The End of Elegance
“Elegance” takes a little time. The word is rooted in the Latin eligio, which means picking out, selecting, editing.
“Elegance” takes a little time. The word is rooted in the Latin eligio, which means picking out, selecting, editing.
Early Christians were terribly worried about cannibals. Not because the practice was nauseating or sinful, but because if a cannibal kept it up, soon his body would be composed almost entirely of matter that once belonged to another human being. So what would happen when it came time to resurrect everybody’s body?
Perfume is an intimate commodity, something you have to hunt for and save up for. When you find it, you are brought back to your senses, happy to be in your body, protected from anything noxious you might encounter.
Sleep is a little death, an end to the flashing, buzzing dopamine hits of consciousness. Was Shakespeare, whose brain hummed with allusions and insight, scared to silence his genius and toddle off to sleep?
How could we ever have believed animals capable of cold-bloodedly plotting a crime, when we have never credited them with possessing the simplest emotions?
Her physical vitality seemed to embody hope for the future while her cheerful sweetness salved fears associated with children and families in a decade when 25 percent of American men were out of work, and husbands and fathers who could not cope with the strain of unemployment and failure sometimes just walked away.
Screenshot from Dumas’ show, YouTube Cooking shows are a busman’s holiday for me, given I have always done the cooking in the family. Over the decades one of my recreations has been watching Jacques, Julia, the Two Fat Ladies, Keith Floyd, and others, including Bourdain, who…
When Ukraine came to us for help, we gave the sort of help we are good at giving: stuff. The Ukrainians already have what we need: the courage of convictions. The kind of patriotism that is not jingoistic, yet is fierce enough to give their lives purpose. They are defending real freedom: the right to live outside a despot’s reach.
Rainy days are pensive, quiet, thoughtful. They are made for us introverts, and we brew a pot of tea and settle happily into an armchair with a good book while the extroverts paw the ground, check their weather app, pace to and from the window.
Deep silence is rare; even our thoughts can be scattered and loud. On a hike through an old pine forest to the top of a bluff, a friend and I came upon a sign nailed to a tree. Only one word was scrawled: “Listen.” And so we stopped and listened, and the hush gradually filled with tiny sounds far more interesting than my thoughts.