Envoys From Alexandria By C.P. Cavafy

Envoys From Alexandria

By C.P. Cavafy

Translated by Rae Dalven

They had not seen, for ages, such lovely gifts in Delphi 

as these which had been sent by the two brothers, 

the two rival Ptolemaic kings. After they had received 

the gifts, however, the priests were uneasy about the oracle. 

They will need all their experience to compose with astuteness, 

which of the two, which of such two will be displeased. 

And they sit in council in secret at night 

and discuss the family affairs of the Lagidae. 

But see, the envoys have come back. They are saying farewell. 

They are returning to Alexandria, they say. They do not seek 

any oracle whatever. And the priests hear this with joy 

(it is understood they keep the remarkable gifts), 

but they are also bewildered in the extreme, 

not understanding what this sudden indifference means. 

For they are unaware that yesterday grave news reached the envoys. 

The oracle was pronounced in Rome; the division took place there. 

 

The Automobile by Percy MacKaye

The Automobile 

by Percy MacKaye

Fluid the world flowed under us: the hills

Billow on billow of umbrageous green

Heaved us, aghast, to fresh horizons, seen

One rapturous instant, blind with flash of rills

And silver-rising storms and dewy stills

Of dripping boulders, till the dim ravine

Drowned us again in leafage, whose serene

Coverts grew loud with our tumultuous wills.

Then all of Nature’s old amazement seemed

Sudden to ask us: “Is this also Man?

This plunging, volant, land-amphibian

What Plato mused and Paracelsus dreamed?

Reply!” And piercing us with ancient scan,

The shrill, primeval hawk gazed down — and screamed.

History

Basilica Cistern in Constantinople (Istanbul 🇹🇷), an underground water storage facility built in the 6th century, contains two enigmatic Medusa heads, one placed upside down and the other sideways, possibly to neutralize the power of her gaze as per mythology.

Largely forgotten… pic.twitter.com/YxtycrHQUi

— Dr. M.F. Khan (@Dr_TheHistories) January 17, 2025

 

An Insight

If you take positions with too much certainty, and turn out to be wrong, you’ll feel too embarrassed to change your mind. So express risky beliefs humbly; talk in possibilities instead of certainties. This will give your views space to grow.

— Gurwinder (@G_S_Bhogal) January 14, 2025

 

I see wonderful things

Jamón Iberico de Bellota, among the most prized foods in Spain

[📹 bonappetitmag]pic.twitter.com/zIH7yAGqoJ

— Massimo (@Rainmaker1973) January 18, 2025

 

Offbeat Humor

 

Click to enlarge.

Data Talks

Incels rising international edition is now out.

- The US is not the world.
- Age of first sexual intercourse has declined.
- Total lifetime partner count is up.
- Sexual frequency is declining!
- Declining marriage responsible?

— uncorrelated (@uncorrelated_) January 16, 2025

 

House, 2016 by Philip Geiger

House, 2016 by Philip Geiger (America, 1956 - )

Click to enlarge.

And Yet Fools Say by George S. Holmes

And Yet Fools Say 

by George S. Holmes

He captured light and caged it in a glass,

Then harnessed it forever to a wire;

He gave men robots with no backs to tire

In bearing burdens for the toiling mass.

He freed the tongue in wood and wax and brass,

Imbued dull images with motions’ fire,

Transmuted metal into human choir —

These man-made miracles he brought to pass.

Bulbs banish night along the Great White Way,

Thin threads of copper throb with might unseen;

On silver curtains shadow-actors play

That walk and talk from magic-mouthed machine,

While continents converse through skies o’erhead —

And yet fools say that Edison is dead!

History

Something lovely for the weekend!

This Hellenistic mosaic glass bowl looks so modern, yet it was made over 2,000 years ago!

Ancient glassmakers created the tiny flower pattern using a technique now known as ‘millefiori’ (thousand flowers). A timeless design still made by… pic.twitter.com/wviE1dAIf3

— Alison Fisk (@AlisonFisk) January 4, 2025

 

An Insight

Women choose courtship, men pick wives.

Women are conservative with who they date, men are conservative with who they marry.

Women are picky when it comes to sex, men are picky when it comes to commitment.

To be a wife you have to be selected.

