A new pedestrian bridge across the river Eisack in Franzensfeste, South Tyrol.

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by David Winner

Jessie Buckley, an incredible actress, breathes life into the role of Shakespeare’s wife, Agnes, in Hamnet. Like others in the film, her face is always a little dirty (Chloé Zhao, the director, doesn’t fall for the trap of giving characters in dirty times perfectly clean skin), but I was frustrated by her character, which struck me as an odd fusion of romanticized gender essentialism and wild irrationality. Though I (a middle-aged cis male living in Brooklyn, New York, in the present day) could not be further from the Elizabethan woods where the essence of Agnes’s character originated, I still found myself resisting the film’s portrayal of her. Spoiler-alert, this writing reveals the ending.

Born (rumor has it) from a wood witch’s womb, Agnes mixes odd herbs together to create tinctures to heal wounds and reduce fevers. She (and this is a nice touch) greets young William’s desire to “handfast” with her by jumping past the wedding to the wedding night and having sex with him animalistically in nearly plain view. And she gives birth by herself in the woods, real wild-woman style. Her character seems ever wise and in touch with nature, her feelings and instincts spiritually sacrosanct and nearly unassailable—a vision of femininity pretty impossible, I would imagine, for any actual woman to live up to.

Her prophecies don’t always seem correct, however. She predicts a future for her son working on plays with William, though he ends up dying, still a child, when he takes the pestilence about to kill his sister onto himself—a brother bravely and spiritually sacrificing himself to save his sister.

Before her son’s death, Agnes encourages Shakespeare (who is sweet and kind of happy-go-lucky) to go to London to follow his passion. She declines his invitation to move there with the family, uncomfortable, I would imagine, in the large, alienating city. Each time William visits Stratford and leaves to return to London, there is tremendous sadness, which reflects—or so I imagine—not just their upcoming separation but the fragility of those times, when the smallest illness, in a time of plague, was likely to carry someone off. Read more »

by Philip Graham

I’m still amazed that Kipling Knox was my student during the mid-to late 1980s, the earliest days of my teaching at the University of Illinois. A more-than-promising creative writing undergraduate student, he then went on to live his professional life in the tech and editing worlds before embarking on a literary career that so far has produced two excellent books—a story collection and a novel—set in the Illinois landscape where he grew up. A landscape also filled with actual ghosts, a popular condition of so much imaginative writing set in the Midwest. My own latest novel has a dance card filled with ghosts, so it was inevitable that Kip and I would eventually sit down and compare notes. Another point of comparison has been our individual decisions to explore the possibilities of independent publishing and the unexpected avenues such a decision can lead authors in search of autonomy. It seems we had a lot of say, and so have divided our chat into two digestible parts.

Philip Graham: In the past three years you’ve published two beautifully-written works of fiction. In 2022, Under the Moon in Illinois, and at the end of 2025, How to Love in a World Like This. Both books are set—largely—in a Midwestern town that you’ve conjured up and call Middling, Illinois. And so they seem to be a part of a larger—and still growing?—world-building enterprise of fiction.

Kipling Knox: Thanks, Philip. Yes, that’s true—both books share a world with common characters. But that wasn’t my original intent. Between publishing these two, I started two other novels, with different settings. I put them both aside because I found myself drawn back to Middling. The story “Downriver,” in particular, ended so ambiguously that I was curious to know what would happen to its characters, Morgan and Arthur, and how their mystery would play out. It’s a difficult trade-off—sticking with one fictional world versus exploring others. When you write a book, you are deliberately not writing others, and there can be a sense of loss in that. But it’s very gratifying to explore a world you’ve built more deeply. I think of how a drop of ocean water contains millions of microorganisms, each with their own story, in a sense. So the world of Middling County (and also, in my second book, Chicago) has infinite potential for stories!

As I consider my next project, I do feel very committed to the American Midwest. Midwestern people and culture fascinate me. I think this is partly because Midwesterners are so often unburdened by a sense of superiority. We’re always trying to prove ourselves, politely. This is a gross generalization, of course, but I think it’s grounded in truth. These qualities make Midwestern characters nuanced and earnest and, hopefully, a little comical. It also makes for rich social satire—I think of midwestern-born authors like Mark Twain, Kurt Vonnegut, and George Saunders. Read more »

by Brooks Riley

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Sughra Raza. Finding Color. Boston, January, 2026.

Digital photograph.

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by William Benzon

The digital computer emerged out of devices that were built during World War II for cracking codes and calculating artillery tables. Almost as soon as the computer came into existence people were thinking about using it for chess and language. Alan Turing developed Turochamp, an algorithm for playing chess in 1948. Though that algorithm was never implemented, chess became a central topic of AI research, so much so that John McCarthy, who coined the phrase, “artificial intelligence,” would eventually write an article entitled “Chess as the Drosophila of AI.” In 1949 Warren Weaver, then with the Rockefeller Foundation, wrote a memo proposing machine translation. The first public demonstration of machine translation took place in 1954 at the IBM head office in New York and involved 60 Russian sentences.

