by Mike Bendzela

By “worm” I mean not earthworm but larva of the infamous lepidopteran, Cydia pomonella, or codling moth. The pom in its species names comes from the Latin root “pomum,” meaning “fruit,” particularly the apple (which is why they’re called pome fruits), wherein you’ll find this worm. It’s the archetypal worm inside the archetypal apple, the one Eve ate. (Not. The Hebrew word in Genesis, something like peri, just means “fruit.” No apple is mentioned. And please, give the mother of all living a break.)

The imperative Let in the title is a bit rich, given that this worm does not need your permission to decimate the core: It will do so anyhow, once you have let it in. Short of destroying the apple, there is nothing you can do about it.

This worm is quite the animal. In spite of humanity’s scorched earth campaign against it in orchards worldwide, this worm persists. There is great irony in this: Persistence proceeds not just from chemical resistance but from the simple fact that, in addition to poisoning this worm, we continually feed it. It basks in our attentions, however antithetical. Plant an orchard, it is there. In the presence of so much fruit, the fruit-eater becomes, well, fruitful.

We’re quite chummy with this worm in our tiny northern New England grove. Decades (which seem centuries) ago, we planted a few dozen heritage seedlings and counted on our organic virtue to see us through seasons of pruning and growth, to autumns of cider and pies. We patrolled the orchard with backpack sprayers full of kaolin clay mix (basically diluted kitty litter) hoping to impede and disrupt the worm’s feeding. Seeing holes in fruit, we immediately zapped them. To no effect.

It took some time and training to learn that prophylaxis is key. Read more »

by Steve Szilagyi

Andreas Grüntzig’s plane blew a 38-foot-wide crater in the Georgia dirt where it crashed. Investigators needed several days to collect and identify the remains of the famous physician, his second wife, Margaret, and their two Irish setters, Gin and Tonic. People who write about Grüntzig after his death compare him to a shooting star, a comet, or the incautiously winged Icarus. This is to be expected when the subject is a high-flying medical hero who dies hitting the earth at an estimated 300 miles per hour.

The journal Cardiology called Grüntzig “the father of modern cardiology.” His story is told in engrossing detail in David Monagan’s book Journey into the Heart, whose introduction declares, “Grüntzig, once derided as another charlatan, changed the course of medicine … His work inspired an arc of discovery that has never stopped rising.”

Grüntzig invented balloon angioplasty, today one of the most commonly performed complex medical procedures. The technique has been adapted for use throughout the body, but its marquee application is the treatment of coronary artery disease, a leading cause of death and disability worldwide.

Balloon angioplasty is not an obvious idea. A catheter (thin, flexible wire) with a small, deflated balloon at its tip is inserted into the target artery and guided to the site of the blockage. Once in place, the balloon is inflated, compressing the plaque against the artery walls and restoring blood flow.

If not for Grüntzig, there is no guarantee balloon angioplasty would ever have happened. He alone, it seems, had the vision to imagine the device, the diligence to build it, and most crucially, the power of personality to win over a hostile and skeptical medical world. Read more »

by Carol A Westbrook

The big blue behemoth of a garbage truck came barreling toward me. I knew I was going to die. I was in the middle of an intersection about to make a left turn. One moment the intersection had been clear, with the truck about a half mile distant.

In the next moment, the truck had sped up and was almost on top of me. I couldn’t turn in any direction without driving into traffic. I had about three seconds left to live…

This day, possibly the last day of my life, started out as a normal spring day in April. My husband, Rick, and I had errands to run in Michigan City. We were driving our cars in tandem to the tire store, so we could drop his car off for new tires and drive home together. He was in front of me and made the left turn; I followed. As I explained above, I was caught in the intersection with no place to turn.

I was about to be hit by a truck, and there was a good chance it would kill me.

I didn’t panic. I was not afraid to die. I just relaxed and waited for the end.

Time moved slowly. I was never unconscious, but I have amnesia for a good part of the event. The car was struck on the left side, which triggered the left side airbags. The impact pushed the car into the next lane, where it was struck on the right front fender. I don’t remember hearing or feeling the first impact, but I do remember the second. By this time, Rick had reached my car, and looked in to see if I was okay. He was the first person there. I told him I was fine except for chest pain (due to hitting the steering wheel). The paramedics arrived shortly thereafter, and soon I was settled in an ambulance with oxygen. I was taken to a nearby hospital where I spent 2 days, until I no longer needed oxygen. Afterwards, recovery was fast, and (eventually) the insurance company totaled the car and sent me a check to cover the purchase of an equivalent, replacement car.

