by Emily Ogden

So little cause for carolings

Of such ecstatic sound

Was written on terrestrial things

Afar or nigh around,

That I could think there trembled through

His happy good-night air

Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew

And I was unaware.

—Thomas Hardy, “The Darkling Thrush,” 1900

The year and the century are dying; everything else is already dead. In Thomas Hardy’s “The Darkling Thrush” (1900), it is a dim day in the dimmest part of the year. Sunset will come early; night in Dorset, England, where Hardy lived, will last sixteen hours. A thrush sings, unwarrantably, of “joy illimited.” Why in the world? Or is his reason not of this world? Is he better informed than we? May we hope? Hardy’s subject is the close relationship between our own ignorance and our belief in another’s knowledge. To realize that we don’t know something is to realize that someone else might. To think that what the other knows might be good, might even be divine good, in spite of the earth’s sorry state—well, that is to celebrate Christmas.

“The Darkling Thrush” was first published on December 29, 1900, under the title “By the Century’s Deathbed.” There is a horticultural term for the season Hardy was then living at his house in Dorset, and that we in the Northern hemisphere are living now: the Persephone Days, named for the goddess of spring’s annual rape at Hades’ hands. You are in the Persephone Days, according to gardener Eliot Coleman, when fewer than ten of the twenty-four hours are light. Why ten hours? Because vegetables mostly slow or stop their growth with any less. “The ancient pulse of germ and birth / [is] shrunken hard and dry,” as Hardy wrote. Plenty of vegetables are cold tolerant. I have kale plants in my front yard now that can withstand a 10º F night. Darkness, however, stunts them. The problem winter poses for our survival is not the freezing of water. It’s the freezing of time. I’ll eat only what reaches maturity before the annual darkness comes.

Or I can always go to Whole Foods. Shopping and other glamours flurry about in the foreground these dark days, distracting us from Sol’s deadly swing toward Capricorn. Black Friday roughly coincides with the start of the Persephone Days; in Norfolk, Virginia (36.8º N latitude), they coincide exactly. Black Friday is itself a kind of heretical outgrowth from Advent, a time of holy anticipation; some of us confusedly observe them both by receiving toy catalogs, letting ourselves buy cheese balls from festive displays, and growing tired of ecstatic carolings. Call it Advert. If you were in America four weeks ago, you may have found the retail festival the most noticeable of the three, followed by the liturgical holiday, with the horticultural one coming in a distant third, if at all. But that’s the whole point of the first two: to be noticeable. So as not to notice the other thing. The very intensity of the annual danse macabre shows we have not entirely forgotten our fear of the dark. Read more »

by Mary Hrovat

In 2018, Earth picked up about 40,000 metric tons of interplanetary material, mostly dust, much of it from comets. Earth lost around 96,250 metric tons of hydrogen and helium, the lightest elements, which escaped to outer space. Roughly 505,000 cubic kilometers of water fell on Earth’s surface as rain, snow, or other types of precipitation. Bristlecone pines, which can live for millennia, each gained perhaps a hundredth of an inch in diameter. Countless mayflies came and went. As of this writing, more than one hundred thirty-six million people were born in 2018, and more than fifty-seven million died.

Tidal interactions are very slowly increasing the distance between Earth and the moon, which ended 2018 about 3.8 centimeters further apart than they were at the beginning. As a consequence, Earth is now rotating slightly more slowly; the day is a tiny fraction of a second longer. Earth and the sun are also creeping apart, by around 1.5 centimeters per year, although the effect of tidal interactions is very small. Most of the change is due to changes in the sun’s gravitational pull as it converts some of its mass into energy by nuclear fusion.

The entire solar system traveled roughly 7.25 billion kilometers in its orbit about the center of the Milky Way. This vast distance, however, is only about 1/230,000,000th of the entire orbit.

