These days, we relegate all the fun to the future, promising ourselves that when we can finally retire, we will play more, see our friends more, take our time, travel. Yet many of us are fast realizing that we may die before we get to retire.
The feathers, casually discarded, are not what troubles my conscience. But the quick and easy exploitation, grabbing a pretty thing for my own use, feels like a single instance in a long pattern—and it is one I know will continue.
Wealth and technology have allowed development in regions of the country without adequate water, but when wealth and technology fail to sustain, we will be forced to pay greater attention.
The most powerful variable here is fear. The woman in Mankato may have been high on a substance that can cause erratic and violent behavior, but she seemed happy and absorbed in her own pleasure, and one look told the officers they did not have to worry about a concealed weapon.
Lear is too big to be contained—but so are greed, power, and despair. This production is not a cheesy attempt to “make relevant” by dreaming up cool costumes and picking a fun place and time.
A new name or new spelling, new avatar, new sexual orientation, new status, filtered photo—the self is a work in process. The most we did was try on crazy outfits, sweating in tiny dressing rooms and tossing stuff over the walls to each other. These kids try on whole identities.
Are we at the mercy of our machines, then? This is the crux, the reason I could not swat away this buzzing frustration. It feels helpless in a way that is bigger than the issue at hand.
Extricating the female body from sexual desire altogether would be a societal wardrobe solution—but I doubt that is what anybody wants, even if it were possible.
Sowell has forthrightly challenged his critics and detractors with the sheer volume of his work. In the blood sport of academic disagreement, that production is the sign of the bruiser. Whatever the reason for the neglect of Sowell, Jason L. Riley provides us with a much-needed book.
While Sansom’s September 1, 1939 professes to be a biography of Auden’s poem, the result borne out by the actual structure of Sansom’s text and the nature of its many self-reflective digressions complicates that goal.