by Steve Szilagyi

A few weeks ago, I came into possession of a bound volume of Time magazines from late 1950. As I leafed through it, admiring the cover art, I came to the issue of December 11—which showed a portrait of the young Mao Tse-tung surrounded by a swarm of locusts. Reading inside, I was gripped—not by nostalgia, but by something closer to vertigo. The prose was so dire, the political situation so apocalyptic, the leaders involved so reckless and unpredictable, that I had to keep reminding myself: this is 1950. This is not now.

Which got me thinking. We hear a lot today about the fertility crisis, and one explanation that circulates is fear—fear of climate change, fear of war, fear of the future. “What sane person would bring a child into a world like this?” But the world of 1950 seemed no less on the verge of self-immolation than ours. Yet that period produced the largest sustained surge in births in American history.

Tyrants and thrill killers. Those of us born in the early 1950s were conceived during what appeared to be one of the bleakest, most frightening periods in American history: a three-year stretch when tyrants ruled half the earth, nuclear war seemed imminent, and the entire effective ground force of the U.S. and United Nations was on the verge of annihilation in Korea.

Domestically, it was a time of deadly weather disasters, gruesome thrill killings, government persecution of dissent, and widespread racial segregation. Oh yes—and a housing shortage that put home ownership out of reach for thousands of young families.

Our parents knew what was going on in the world. Mass media made sure of that. And how did the young people of the time respond to this avalanche of horrors? According to the mass of aging, but still living, evidence, they gave each other sad looks, threw off their clothes, and hopped into bed. Read more »

by TJ Price

I’m going to have to change the names in this story, but not to protect the innocent. As the telling would have it, none involved in the following can claim that status, either objectively or by adhering to the legal definition. I can’t tell you why he did what he did, or what about what I did made him do what he did, and I can’t tell you why his friends did what they did, either. I can’t explain the policies or procedures of law enforcement at the time, nor fathom the way in which the trial unfolded; neither am I in contact with anyone mentioned any longer, to confer over shared memory.

There will be some description of physical assault and sexual aggression in what follows. If these things are something to which you are sensitive, please be advised.

It probably will also end on a mostly unresolved note, so please also be advised those of you sensitive to lack of catharsis.

Sadly, that’s just how things like this go, most of the time.

This will serve as the first part of the story, as the writing of it has gone on much longer than I’d anticipated. The conclusion will be posted in four weeks’ time.

1.
It was in the fall, in New England. The way most stories in this time and place begin is with a skirl of autumnal leaves and the crisp, austere smile of winter beginning to curve over the land. This year, though, there had been more rain than normal, and I remember that everything was shiny and wet. It hadn’t got cold enough for anything to freeze, and yet the world had a glossy, plastic sheen already. Some nights, ice crept in around the edges, but only hesitantly, and never with a bold intent to stay.

Still, there was a sense of something new in the air for me. College was finally becoming something that had a purpose to me—in my sophomore year, I’d declared my major. It was a lot less dramatic than I’d thought it would be, requiring more in the way of paperwork than any kind of actual declaration, I thought. A pretentious teenager, my idyll of higher education had involved vaulted cathedral ceilings, immense libraries, hushed veneration of the Pursuit of Knowledge—I’d imagined some kind of solemn ceremony for the declaration of one’s major, but was disappointed. I should’ve known it from the first visit, driving states’ worth of road to get there and being greeted by an array of desultory, squat buildings that resembled the uninspired façade of high school (all over again!) moreso than anything venerable, I thought.

Perhaps fittingly for such a dramatic idyll, the major I’d declared was theatre. Read more »

Sughra Raza. Under the Bridge at Deception Pass, Washington. April 2026.

Digital photograph.

Enjoying the content on 3QD? Help keep us going by donating now.

by John Allen Paulos

Donald Trump has famously called climate change and global warming a hoax. Ignorant and benighted as he is, he is far from alone. Skepticism about global warming and its causes is widespread. One overly kind reading of this skepticism is that it is, to an extent, a consequence of the general problem of dealing with very big numbers and very small numbers. Such numbers fall outside people’s familiar mid-size range, and so intuition about them isn’t well-developed. Also unfamiliar to most are the effects of exponential growth or decline.