It takes a close call like this to realize how poorly prepared one is for death, and to give some thought to what death might be like. Read more »

by Adele A. Wilby

The Australian author Richard Flanagan is the 2024 winner of the prestigious Baillie Gifford Prize for Non-Fiction for his book Question 7. The book is a brilliant weaving together of memory, history, of fact and fiction, love and death around the theme of interconnectedness of events that constitute his life. Disparate connections between his father’s experience as a prisoner of war, the author H.G. Wells, and the atomic bomb all contributed towards making Flanagan the thinker and writer he is today. The book reveals to us his humanity, his love of family and of his home island of Tasmania; it is what Flanagan expects of a book when he says, ‘the words of a book are never the book, the soul is everything’, and this book has ‘soul’.

The book opens with Flanagan visiting the site of Ohama Camp where his father was interned as a slave labourer in the undersea coal mines in Japan during World War II. There is ‘no memorial, no sign, no evidence’ of the camp or the suffering that existed on that spot; all that remains is a ‘love hotel’, but his visit to this site establishes the first link in a chain of interconnected events in his life.

Flanagan’s father never expected to survive the cruelty of the guards and the grinding work as a slave labourer in the coal mines, yet faraway in Europe, unbeknown to him, scientific minds were actively working on the idea of a bomb with extraordinary lethal potential, a bomb that would save his life and have  a profound impact on the  future of humanity and shape world events. The Japanese city of Hiroshima became the experimental testing ground for this atomic bomb and tens of thousands of ‘unknown souls’ perished, ‘vaporised’, by the force of the energy of such a lethal weapon. The atomic bomb brought the war to an end, saved Flanagan’s father’s life and ultimately brought Flanagan himself into existence. Read more »

My wife (offering me an apple) and me on a late Sunday afternoon walk near Brixen, South Tyrol.

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by David J. Lobina

A new year, and a new opportunity to write on some more contentious topics (and/or be cancelled), my new year’s resolution in 2024. I wrote about universality and diversity last year, as well as on the identity conditions of, well, identities, and I now start the year 2025 by reviewing a book published by Oxford University Press on inclusion in linguistics. I should warn any potential readers that this is possibly the worst book I have ever read in my career, and that it is hardly about inclusion to boot, but to understand what I mean by this one will have to read the 4000-word review I have written. I would say enjoy, but…(NB: the review is due to appear on LinguistList at some point, unless they change their minds).

*

The volume Inclusion in Linguistics showcases the work of over 40 authors across 20 chapters on what is perceived to be a lack of inclusion in the field of linguistics, with North America as the main focus of attention (with some exceptions). Edited by Anne H. Charity Hudley, Christine Mallinson, and Mary Bucholtz, this collection of papers is part of a project that includes the volume Decolonizing Linguistics, also published by Oxford University Press. The overall project started in 2020 during the Black Lives Matter movement and its stated aim is to achieve equity and justice in linguistics on the basis of race, disability, gender, sexuality, class, immigration status, Indigeneity, and global geography (p. 2). As an instance of a social justice endeavour, therefore, the contributions are mostly focused on the sort of actions needed to achieve greater inclusivity in the field, and in these very terms, the editors encourage readers to use both volumes as guides for scholarly work as well as for pedagogical purposes, with further material to be had on a dedicated website.

I shall very briefly summarise each chapter first and then I will engage with parts of the content below, where I shall name the respective authors when pertinent to do so. The volume itself is divided into 4 thematic parts. Part 1 focuses on intersectional models of inclusion; Part 2 details possible institutional pathways to achieve more inclusion in linguistics; Part 3 is devoted to some of the resources available to teachers and lecturers to build more inclusive classrooms in schools and universities; and Part 4 outlines various examples of inclusive public engagement in the field. The background to the overall project is chronicled in the book’s preface whilst the Introduction describes the general approach as well as each contribution, with the Conclusion highlighting the lessons learned. Read more »

by Brooks Riley

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by Richard Farr

After I moved from the UK to the US it took me only a couple of years to cede to my friends’ pleas and start driving on the right. When in Rome, and all that. But I still like to irritate Americans by maintaining that we Brits are better at this essential mechanical skill. I mean, when we drive, we drive. Or, OK, we drive while texting, shaving, putting on makeup, or having sex. However, we absolutely draw the line at driving with a gallon of Coke in one hand and a three-pound tub of fries clutched between our sweating thighs, while using a dripping Deluxe Double Bacon MegaBurger with Extra Pepper Jack as the sole point of contact with the steering wheel. 

