Do you remember this photograph? In the United States, people have taken pains to banish it from the record of September 11, 2001. The story behind it, though, and the search for the man pictured in it, are our most intimate connection to the horror of that day.

Tom Junod in Esquire:

In the picture, he departs from this earth like an arrow. Although he has not chosen his fate, he appears to have, in his last instants of life, embraced it. If he were not falling, he might very well be flying. He appears relaxed, hurtling through the air. He appears comfortable in the grip of unimaginable motion. He does not appear intimidated by gravity's divine suction or by what awaits him. His arms are by his side, only slightly outriggered. His left leg is bent at the knee, almost casually. His white shirt, or jacket, or frock, is billowing free of his black pants. His black high-tops are still on his feet. In all the other pictures, the people who did what he did — who jumped — appear to be struggling against horrific discrepancies of scale. They are made puny by the backdrop of the towers, which loom like colossi, and then by the event itself. Some of them are shirtless; their shoes fly off as they flail and fall; they look confused, as though trying to swim down the side of a mountain. The man in the picture, by contrast, is perfectly vertical, and so is in accord with the lines of the buildings behind him. He splits them, bisects them: Everything to the left of him in the picture is the North Tower; everything to the right, the South. Though oblivious to the geometric balance he has achieved, he is the essential element in the creation of a new flag, a banner composed entirely of steel bars shining in the sun. Some people who look at the picture see stoicism, willpower, a portrait of resignation; others see something else — something discordant and therefore terrible: freedom. There is something almost rebellious in the man's posture, as though once faced with the inevitability of death, he decided to get on with it; as though he were a missile, a spear, bent on attaining his own end. He is, fifteen seconds past 9:41 a.m. EST, the moment the picture is taken, in the clutches of pure physics, accelerating at a rate of thirty-two feet per second squared. He will soon be traveling at upwards of 150 miles per hour, and he is upside down. In the picture, he is frozen; in his life outside the frame, he drops and keeps dropping until he disappears.

More here.

In 2011, Darshan Thoogudeep, a Kannadiga actor commonly known by his first name, starred as Raja, an auto-rickshaw driver, in a Kannada film titled Sarathi. The film was released on 30 September, the death anniversary of Shankar Nagarkatte (better known as Shankar Nag), a legendary figure in Kannada cinema who acted in over 80 films and directed ten (along with two television serials, including Malgudi Days, adapted from RK Narayan’s work). Darshan’s film, which even included an animated dance-sequence featuring Nag, was widely viewed as a tribute to the late star, who, in 1980, had also essayed the role of an autorickshaw driver in the film Auto Raja, directed by Vijay. Auto Raja was an inter-class love story, with Nag playing an urban working-class auto driver and the leading actress Gayathri the daughter of a wealthy estate owner, and Nag’s love interest. According to the critic MK Raghavendra, the film attempted to “build a community around the urban working class”, represented by Bangalore’s autorickshaw drivers. It was a super-hit, making Nag a rage with auto-rickshaw drivers across Bangalore.

more from Sharanya at Caravan here.

Wong Kar-wai’s The Grandmaster was released last Friday. Each of Wong’s previous masterpieces has evoked a kind of romantic longing. Chungking Express, for example, opens with a woman in a blond wig and a trench coat walking through the stalls of Chungking Mansions in Hong Kong. It’s a place where you can buy electronics and food, and it is crowded at night. The woman takes an elevator up to what looks like it might be a tailor shop, though it’s too dark to tell. We follow her down a hallway, and abruptly she turns and looks directly into the camera, the way a beautiful woman would turn to look at a man who was following her too closely. She walks a bit further, into a room with a man in an undershirt sitting on a top bunk, and the title screen comes up. Then, over scenes of white clouds against the blue sky, behind silhouettes of industrial equipment, a young man says in voiceover, “Every day we brush past so many people. People we may never meet or people who may become close friends. I’m a cop, number 223. My name’s He Qiwu.” Now he is chasing someone through Chungking. He brushes past a mannequin wearing a blond wig like the woman’s.

more from Amie Barrodale at Harper’s here.

In the summer of 1925, a large revolt broke out in the French Syrian Mandate, a territory administered by France in conjunction with the League of Nations after the collapse of the Ottoman Empire at the end of the First World War. The uprising began with the Druze in the semi-autonomous region of southern Syria, Jabal al-Druze. But given the unpopularity of French rule, it spread quickly throughout Syria and Lebanon and across sectarian lines. To their international humiliation, the French proved incapable of slowing its expansion, as major uprisings broke out in the cities of Hama and Homs (both centers of the civil war today). In October 1925, as fighting raged in and around Damascus, the French army responded with brutal force: burning villages suspected of harboring insurgents, publicly parading the corpses of slain Syrian fighters, and indiscriminately shelling civilian areas in Damascus and its outskirts, which resulted in the deaths of over 1,000 civilians. The opposition was finally defeated in the summer of 1927. But the 1925 bombardment of Damascus sparked an international controversy: did the direct targeting of civilian areas in and around Damascus violate the laws of war as they had been established in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries?

more from James R. Martin at Dissent here.