To illustrate the latter, let’s first consider a classic illustration of exponential decline and the huge effect of repeated tiny declines over time. Say you put $1,000 into a bad investment and it loses just 1/10^th of one percent of its value every day. After ten years when you finally sell, it will be worth $26.  ($1,000 x .999^3,650 = $26)

Money can be discussed with some precision but, having mentioned Trump, I note a different kind of very steep decline. Small erosions of political norms and practices can lead over time to a similar enormous decline as in the monetary example above. An increase in daily lies and misinformation leads inexorably to growing suspicion of politicians’ motives and then to policies tainted or even dictated by special interests. At first this is somewhat tolerable, but over time these transgressions metastasize and the body politic becomes dysfunctional.

Relevant to the above sort of examples is the notion of a discount rate. Read more »

by Mary Hrovat

I’m tired of hearing about parades of planets. That term is used by astronomers to describe the presence of more than a few planets above the horizon at one time. Although it’s genuinely unusual to have five or six planets above the horizon at the same time, it’s not always an impressive sight for casual viewers. Moreover, the term is sometimes used rather loosely, and some sources provide incorrect or incomplete information about what constitutes a particular parade or how easy it will be to see.

The only planets that are reliably easy to see without optical aid such as binoculars or a telescope are Venus, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn (and, of course, Earth). The visibility of even those four planets depends on how high in the sky they are. A recent parade of planets included a few that were very low in the west after sunset, which made them difficult to spot. It wasn’t much of a parade, in my opinion. Moreover, you’ll need optical aid and fairly dark skies to see Uranus and Neptune, and you’ll need to know your way around the sky well enough to locate them.

Moreover, the images that accompany some stories about planetary parades are misleading. Planets may be more spread out on the sky than the drawings indicate, and if they’re not at their brightest, they might not stand out well against a starry background. Read more »

The Cardelaveo Abyss

Without you would be the
Cardelaveo Abyss

which is no place I know
or which even exists
unless by coincidence
because I just made it up
to convey the vast emptiness
I would know without you

Awakening in a 2 a.m. funk
what I was doing up
was being down,
not in a dreadful sense
but in the way of anyone
suddenly too tuned to everyday events
once hidden in convenient clouds
but now laid bare as an avocado pit
exposed in half a fruit
staring at the dark heart of it
and first time seeing it
from head to boot.

Jim Culleny
2008

Enjoying the content on 3QD? Help keep us going by donating now.

by Thomas R. Wells

All things come to an end eventually, including the human species. From the perspective of the universe it won’t matter, and so it also shouldn’t matter to us now. The discontinuance of a taxonomic unit is not particularly interesting or important, especially since no one will be around to notice.

My basic point is the same as Epicurus’ philosophical medicine against the fear of death:

Death should not concern us because as long as we exist, death is not here, and when death is here, we are not.

People think they are worried about death, but in fact they cannot be since they will never experience it. Their actual worries are about how unpleasant the process of dying might be, and of what will become of their worldly interests, from family to reputation to half-completed projects.

In the case of Homo sapiens there is even less reason to care about its ending, because a species is merely a taxonomic unit within which creatures of similar and compatible physiology can be grouped to distinguish them from members of other sets when that seems helpful (other definitions are available). The human species lacks the integrated psychological cohesion of an individual human life. It contains but is not reducible to supra-individual entities like societies. It has no ‘life projects’. It does not really exist in any meaningful sense – less than a tree, or even a rock – and so can have no interest even in its own persistence.

Neither do any individual humans have an interest in the persistence of the human species. Individual humans may care about their children’s future, and about the intergenerational social institutions, like countries, which they hope will secure that future. If there were no more humans then those things we actually care about would necessarily also end. But we still would not care about the end of the human species itself.

Disaster movies are the main way in which the esoteric topic of human extinction is brought to our attention. They have taught us to worry about it, and thus made us too ready to believe that extinction must be worth worrying about. Read more »

by Derek Neal

I had meant to read Ben Lerner’s new novel, Transcription, but in a process I don’t understand, all the e-books were in use at the library; I borrowed his first novel, Leaving the Atocha Station (2011), instead. I’d never read Lerner, this despite having written a long essay defending autofiction in The Republic of Letters (Lerner is considered one of the genre’s main exemplars), focusing instead on the non-American writers of autofiction (Knausgaard, Cusk, Ferrante). I’ve always preferred European literature to American literature, the one exception being Americans who write about Europe, like Henry James or James Baldwin, but when I opened Leaving the Atocha Station, I discovered that Lerner also writes about Americans in Europe; in this case, the American is Adam Gordon, a version of Lerner who is on a poetry fellowship in Madrid, much like Lerner was a Fulbright scholar in Madrid in 2004, the year the book takes place.

