Michael Psellus (1017-1078?) was a Greek cleric, historian, and advisor to a number of Byzantine emperors. His work, known by the name Chronographia, is a series of biographical portraits of fourteen emperors occupying the throne of the Eastern Roman Empire from about 978 to 1050. Although not a well-known work, it is a candid and intimate record of palace events that the author had first-hand knowledge of.
The Roman engineer and architect Marcus Vitruvius Pollio (c. 75 B.C.–c. 15 A.D.) wrote an extensive and invaluable work (De Architectura) that describes all types of topics in construction and building. We will here describe his interesting (and somewhat amusing) method of locating water springs. This information can be found in book VIII, ch. 1 of his treatise.
I’ve been thinking about this for some time, and have decided that the arguments in favor of it are far more compelling than those against it. These are the reasons.
An interesting fable is found in one of the published lectures of the late historian J.B. Bury. Some investigation into its lineage shows that it is of very old date, and has appeared in various literary sources. One was Boccaccio’s Decameron; another was the medieval chronicle Gesta Romanorum; and yet another was from Lessing’s drama Nathan der Weise. In most essentials, the stories agree with each other, and I will reproduce it here.
I was recently talking to James Seehafer, the originator of the art school known as massurrealism. Although I am only an amateur in this subject, I have found myself thinking more and more about what can be called “art,” and what should not. Are we to imagine–as many careless people nowadays do–that anyone can create any random object and call it art? Are there any rules, guidelines, or elements for what may be considered “art”?
The current political crisis in Brazil sharply divides the opinions of those who are interested in such matters. To some, Dilma is more sinned against than sinning. In this view, she is the victim of a shadowy (possibly US-inspired) desire for “regime change light.” Journalist Pepe Escobar is an insistent exponent of this view.
Those acquainted with modern Chinese literature tell us that Lu Hsun (1881-1936) is one of its most towering figures. His stories are of the most intimate type: he chronicles his thoughts, feelings, and impressions in a free-flowing manner, unrestrained by convention or rule. He did not subscribe to any political affiliation, preferring to remain beholden to no one. It is this streak of stubborn independence that attracts us to his writings.
There used to exist a literary genre called the consolatio, or consolatory essay. It is the type of thing that would be written by one person to another on the event of some terrible personal tragedy, such as the loss of a loved one. Sometimes (e.g., in the case of Boethius) the writer simply wrote it for himself. The ancient authors recognized it as a form of oratory, but it has been out of fashion for a long time now.
I have finally finished the complete translation of Cicero’s On Duties. It has been an exhausting, laborious, maddening, and joyous experience. There still remains a lot of work to do before it is finally ready for publication: revising, editing, adding more textual notes, indices, explanatory essays, and a few other things. But the end is finally in sight.
I have lately been testing the durability of the idea of human “progress.” It is a subject that has interested me now for some time. We recently examined the idea of progress advocated by Fontenelle. We will now turn to another important French thinker who played a significant role in the idea of progress, a man whose name is unfortunately almost forgotten today. His name is Charles-Irénée Castel de Saint-Pierre, but this is usually shortened to Abbé de Saint-Pierre (1658-1743).
Quintus Curtius 
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