In 2018, there were two lunar eclipses and three partial solar eclipses, each a step in the long gravitational dance making up the roughly 18-year saros cycle. During one saros cycle, eclipses with particular characteristics (partial, total, annular) and a specific Earth–Moon–Sun geometry occur in a predictable sequence; at the end, the whole thing starts again. This pattern has been repeating for much longer than humans have been around to see it.

I like knowing these bits of cosmic context because they link me to a larger world. I can echo the words of Ptolemy: “Mortal as I am, I know that I am born for a day. But when I follow at my pleasure the serried multitude of the stars in their circular course, my feet no longer touch the earth.” Read more »

by Joshua Wilbur 

In college, I took a course on American poetry, but I missed the class on Robert Frost. To be honest, I slept straight through it. That particular winter was brutally cold. I lived in a worn-out house some fifteen minutes from campus, and the water heater in the basement was broken. So I skipped the ice-cold shower at 8AM, the wet walk through a foot of snow, and the monotone reading of a few representative poems by a long-tenured professor. I stayed in my warm bed, wrapped up in the comforter.

From that morning until only a few weeks ago, my mental image of Robert Frost was that of a grey-haired, folksy New Englander who wrote modest poems about country life. I knew “The Road Not Taken,” though I didn’t understand it.  I was familiar with a handful of other titles— “Fire and Ice,” “Mending Wall,” “Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening”— but I can’t say if I had ever really read these poems. If so, they hardly made an impression on me. In short, I had Frost figured as a quaint poet of nature, a leftover from 19th Century America.

I now realize that I was wonderfully mistaken, that Robert Frost isn’t what he seems, and that the fundamental experience of reading Frost is discovering that the poems aren’t what they seem. Harold Bloom has called Frost a “trickster and a mischief maker.” In The New Yorker,  Joshua Rothman describes Frost’s “poetic sleight of hand,” his characteristic tendency for deception. In his own words, Frost considered poetry “the one permissible way of saying one thing and meaning another.” For nearly fifty years, the poet hid ulterior meanings behind plain language. Read more »

by Jeroen Bouterse

It is simultaneously awkward and exciting to read about your own consciously and responsibly adopted beliefs as something to be anatomized. It is also something atheists are not always much disposed to. On the contrary, perhaps: many forms of atheism present themselves as a consequence of free thought, of emancipation from tradition. The internal logic of their arguments prescribes that while religious beliefs, being non-rational, are in need of cultural or psychological explanation, atheism is really just what you will gravitate towards once you finally start thinking. One question here will be whether this is necessarily the case.

Most Atheists Just Don’t Get It

To the extent that what I just said is a recognizable self-description, we deserve the injustice that John Gray does to us in his Seven Types of Atheism (2018). Of the seven types Gray distinguishes, only two – its more withdrawn, Epicurean or mystical manifestations – get a positive review. One other version (‘God-haters’) is interesting but also confused, hardly atheistic, and of course evil. The remaining four types are primarily variations upon the theme of the naive progressivist: people who think they have left behind monotheistic religion, but who have in fact replaced it with a new God: humanity, or some proxy to humanity – science, or progress, or Enlightenment, or secular political utopia.

Idolizing or deifying something while claiming to be an atheist requires some self-delusion, according to Gray, and he readily psychologizes this phenomenon. Atheists’ understanding of religion has been “unthinkingly” inherited from monotheism (5); new atheists are “unwitting disciplines” of Comte’s positivism (11); twenty-first-century atheists are “unthinking liberals” (20); secular thinkers have continued to try to harmonize Jewish and Greek views of the world “without knowing what they are doing” (29).

A charitable reading of this is that Gray is not pointing out lack of cognitive capacity, but lack of historical awareness. Read more »

by Gabrielle C. Durham

Certain phrases choke us with their ubiquity at some point:

• “Just do it.” (Nike)
• “Let’s get ready to rumble!” (Sports announcer Michael Buffer)
• “That’s hot.” (Paris Hilton)
• “Hasta la vista, baby.” (“Terminator 2: Judgment Day,” as delivered by Arnold Schwarzenegger)

Did you know these have all been trademarked? This means that you are supposed to have the owner’s permission to use any one of these phrases. These sentences were so popular at some time in history that their crafters applied to trademark and thereby protect the specific saying.