My wife still teases me about my unwillingness to eat while driving, and conceivably I’m wrong to suspect that getting a spear of dill pickle in the eye increases accident rates on American roads. But on a related safety issue my prejudices have been given support recently both by unimpeachably anecdotal evidence and, better yet, a random video I found on YouTube. 

The typical American freeway has three to five lanes. (If nineteen, you’re in L.A.) Widespread laws ban trucks from the far left lane. A large majority of states have at least something on the books requiring all traffic to move over unless exiting or overtaking. Even those members of the Union in a primitive stage of legal development (Hello CA! Hello MA!) at least encourage this behavior, because everyone who’s ever thought about it agrees that “lane discipline” improves both efficiency and safety.

Yet many American drivers seem never to have thought about it. Whether burger-steering at the speed limit or at that most annoying 4 mph less, they love to camp out in the middle lane or even the left one, sometimes for days at a stretch, strenuously exercising their Constitutional right never to look in the mirror or exhibit any awareness of the traffic around them. Recently on I-5 near Seattle my car and several others were stuck for miles, at sixty-something in a seventy limit, behind three cars that were flying next to one another as if in formation, one per available lane. It was like trying to shop in a hurry at Costco on Saturday.

A video explainer by Christophe Haubursin and Joseph Stromberg, available on Youtube, confirms my darkest suspicions: this one particular national driving tradition / habit / symptom / affliction / pathology, so immediately striking to foreigners, (a) messes with the national blood pressure averages, (b) makes Eisenhower’s magnificent highway system far less efficient than it might be, and (c) kills large numbers of people.  Read more »

Sughra Raza. Ephemeral Apartment Art. Boston January 4, 2025.

Digital photograph.

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by Bill Murray

The same media that warned us against Donald Trump now warn us against tuning out. Though our side has lost, we must now ‘remain engaged’ with the minutiae of Mike Johnson’s majority and all that, strap in, batten down and pay attention.

I was persuaded by media warnings against Donald Trump. Now that we must rise and shine and juice our kale, celery and Granny Smiths over Morning Joe at peril of losing our democracy, I am not so sure.

Last month The Atlantic declared “Decivilization May Already Be Under Way.” The Atlantic is perfect for an article like that. What do you bet the only difference between Jeffrey Goldberg and his readers is, somebody juices his apples and kale for him. Well, that, and that even his friends call him ‘Jeffrey.’

‘Decivilization’ is just overwrought. Except, when I raise my eyes to my bookshelves I find How Civil Wars Start, Why Nations Fail, How Democracies Die, Why Liberalism Failed, Liberalism Against Itself, Tyranny, Inc. and Autocracy, Inc.

Wait! Wait! Wait! What am I doing!?

It’s clearly time for a break. Not because I’m abandoning America. Not to flee MAGA (well, not entirely). It’s time for a little recentering and for the solace of a road trip. So where to go? Read more »

Fire in the Brain

God is a fire in the brain Nijinsky said
which is as close to the truth as
anything a dancer might dance
with a bonfire burning in his head

God may put you in a trance
with the fluttering of cardinal wings
or with the way the moon looks
mounting the mountain’s back
on the other side of the river
—a bright hole in the dark
a splinter of hope
a sliver

Sometimes beyond the blazing bars
of your incarceration
you hallucinate stars

You surmise the sun’s a substantiating eye
but fear that every distance is not near
(not close enough to make the untellable clear)

You dream days
You dream nights

Sometimes you lie without a clue
in the hour of the wolf
waiting for the wolf to bite,
or waiting for the blue to light.
When it does you see crocuses

You taste a cloud of honeysuckle
that sweetly drifts across the yard
where at a certain spot
between the garden and the shed
you swear paradise is here
—precisely here where a skunk
shredded grass the night before
grubbing while you were in bed,
grubbing with a skunky conflagration
in her head

God may burn a brain and brand it
God may shrink it or expand it

This is the bed in which
our ignorance reposes which,
by every blister on our brain,
is both a bed of coals
and roses

by Jim Culleny, 1/22/11
from Odder Still
Lena’s Basement Press, 2015

__________________________________________

(Fire in the Brain is one of 120 poems in my book Odder Still, available at Amazon)

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by Mike O’Brien

I recently read a post by Agnes Callard discussing a philosophical novel (how dreadful) entitled “The Man Without Qualities”. The titular character is an essayist, a figure standing in stark contrast to philosophers. The essayist seeks novelty and surprise, the ephemeral glitters of new and interesting “perspectives”. He lacks the courage for the philosopher’s burdensome and risky enterprise of seeking long and hard for answers that may never reveal themselves. “Thinking long and hard”, writes Callard, “makes sense if you want answers; it makes less sense if the highest reward you anticipate from your intellectual efforts is surprise”.