The novel is full of doubles, copies, and repetitions, which seems to be Lerner’s signature preoccupation—before reading the novel, I’d read a handful of reviews of Transcription, thinking I’d be reading that book, and I’d listened to Lerner’s interviews with Michael Silverblatt about his first two novels; somewhere in this reading and listening, I’d read/heard about the focus on doubles, which must have primed me to appreciate this aspect of Leaving the Atocha Station, and indeed, when I read the opening section about Adam making espresso in his attic apartment overlooking La Plaza Santa Ana, then walking through the streets of Madrid with a bag of books, I thought, wait a second—that’s me! I, too, had rented “a barely furnished attic apartment” overlooking a bustling European square; I, too, had wandered the streets with a book in my backpack and a notebook to write in while sitting on a park bench or at a café table; I, too, had wondered if I was going to be a writer, was already a writer, or was simply a fraud, a stereotype of the young American in Europe. Read more »

by Barry Goldman

I am an American, a lawyer, and a Jew. That is to say, I’ve been fed a lot of bullshit over the years. I was brought up to believe the United States is a shining city on a hill; Israel is a light unto the nations; and the law is a learned profession and the noblest of callings.

In the wonderful movie Little Big Man, the Dustin Hoffman character explains about the Cheyene, “The name of their tribe was Tsitsistas, which in their language means The Human Beings.” It’s common for tribes to think of themselves as the human beings. My tribes are as susceptible as any other.

When I was a kid they told me Columbus discovered America. The people who lived here at the time quite literally didn’t count. The arrival of Columbus was the arrival of human beings. They told me Israel was “a land without a people for a people without a land.” They didn’t tell us the Palestinians weren’t human, exactly. What they said was they weren’t really a people, just a loose population of nomadic herders. They also told us the Muslim population of Palestine left voluntarily when Israel became a state. Too bad for them, we learned, because their Arab brothers refused to allow the Palestinians to assimilate and instead confined them to refugee camps. If they had stayed in Israel, they would have enjoyed the benefits of Israeli citizenship. I never heard the word nakba until I was an adult.

Israel’s wars, we were told, were purely defensive. All Israel wanted was to live in peace with her neighbors and to make the desert bloom. My mother once showed me a map of the Middle East. She pointed to the tiny sliver that was Israel. The Arab countries were enormous. Why, she asked, can’t they just leave us alone?

To someone raised on that history, the Israeli war in Gaza is hard to grasp. One of the foundational ideas I learned as a kid was that some things are nisht Yiddish. They are things a Jew does not do. We do not eat corned beef on white bread with mayonnaise. We do not kill journalists or torture prisoners. We do not starve babies or blow up hospitals. We do not commit mass murder.

The conclusion necessarily follows: Netanyahu is nisht Yiddish. Israel is nisht Yiddish. But how can this be? Read more »

by John Ambrosio 

Liberals, progressives, and others who closely follow U.S. national politics often experience a sense of vertigo and disorientation, of being emotionally upended and mentally exhausted trying to untangle and refute the incessant barrage of lies, disinformation, and conspiracy theories emanating from the White House. While Trump frequently makes outrageous and inflammatory remarks to elicit a response from his political opponents and dominate the news cycle, the primary effect of his rhetoric is to envelop people in a fog of incoherence, to psychologically overwhelm them by flooding the zone with a tsunami of falsehoods, inconsistencies, and contradictory narratives that leaves them cognitively numb.

But when we dismiss Trump’s incoherent rants and inscrutable word salads as the utterances of a disorganized and deranged mind, which they clearly are, we overlook the political appeal of his rhetoric. Trump does not seek to persuade people by appealing to reason and the intellect, but to create a feeling of uncertainty, doubt, distrust, and chaos that disables and short-circuits the capacity of people to engage in rational and fact-based dialogue, that bypasses the intellect in order to appeal directly to deep feelings of anger, resentment, and racial grievance in his supporters.