A trademark is any name, symbol, figure, letter, word, mark (such as the Nike Swoosh), or other device that is used by a manufacturer or a merchant to identify and promote a specific good or service and differentiate it from other similar goods or services from a competing manufacturer or dealer. Once you register a trademark, it is yours. You own it. In the United States, it is registered with the Patent and Trademark Office and only you can enjoy the exclusive use of your trademark. The word “trademark” was first recorded in the mid-16th century. (Property rights go way back in law; you could make the argument that they are the reason that laws arose.) Read more »

by Thomas O’Dwyer

A pretty doll in a box at the foot of the bed – what could make a better Christmas morning for a little girl?

“Aaw, she’s so pretty.” The doll promised happy days to come – hair to brush and style, outfits to make and match, private chats to be had. Good chats, with someone who only listened, never talked. A doll was the essence of childhood for millions of young girls over centuries, even millennia. A toy became a baby, a little sister or even a “little me”. The doll was a simple thing until the middle of the last century but alas, it is no longer, like childhood itself.

“You can’t find toys like that anymore,” say the oldsters about their memories of playthings. In reality, grumbling adults are indifferent to such things, unless they are collectors. To children, toys and dolls are as new and exciting as they have ever been. We may think modern dolls have morphed into figures of complexity, controversy and even creepiness. They have become trend setters, celebrities and psychotic misfits – analysed, criticised, rarely praised. Are dolls still loved? Are they innocent companions – or sexist props, propagandists for adulthood, training aids for womanhood?

It is narcissistic, this human urge to fashion models of ourselves, and it’s quite ancient. In prehistory, dolls represented some aspect of religion. Gods themselves are invisible dolls, fashioned in the human image and likeness. Early dolls were fetishes. The origin of this word was in sorcery, charms and spells, exposing the purpose of dolls. The fetish differs from an idol in that it is worshipped for itself, not as a representative of an invisible spirit. Read more »

by Max Sirak

As we approach the end of the year, it’s that time again. Not to flip the page to the next month, but to buy a new calendar. (Who am I kidding? It’s probably only me and your grandmother who still uses paper wall calendars…) And also to reflect. 

I learned a lot in 2018. I learned about how the genealogy of Batman can be traced to Alexander Dumas. I learned about the importance of taking ownership of our emotional reactions. But, by far, the most important thing I learned was the importance of not growing up.

Say What?

It’s not that I have anything against being an adult. Working, making money, buying stuff, and maybe owning the place you live are all fine and good, I guess. But after doing these things for a while, I realized I was feeling pretty empty inside.

These things, which mean so much to so many and most seem to organize their lives around, didn’t do it for me. They didn’t satisfy me. And the more I tried to fake it, the more I tried to buy in and force myself to care about these things that practically everyone else seemed to be completely absorbed in – the worse I felt.

Until one night, toward the beginning of September, when I stumbled back into joy. Read more »

by Christopher Bacas

Guinea and Redhead were part of a large food chain. Beyond campus’ freshly-baked sidewalks, a Cowboy Mafia ferried contraband from the south. They landed small prop planes on ranch land outside of town, cut powder with dental anesthetics and broke up the bales. Their wares clumped on our cafeteria trays and glinted in tiny screw-top bottles. The capo, a local big-hat business man,who ran a palatial kicker-dance hall and owned the ranch. That legit business and his crew’s discipline kept them out of jail. Maybe a hat full of cash in the bargain.

My Trumpet buddy shared an apartment in a low-rise student complex. Trumpet’s Roomie was in with the Cowboys. I found out when I made a visit. From outside, the shitty drywall construction leaked sound and odors like a window screen. Inside, eucalyptus gas wrapped around my head. I knew Roomie a little. He didn’t seem to remember. Wide-eyed, fidgeting, he appraised me.

