Rachel DeWoskin at Literary Hub:
In this moment of especially rabid book banning, my high school senior has been translating Catullus in her Advanced Track (AT) Latin class. Catullus’s poems disappeared from the Western canon for centuries (likely because medieval Christian scribes avoided copying lurid pagan texts) yet were rediscovered and reprinted in the Renaissance, and are still alive millennia later, when would-be censors are long forgotten.
Catullus’s work shows us ourselves, in all our three-dimensional goodness and terribleness, and sometimes this vision, in 2025, comes as a fun vindication. Take Catullus’ bullying and yet vulnerable poem number 15, in which he admits, “I fear you, Aurelius, and your penis.” Jealous of and threatened by Aurelius, Catullus first euphemizes, entrusting Aurelius with the care of “my boy,” then morphing into the half plea/half threat that anthropomorphizes Aurelius’s penis (imagine the joy in the classroom) should it take advantage: “Because you let it go where it pleases, as it pleases, as much as you wish. When it is out, you are ready.”
My daughter, the lucky student called upon to translate these lines aloud, chatted openly with me after school about whether it would have been too colloquial to describe Aurelius’s penis as “at the ready.”
More here.
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The reason we can gracefully glide on an ice-skating rink or clumsily slip on an icy sidewalk is that the surface of ice is coated by a thin watery layer. Scientists generally agree that this lubricating, liquidlike layer is what makes ice slippery. They disagree, though, about why the layer forms.
If you’re eccentric, you’re all right.” This is how Humphrey Carpenter, biographer of W. H. Auden, Ezra Pound and Benjamin Britten, explained the British character to me as an expatriate South African. It was 1993, and we were sitting at the table in my Oxford kitchen with a microphone between us. My role, as a fellow biographer, was to ask Humphrey questions, and his answers, he hoped, would provide material for an essay. Along with other speakers at a biography conference, he’d agreed to contribute a piece to The Art of Literary Biography (due to be delivered to Oxford University Press), but Humphrey had a problem. His confiding after-dinner talk had brought up the issue of fraught relations with a subject’s family.
Historically, economic elites pushed for
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The persistent rumours that imprisoned Pakistani politician Imran Khan is dead have been crackling away like Lahore firecrackers these past few weeks. They feel less like revelations than the arrival of something long predicted. Or are they just the manifestations of an over-inventive public and mistrusted military?
As AI wheedles its way into our lives,
Dora and I walked
Most current digital doppelgängers, for all practical purposes, are automatons i.e., their behavior is relatively fixed with relatively well defined boundaries. I would argue that this is a feature and not a bug. The fixed nature of the automata is what gives them the feeling of familiarity. Now imagine if we were to take away this assumption and tried to incorporate semblance of some of autonomy in digital doppelgängers. In other words we would be allowing it to evolve and make its own decisions while staying true to the original person that it is based upon. A digital self trained on a person’s emails, messages, journals, and conversations may approximate that person’s style, but approximation is not equivalent to being the same. Over time, the model encounters friction e.g., queries it cannot answer cleanly, emotional tones it cannot reconcile, contradictions it can detect but not resolve. If we let the digital doppelgänger evolve to address these challenges, divergence between the model and the original will start to emerge until one point one is forced to admit that one is no longer dealing with a representation of the same person. What if it not an outsider interlocutor that comes upon this realization but the digital clone itself?
I first discovered the poetry of Weldon Kees in 1976—fifty years ago—while working a summer job in Minneapolis. I came across a selection of his poems in a library anthology. I didn’t recognize his name. I might have skipped over the section had I not noticed in the brief headnote that he had died in San Francisco by leaping off the Golden Gate Bridge. As a Californian in exile, I found that grim and isolated fact intriguing.
The ASPI’s 
I write this from the front of a Columbia classroom in which about 60 first-year college students are taking the final exam for Frontiers of
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