I was already conscious of the distinction between the writing that I do, and what is done by the philosophers whose work I discuss. But it stings a little more when someone else points it out. Thanks, Agnes.

Casting “The Man Without Qualities” as a cautionary tale of stunted intellectual life, Callard writes that “[t]he book … shows us what it is like to be a thinker without a quest; perpetually idle in spite of all one’s ceaseless, restless intellectual activity.”

Such a description could find no more unfitting targets than Jonathan Birch and his latest book, “The Edge of Sentience”. This publication, like the rest of Birch’s voluminous output, exemplifies the ethic of philosophy as productive work, rather than some kind of divine communion, or clever puzzle-building, or sly apologetics. Birch clearly explains his project to the reader, and frequently re-iterates the book’s key principles and criteria to keep that project firmly in view. He is not trying to surprise or dazzle, or hide gems for only the most insightful and subtle readers to discover through exegetical pilgrimage. This book is not trying to showcase Birch’s talents or seduce the reader into sharing Birch’s prejudices, but rather seeks to clearly convey relevant information and to articulate a consistent set of proposals with reasonable chances of implementation in public institutions. “The Edge Of Sentience” is a book with a public agenda, and Birch executes it well. A recent review in Nature called it “a masterclass in public-facing philosophy”, in case my opinion isn’t authoritative enough for you. Read more »

by Hari Balasubramanian

Ecology is quite distant from my academic work in engineering, but I’ve developed a great love for it in recent years. To learn the basics, I’ve tried many books and articles, but I often turn to the college-level biology textbook Principles of Life. Like many academic texts, this one is not suited for cover-to-cover reading – at over 1000 pages, it is too heavy even to hold comfortably! Still, every time I’ve flipped through its pages, there’s been something interesting to reflect on.

My favorite figure (below) is from the book’s ecology section, and it leads us to the biodiversity theme of this essay. The biological diversity of a region can be quantified in many ways. One intuitive measure is the number of distinct species of a taxonomic group in the region — for instance, the number of species of birds, mammals, or primates found there.

The bar graph on the right shows how the number of butterfly species in the swallowtail family (x-axis) varies by latitude in the Americas (y-axis). In the formal taxonomic system, the family is called Papilionidae and it contains over 550 species. The graph tells us that the number of swallowtail species in the Americas – and hence swallowtail diversity – increases as we move from the higher latitudes in the north and south toward the equator, where it peaks. It’s fascinating that the species count distribution follows a bell curve centered around the equator, but it’s skewed towards the north, perhaps because North America contains more land area. Read more »

by Barry Goldman

Because I serve as an arbitrator for FINRA, the Financial Industry Regulatory Authority, I have a Disclosure Report posted on the FINRA website. That 11-page document shows my employment history, education and training, and it lists every place I’ve had an investment account, every agency where I’ve served as an arbitrator, every professional organization I belong to, and it provides a link to each of my FINRA decisions.

Parties who have cases with FINRA can review that report when they are selecting their arbitration panel. If I am selected to serve on a panel, I am required to complete a more case-specific Arbitrator Disclosure Checklist. That 14-page document requires me to disclose:

1. any direct or indirect financial or personal interest in the outcome of the arbitration;
2. any existing or past financial, business, professional, family, social, or other relationships or circumstances with any party, any party’s representative, or anyone who the arbitrator is told may be a witness in the proceeding, that are likely to affect impartiality or might reasonably create an appearance of partiality or bias;
3. any such relationship or circumstances involving members of the arbitrator’s family or the arbitrator’s current employers, partners, or business associates; and
4. any existing or past service as a mediator for any of the parties in the case for which the arbitrator was selected.