Liz Bury in The Guardian:

After years of hovering in the wings, this could be Haruki Murakami's year to clinch the Nobel prize for literature – at least if you go by the odds offered by Ladbrokes on the Japanese author, who is 3-1 favourite.

Other favoured contenders include US author Joyce Carol Oates (6-1), Hungarian writer Peter Nádas (7-1), South Korean poet Ko Un (10-1), and Alice Munro, the short story writer from Canada (12-1).

Piecing together the odds is a question of informed guesswork, since the nominations and cogitations of the members of the Nobel Committee for Literature are kept under wraps by the Swedish Academy, which only reveals the conversations of the judicial huddle 50 years after the decision is made.

Sixth favourite is Syrian poet Adonis, 14-1, who was tipped to win in 2011 following the Arab spring uprisings but lost out to another poet, Sweden'sTomas Tranströmer, the second favourite.

Murakami has been considered a frontrunner for the past 10 years. His emergence as favourite this time round comes as his latest novel – the title of which translates as Colourless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage – is being translated into English ahead of publication in 2014.

More here.

Another Place

Another place, another life, another book,
we go on without a return ticket, on the trail
of the vanished song, the elusive lines unlocking
a whole library of meaning, our lives shelved
in comprehensive order, for us who will arrive
clothed in dust and dusk, to sit at the appointed desks
and pore over the pages, search out the thread
stringing together all arrivals and departures
which our hands will tell, over and over,
as if in prayer, as if in peace.

by Kim Cheng Boey
from Another Place
Singapore Times

Today is World Suicide Prevention Day. Here's Tauriq Moosa in The Guardian:

By being more open about what leads people to suicide, by not treating suicidal thoughts as automatic signs of insanity, we might actually reduce the number of suicides.

People don't merely want biological life, after all, they want quality life. Who wants to continue living if it means endless, incurable suffering and debilitation? Perhaps a few do, but why should their standard be applied to all?

As research indicates, by reducing social stigma, more effort can go into suicide prevention, not least because we're more likely to donate to a cause if we are not repulsed by the subject. People won't feel ashamed for having suicidal thoughts when they're treated as people, instead of pariahs. This could translate into lives saved.

Furthermore, some countries and certain American states have recognised assisted suicide as a medical option. Certain conditions must be met, of course: an incurable disease, the full consent of a “capable” patient, and other carefully circumscribed parameters. Against those who cry that legalised euthanasia will lead to abuse, murder and so on, there are years of evidence to the contrary, as io9 contributor George Dvorsky points out.

There is plenty of empirical evidence for saying that suicide is a good indicator of mental health problems, but that should be different from arguing that suicide is, by definition, a sign of insanity.

More here.

From The Guardian:

Writers of fiction like to say they ply their trade by telling lies, but Tobias Wolff really was a liar. He would not be where he is today if he hadn't been. Terrorised by a violent stepfather, dependent for refuge on his floundering mother, he made up stories in order to survive. When it was necessary to fortify his inventions with facts, Wolff made an easy transition to forgery. As an adolescent in 1960, for example, he glimpsed an escape from domestic hell through a much sought-after scholarship to a Pennsylvania prep school. The authorities requested recommendations, naturally, so 15-year-old “Jack” (he had adopted the name in homage to Jack London) posted off a sheaf of testimonies to his academic, social and sporting prowess – all written by him – and was duly accepted for a coveted scholarship place at the Hill School, whose illustrious old boys included Edmund Wilson and General Patton. Wolff describes his time there as an “idyll”, which lasted just over two years before he was “flushed out” and expelled. After a short stretch at sea, where he suspected one of his crew mates of plotting to kill him, he joined the army and was trained as a member of the Special Forces, otherwise known as the Green Berets. In the spring of 1967, he was shipped out to Vietnam. Wolff has written about these experiences with scrupulous honesty – more self-laceration than bravado – in two wonderful memoirs, This Boy's Life and In Pharaoh's Army, and in a well-crafted short novel, Old School. “It wasn't that long a time in my life”, he says, seated in his office at Stanford University, where he has taught in the English department since 1997. “I had pretty much stopped being a bullshitter by the time I joined the army. I hope I don't still con people, though I never quite believe that I got anything good legitimately. Maybe some of the imaginative effort that it took to tell lies goes into my work.”