We need Fathers to teach this.

— Theron Bassett (@Improveordeath) May 21, 2024

 

I see wonderful things

South pole summer solstice 🌞💫🌌pic.twitter.com/i4HWyCMcj5

— Cosmic Gaia (@CosmicGaiaX) January 17, 2025

 

Offbeat Humor

In Canada the Muslims are upset at some enhanced graffiti. pic.twitter.com/fDHKmTG9Zs

— David Atherton (@DaveAtherton20) January 16, 2025

 

Data Talks

Why are Sub-Saharan Africa and Central Asia outliers on fertility?

Btw, Botswana is richer than India, Kazakhstan is richer still. Both have a much higher fertility rates...

That should be my exam question next year... 🙃 pic.twitter.com/jxz9jjn6fn

— Alice Evans (@_alice_evans) January 16, 2025

 

Reflections, 1916 by Harold Harvey

Reflections, 1916 by Harold Harvey (England, 1874-1941) 

Click to enlarge

The Sack of Old Panama by Dana Burnet

The Sack of Old Panama

by Dana Burnet

They sat in a tavern in wicked Port Royal,

Grim Morgan and Brodley and one or two others,

A flagon of rum on the table between them

And villainy binding them closer than brothers.

And Morgan dropped hint of Old Panama’s riches;

Said little, but said it with evil suggestion,

Till Brodley swayed up, with his glass in his fingers,

And swore that a Don was an aid to digestion!

But Morgan said, idly, “’ would be a long journey” —

Cried Brodley: “What odds, when the end of it’s yellow?

I mind me the pockets of dead men I lightened

That year of our Lord when we sacked Porto Bello!”

Then Morgan stood straight, with his face of dark smiling:

“I'll rake them once more — then I’ll stop all such capers;

Come home and be Governor! Aye, but I will, though,

And hang every master that can’t show his papers.

“I'll have me a house that will front the blue water,

And devil a pirate shall sit at my table;

But now, and once more, I’ve a will to go courting,

To dance with a Don while I’m hearty and able.”

He laughed and drew breath; and they tipped up the flagon,

And fashioned his words in a stormy sea ditty.

Then swiftly fell silent, with dream-darkened faces,

And thought of their hands at the throat of a city....

* * *

The sea was as blue as the breast of the morning

When Morgan went down to his last buccaneering;

His sails were like low-fallen clouds in the distance,

Blown onward, and fading, and slow disappearing.

And so he put out — and was part of the distance,

A blur of slow wings on the blue ring of heaven,

With two thousand devils adream below hatches,

And steel, and dry powder, and ships thirty-seven.

And all down the decks there was talk of the venture —

How Morgan had wind of unthinkable treasure;

How Panama’s streets were the sweetness of silver,

Where men in gold gutters threw pearls for their pleasure!

And Brodley went forward and took San Lorenzo,

With patience and passion, as men take a woman,

And Morgan came up, with his face of dark smiling,

And saw the sword’s kiss on the heart of the foeman.

* * *

The dawn saw them marching — twelve hundred brown devils,

With steel and dry powder and gay crimson sashes;

And so they put on... and were dead in the jungle

Of great shaking fevers and little barbs’ gashes.

* * *

The tenth day was sleeping in tents of red splendor

When Morgan crept up to the walls of the city —

Behind him his madmen came shouting and sobbing,

And mouthing the words of an old pirate ditty.

Their souls were in tatters! And still they came singing,

Till all the hushed foreland was waked from its dreaming,

And high in their towers the sweet bells of vesper

Were drowned and made dim by the mad, measured screaming.

A gun roared, and deep in the heart of the city

Wild pulses began.... A young mother ran crying,

“The English are on us!” Swords silvered the twilight,

And priests turned their books to the prayers for the dying.

Then out from his gates came the desperate Spaniard;

The swords were like flame, and the towers were ringing!

But Morgan’s men waited; lay down with choked muzzles,

And dealt out their death to the pulse of their singing.

Their volleys belched forth like a chorus of thunder,

A great whining Song that went on without pity,

Till night drew her veil ... then they rose from their bellies,

And spat at the dead — and went into the city.

