There are times when we try to share fond memories of the past with friends, family, or former lovers. Yet, we often find that these nostalgic recollections are not acknowledged or reciprocated as much as we would like. We may feel emotionally spurned, or shut out. Why is this? We discuss.
Some recent news reports have occasioned me to call attention to a principle of learning which, in our era of existential unease and fracture, often escapes notice. A professor at an institution of higher learning, we have been told, worries that he may not be able to “compete” (as he says) with the volumes of information made available to his students by the machines of artificial intelligence. In this I think his fears are misplaced, and that he need not heat his mind to such a state of fretful ebullition; and I will attempt, with a few disjointed thoughts and unconnected meanderings, to explain why I believe this to be so.
The progress of duncery is geometric, while knowledge and understanding advance, if at all, with arithmetic slowness. He who demands acute perception from the overwhelming mass of humanity will find himself crushed in disappointments, and immersed in doleful ruminations.
A reader is upset that his girlfriend has broken things off. He believes that his behavior was the cause of it, and has been trying to repair the perceived damage. He wonders if there is something he could have done, or should have done. Nothing is working out, however. We offer some opinions about the situation.
In his treatise on medicine, the Roman writer Celsus digresses to make a shrewd observation on the behavior of personalities of rare distinction. He happened to note, in the writings of Hippocrates, that the great Greek doctor once confessed to having been misled by the presence of sutures in a patient. Such a comment might have passed without notice with any other reader; but Celsus was a perceptive observer and a man of broad sophistication. He ventured the following remarks:
In this podcast we discuss H.G. Wells’s fable The Beautiful Suit. It was originally published in 1909 under the title A Moonlight Fable. You may never have heard of the story, but it imparts a powerful message. What does it mean? What is the author trying to communicate to his readers? And what lesson can we take from the tale, and incorporate into our own lives?
We have in these pages chronicled many shipwrecks and maritime disasters, each of which is woeful in its own way. The wreck of the barque Mexico in 1836, however, evokes particular pity, not only from the fact that its victims—most of whom were women and children—perished from freezing, but also because the wreck occurred so tantalizingly close to shore. Let the tale be told.
The French East Indiaman Prince left Port L’Orient in France on February 19, 1752. She soon ran into trouble, and became temporarily grounded on a sand bank; but her captain, M. Morin, ordered some cargo to be thrown overboard, and the lightened vessel was able to proceed. The ship returned to port temporarily for repairs, and set out again on June 10th of that year.
Some conceptions are possessed of such awesome magnitude and gravity that the mind can only with difficulty apprehend their sublime grandeur. I would like to share one such idea.
Sir Charles Wager served as Britain’s First Lord of the Admiralty from 1733 to 1742. He had a long and distinguished naval career, both at sea and ashore; and it will be useful for us to relate an anecdote from his early life that discloses much about his character and fortitude. The story that follows is found in the 1840 volume The Book of Shipwrecks and Narratives of Maritime Discoveries and the Most Popular Voyages.
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