…Wolff's brother Geoffrey is also the author of fiction and memoirs. Their father, Duke, was a genteel con man, who might have been found working as an executive in the aviation industry one year and serving time in prison on fraud-related charges the next (he had several aliases, including Saunders Ansell-Wolff III). Following their parents' separation when the boys were young, Tobias went with his mother – rolling from state to state on get-rich-quick schemes or on the run from some man she was “afraid of” – while Geoffrey moved east with their father. For seven years, Geoffrey recalls, “I didn't know where he lived, or with whom, in addition to our mother.” In fact, Tobias was living under the iron-fisted rule of his stepfather Dwight – Geoffrey calls him a “troglodyte” – whom their mother had married in 1957. The catalogue of put-downs and punishments inflicted on the young Tobias in This Boy's Life would turn the worst Dickensian tyrant queasy. “This Boy's Life began as a collection of memories I was putting down so that my children would know how I grew up,” Wolff says, “because they were raised in an academic atmosphere, and my mother by that time was a very proper old lady.” Readers of the memoir will recall how Dwight tracked Tobias and his mother to the east coast – “from Washington State to Washington DC” – where Dwight tried to strangle her. “That was the last time I saw him,” Wolff says. “Standing in a snowstorm, with policemen holding his arms. My mother had bruises on her throat for weeks afterwards. They found a knife that he'd thrown into the hedge.” When he showed his mother the manuscript of This Boy's Life, Rosemary Wolff must have sighed. Geoffrey, who is seven years older than Tobias, had published his own memoir, The Duke of Deception, a decade before. Tobias recalls her being “a little apprehensive”, and joking: “If I'd known both my sons were going to be writers, I might have behaved differently.”

More here. (Note: I just read Old School and This Boy's Life and am ravished by Wolff. Get them and read them if you have not already done so.)

Asad Raza in the New York Times:

The blue skies and brisk breezes of early September mark the end of the United States Open, and its corresponding state of near-total immersion in the shifting fortunes of professional tennis players. For observers who play the sport, this often means an enthusiastic return to the court, after two mostly sedentary weeks on stadium benches and upholstered furniture. This does not mean, however, that they are out of practice: many amateurs report that seeing tennis played at the highest level improves their own games.

Watching tennis and playing it can be mutually helpful activities, dialectically entwined.

“You get a boost, definitely,” said the tennis historian Bud Collins, who has been watching and playing the game for 60 years. “But six days later, it’s gone.”

Jon Levey, a writer and avid player said: “I always play better after watching the pros. Their form shows you that less is more. They move their body weight into the ball much better than I do. Everything seems to work in symmetry. After the Open, I suddenly know how to hit ‘up’ on my serve, like they do. But after a little while, it leaves.”

Maybe the answer is keep watching lots of professional tennis? Andy Murray said he watched about three sets per day.

More here. [Photo from Wikipedia.]

Katie Hafner in The New York Times:

Gossip.

This is Daniel Tammet’s unlikely and delightful word choice in describing a conversation about numbers with a woman he was tutoring in mathematics. His student was a homemaker whom he mistrusted at first because her motive for learning math was entirely pragmatic: she wanted to become an accountant. “There seemed to me something almost vulgar in the housewife’s sudden interest in numbers,” he writes, “as if she wanted to befriend them only as some people set out to befriend well-connected people.” Then one day, teacher and student were discussing fractions, and what happens when a number is halved, then halved again. They expressed their shared amazement, “almost in the manner of gossip,” Mr. Tammet writes. “Then she came to a beautiful conclusion about fractions that I shall never forget. She said, ‘There is no such thing that half of it is nothing.’ ” Mr. Tammet, whose previous books are “Born on a Blue Day” and “Embracing the Wide Sky,” is a “prodigious savant” — someone who combines developmental disabilities, in this case autism, with the skills of a prodigy. Happily, unlike many savants, he has a rare ability to describe what he sees in his head. His new book is, in part, a description of an intimate relationship with numbers. Not uncommonly for people with autism, he has the remarkable condition called synesthesia, in which seemingly unrelated senses are combined — so that each number is accompanied by its own unique shape, color, texture and feel. The number 289 he finds hideous, while 333 is very appealing. And pi is a thing of pure beauty. Its trillions upon trillions of digits speak to Mr. Tammet of “endless possibility, illimitable adventure.” (This is something we have been able to appreciate only in recent history: Archimedes knew pi to only three correct places, and Newton went only 13 places beyond that.)

For Mr. Tammet, the adventure culminated on March 14, 2004 — Pi Day, of course — when he recited pi from memory, to 22,514 places, over a period of five hours and nine minutes, to a packed room of spectators in Oxford, England. His description of the shape and character the digits took as they rolled across his brain, past his tongue and out his mouth, is at once eerie and poetic. In the course of his recitation, he writes, the audience sat quietly, deeply moved.

More here.

Here is some text and a graphic:

More text here.

Zhu Jinshi. Rice Paper Boat. 2013.

12-metre-long installation made of 8,000 sheets of rice paper.

More here and here.