* * *

The Governor sat in his window at evening,

His window that looked on the star-furrowed water;

A ship had come into the clasp of the harbor,

Clear-lined from the darkness the bright moon had wrought her.

* * *

He clapped his fat hands; and a black lad stood bowing.

“Bring candles — and rum,” said the Governor, grinning.

And then he sat down with his boots on the table,

And dozed until Morgan should come from his sinning....

He came, with an oath, in his great greasy sea-boots,

A sash at his waist, and a pistol stuck in it,

His beard to his throat, and his little eyes leering —

“Your voice,” said Sir Thomas, “is sweet as a linnet!”

“My pockets are sweeter,” said Morgan; and, winking,

He drew from his sash a creased bag of black leather,

Unloosed it and spilled on the bare wooden table

Red jewels that kindled like swords struck together!

* * *

The jewels lay warm in the dusk of the candles,

Like soulless red eyes that no tears might set blinking...

And Thomas Sir Modyford crooked his hot fingers,

And chose the King’s profit, whilst Morgan sat drinking.

“Sweet baubles! Sweet pretties! They’ve blinded my candles.

They’re flame, Pirate, flame! See my hand, how they’ve burned it.”

He laughed, and drew forth from his pocket a parchment —

“It’s yours, by our bargain; and damme, you’ve earned it.”

They spread out the parchment between them. Said Morgan:

“God’s name! I’m respectable!” “Aye,” said Sir Thomas,

“ Ye’re Leftenant-Governor, lately appointed

By will of the Crown — in accord with our promise!”

* * *

Day broke... and the throat of the harbor was clouded

With sail. ”Twas the fleet of the pirates returning —

But down their grim ports no black muzzles peered frowning,

Nor naked steel leaped for the dawn to set burning.

They came as calm merchantmen, shriven with morning

(For in the King’s harbors the law is hard-fisted!)

And so they stole in, like whipped hounds to a kennel,

Their loosed anchors lolling like tongues when they listed.

The candles were dead in the Governor’s chamber;

And in at the window the young light came creeping —

Asprawl at the table sat Morgan the Pirate,

And under his boot-heels Sir Thomas lay sleeping.

The anchors splashed down in the ruffled blue water,

The great wings were furled with a rattle of gearing;

But Morgan sat clutching a folded gray parchment,

A glass at his lips, and his little eyes leering. 

History

What explains the rise of Christianity?

Was it because we were so nice that everybody converted?

In a new post responding to Astral Codex Ten's recent pieces, I argue, no. Christianity won because we had babies and killed infidels. pic.twitter.com/6hk65AVS0F

— Lyman Stone SF Mar 10-13, SLC Mar 13-14 石來民 🦬🦬🦬 (@lymanstoneky) January 8, 2025

 

An Insight

Popper used to begin his lecture course on the philosophy of science by asking the students simply to ‘observe’. Then he would wait in silence for one of them to ask what they were supposed to observe. This was his way of demonstrating one of many flaws in the empiricism that is…

— Deutsch Explains (@DeutschExplains) October 5, 2024

 

I see wonderful things

Watch as a group of mountaineers dodge a huge boulder rolling away.pic.twitter.com/7s2l1rxyqc

— Massimo (@Rainmaker1973) January 9, 2025

 

Offbeat Humor

Government solving problems https://t.co/Jjjkmc2p3Q pic.twitter.com/IZMa9c3Xza

— Kate Hyde (@KateHydeNY) January 17, 2025

 

Data Talks

Of course.

Male attractiveness is mostly behavioral. Men are attractive based on what they can do.

A good rule of thumb is that a man's attractiveness is roughly correlated to how useful he would be in a zombie apocalypse.

This means a woman can't just look at you and see… https://t.co/BdaAkuyWdD pic.twitter.com/7TSYUkGcRB

— Devon Eriksen (@Devon_Eriksen_) January 8, 2025

 

My Studio, 1952 by John Koch

My Studio, 1952 by John Koch (America, 1909-1978)

Click to enlarge.

The Mountain Whippoorwill by Stephen Vincent Benét

The Mountain Whippoorwill

Or, How Hill-Billy Jim Won The Great Fiddler’s Prize

(A Georgia Romance)

by Stephen Vincent Benét

Up in the mountains, it's lonesome all the time,

(Sof win' slewin' thu' the sweet-potato vine).