There’s more. The duty to disclose is ongoing. We could be four days into a hearing when a witness appears who I recognize from a previous case. I have a duty to disclose that fact when it occurs. FINRA arbitrators are required to complete training programs periodically, and the organization produces several publications. The thrust of those training programs and many of the publications is the importance of disclosure. The rule is to disclose anything that may appear to present a conflict of interest. The threshold is low: if the potential for the appearance of a conflict occurs to us, we are required to disclose it.

There are two reasons for this. Read more »

by Derek Neal

What do swimming, running, bicycling, dancing, pole jumping, tying shoelaces, and reading all have in common? According to John Guillory’s new book On Close Reading, they are all cultural techniques; in other words, skills or arts involving the use of the body that are widespread throughout a society and can be improved through practice. The inclusion of reading (and perhaps, tying shoelaces) may come as a surprise, but it is Guillory’s goal in this slim volume to convince us that reading, and in particular, the practice of “close reading,” is a technique just like the others he mentions. This is his explanation for the questions he explores throughout the book—namely, why the practice of “close reading” has resisted precise definition, and why the term itself was so seldom used by the New Critics, the group of theorists most associated with it.

Guillory’s own proposal for a definition of close reading is “showing the work of reading.” If this definition seems slight and unsatisfactory, it should. Guillory wants to avoid endlessly theorizing close reading because like all techniques, he says, it is better understood via demonstration and imitation. I agree with Guillory. If one wants to learn how to dance, one does not read a book on dancing; instead, they watch others dance and then mimic the movements they see until they can do it on their own. Close reading is the same, writes Guillory—“cultural techniques…cannot be specified verbally in such a way as to permit their transmission by verbal means alone.” If we want to learn how to close read, we might watch a teacher model close reading—perhaps they project a poem or a paragraph from a novel onto a screen (the standard objects for a close reading), analyze the language in it by identifying various poetic devices, such as symbolism or imagery, reveal an interpretation of the text in this way, then write an essay explaining their reading of the text. This is “showing the work of reading,” and after students observe the teacher doing it, they can try it and refine their technique through repeated practice. One could, of course, attempt a close reading of a text from the example I’ve outlined here, but it would be a bit like showing up to a dance having read about dancing but never having seen it practiced: demonstration and imitation are much more effective than theorizing.

Most readers will have their own experiences of close reading; I have two that I remember well. Read more »

by Laurence Peterson

When I started as a Monday columnist at 3 Quarks Daily in July of last year, my debut piece consisted of an updated and revised version of a longer, never published essay I had written pretty much at the time the late Princeton Professor Harry Frankfurt’s On Bullshit appeared in book form in 2005. Back then, literary references to bullshit almost always took on a still cheeky, irreverent undertone at the very least, and I adopted the sentiment in the beginning and conclusion of my 3QD contribution. But now, I will suggest, bullshit is serious business.

Before I elaborate on that claim, allow me to, as concisely as I can, summarize the argument I put forth in the July article. Frankfurt made the case that the essence of bullshit involved, more than anything else, a distinction between bullshit and lying: that the bullshitter, unlike the liar, does not misrepresent the truth; s/he merely adopts an attitude of indifference towards it. Clearly, this definition allows us to appreciate the vast latitude that allows the bullshitter to, if you will allow me to use a word that has become fashionable in certain circles recently, “weave” between layers of reality (and, of course unreality) in a far less restricted way than is generally afforded the potential liar. But from the moment I read Frankfurt’s essay, I thought his definition left something utterly essential out of a proper conception of bullshit, something whose incorporation into discussions of the notion of bullshit would go a long way towards accounting for the visceral emotional states that tend to accompany its appearance in ordinary usage. And it would confront something Frankfurt didn’t even seem to believe constituted a problem, namely, what the phenomenon of bullshit revealed about social relations in which employing bullshit often made so much sense.

What I thought Frankfurt was missing was, going beyond the mere intention of the bullshitter, a place for a sentiment on the part of those subjected to bullshit that no effective means exist to challenge the statement, implied proposition or even deed being expressed, put forward, implied, relied upon, or whatever by the bullshitter. Inclusion of this place in the account would, in turn, shed light on the social relations in which lack of means to such challenges can be enforced in the first place. It would also account for the unique sense of frustration, and even rage that characterizes the experience of being, or at least feeling, bullshitted. Frankfurt’s definition didn’t seem to me to imply or address any of these things in an important way. Yet it remained, as far as I could see, the sole, almost canonical reference in literary and philosophical discussions of bullshit, even after twenty years. Read more »