by Madhu Kaza

There's a story I can't get out of my head. Except it's not a story, only the barest, stray thread. One winter morning a little over a year ago I turned on the radio to hear: “At least ten girls were killed yesterday as they were collecting firewood in eastern Afghanistan. The girls, said to range in age from nine to eleven died in an apparent bomb blast . . . . In a separate incident in Kabul . . . ” And just like that the news ticked on. On that particular day the news cycle was consumed with the tragedy of the mass murder of twenty children and six adults at the Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut. Reports patched together detailed timelines of what had happened at the school. As the names were released, stories of each of the victims began to take shape. And commentators launched into debates about gun control and school safety. I searched online for more information about the Afghan girls but the news became less and less clear. There were nine dead, not ten, and two girls were injured. There might have been one boy in the group. The youngest was possibly six, the oldest perhaps thirteen. The explosion was due to a land mine planted by the Taliban. Or it might have been a mine from the Soviet era.

It's a story I can't forget though there's so little to remember. Ten girls. Ages nine to eleven. Collecting firewood. Eastern Afghanistan. Died. When I think how strange it is that this particular incident, so meager in its narrative, should haunt me as it does, I am reminded of Alice Oswald's extraordinary book length poem Memorial.

Memorial is Oswald's version or “excavation” of Homer's Iliad. Only in a very loose sense can it be considered a translation. Oswald writes in her introduction that she has brushed away the narrative of The Iliad, and what remains is a “bipolar” poem that includes only the biographies of the dead soldiers and the similes of the original. The book according to Oswald is an “oral cemetery.”

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by Misha Lepetic

One fish says, “So, how's the water?”
The other fish replies, “What water?”

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Richard Stallman, shuffling onto the stage at Cooper Union's Great Hall. Accompanying Stallman is the veritable Platonic Ideal of a potbelly; left behind are his shoes, which are almost immediately discarded and left by the podium. Padding around the same stage where, in 1860, Abraham Lincoln gave the speech that ignited his political career, Stallman proceeded to subject his New York audience to a rambling disquisition on freedom and computer code, consisting of oftentimes astonishingly petty invective, and peppered with various requests that veered from the absurd to the hopelessly idealistic, but which ultimately served to drive away a good portion of the audience, including myself, well before its conclusion, nearly three hours later.

Why is this recent encounter with a nerd's nerd at all worth recounting? (While entertaining, I will forego the petty bits, although you can view the whole talk here). Simply because, in computing circles, Stallman is an archetype: the avenging angel of free software. Over 30 years ago, he founded the Free Software Foundation (FSF), which has since that time been developing the GNU system, a free operating system that was completed by the addition of Linus Torvald's Linux kernel. It is no understatement to say that the smooth functioning and scalability of much of the Internet is thanks to the overall availability and robustness of the GNU/Linux operating system and its various derivative projects. These, in turn, are the result of probably millions of hours of volunteer labor.

So when Stallman says ‘free,' he really means it, and this is where the trouble begins. According to the FSF, free software allows anyone

(0) to run the program,

(1) to study and change the program in source code form,

(2) to redistribute exact copies, and

(3) to distribute modified versions.

This is a simple and powerful set of axioms. It also requires certain conditions to be met, the most challenging of which is access to the code in its source form. Any time the chain of modification and distribution is broken – say, if the person modifying the code chooses to make the source code unavailable, or chooses to charge a fee for the modification – the code is no longer considered free. Of course, ‘unfree' code can also be made free (this is in fact what Torvalds did with Linux).

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by Shadab Zeest Hashmi

Jinn: a spirit capable of appearing in human and animal forms and influencing humankind for either good or evil.

A startling laugh, low as if muffled by a dupatta, an old net dupatta I imagine, makes me turn but there is no one there. The walls are the color of vanilla ice cream and the décor is simple and modern apart from a few objects like doilies with Baluchi embroidery, an heirloom paandaan, a tray from the copper bazaar. There are the usual consumer electronics and curtains in a thick, embossed fabric— good for darkening the room against the defeating heat. A whiff of chambeli oil hangs in the punishing late June air for a moment. I recall how the jinn are attracted to fragrances too sweet on the human olfactory scale. Like animals, the jinn have a different wavelength for sensory perception. That low laugh might have actually been much lower or higher for non-human ears, the scent not as sickly sweet. Both probably came from the realm of the jinn, though my rational mind would not allow that thought.