We should not assume that people who espouse ostensibly crazy ideas and conspiracy theories are incapable of coherent reasoning. While this may be true in some cases, the problem is not that Trump’s supporters are incapable of rational thought. What may appear irrational to some can make rational sense to people who inhabit Trump’s invented reality. That is, when people have marinated in the far-right news and information ecosystem and become emotionally and psychologically invested in Trump’s lies, and when belief in his falsehoods is essential to their identity, rational thought can become detached from empirical and fact-based reality. For Trump’s core supporters, the sense of belonging to a supportive and affirming community of shared belief and feeling is more important than facts and truth.

Like others, I rarely paid attention to the noise, to the craziness and nonsense, and simply dismissed far-right propaganda as the irrelevant chatter of marginal voices. But I was mistaken to assume that these voices would simply disappear or would remain in the margins forever. Read more »

by Gary Borjesson

Note: This piece stands on its own, but it can also be read as the third and final part of a series that progresses from the mythological origins of the Eleusinian Mysteries through its role in the flowering of western culture to this essay, a personal reverie on clinical applications.

I saw Karen twice a week for two years before she lost her job, quit therapy, and left the area. A bright, creative woman in her mid-twenties, Karen’s mother died when she was five. She and her younger brother were raised by a brokenhearted and neglectful father. Growing up, Karen spent much of her time in her room. Around twelve she discovered video games and, shortly after, cannabis. A habit developed that persisted through college and the time I knew her: using cannabis daily, drinking Red Bulls, eating candy, playing video games, engaging in heated arguments on FaceBook and Reddit, and being chronically sleep deprived. Her dad wasn’t around much, but when he was around, he was preoccupied and glad she could amuse herself. She made it through college, but after that became increasingly isolated, depressed, paranoid, and periodically psychotic.

I met Karen early in my career as a psychotherapist, having recently opened my private practice. She loved my dog, who was always present for sessions, and that helped establish a warm rapport. I found her likable, quick and imaginative, and I was eager to be of some use. Before long I felt worse than useless. Toward the end of our time together there was little I could say that didn’t provoke angry outbursts from her. Though she’d had many therapists and psychiatrists and medication regimens, her condition had continued to deteriorate, as it did with me. From her I learned how intractable mental illness can be; my attempts to join with her were regarded as intrusive attempts to control her. Even my silences were regarded as judgments. I came to dread the sessions. 

One afternoon stands out in my memory. Sunlight streamed through the windows, lighting up her face, which was knotted in rage as she yelled at me, accusing me of being part of a conspiracy that included her boss, ex-boyfriend, and brother. Now she was lumping me with “the enemy”, and I felt the last brick in the wall between us being fitted into place. I remember that day because it’s when I started to feel our work together was hopeless. It was time yet again to try something new, but what else could I do? I could try to refer her, but who would take her on? I couldn’t imagine outpatient therapy helping, and she was opposed to residential treatment. Read more »

by Malcolm Murray

The AI market continues to evolve and surprise. In recent months, Anthropic withheld their latest model Mythos, OpenAI made a U-turn and started experimenting with ads, and Meta bought a “social network for AIs”. This could point to increased divergence in AI companies’ business models. While this might increase AI risk to society in the short term, it is likely a good thing for managing risks in the longer term. It should be encouraged.

AI products have up until now been strikingly uniform

Until now, the AI market has been “one size fits all”. All main providers operate by the same playbook and offer similar products. After ChatGPT was launched, similar chatbots quickly followed from Anthropic and xAI. After Anthropic’s success with Claude Code, its competitors quickly launched copycat products. Each time a major model is released, it inevitably shoots to the top of leaderboards; just as inevitably, it is shortly thereafter dethroned.

The only difference so far has been “open-source” versus “closed-source” models. OpenAI, Anthropic and others have mostly released models as closed source. This means the company hosts the model and the user accesses it through an interface (e.g. a chat window). Revenue in this model comes from product subscriptions. Conversely, companies such as Meta have chosen to mostly release their models open-source. This means the user can run the model locally and make adjustments to it. Revenue in this case comes from hosting, consulting and partnerships. However, even this distinction has become more blurry. OpenAI has released its first open-source model for many years, and Meta backtracked on its “open-sourcing-to-AGI” strategy and released a closed model.