“You cool?”

I reckoned I was. In his bedroom, he kicked aside some laundry and slid open a door. On the floor, a bulging black Hefty bag yawned. Inside, Tolkein magic: lichen grown thigh-deep, whispering in shadow. Despite mind-expanding potential, there was no joy in babysitting a large ingot of fools’ gold. Read more »

by Emrys Westacott

Philosophers are supposed to ask Big Questions. The Big Questions is the title of a popular introduction to philosophy and of a long-running BBC programme in which people discuss their ethical and religious perspectives. But since we philosophers, following in the footsteps of Socrates, claim to practice critical thinking, it behooves us to ask whether Big Questions are a good idea.

It’s not easy to say precisely what makes a question big; but we can at least give a few examples form the history of philosophy so that we have some idea what we’re talking about:

• What is the meaning of life?
• What is the nature of ultimate reality?
• What is Being?
• Is there a god?
• Is there some sort of cosmic justice?
• What is the self ?
• Does a person’s self (mind, soul) persist after death?
• Do we have free will?
• Why be moral?
• What is the good life for a human being?
• What are the foundations of our knowledge?
• What are the limits to what we can know?
• What is truth?
• What is the good?
• What is justice?
• What is virtue?
• What is beauty?
• What is life?
• Why is there something rather than nothing?

In modern times such questions have met with various fates. The cultural ascendancy of natural science was accompanied by skepticism toward what Kant calls “speculative metaphysics.” Simply put, we can’t have knowledge of matters that lie beyond what we can possibly experience. So we can’t know if there is a god, or if we have immortal souls, or if there is cosmic justice. In his Critique of Pure Reason (1781) Kant claimed that in denying knowledge he was “making room for faith.” Inevitably, though, faith in God, the soul and the afterlife has declined dramatically since Kant’s time, especially among intellectuals. There are virtually no articles published in philosophy journals today that treat the existence of God or the immortality of the soul as live issues. Science does not explicitly teach us that there is no God and no heaven, any more than it teaches us that there are no fairies or vampires. But the default attitude of most professional philosophers today is that in such matters the absence of evidence amounts to evidence of absence. Read more »

by Abigail Akavia

Tuesday, December 4th, was a day of widespread women’s protests against gender-based violence in Israel. A general women’s strike was declared, which garnered the support of governmental departments, municipalities, unions and major corporations. Demonstrations were held across the country: roads were blocked; water in public fountains was dyed red; at Habima Square in Tel Aviv, an installation of red shoes inspired by the work of Mexican artist Elina Chauvet commemorated victims of domestic violence. The principal event was a mass rally in Tel Aviv Rabin’s Square. The vigils, protests, and marches, organized by dozens of feminist groups led by the Red Flag Coalition, gained an all-encompassing female empowerment vibe à la worldwide women’s marches, pussy riots, and the MeToo movement. The demonstrations were aimed specifically against the government’s with regard to the prevention of domestic violence, and its neglect to finance a multi-departmental program to address the issue—a program it had already principally approved a year ago.

A mere week afterwards, an honorary prize for “contribution to Israeli song” was given at the Knesset, the seat of Israeli parliament, to Eyal Golan. Golan, an immensely popular singer and performer, was investigated four years ago for (allegedly) repeatedly prostituting minor girls, with the help of his father. The criminal case against both of them was closed for “lack of evidence.” Golan was not the sole recipient of the prize, but his presence at the Knesset was controversial and sparked a protest of its own. (Some of the other prize recipients chose to absent themselves.) Though the prize and the ceremony were the initiative of one Knesset member and not an official event of the parliament, the Knesset Chairman is authorized to prevent such a ceremony from taking place. The fact that he didn’t, and that the Knesset as an institution—if not officially then at least by proxy—celebrated a man who casually abused girls, sends a perverted, corrupt message to Israeli women and the public at large. It proves the necessity of women’s disruptive activism in Israel today and, at once, its limited pragmatic effect so far. Read more »

by Joan Harvey                                                                                                                                                        

When the air becomes uraneous

We will all go simultaneous

Yes, we all will go together

When we all go together

Yes we all will go together when we go

—Tom Lehrer, “We Will All Go Together When We Go”

You know what uranium is, right? It’s this thing called nuclear weapons. And other things. Like lots of things are done with uranium. Including some bad things.