Rumor has it that the maid, a middle aged stocky woman, is either a jinn in human form or a medium for the jinn. She speaks only when spoken to but she speaks in two distinct timbres: one, an ordinary female voice, the other heavy like gravel, a wolf-like growl. It’s hard to predict how the next utterance will sound, whether it will come from the woman or the jinn she houses in her body. Her name is Ishrat, which means luxury. In Urdu Ishrat is a male name too. She is barely noticeable in my peripheral vision in her hand-me-down lawn suit in candy colors as she goes about her usual cooking and cleaning but then her eyes meet mine in the mirror she is dusting. I feel a chill when I glimpse her classic jinn face—eyebrows arching high over the most ancient eyes—eyes brimming with the intense heat of summer afternoons, quicksand eyes that one will descend into uncontrollably; nose—an alignment of broken things, forehead vertiginously high like the ceiling of old train stations.

I don’t want the jinn to detect my loss of composure. I reach for the tea tray she has placed next to my stack of books. The sound of china is comforting and when I go back to my reading, I tell myself never to look into those eyes again. Extracting myself won’t be easy the next time. I’m pulled by the weight of the long afternoon, its lull, and Urdu’s sonorous script, each looping “laam” and “noon” cradling me, but I cannot let myself fall asleep in Ishrat’s presence. The minute I close my eyes, I’m reminded of other jinns I’ve known in stories. There was one that possessed my aunt when she was six or seven— a docile and petit girl, she acquired superhuman strength for no apparent reason and became capable of knocking down several grown men at a time until she was exorcized. This was the India of my imagination and my grandmother’s memories where women who were careless about covering their hair when they were near aged trees were certain to attract the attention of the jinn. I recall long hair, coconut oil, the slow combing and the washing with scented amla, the advice to keep away from the sprawling Oak and Tamarind.

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by Paul Braterman

Last November, creationist objectors in Texas tried yet again to sabotage the state's textbook adoption process. One of the objections concerned the age of the Earth, using the long refuted cooling argument that goes back to Kelvin in the 1860s. An online conversation about the matter directed me to the real flaw in Kelvin's reasoning, which is different from what I had believed (see my earlier posting). Further digging led me to the oldest formulation I know of Intelligent Design (ID) creationism (of course, it was not called that, but “Unsolved Problems of Science”. Now over a century old, it already shows the key features of “modern” ID, even down to the link with conservative politics, and the despicable misuse of fraudulently edited quotations.

Kelvin's reasoning was based on a very simple physical model, heat flow from a solid sphere initially at uniform high temperature. This model, and estimates of the rate of heat flow and temperature gradient, led him to assign a maximum age of a mere hundred million years, with the most probable age around a quarter of that. And yet the argument from radiometric dating, something with which Kelvin himself was never happy, gives overwhelming evidence to the contrary. Rutherford, and everyone else for decades afterwards, thought that Kelvin's error lay in the neglect of the heat generated within the earth by radioactive decay itself. Actually, it is a mistake to imagine that radioactive heating has all that much to do with it, and I must confess to having repeated this mistake many times in my own teaching and writing.

The real error (details here and in Pt I) had been pointed out a decade before Rutherford confronted Kelvin at the Royal Institution, and three years before radioactivity had even been discovered. Kelvin's calculation only considered heat transfer by conduction, whereas convection from depth is far more important. Convection can efficiently transport heat over long distances. It would have brought far more to the surface than Kelvin's model allowed for, meaning that it must have taken far longer to get rid of it. John Perry, one of Kelvin's own former students, was sure that Kelvin's estimate of the earth's age was far too low, suggested that Kelvin could have drastically underestimated the efficiency of heat transfer, and even suggested that the Earth's interior could be in a partly molten state, making convection possible.

Christ Church College. The future Lord Salisbury studied here, but did not sit his final examination.

In this piece, I want to talk about two things, how I learned the error of my ways, and exactly what it was that goaded Perry into an uncharacteristic public quarrel with his former mentor. I will also very briefly discuss the enormous importance of mantle convection for the present-day science of geology.

