by Rachel Robison-Greene

In the past decade, we have witnessed the fallout from the largely unrestricted spread of bullshit on the internet. People have died or have become seriously ill as result of following bad medical advice that they heard on social media. A recent Healthline study found that, among those who had started a new wellness trend in the past year, 52% of them discovered the trend in question on social media. The same survey found that only 37% of participants viewed their doctor as their most trusted source of medical information. There is a concerning new trend of children self-diagnosing mental disorders, and sometimes even developing symptoms of those disorders that they did not previously exhibit in response to watching the videos. The spread of conspiracy theories on social media has led to people falling deep into rabbit holes, often losing their most valued relationships with friends and family members as a result. People sometimes develop racist, sexist, and xenophobic attitudes toward people they have never met on the basis of internet bullshit. We are staring down the barrel of even fewer restrictions on bullshit in light of Facebook CEO Mark Zuckerberg’s recent announcement that his platforms would no longer include fact checking of questionable posts. The White House has also announced that it will open press briefings up to “new media”—podcasters, YouTube personalities, and social media influencers who need not have any formal training in journalism or commitment to codes of conduct that govern ethical behavior in the field.

Why should we allow this to happen? Should we continue to allow social media influencers to say whatever they want on their platforms? Should we do something to stop the AI powered bots that serve no purpose but to generate chaos from entering and participating in the marketplace of ideas? Belief formation is a social practice and we have social obligations. Shouldn’t we put into place some guardrails to ensure that the practice is healthy for our communities and our children? The public figures who suggest that we ought not to provide any flags on misinformation or context for out of place content ask the rhetorical question “who are we to say what’s true?”. Such a question suggests that there is no reliable process we can use to discern truth from falsity or good faith discourse from bullshit.

The philosopher Harry Frankfurt gives the concept of bullshit a serious treatment in his famous essay On Bullshit. He argues that liars and truth tellers are playing the same game from different sides. Bullshitters are doing something else altogether. They simply don’t care whether what they are saying is true or false. They have an indifference to truth and may have even embraced the conclusion that there is no such thing as truth. Read more »

“lacrimae rerum, “ (the tears of things)
…………………………………….. —Virgil

Everything Cries

Steel’s tears are rust,
trees weep tears of falling leaves,
clouds weep and mourn their loss
sacrificing their billows to the earth as rain,
the earth weeps its carbon into sky,
the sun weeps its energy into earth
and will die someday of the loss,
even stones weep, sobbing their very selves
by force of wind and rain into talus slopes and sand,
their hard tears roll down a mountain’s breast,
on cool mornings rivers weep their mists into atmosphere
joining sun’s tears in a symphony of sight,
the shifting colors of tears,
and my eyes well up,
a spontaneous flood comes and joins
with all the salty tears of things

Jim Culleny
10/8/22

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by Eric Feigenbaum

Like the Montagues and Capulets, the owners of Zam Zam and Victory restaurants – adjacent to one another on Singapore’s North Bridge Road – have been at war for roughly a century. A one-time partnership turned bad led to two families operating restaurants with almost identical menus to operate in parallel.

The fare is simple involving various kinds of roti prata and murtabak – a Malaya-originated dish of giant pratas filled with seasoned chicken, egg and onion – and sometimes other fillings, served with a bowl of curry sauce for dipping. These “greasy spoon” specialties are often served 24 hours a day and are a common “after the bars close” foods.

Channel News Asia – Singapore’s equivalent to CNN –  reported on the judicial proceedings around a mid-2015 crime:

The owner of Zam Zam, 49-year-old Zackeer Abbass Khan, conspired with several others to have Victory restaurant supervisor Liakath Ali Mohamed Ibrahim slashed and scarred.

He had instructed business associate and long-time friend Anwer Ambiya Kadir Maideen, 50, to procure an attack on the victim, offering money to get the job done.

Anwer then hired secret society member Joshua Navindran Surainthiran to slash the victim’s face with a knife on Aug 26, 2015.

The victim was left with a permanent scar, and Joshua was sentenced to six-and-a-half years’ jail and six strokes of the cane in 2016 for several charges in relation to the case.

On March 6, 2020 District Judge Mathew Joseph found both Zackeer and Anwer guilty of conspiring to voluntarily cause grievous hurt.

“Business rivalry is a common occurrence,” Judge Mathew said. “It’s part of everyday commerce and it is to be taken in its stride. In the case of Victory and Zam Zam restaurants, both are household names in Singapore,” the judge said, adding that their rivalry has spanned almost 100 years. “This is not surprising as murtabak is a very popular and tasty food item eaten at all times of the day and night in Singapore.”