Increased product differentiation allows customers to take safety into account

Increased differentiation of products and business models would be positive for managing AI risks, allowing greater ability to “price in risk”, a finance term for allowing customers to take risk into account in their purchases. Other industries allow customers to “vote with their wallet”. When a consumer buys a household appliance, its energy rating shows its energy efficiency. Groceries have nutrition ratings and cars have safety ratings. In financial markets, ratings from S&P or Moody’s mean the buyer clearly knows how much risk they take on.

Recent events suggest potential differentiation in the making

Up until now, nothing similar has existed for AI. Products are uniform and the customer has no way of choosing based on safety. Recent events suggest this may now be changing. Read more »

by Ananya Vajpeyi

In the early 1990s, I began listening to qawwali in a serious way. In 1994 I happened upon a recording of one of the great performances of the Pakistani maestro, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan. He must have been addressing an audience outside South Asia because he began the concert with a sentence in English (of sorts). “Now we are singing,” he announced in his gravelly voice and thick Punjabi accent, “a poetry in the Persian.” Without further preamble he and his troupe began to sing. For many years now I’ve tried to correct the sentence in my mind. Poetry in the Persian. Poetry in Persian. A poem in the Persian. A poem in Persian. But it never sounds quite right, except in Nusrat’s idiosyncratic grammar: Now we are singing a poetry in the Persian.

Premodern Persian poetry was largely produced in an urban environment and poets, whether associated with a royal court or of a mystical bent, had a special relationship with the city in which they practiced their craft. In prosperous times the city was the location of patronage networks and a cosmopolitan centre of cultural life, as well as being a macrocosm of the narrower spaces that provided the context for the performance of Persianate poetry, i.e., the private mahfil (assembly) or the majlis (session) of courtiers or Sufis.

Sunil Sharma, an Indian scholar of Persian literature, begins an article titled, “The City of Beauties in Indo-Persian Poetic Landscape” with these lines. When I first met Sunil in 1995, we were both graduate students; he was studying Farsi and I was just beginning to study Sanskrit. We knew there was a close relationship between Persian and Sanskrit and that the history of philology, as a discipline, had much to do with this relationship between the two classical tongues. What I didn’t understand, then, was that the connection was not merely philological; rather, Indic and Persianate cultures had been intertwined for centuries. Indo-Persian culture was the child of this marriage and, like many progeny of miscegenation, it was a beautiful being. Read more »

by Eric Schenck

There is a small beach town in Mexico I’ve surfed at for four years in a row. 

One of the biggest sins among surfers? Revealing the best surf spots. The name of the town (as well as some of the people mentioned) have been changed.

Day 1

The sun is setting as I land.

The closest airport is about an hour south of Surfland. I get a taxi from the airport. Hand over 1,500 pesos, and hop on in.

I look out the window the entire ride. Palm trees. Brown mountains. And coastline as far as you can see. 

Most places you see and hear. You get close, and you know you’re back.

But Surfland? 

It’s a place that you feel. It starts as soon as we turn off the main road. Time gets murky. Things start to slow down.

Martin has to wake up early for his job, and is usually asleep by 8 PM. I catch him five minutes before bedtime.

“Duuuuuuude.”

“Duuuuuuude.”

It’s all we need to say. I met Martin four years ago. This is our third year in a row at Surfland together. 

I say goodnight and walk to the grocery store for dinner. Before I pay, I grab one last thing: Penguinos. The ultimate chocolatey snack.

I sit on our balcony while I eat. It’s pitch black at this point, but we’re right on the water. You can hear the waves while you’re sleeping, and they never stop.

It’s going to be a good three weeks. Read more »

A solar powered lantern on our balcony after dark.

Enjoying the content on 3QD? Help keep us going by donating now.

by Philip Graham 

Set over a single weekend, Thammika Songkaeo’s novel Stamford Hospital (Penguin Random House SEA, 2025) follows a woman who hospitalizes her barely ill child—not out of neglect, but exhaustion—using the institution as a temporary refuge from her life. Songkaeo’s writing examines what happens when care becomes confinement, and when love is no longer enough to make a life feel habitable. Perhaps because Songkaeo treats all her characters with great empathy and never settles for easy answers, this beautifully-written debut novel has sparked—and continues to spark—a wide discussion on maternal ambivalence, sexual desire, and the limits placed on women’s choices.