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Un About

snow glittered to the wavelength of a streetlamp
on swells and bellies of the yard slope
down across a white savannah
from asphalt to nirvana

at a window I stood looking out
forever in a moment
in today or yesterday or mañana
enmeshed, engaged, rapt
and un about

senseless to the dialogic loop ever playing in this headspace
of fruitless whys and how-comes a chronic head case

stopped now ….. still ….. synchronized ….. void

empty ….. apophatic ….. absent ….. unalloyed

vacant as a black hole

silent as the innards of a whole note
vibrating to the rhythm of sixteenths

unmoored, unsyntaxed
adrift and tuned

until a plow truck threw its plume across the driveway
and I was back and bound again, too soon

.
by Jim Culleny
2/8/14

by Rishidev Chaudhuri

Perhaps a reasonable proxy for wisdom is the ability to stop thinking when you want, to interrupt the tortured spiraling progression of thoughts that serve no function and lead nowhere, the symbolic productions of a machine gone mad. Like much else, this can (and, I think, should) be approached as a skill that can be practiced, as part of a general package of cultivable techniques and approaches that help in being happy, especially for those not naturally gifted in that way and especially for the anxious neurotic, constantly harried by thoughts that something is not right and that it will all come crashing down[1].

As a (mostly) former obsessive I'm still not very good at this, but I'm thankful for all the time spent practicing. Obsessions and compulsions take an ordinary pattern (that of a persistent thought or behavior) and, by carrying it to an extreme, reveal a pathology that was always there. Being confronted by a thought that won't leave is a dramatic education in the possibility that perhaps the thought wasn't yours to start with and that its trajectory and dynamics are unsettling and alien. These moments shake the uncritical notion of a unified self. I imagine we all have these experiences as we grow and realize that a single unified self is either an illusion (for the Buddhists) or a distant goal lying at the end of many sublimations (for the Nietzscheans and psychoanalysts)[2].

What does one do with unwanted thoughts? The famous example of instructing someone to not think of a pink elephant shows that active suppression is generally futile. It takes constant energy and vigilance, which is exhausting. And anyhow, pushing thoughts away gives them increased significance and emotional valence making them more likely to return again and again. This is all the more true of obsessional thoughts, which are often terrifying; a panicked suppression does nothing but bring them back.

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by Omar Ali

This headline refers to two separate (though distantly related) subjects. First, to Pakistan. Apparently the Pakistani army is now conducting some operation or the other against some group or the other in North Waziristan and other “tribal areas” infested by various Islamic militant groups under the umbrella of the Tehreek-e-Taliban Pakistan (TTP). This operation was preceded by some farcical negotiations in which the Nawaz Sharif government nominated a group of powerless “moderate Islamists” to conduct negotiations with the TTP. It is likely that these “talks” were never meant to be serious, and that Nawaz Sharif and his advisors intended to use them to expose the bloodthirsty Taliban and their civilian supporters (like Imran Khan’s PTI and the Jamat-e-Islami) as unreliable and extremist elements against whom a military operation was unavoidable. This gambit had worked once before in Swat in 2009 when a peace deal was signed with the Swat Taliban and they were given control of Swat. They proceeded to behead people, whip women and begin marching into neighboring regions, thus showing that no reasonable peace was possible and only a military operation would work against them.  But the Taliban 2.0 have learned some lessons of their own. They announced their own farcical committee (briefly including cricket star turned political buffoon Imran Khan) to hold negotiations with Nawaz Sharif’s farcical committee.  Within a few days the airwaves were dominated by Taliban representatives asking Pakistanis if they wanted Islamic law or preferred to be ruled by corrupt Western dupes? The Taliban, who routinely behead captives and even play football with their heads, were suddenly respected stakeholders and negotiation partners, holding territory, nominating representatives and promising peace if the state acted reasonably and responsibly.  At the same time, their “bad cop” factions continued to knock off opponents and spread terror (including a gruesome video in which they brought freshly killed, blood soaked headless bodies of soldiers they had taken captive 3 years ago, in broad daylight, in an open pickup truck, and dumped them on a “government controlled” road in Mohmand).

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by Mara Jebsen

In 2006, when I had finished my MFA; when I had completed a poetry class with a famous professor I worshipped; when I had absorbed the fact that despite my increasingly panicky efforts to write a true good poem I had not only not been anointed but had not even been remarkable within the small class, I shut down completely. This shutting-down lasted almost a year, and it seemed to signal some real weakness of character. A real writer would not stop writing just because she had not been chosen by a professor. A real writer would just write.