On Monday May 11, 2020 Judge Mathew sentenced Zackeer to six years in jail and six strokes of the cane.

In California, a crime like Zackeer’s would likely get three years in prison if charged as a felony and not pled down. That said, it can also be charged as a misdemeanor in which case a year in county jail and $10,000 fine are the ceiling of the sentence that might be imposed. Under no circumstance would corporal punishment be imposed.

Singapore’s approach to criminal justice is one of its most controversial features – at least among its Western friends. Read more »

by Angela Starita

Beauty supply shops are a mostly extinct category of small business. My father owned one in Jersey City, NJ, and I’d think of him every time I went to one on Myrtle Avenue in Brooklyn. It’s the right kind of street for a beauty supply store: a busy, rundown shopping area, with enough oId-timers who aren’t going to order their shampoo and wigs and curlers online. That store was owned by a handsome Korean man in his forties who, like my father, had no real relationship to the business—unsmiling and quiet, dressed in dark sweaters, and waiting behind the register. You could buy something or not. As far as he was concerned, his job was to stock the place, keep it open during the hours posted on the front door, and find a way to withstand overwhelming boredom.

In my father’s case, that lack of engagement led to spells of jumpy, all-in energy alternating with sour disdain. When he could no longer tolerate dedicating years of his life to the vicissitudes of hair trends, his solution—to chuck the store and start a farm—was part of a long, robust tradition, one that increasingly pervades current discourse: when life proves empty, turn to the land. It’s a notion filled with the promise of self-determination and meaning, and while I have my doubts, I fully understand, even applaud, the impulse. To leave his business, my father also needed a highly supportive spouse and serious confidence in his midlife physical stamina. In fact, he had both. What he didn’t have was a community for the farming he wanted to do, no pesticides and coupled crops. He started in 1975, a period when there was no shortage of books and magazines and communal farms advocating the same methods. But my dad was not a hippie nor much of a reader. Having immigrated to the United States in his mid-30’s after spending 10 years in the Italian navy, his psychic orientation faced World War II and Europe, not cooperative supermarkets and Vermont. Though he obsessively followed current national and international politics, he had only the vaguest awareness of anything countercultural. Read more »

by Rafaël Newman

January 16 is the anniversary of the death of Margarete Susman (1872-1966), the German-born Jewish philosopher and poet who survived the Third Reich in Swiss refuge and is buried in Zurich. To mark the occasion this year, Martin Kudla, a lecturer in Jewish intellectual history in Germany, organized a performance of lyrical texts by Susman that had been set to music by various 20th-century composers, and which he had discovered doing archival work, sung by a mezzosoprano with piano accompaniment in a recital held at Goethe University in Frankfurt.

Kudla, whose current research focuses on the vicissitudes of German-Jewish émigrés in Switzerland, is one of the editors of a volume of essays on Susman’s work that appeared last year; the concert also served as the kickoff for a new scholarly project under his aegis: the planned publication of an annotated anthology of the poems by Susman presented that evening in Frankfurt, among others that have served as the inspiration for art songs, supplemented by facsimiles of the original sheet music of their settings and annotated with bibliographical, musicological, and literary-critical commentary.

Virtually all the texts chosen for such settings, by a wide range of mostly unknown artists, come from Susman’s 1901 volume Mein Land, when the philosopher was still quite young, still under the spell of the German 19th century, and still secure enough in the land of her birth to entitle a collection of verse, with romanticized patriotic pathos, “My Country”. And yet, even at this early stage, Susman was already marshaling the critical ideas that would be fully formulated in Das Wesen der modernen deutschen Lyrik (The nature of modern German poetry), her 1910 book-length essay on the construction of a lyrical self in modern poetry, and the role of that constructed self in a reciprocal fashioning of modernity. (My own contribution to Kudla’s 2024 collection—which began life here before being presented at the 2022 conference, in Munich and Zurich, whose proceedings furnished the material for the volume—attends in part to this complex in Susman’s later poetry.)

On the appointed evening for this newest performance of Susman’s work, in the lobby of the Goethe University’s administration building that would serve as a performance space, Kudla introduced the concert with an overview of Susman’s life and work—her birth and assimilated bourgeois upbringing in Hamburg; her struggle, against patriarchal bigotry, to be allowed to study philosophy; her interwar work in Frankfurt; her re-embracing of her Jewish heritage after the Shoah; and her long career and eventual death in Zurich—before turning the stage over to the musicians. Read more »

Partially frozen stream in the mountains of South Tyrol.