—Donald J. Trump

The tide has turned, the Democrats have the House, Mueller showers us with gifts each day, hope lurches upward, though past trauma urges us to perpetually rein it in. We’re glued to the news, good or bad, to a level of destruction, corruption, drama, and scandal so great, it’s impossible to keep up with even a small part of it. We can’t process it all; we can barely find effective ways to act besides logging in with the Resistance, enjoying clever tweets, and imbibing good quantities of gin.

It’s hard to argue with Yuval Harari that the three main threats to our existence are climate change, artificial intelligence (and with it biotechnology), and nuclear war. And yet for most of us, saving some shreds of democracy (and decency) come first. Climate change certainly is on our minds, in the news every day, present to us as we watch so many people and animals suffer and homes and habitats destroyed. Then there’s AI, newest of the threats, still kind of sci-fi and sexy, and because we all work with computers and also have watched Facebook turn into a monster, the dangers of AI also do not feel so distant. But, left behind, neglected, is the oldest of these three manmade megathreats to the world, the peril of nuclear war. It’s a danger that has not diminished over time and is in actuality increasing. But even though it has the potential to be the most immediately destructive, it can feel the most remote.

I’m one of the few people who grew up on a homesite with a bomb shelter, a dark cold cave dug into a hill on my parents’ property. There may still be canned goods in there from the ‘60s, for all I know. Read more »

by Samia Altaf

Mandra health center, outside Islamabad, on this spring morning, without the cacophony and confusion of health centers in the city, was the picture of serenity. An emaciated woman of indeterminate age sits coughing in the corridor, in a chair that bears the logo of the United States Agency for International Development, next to a little girl with dry shoulder length hair and yellow eyes, one bare foot resting upon the other. I make a provisional diagnosis—pulmonary tuberculosis for the woman, viral hepatitis for the girl, both diseases endemic in Pakistan.

In a room cluttered with furniture and people, its walls lined with the ubiquitous portrait of the Quaid-e-Azam, a map of district Gujjar Khan and a couple of framed certificates whose writing is mostly illegible except for the USAID logo, the Medical Officer is examining patients. He nods to me while still attached to his stethoscope the other end of which rests on the chest of a skinny young man sitting on a stool holding up his shirt to expose his protruding Christ-like ribs. A man and a woman stand waiting calmly for their turn on the stool.

Mandra center, part of the government’s health service system that caters to the medical needs of almost 75 percent of Pakistan’s population, is one of the 32 hospitals upgraded by USAID for a total of $92 million to improve emergency maternal neonatal and child health services under a project called PAIMAN (Pakistan Initiative for Mothers and Newborns). John Snow Inc. implemented it from 2005 to 2011.

USAID funded repairs, provided surgical equipment, trained staff, and built a vaccination room with refrigerator to store vaccines. It provided benches and white boards for the meeting room where visiting US CODELS (Congressional Delegations) and USAID officials were briefed about the project. Mrs. Munter, the US ambassador’s wife, “sat here” said the medical officer pointing to a chair. “That was such a good time,” he remarks as we walk around. “See this corridor,“ he says, pointing up and down, “renovated by USAID. The walls, the floor, the tiles , the furniture, these chairs. They also equipped the operating room for C-sections and other obstetrical surgeries.” He begins to count off the equipment on his fingers—“special operating table, shadow-less lights, sonogram, sterilizer…and a special vaccination room. Come I will show you.” Read more »