But I didn't. Then, slowly, I did, but with a strange tic. I had to draw a line down the center of a page so that it was made of two columns. In the thin columns I could write strange little stories in the voice of someone like myself. They were emphatically not poems because I could no longer write poems. But they had to stop at the line, and so they were not exactly stories, either. I filled several notebooks with these little things, all the while still worrying that I was not writing, because I did not think I was writing. The pieces–I don't know what to call them–seem to me to be written by a woman named Lita. Lita has since become a minor character in a play I am writing about ex-patriot family businesses in West Africa. At some point in the play, she throws away her manuscript. It falls into the audience. Here is one of the pieces that falls.

In Which I Try to Tell A Frenchman What It Is Like To Grow Up Here

We lived near the ocean,

But it meant very little.

Almost Nothing appeared on the horizon

That thing just sliced

Your dreams crossways. Did you know, Alexandre

It’s the only straight line in nature, besides

The plumb line? I’ve heard

They credit geometry to sea-side peoples

Because of a circle’s enormous joke . . .

The rest of the world is a dance

Is a series of arabesques,

And who would have guessed

At the use of straight lines,

That they’d behave

So predictably and that the earth

Would fall under the sway of men

Enthralled by a magical stickish order?

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by Alexander Richey

Pessimism is on the rise among members of the older generation. According to a 2011 Gallup poll, only 36% of Americans aged 50 to 64 believe that today's youth will have better lives than their parents. And another poll conducted in 2013 by Rasmussen says that just over half of Americans think that their country's best days are in the past.

There are two ways of explaining this kind of negativity. According to the first view, it is understandable that such attitudes have formed, given both the political and economic turbulence of the last decade, and other long-term social and economic trends.

Recent literature is replete with explanations of this sort. In Thomas Frank's article “Storybook Plutocracy,” he classifies more than 30 recent books as members of what he has dubbed the “social-disintegration genre.” This genre includes David Packer's The Unwinding, Charles Murray's Coming Apart, and Hedrick Smith's Who Stole the American Dream?, among many others.

Although the authors of these books may differ in political orientation and policy prescriptions, they agree in matters of methodology and share a basis of facts. Moreover, they tend to agree that, with the right policies, America's situation can be improved and that the general mood of the country can be ameliorated.

The second type of explanation is bleaker. Its proponents argue that the worsening mood of the country is not due to transient events such as the Great Recession or to reversible political policies, but rather to permanent and essential elements of modernity itself.

Because of the cynicism intrinsic to this sort of view, its written expressions are comparatively rare among professional writers; its cultural manifestations, however, are prominent.

Members of the so-called the Prepper's Movement, for example, carefully pack and maintain “bug-out bags,” receptacles whose contents are intended to “see them through the collapse of civilization.” Preppers, as the movement's adherents call themselves, preach the virtues of preparedness and some of their more extreme members – people who build underground bunkers and stockpile things like gasoline, guns, ammunition, and Meals Ready to Eat – have been featured on National Geographic's reality TV show “Doomsday Preppers.” Many members of this movement believe that civilization itself is unsustainable and that the apocalypse is likely occur in our lifetimes.

Until recently, it has been difficult to apprehend the reasons that motivate such activities; however, in the last few months, authors Jonathan Franzen and David Mamet have published essays that express some of the reasoning which seems to inform this and other Malthusian endeavors.

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SUFI BLUES

How does it rain?
You rap a bead of sweat on your forehead

How does lighting strike?
You glance at me, and lower your eyes

How does day meet night?
You veil your face with hair

Where does music get its magic?
You lace your talk with honey

What good is yearning?
You snuff a candle with your robe's hem

by Rafiq Kathwari

by Ahmed Humayun

Saudi Arabia's Crown Prince Salman bin Abdul Aziz concluded a visit to Pakistan last week that was carefully orchestrated to signal the role Riyadh expects Islamabad to play in the wider Middle East. The two countries have long had strong ties but this trip underscores a deepening rapprochement— an escalation that will further embroil Pakistan, already bogged down by unprecedented levels of its own religious and political violence, into the sectarian turmoil ravaging the Arab world.