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by Brooks Riley

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by William Benzon

It began at The New Republic. I don’t know just why I did it, but I bought a subscription to that magazine the year I went off to college. I remember when Robert Wright was there and I remember when he published Nonzero: The Logic of Human Destiny (1999), which was about cultural evolution, a subject I’d been thinking and publishing about for decades. So I was paying attention when he formed Bloggingheads.tv in the mid-2000s. By that time The New Republic was no longer the magazine I’d originally subscribed to in the Jurassic Era. So I dropped it, even the online straggler version. But I loved Bloggingheads, which was a video webzine where two people would discuss important things.

That’s where I first became aware of John McWhorter, who appeared as a dialog partner with Glenn Loury, whom I also knew from having read an article or three in The New Republic. In time they became known informally as “the Black guys,” or so Loury likes to say. And I became a regular viewer.

Thus it came to pass that one Saturday evening I was attending a party at Rebecca and Kevin’s place on Pacific Avenue. They lived a couple of blocks from me in the Lafayette neighborhood of Jersey City. It’s the oldest neighborhood in the city and is bisected by Communipaw Ave. (According to Local Rumor, Communipaw as once a path the Lenape Indians took to go fishing in the river where, in 1609, they rowed out to meet Henry Hudson, who was looking for the Pacific Ocean. I digress.) I was resting on a couch in Rebecca and Kevin’s front room when I looked up and saw this tall dark stranger. Is that…? I got up: “Are you John McWhorter?” He was.

The world collapsed. The World Wide Web was now in front of me in the flesh in an old neighborhood in Jersey City, only five blocks away from a house where A. Phillip Randolph housed Pullman porters on layover from their train trips, and four blocks from a church that hosted Oscar Wilde in the 19th century, the Black Panthers in the 1960s, and is now home to a Hispanic charismatic Christian congregation. Again, I digress. John and I started talking.

That’s when I learned that, in addition to being a nationally reputed commentator on race matters, McWhorter was also a linguist, with a particular interest and expertise in creoles, a pianist with an affinity for Broadway musicals, and a fan of Looney Tunes. These days he’s most widely known as a columnist for The New York Times, which mercifully hasn’t fallen as far as The New Republic. No matter. Because we’re going to talk about something really important: cartoons.

Caveat: The on-line availability of these cartoons is, shall we say, sporadic. They were available as I’ve indicated at the time I uploaded this article on January 26, 2025. Who knows what may have happened by the time you read it.
Read more »

Oscar Murillo. Manifestation 2019-2020.

Oil, oil stick, graphite, cotton thread on velvet, canvas and linen.

More here and here.

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Hello Readers and Writers,

We received a large number of submissions of sample essays in our search for new columnists. Most of them were excellent and it was very hard deciding whom to accept and whom not to. If you did not get selected, it does not at all mean that we didn’t like what you sent; we just have a limited number of slots and also sometimes we have too many people who want to write about the same subject. Today we welcome to 3QD the following persons, in alphabetical order by last name:

1. Christopher Hall
2. Alizah Holstein
3. Kevin Lively
4. Ken MacVey
5. Priya Malhotra
6. Kyle Munkittrick
7. TJ Price
8. Scott Samuelson
9. Max Sharam
10. Charles Siegel
11. Lei Wang

I will be in touch with all of you in the next days to schedule a start date. The “3QD Magazine” page will be updated with short bios and photographs of the new writers on or before the day they start.

Thanks to all of the people who sent samples of writing to us. It was a pleasure to read them all. Congratulations to the new writers!

Best wishes,

Abbas

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A Matter of Love

The question, “Can you tell me a certain thing
that is a moral fact?” is specious, because
the fact of the “certain thing” exists as a thing
essential to the survival of homo sapiens
in creating civilization.

But civilization is not always up to
the task of protecting its essential,
instead, it hacks with a cleaver at its root
in a fever dream concocted by skilled
charlatans who speak only for themselves
—who strike at the root of what is essential
to being civilized.

So then, the fact of: chaos, or free natural inclination,
becomes the universal mode simply because
morality, when it is accepted as subjective,
will not be universally defined, and we all become
hawks or vultures to each other, feeding on
carrion doves

The question, “Can you tell me a certain thing
that is a moral fact?” —has a confrontational odor
and will most often be posed by those in the
fever dream of overarching self-concern, AKA,
the very source of immorality.