These two lines of research differed on a philosophical level. AI was a full-on assault on human intelligence. Chess was regarded as the apogee of human intelligence. If we could program a computer to play chess at a championship level, we could program a computer to do anything a human can do. That’s what researchers believed. That’s why chess was so important as a domain of research.

The goal of machine translation was more modest: the reliable translation of documents in one natural language (e.g. Russian) into another natural language (e.g. English). The research programs were correspondingly different and wouldn’t merge/collide until the 1970s with the Speech Understanding Project sponsored by ARPA (the Advanced Research Projects Agency of the Defense Department, now simply DARPA, Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency).

However, I do not intend to recount the history of research in these two areas. As I said, my aim is more philosophical. I’m interested in the radically different nature that these two cases present for AI research. To that end I want to begin by discussing the radically different geometric footprints presented by chess and natural language. With that ground under our feet we can go on to more abstract matters.

Read more »

When Bach was a Busker in Brandenburg

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by Christopher Hall

The problem with teleological thinking as far as authoritarianism goes is that we can delude ourselves into believing that, given that we are not in an Orwellian State, and it looks unlikely that we’re going to get there, some of the current kvetching about the current situation may appear to be overblown. Trump, in other words, at some point is going to go away. He is not likely to succeed in cancelling the midterms (although plenty of denial of voters’ rights is probable), and a third term for him seems equally unlikely. When I look at the future, I do envision some kind of American Restoration is a likely scenario, since it seems that there is no one with Trump’s mastery of a bizarre sort of charisma standing on the deck to take his place (J. D. Vance certainly doesn’t have it). A moderate will take over, there will be much reference to norms and standards and, perhaps, if that moderate is a Democrat, some desultory prosecutions. But that restoration will not be, cannot ever be, complete. We know something has permanently changed. The question for us is where that leaves us, and Liberal Capitalist Democracies, now.

As Orwell’s quote – ““The Party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and ears. It was their final, most essential command.” – floated around the internet (including this site) in the days and weeks after the murders of Renee Good and Alex Pretti, I did worry a bit that, if we were adopting Orwell as our model of political disaster, we may be a bit off the mark. The “command” issued from the Trump administration to “unsee” what we all clearly saw in the videos of the murders was shambolic in a way no directive from the Ministry of Truth could ever be. But that may have been the point; don’t worry that people are going to mock your attempt to control the narrative. Controlling what people see and say isn’t the point – flooding the zone with shit is. Trump’s Ministry of Bullshit is not concerned that many, perhaps most, see through everything he does. He is concerned that enough do not or will not. I’ve written before that there is a difference between control by enforcing silence and control by encouraging noise. What if the hybrid model is the actual goal – to empty out the core of democracy just enough so that the day-to-day experience of it is not substantially changed – and yet, everything is irrevocably different? Our dystopian visions tend to be of the absolute sort, but absolutism is not particularly helpful at the present moment – and we should hope it doesn’t become so.

The Orwellian directive to unsee is a top-down phenomenon, and the penalties for disobedience severe. An alternative of sorts can be found in  China Miéville’s 2009 speculative fiction novel, The City & The City. Read more »

by Priya Malhotra

We stand in front of a painting and extol its brilliance. We listen to a piece of music and call it genius. We watch a film and admire its evocativeness. We hold a beautifully designed object and marvel at its simplicity. What we don’t see — what we almost never ask about — are the versions that came before.

The sketch that didn’t work. The canvas painted over. The idea abandoned halfway through. The sculpture that cracked. The notes in the margin that were crossed out.

Art, when we encounter it publicly, looks certain. But art is made in uncertainty.

That’s the simple but powerful idea behind Moving Archives, an exhibition opening this February at Bikaner House in Delhi, curated by Ranjita Chaney and Ruchika Soi. Instead of focusing only on finished works, the show turns toward the material around them — drafts, drawings, scripts, research, documentation. It asks a very basic question: What happens to the process once the product is done?

Because process doesn’t disappear. It just goes out of sight. Think about a painter in a studio. The final canvas might look confident and deliberate. But underneath it are layers — earlier compositions, colors tried and rejected, shapes adjusted and corrected. There are sketchbooks filled with studies that never left the room. There are experiments that didn’t succeed. None of that shows up in the gallery label. Yet without it, the final painting would not exist.

The same is true in other fields. Writers produce draft after draft before a novel feels right. Musicians test melodies and rhythms before a song settles into place. Filmmakers shoot more than they use and shape the story in the edit. Designers build prototypes that wobble, collapse, or feel wrong before landing on the object we admire.

Across disciplines, we are used to seeing the polished result. We are not used to seeing the struggle. Maybe that’s because we like the idea of mastery. We like to imagine that great art arrives fully formed. It’s comforting. It makes genius feel clean.

But creation is rarely clean. It is messy. It involves doubt. It requires throwing things away.

And that is where this exhibition becomes interesting — not just for the art world, but for anyone who has ever tried to make something. Read more »

by Jim Hanas

Any sufficiently advanced technology might be indistinguishable from magic, as Arthur C. Clarke said, but even small advances–if well-placed–can seem miraculous. I remember the first time I took an Uber, after years of fumbling in the backs of yellow cabs with balled up bills and misplaced credit cards. The driver stopped at my destination. “What happens now?” I asked. His answer surprised and delighted me. “You get out,” he said.