Saudi Arabia has long exercised a commanding influence in Pakistan. Political crises within Pakistani elites are more likely to be resolved in the golden halls of Saudi palaces than in Islamabad. When the country's current Prime Minister, Nawaz Sharif, was ousted from power in 1999 by General Pervez Musharraf, he was given sanctuary in Saudi Arabia, which was also responsible for brokering Sharif's eventual return in 2007. The first foreign visit of the current army chief, General Raheel Sharif was to Riyadh in early February, and followed visits to Pakistan from the Saudi foreign minister and deputy defense minister.

Saudi Arabia's enjoys enormous ideological clout around the Muslim world as the ‘protector' of the holy cities in Islam.* More important, however, is its unrivalled petro power. Saudi Arabia has provided subsidized oil, bailed Pakistan out during severe financial crises, and funnelled more aid to Pakistan than any other non-Arab recipient since the 1960s. According to Pew, Saudi Arabia enjoys a 95% approval rating in Pakistan, the fruit of both a sustained propaganda campaign since the 1970s and the aspirations of successive Pakistani leaders who have sought out the Saudi embrace.

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by Carl Pierer

George Gershwin's “Porgy and Bess” is probably the first piece that comes to mind in the line of folk opera. However, unlike this early predecessor, modern folk operas are entirely different. The following is an attempt at definition: The term can be applied to concept albums that fall in the vague genre of Indie-Folk-Rock. An album that hosts a couple of different characters, voiced by different singers. Tying each song to the next, they unfold a coherent narrative, divided into several acts. Most of the time, it starts with a pair falling in love, only to take a tragic turn later. Intriguingly, they usually end with the death of one or more protagonists. By combining traditional and modern elements of music with captivating story-telling, they develop a way of recounting a tale in a modern way. The story works on many different levels and its meaning is open to interpretation. While they definitely transport a criticism of society and modernity, they can be read to purport an existentialist parable. To defend this claim, an existentialist interpretation of three folk operas shall be presented.

In 2010 Anais Mitchell released her album “Hadestown”, retelling the ancient Greek myth of Orpheus and Eurydice. Her narrative takes up the original story and infuses it with several layers of metaphorical meaning. The four main characters are Orpheus (Justin Vernon), Eurydice (Anais Mitchell), Persephone (Ani DiFranco) and Hades (Greg Brown). The first song depicts the love between Orpheus and Eurydice in a very poetic way but the important topic of financial insecurity is already hinted at. After rich Hades and his mining underworld are introduced, Eurydice is approached by Hades who wants to seduce her to come with him. Starved and tired, she accepts an offer she could not refuse. While the fates (or Haden triplets) sing an interlude defending Eurydice's decision, Orpheus prepares his descent to the underworld. On his way down, first doubts about Eurydice cloud his mind. Hades, realising that a living man managed to enter the underworld, is enraged and wishes to thwart the riot, which Orpheus' arrival incited. In a duet with her husband, Persephone manages to convince Hades to let Orpheus and Eurydice leave together. However, as a businessman, Hades knows how to set conditions. Since he is primarily concerned with the smooth running of his mining industry, he allows them to ascend together, Eurydice following Orpheus, on the sole proviso that he must not look back. But on his way back, the doubt that she may not be following plagues Orpheus. Finally, it overcomes him and as he turns around, Eurydice, who had been with him all along, disappears.

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by Charlie Huenemann

In his middle to late thirties (over the years 1679-85), Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz spent more than three years in his visits to a silver mining region in the Harz mountains. He believed he could devise new and more efficient ways of pumping water out of the deep shafts, enabling miners to dig even deeper and extract more silver from the earth. Had he succeeded, he would have doubled his salary and freed himself from the drudgery of his service to the House of Brunswick.

But this effort wasn't just a ploy to gain financial independence. He had a bigger plan in mind. Indeed, Leibniz always had bigger plans in mind. He was born into the aftermath of the Thirty Years' war and he believed his genius could go some way toward healing Europe's countless fractures. And so he wrote theological works aimed at convincing Catholics and Protestants that the differences among them were not so big after all; he wrote political works advocating for unity across Christendom; and he wrote logical and scientific works aimed at truth, or course, but also aimed indirectly at supplying a common foundation to learned societies across Europe.

The project in the Harz was meant to play an instrumental role in these ambitions. Had it succeeded, the money would have gone to support one of Leibniz's greatest dreams: the development of a characteristica universalis, a rigorous calculus of pure concepts that would itself be a lasting theoretical framework for constructive dialogue among scientists, philosophers, theologians, and politicians across the planet and, indeed, for all time.

