"Fame is a fickle food," by Emily Dickinson
Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedFame is a fickle food
Upon a shifting plate
Whose table once a
Guest but not
The second time is set
Whose crumbs the crows inspect
And with ironic caw
Flap past it to the
Farmer’s corn
Men eat of it and die
To fall asleep lately, I've been listening to a BBC podcast called "In Our Time," in which the host--the placid, grandfatherly voiced Melvyn Bragg--engages various scholars and academics in discussions of popular history, science, the humanities, and other general curiosities. Subjects include the 30 Years War,
Picking up the pieces on a rainy Wednesday. I found myself listening to the experimental band The Books the other day, and watched a short documentary about their process. An animating preoccupation that drove the music was conversation—the idea that any juxtaposition is really a discourse. You put one
I have a tried-and-true method for pursuing things that require some willpower: Start early, and don't anticipate. When I started running consistently, it was late fall. The holidays were right around the corner, and with them the new year, which was an obvious time to adopt a new
I recently finished Tell Me Everything, by Elizabeth Strout, a novel that follows episodes in the middle aged lives of characters in Strout's fictional town of Crosby, Maine. I didn't really like the book that much, but I'd say what I found a bit