the brandy here, for this would put the site of the disaster not in some chartless southern reach of the Indian Ocean ocean but in the deserts of southern Australia. To make matters worse, his own map places him far closer to Tasmania than he could have been but also, impossibly, near Sumatra. Caveat lector.

Still, he’s a fascinating and complicated figure, well worth getting to know. Read more »

by Ken MacVey

Out of perhaps narcissistic curiosity, I recently did a search on myself, which also took me to the search engine’s AI mode summary. Its AI mode said that I had been a National Guardsman who shot and killed a student at Kent State in 1970. In case you’re wondering, it’s not true. I have never been a National Guardsman. I have never been to Kent State. I have never shot anyone. And I have never killed anyone.

Horrified, I read the AI  summary several times in disbelief. I then quickly re-ran the search to find  this time the AI mode summary about me was sketchy but generally accurate, with no reference to Kent State or the National Guard.

Wondering how this  frontier large language model AI system– which is supposed to generate text based on such things as hidden Markov chains and  Bayesian nets– could come up with this, I did a search on which National Guardsmen were involved in the infamous shooting at Kent State. My search revealed a series of names bearing no resemblance to mine. The closest connection I could find  between my name and the Kent State shooting was that my name is “Ken.”

What was an indulgence has mutated into an  exercise of routine paranoid  checkup searches. So far so good. No references to Kent State, shootings, or killings, or for that matter to being an underground anarchist or a notorious outlaw.

This did set me off wondering— what if a search did so?  What could I do about it?  And what if just by writing this column that might be added to a large language model’s database made it more probable that I would be tied to Kent State or shootings or outlaws? I guess I better keep on doing those checkup searches.

Still, what would I do if one of those searches turns out bad?  Do I write a cease and desist letter? To whom? Do I sue? Who? And how could I ever prove any damages?  Whenever I do a search the AI mode response is never quite the same in content or layout. Almost certainly, I was the only one who saw the Kent State result but if others did, how could I ever find out?

This is, of course, not really  about me. It’s about you. It’s about all of us. And to quote a line from Linus in Peanuts, the implications are staggering. Read more »

by Brooks Riley

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by Tim Sommers

This is true. Or as true as I could manage. It is a continuation, as you might guess, of Day One. It follows the aftermath of a near-fatal car accident that led me back to philosophy. Hannibal Buress supplies this epigraph:

“When people go through something rough in life, they say, ‘I’m taking it one day at a time.’ Yes, so is everybody. Because that’s how time works.” – Hannibal Buress

__________________________________________________________

So, there’s this glass thing, I don’t know what to call it, “vessel,” I guess, next to my bed and a tube coming out of it that snakes over to me, into my nose, down my throat, and into my stomach where it pumps the blood out of me that is still leaking from various places inside. You can see the blood swirling around there. It seems too dark. There’s got to be a pump too, but I don’t see one.

I am dying to sleep.

Literally, dying. Every time I go to sleep, I stop breathing, and a clamor of people in white come to wake me up. I let myself sleep anyway until they wake me up again.

I am not dying to eat. I am just really, really hungry. But I am not allowed to eat. It’s the internal bleeding.

My Mom comes in, and she’s got a bag of circus peanuts in one hand and something more reasonable to eat in the other. Circus peanuts are these old-timey candies that are neon orange and shaped vaguely like large peanuts, but soft and squishy, the consistency of a stale marshmallow. They are made of gelatin, sugar, and disappointment. I like them.

A nurse is trying to get between my Mom and the candy and me, but while she’s distracted, I reach over and grab the circus peanuts out of Mom’s hand, then manage to hold my butt just far enough off the bed to shove the package under my mattress. Then I play the waiting game. Read more »

by Jim Hanas

Like a lot of people, I’ve spent the last week thinking about a filmmaker who, having refined the technical and philosophical aspects of his mature style, took a big swing with a controversial, genre-bending documentary that raised questions about the nature of knowledge and truth.

I am speaking, of course, of Errol Morris, whose The Thin Blue Line (1988) turned documentary filmmaking on its head when it was released almost forty years ago. The movie slowly unravels the murder case against Randall Dale Adams for the 1976 killing of police officer Robert W. Wood, most controversially through a series of reenactments. Every theory of the crime receives one, except—quite effectively—the one that the film leads you to conclude is the case. The Texas Court of Criminal Appeals agreed. Adams was released the following year.

The movie was to documentary films what New Journalism was to journalism, the inevitable moment when a form—having previously taken its medium to be transparent—begins to thematize itself and its limitations. This made The Thin Blue Line exciting for postmodernists, who read it as a deconstruction of an official narrative through close reading and a blurring of the line between fiction and non-fiction. 

Despite his incessant flirtation with such questions, Morris is having none of that.

I only became aware that Morris was a fellow grad-school dropout with the release of his 2018 book The Ashtray (Or the Man Who Denied Reality), in which he relates his experiences amid the postmodernism debates on the analytic side of the aisle, where he could have hardly had a better seat. He studied with Thomas Kuhn, author of The Structure of Scientific Revolutions—which Morris characterizes as “a kind of postmodernist bible”—with whom he had a dramatic falling out. The titular ashtray was lofted at Morris’s head by Kuhn himself. Read more »

Sughra Raza. It’s Not Art, They Say. Boston, Oct 22, 2026.

Digital photograph, from “On The Way To Work” series.

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Hello Readers (and Writers),

We’re pleased to announce that you can now follow us on Instagram, LinkedIn, X, Facebook, and Bluesky, where we’ll be sharing our original essays, curated articles, and other interesting material from across the sciences, humanities, and arts.

This initiative began with a suggestion from one of our writers, Carlota Figueroa, who encouraged us to take social media more seriously as a way of reaching new readers. So, we’ve now established an automated system for sharing 3QD content across all five platforms, complete with article descriptions, images, author credits, and links back to the original posts. Carlota will also be taking an active role on our Instagram account, interacting with readers and conducting interviews with 3QD writers about their work, interests, and ideas. These conversations are meant to give our readers an opportunity to get to know some of the people behind the articles they read.

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