It’s a question whose answer, is not always
an easy act, but is, nevertheless, a choice called

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by Ed Simon

Bad poetry can tell us as much about the art of writing verse as can good poetry. Much can be learned by close reading poetry, which is well written, that has withstood the test of time or for which there is a general critical consensus regarding excellence in terms of technique or influence, impact or experimentation. By reading bad poetry, however, the critic can analyze the multitude of things that can go wrong in verse, the awkward turn of phrase, the strained rhythm and meter, the convoluted rhyme, the tortured metaphor, or the inappropriate image. There is a temptation to understand bad poetry in terms of a variation of Tolstoy’s contention about unhappy families, for there are as many ways to pen a bad lyric as there are ways to write one. Of course, the vast majority of verse ever written hasn’t been good, much less great, though it would be hard to gauge what percentage is truly bad (it might not be unfair to presume that most of it is, though thankfully the bulk of that is inaccessible to the average reader, hidden away in Moleskin or silicon). Most of us have little to gain in reading such work, much less in penning a hatchet job about their (lack of) merits. Which is to say that to close read the sophomore effort as a means to denigrate a poetic attempt is neither pedagogically or ethically sound, but there are some published poems, written in such unthinking and foolish pomposity, that we do gain knowledge by considering them.

Consider the nineteenth-century versifier Julie A. Moore, whom Britanica informs us was an author of “maudlin, often unintentionally hilarious poetry” that was “parodied by many.” Moore falls into a common pitfall of the bad poet, which is to valorize the strictures of form beyond anything else. When an idol is made of structure, you can inadvertently end up with lines like “’Lord Byron’ was an Englishman/A poet I believe, /His first works in old England/Was poorly received./Perhaps it was ‘Lord Byron’s’ fault/And perhaps it was not. His life was full of misfortunes,/Ah, strange was his lot.” Even after we get past the ungrammatical construction in the second-line, and the garbled meter, Moore’s poem about Byron sacrifices syntactic sense in favor of maintaining her plodding rhyming couplets. It’s not that the rhyme scheme itself is bad – after all, John Dryden and Alexander Pope made great use of the same rhyme scheme – but that here it’s a Procrustean bed hacking at meaning rather than limbs. Why does Moore write that Byron was a “poet I believe?” The speaker presumably knows that Byron is indeed a poet, and the verse itself appears allergic to any kind of ironic interpretation. Why the quotation marks around “Lord Byron?” What was “strange” about his lot – we’ve been given no indication. What’s conveyed isn’t mystery or ambiguity, but mere befuddlement, and not on the part of the reader but rather of the poet. Read more »

by Nils Peterson

I. The Best Meal Ever

My mother’s father died during, but not because of, WWII and so she went back to Sweden on the first possible boat – 1946 – September leaving my father, brother, and me to get along. I, soon to be 13, had just started high school.

We’d always walked home from Evergreen Grammar School for lunch which mother made for us, then back again to school. It must have been an hour break and the walk was not short. But now we had to do other. There was a lunch program at the grammar school my brother went to, and there was a cafeteria at my high school. If you ate quickly, you could go out and pitch pennies against the curb of the graceful, curved driveway with the other guys – the trick was to toss your penny up close but not to touch the curb. if you touched it, you lost your coin. If you were closest, you got to pick up all the pennies which would jingle comfortably in your pocket all afternoon. Maybe “Open the Door, Richard” was the big song, at least for me, though lurking somewhere by way of I think by way of Life Magazine was Slim Gaillard’s “Cement Mixer, Putti, Putti.” But I liked a lot of things on Your Hit Parade too.

But some days I would meet my father for lunch. The war had given him a place where his ability could be recognized – and he moved from the maintenance department – his first job with Mack Motors, the company he’d joined to help with the war effort passing the chauffeur’s job, which he liked, over to Victor Nicholson – to night foreman, to day foreman, to plant manager, this from a man who had to leave school at the age I was at that moment and go to work in a factory which then made two thirds of the world’s stick matches.

So I’d walk out of Plainfield High School, up Park avenue to the White Tower and my father would drive down to meet me and we lunched side by side – sitting on stools before the counter with other working men – my father dressed now in a suit – and we’d order hamburgers made of thin slices of ground meat, topped with grilled onions and slices of sour pickle. I don’t think the world, our world, had yet discovered French fries. The bun was soft. I don’t think we added ketchup. Maybe my father did. Fifteen cents they cost, maybe a dime, but the fancy lunch my godmother was cooking for the rich up on Hillside Avenue was not more heavenly than this gritty texture of meat, tart sharp salt taste of pickle, and onions, the onions, a heaven of fried onions –their taste, their smell, the crispness of the ones slightly burned – and sitting there on stools side by side with my father in this lunch heaven of working-male energy, our varied futures waiting outside the door to carry us away when the milky coffee was finished. Read more »