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by Mara Naselli

In an introduction to a seminal collection of Faulkner’s work, published in 1946, Malcolm Cowley called William Faulkner’s story “Spotted Horses” “wildly funny”—“the culminating example of American backwoods humor.” The collection resurrected Faulkner’s career and made his work teachable, part of the American canon. Nearly forty years later Cowley called it the funniest story he had ever read. “I was lecturing at Stanford once,” Cowley recalled, “and a very bright young woman in the class said, ‘Professor Cowley, referring to ‘Spotted Horses,’ why did you say this story was funny? And I said, ‘I don’t know what funny is, but let me read you part of this story,” and I read part of it where the horses had broken loose and were running through the town and one sailed through the house over that boy, and the class was in stitches. And I said, ‘Now do you think it is funny?’ She kind of flushed and said, ‘Yes.’”

There isn’t anything more embarrassing than not getting the joke, but I admit, in this case, I don’t. The story teems with violence. A string of feral horses, tied together with barbed wire around their necks, is driven to Frenchman’s Bend in Yoknapatawpha County. They are beaten with wagon stakes, grabbed by their nostrils, fed enough corn to kill them, and move with such fury that no one can handle them. They are brought to town by a stranger in cahoots with Flem Snopes. Snopes, who arrived in Frenchmen’s Bend about thirty years after the Civil War, is so tricky, said one of his neighbors, he “don’t even tell himself what he is up to. Not if he was laying in bed with himself in the dark of the moon.” “Spotted Horses,” which was first published in 1931, set the writing of the Snopes trilogy in motion.

Humor needs tragedy, and the genius in “Spotted Horses” is the strong presence of both. “The hard and sordid things of life,” wrote Mark Twain, “are too hard and too sordid and too cruel for us to know and touch them year after year without some mitigating influence.” Twain might be saying that we need humor to withstand the cruelty in the world. Or, that we need humor to see it.

There are two ways to read “Spotted Horses,” as if it were one of those trick paintings that is both a duck and a rabbit at once. You can read the people or you can read the horses.

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by Brooks Riley

You can’t take it with you. That’s what they always tell you about possessions. When you die, everything you own will be left behind: Good-bye, beloved steel chair; farewell, feline; adieu, artichoke; bye-bye books, and so forth. All those objects, great and small, animate or inanimate, will exert their protracted existence on some other visitor to the kingdom of life, after you have moved on.

Like a going-out-of-business sale, everything must go. Everything? Not everything. There is something you’ll take with you when you go: memories. Whether you’re actually going somewhere is a question not only to be avoided here, but irrelevant.

Here are some of the things I’ll be taking with me: all my phone numbers since childhood (memory is a senseless hoarder); the time I threw my peas on the floor from my highchair, when the cook threatened to tell my mother; my fall down the steps of the Palais de Chaillot; the sudden whiff of Paris on the corner of Madison Ave. and 61^st Street; accidentally meeting a childhood sweetheart on the roof of a lockhouse on the Panama Canal; the infra-red glow of instruments before dawn on the bridge of an ocean liner; the two courting praying mantises who flew into my Manhattan apartment and stayed for days; the moonlit pair of flying swans I mistook for UFOs; the baritone whoosh-whoosh of their wings as they flew over me; the opossum who watched me practice piano at night from its perch on the wisteria. I won’t go on. There are millions of them, most of them like confetti–tiny, colorful and insignificant.

Then there are the ones with heft (morsels for a memoir manqué), like the time the headmistress of my grade school told me I’d never be a writer (I was 12); or the two times Eisenhower waved to me from a limousine in Paris (when I was 6 and when I was 14); the time I stopped the orchestra during Act 2 of Tristan und Isolde (like stopping an oncoming train); the time I argued with Max Frisch at a dinner party over who composed ‘An die Musik’ (I was wrong, oh the shame); the time Jean-Luc Godard tricked me into acting in his test footage; the time I wept over Wagner with Susan Sontag during an intermission of Der Ring des Nibelungen at the Met; Abel Gance’s devilish compliment. There are hundreds of these, weightier than confetti, more like stones collected on a beach—some smooth, some rough, all memorable, to me at least.

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