Thirty years ago a website appeared that, in the early days of “the graphical portion of the Internet”–as the New York Times then faithfully called the World Wide Web upon first occurrence–seemed like such a miracle. I am speaking, of course, of the Oracle of Bacon, the site inspired by the parlor game “Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon.” The story of the Oracle, which is maintained to this day, is–in many ways–the history of the consumer Internet in brief. It features a meme, virality, consumer delight, and unintended consequences–but more on those later.

The Oracle is based on a game invented by college students in 1994. An early message board thread titled “Kevin Bacon is the Center of the Universe” challenged readers to find the shortest path between Kevin Bacon and other  actors via chains of movies they had appeared in together. The post reported that the game’s initial prompt had “received 80 responses in just over a week” (!) at the University of Virginia, though it was three students at Albright College in Pennsylvania that codified the game–and its benchmark–under the name “Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon,” after the 1993 movie based on the John Guare play of the same name. A book followed in 1996, and–were it not for the contemporaneous explosion of the World Wide Web–the story might have ended there. Read more »

by Ken MacVey

Several years ago I was the moderator of a bar association debate between John Eastman, then dean of Chapman University School of  Law, and a dean of another law school. The topic was the Constitution and religion. At one point Eastman argued that the promotion of religious teachings in public school classrooms was backed by the US Constitution. In doing so he appealed to the audience: didn’t they all have the Ten Commandments posted in their classrooms when growing up? Most looked puzzled or shook their heads. No one nodded or said yes. Eastman appeared to have failed to convince anyone of his novel take on the Constitution.

Eastman since has resigned as dean of Chapman Law School and has faced criminal charges and disbarment proceedings regarding his role as a lawyer in the attempted overthrow of the 2020  presidential election that Trump lost. California State Bar judges have recommended Eastman be permanently disbarred, a recommendation that is now  pending before the California Supreme Court. But one of Eastman’s  constitutional views that once seemed far-fetched may very well be upheld by one court and ultimately the Supreme Court. The Fifth Circuit US Court of Appeals  in January heard oral arguments on challenges to statutes in Texas and Louisiana that require displaying the Ten Commandments in every public school classroom in their respective states. By some accounts  the oral argument by the challengers was not well received.

Many think it is likely the Fifth Circuit will uphold the constitutionality of the Texas or the Louisiana statute, or both, and that ultimately the matter could be taken up by the Supreme Court. Several  Supreme Court justices could  be very receptive to their constitutionality despite a 1980 Supreme Court precedent finding mandatory classroom displays of the Ten Commandments unconstitutional. If the Fifth Circuit or the Supreme Court upholds their constitutionality, almost certainly it will be based on an “originalist” interpretation of the Constitution. Read more »

by Lei Wang

My trick for falling asleep is pretending I actually have to get up to do something else. 

I imagine that the alarm has just rung, the obligation must be borne—any moment now, I must leave the cocoon to pack for my early flight or send urgent essay feedback—but I am deliciously malingering in bed.

I fall asleep while distracting myself from feeling the need to fall asleep, instead treating sleep as a rebellious act. This psychology is also how I have experienced the best writing in my life on silent meditation retreats where I snuck in contraband notebooks—writing as a forbidden act—and the best meditation and naps at writing residencies where I’m afraid the secret residency police will catch me not writing.

The only other trick I have for falling asleep is fully accepting the awakeness. But they are actually just one trick, the trick of not trying to do the thing I think I am supposed to be doing. This is also the secret to meditation, by the way, and sex. One of my favorite meditations, via Adyashanti, is the No Idea meditation: how would you meditate, how would you write or love or charm someone, if you had no idea what you were supposed to be doing? And thus couldn’t fail?

Once, forgetting my own tricks and trying very hard to be sexy to someone, I was accidentally funny in a way I have always wanted to be, but maybe only to myself. I made witticism after witticism, nervous joke after joke. Puns leapt into my head one after the other, while I completely left my body. I did not seduce the intended.

Emily Dickinson writes:

Tell all the truth but tell it slant—
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth’s superb surprise
As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind—

These circuitous truths apply to ourselves as well as to others—we must sometimes hide our own truths from ourselves, in order to live them. As every Joan Didion fan knows, this applies to writing. Read more »

I decided to use this week’s photograph to recommend a book rather than post a visually interesting image as I usually try to do. So here’s a low-resolution self-portrait by webcam showing a book which I have found to be an extremely clear-headed discussion of a lot of issues swirling around in the anxiety induced by the presence of the machine intelligences now among us. No doubt I have a somewhat biased view since the author, Blaise Agüera y Arcas, confirms some of my own independent thinking about these issues but I think many people, especially those who are unsure of the relationship between how machine learning works and how our brains work, will find it profitable to go through the detailed explanations provided here. It is not “light” reading by any means but certainly rewards attentive study. You can find more information about the book here and about the author here. And I highly recommend that you read it.

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