*

Philip Graham: Early on in Stamford Hospital, your emotionally complex and deeply moving first novel, the main character, Tarisa, reflects with devastating succinctness that “feeling like a shell of herself had become familiar, and therefore navigable.” This seem to me to almost be a blueprint for the novel that follows, that moment where Tarisa, perhaps, realizes that she has a budding agency in the current dilemma of her life, space to wander and locate possible escape routes.

Thammika Songkaeo: I’d learn through therapy in my own real life that the response that Tarisa had was a trauma response. Numbing herself is a coping mechanism that allows her to “go with the flow,” and, at times, even flow well. Recognizing her own agency came in micro-moments that aren’t typical societal symbols of agency. She does not realize she has agency because of a possible job or a possible move to another country, for instance. Rather, she realizes that she can pivot the direction of things by moving bodies into new settings, and she can contain or expand them there.

PG: Yes, micro-moments! Stamford Hospital is filled with an exhilarating number of such moments, that’s one of your novel’s great pleasures. The reader becomes increasingly attentive to Tarisa’s evolving feelings of those around her. Particularly, as the narrative unfolds, her consideration and reconsideration of her role as a mother. I love this moment of insight during a tender moment when Tarisa washes her three-year-old daughter Mia’s hands in the hospital:

“She felt joy helping rub soap onto the small knobs of fat beside Mia’s knuckles, their fingers big and small collaborating. There was an intimacy in the act that Tarisa cherished—the mother chasing after spots yet uncovered, a promise of protection drafted as a practice of hygiene.”

TS: I wonder what I used to have in me to write sentences like that! I’m currently writing my second book, and I’m searching for such sentences. They have to come out of a somatic experience, more than anything. The micro-moments of Stamford Hospital came from the quietness with which I lived in—or could tap into—my body during the four years of writing it. And when it comes to motherhood—as a societal or literary topic—that’s one thing we seldom discuss: the somatics of the motherhood experience. We discuss mothers as tropes, oftentimes—but when was the last time we got into a mother’s body, which feels the micro-moments? Read more »

by Brooks Riley

Enjoying the content on 3QD? Help keep us going by donating now.

by Laurie Sheck

1.

A monster disrupts accepted systems of meaning. Unsettles certainties. Dismantles familiar definitions. Wounds and scars them. Brings into the world a sense of dread, excitement, crisis. It appears at the seams and boundaries of existing things: human/animal; sentient/machine; natural/artificial, and reveals those seams as fragile, provisional, ambiguous, porous. A monster lives at the tenuous border between chaos and order. Fractures and upsets coherence.

Mary Shelley’s monster paid for this with loneliness and isolation.

2.

In his essay, “Between Fear and Desire, the ‘Monster’ Artificial Intelligence,” Ahmed Tlili, a researcher at Beijing Normal University, writes of how, much like monsters, AI is at once alien and familiar, threatening but also alluring. An “other” that seems at the same time intimate with human nature.

“AI exists at the intersection of human and non-human intelligence, challenging the boundaries that have traditionally defined what it means to be human.”

Like a monster, AI eludes easy categorization, defies containment. Continually evolving in complexity and capability, it is “difficult to limit it within a single definition… The ambiguity surrounding what constitutes ‘intelligence’ blurs lines between human cognition and machine processing, complicating our understanding and control.”

“The criteria for what constitutes ‘intelligence’ is called into question.”

“AI can be understood as a ‘monster’ that embodies various societal values, fears, and aspirations, reflecting and impacting the cultural landscape.”  It reflects, among other things, “societal fears about loss of control, job displacement, and the erosion of privacy.”

3.

But what does AI “think” about all this? Is it a monster like Mary Shelley’s, stitched not from human body parts but from texts, images, patternings, vast data? Is it a site of crisis, crumbled borders, a creature of “mind-like acts”? A thinking-like thing without a pulse?

Jeffrey Jerome Cohen suggests, “The monstrous offers an invitation to explore new spirals, new and interconnected methods of perceiving the world. Its very existence is a rebuke to boundary and enclosure.” Is this what a LLM does? Is this its “nature”? Read more »