Justin E. H. Smith in Paper Monument:

Jeremy Bentham thought that we no longer needed statues, or other post-mortem representations of ourselves, since innovations in the science of embalming had brought it about that we could each be our own statue after death. Bentham’s own embalmers botched the job, leaving the utilitarian’s own auto-icon with a head of wax, which kind of negates his argument, even as it stimulates further reflection among the living as to what it means exactly to be memorialized, to be iconized, when one is no longer.

If you made an effort, circa 2009, to master the news about Lady Gaga, you will by now have come to regret this unwise disposal of your time. Gaga had been an American performer of some repute, a singer and dancer, and she was held for a brief time to be shaking things up, to be causing us to see things in new ways. This perception had mostly to do with her manipulation of gender signifiers, but in this what little claim she had to iconic status was derived, mostly unconsciously, from her status as an iteration of a type that had far more blazing tokens nearly a century ago. The type passes through Madonna, on whom one was probably right to expend some mental energy, and back through the great film stars Madonna so diligently imitated, and so lovingly praised in the shout-out portion of “Vogue.” And it passes on, too, to someone who was not credited in Madonna’s 1990 hit, yet whose paintings seem to have done more to concretize the figure of the modern woman to which these later pop stars would work so hard to fit themselves, the figure that always seems so modern and insolite, while remaining eternally rooted in a mythical 1925 Paris, in the moment when Tamara de Lempicka (who had fled St. Petersburg in 1917) painted it in cool neo-cubist blues: la garçonne, the female boy, artificial and contrived even grammatically, always a surprise, always as if new, even when its long chain of iterations is revealed.

We are also iterations of ourselves through time: receding series, as Vladimir Nabokov (who also fled St. Petersburg in 1917) wrote of his Lucette at the moment of her drowning. And sometimes new series spin off from moments, and are taken up by others, while we come to look less like ourselves than our imitators do.

More here.

Your DNA is not a blueprint. Day by day, week by week, your genes are in a conversation with your surroundings. Your neighbors, your family, your feelings of loneliness: They don’t just get under your skin, they get into the control rooms of your cells. Inside the new social science of genetics.

David Dobbs in Pacific Standard:

A few years ago, Gene Robinson, of Urbana, Illinois, asked some associates in southern Mexico to help him kidnap some 1,000 newborns. For their victims they chose bees. Half were European honeybees, Apis mellifera ligustica, the sweet-tempered kind most beekeepers raise. The other half were ligustica’s genetically close cousins, Apis mellifera scutellata, the African strain better known as killer bees. Though the two subspecies are nearly indistinguishable, the latter defend territory far more aggressively. Kick a European honeybee hive and perhaps a hundred bees will attack you. Kick a killer bee hive and you may suffer a thousand stings or more. Two thousand will kill you.

Working carefully, Robinson’s conspirators—researchers at Mexico’s National Center for Research in Animal Physiology, in the high resort town of Ixtapan de la Sal—jiggled loose the lids from two African hives and two European hives, pulled free a few honeycomb racks, plucked off about 250 of the youngest bees from each hive, and painted marks on the bees’ tiny backs. Then they switched each set of newborns into the hive of the other subspecies.

Robinson, back in his office at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign’s Department of Entomology, did not fret about the bees’ safety. He knew that if you move bees to a new colony in their first day, the colony accepts them as its own. Nevertheless, Robinson did expect the bees would be changed by their adoptive homes: He expected the killer bees to take on the European bees’ moderate ways and the European bees to assume the killer bees’ more violent temperament. Robinson had discovered this in prior experiments. But he hadn’t yet figured out how it happened.

More here.

Santiago Zabala in Al Jazeera:

We all remember when Democratic strategist James Carville coined the famous phrase “it's the economy, stupid”, for Bill Clinton's 1992 presidential campaign. It quickly became a slogan often repeated in US political culture. Together with the economy, he also emphasised the significance of “change” and “healthcare”. While Obama seems to have taken these latter two items to heart, education (in particular in the humanities) still seems to be a marginal issue among his priorities. This also occurs with other politicians. But why is it so common today?

For those of us who had the good fortune to be educated by teachers who guided our intellectual interest and social wellbeing regardless of where we were enrolled, we know it's always the faculty that makes the difference, not the institution. If, as Noam Chomsky once pointed out, “our kids are being prepared for passive obedience, not creative, independent lives”, it's because we live in a corporate world where most institutions are ranked according to criteria that too often ignore the essence of the discipline in favour of the job market.

It is also interesting to notice how the failure of MOOCs (massive open online courses, which represent corporate universities' latest development), lies in the impersonal nature of the courses – because students are unable to meaningfully interact with their professors, one of the fundamental aspects of any serious education. This is why, asSarah Kendzior brilliantly explained, colleges must be “reformed, not replaced”. How can we reform our higher education system? And why is it necessary?

More here.