Up in the mountains, it's lonesome for a child,

(Whippoorwills a-callin' when the sap runs wild).

Up in the mountains, mountains in the fog,

Everything as lazy as an old houn' dog.

Born in the mountains, never raised a pet,

Don't want nuthin' an' never got it yet.

Born in the mountains, lonesome-born,

Raised runnin' ragged thu' the cockleburrs and corn.

Never knew my pappy, mebbe never should.

Think he was a fiddle made of mountain laurel-wood.

Never had a mammy to teach me pretty-please.

Think she was a whippoorwill, a-skitin' thu' the trees.

Never had a brother ner a whole pair of pants,

But when I start to fiddle, why, yuh got to start to dance!

Listen to my fiddle Kingdom Come—Kingdom Come!

Hear the frogs a-chunkin’ "Jug o’ rum, Jug o' rum!"

Hear that mountain-whippoorwill be lonesome in the air.

An’ I’ll tell yuh how I traveled to the Essex County Fair.

Essex County has a mighty pretty fair,

All the smarty fiddlers from the South come there.

Elbows flyin' as they rosin up the bow

For the First Prize Contest in the Georgia Fiddlers' Show.

Old Dan Wheeling, with his whiskers in his ears,

King-pin fiddler for nearly twenty years.

Big Tom Sargent, with his blue wall-eye,

An' Little Jimmy Weezer that can make a fiddle cry.

All sittin’ roun’, spittin’ high an’ struttin’? proud,

(Listen, little whippoorwill, yuh better bug yore eyes!)

Tun-a-tun-a-tunin’ while the jedges told the crowd

Them that got the mostest claps'd win the bestest prize.

Everybody waitin’for the first tweedle-dee,

When in comes a-stumblin'—hill-billy me!

Bowed right pretty to the jedges an' the rest,

Took a silver dollar from a hole inside my vest,

Plunked it on the table an' said, "There's my callin' card!

An' anyone that licks me well, he's got to fiddle hard!"

Old Dan Wheeling, he was laughin' fit to holler,

Little Jimmy Weezer said, ''There's one dead dollar!"

Big Tom Sargent had a yaller-toothy grin,

But I tucked my little whippoorwill spang underneath my chin,

An' petted it an' tuned it till the jedges said, "Begin!"

Big Tom Sargent was the first in line;

He could fiddle all the bugs off a sweet-potato vine.

He could fiddle down a possum from a mile-high tree.

He could fiddle up a whale from the bottom of the sea.

Yuh could hear hands spankin' till they spanked each other raw,

When he finished variations on "Turkey in the Straw."

Little Jimmy Weezer was the next to play;

He could fiddle all night, he could fiddle all day.

He could fiddle chills, he could fiddle fever,

He could make a fiddle rustle like a lowland river.

He could make a fiddle croon like a lovin' woman.

An’ they clapped like thunder when he'd finished strummin'.

Then came the ruck of the bob-tailed fiddlers,

The let's go-easies, the fair-to-middlers.

They got their claps an' they lost their bicker,

An' settled back for some more corn-licker.

An' the crowd was tired of their no-count squealing,

When out in the center steps Old Dan Wheeling.

He fiddled high and he fiddled low,

(Listen, little whippoorwill; yuh got to spread yore wings!)

He fiddled with a cherrywood bow.

(Old Dan Wheelings got bee-honey in his strings.)

He fiddled the wind by the lonesome moon,

He fiddled a most almighty tune.

He started fiddling like a ghost,

He ended fiddling like a host.

He fiddled north an' he fiddled south,

He fiddled the heart right out of yore mouth.

He fiddled here an' he fiddled there.

He fiddled salvation everywhere.

When he was finished, the crowd cut loose,

(Whippoorwill, they's rain on yore breast.)

An’ I sat there wondering "What's the use?"

(Whippoorwill, fly home to yore nest.)

But I stood up pert an' I took my bow,

An' my fiddle went to my shoulder, so.

An' they wasn't no crowd to get me fazed

But I was alone where I was raised.

Up in the mountains, so still it makes yuh skeered.

Where God lies sleepin' in his big white beard.

An" I heard the sound of the squirrel in the pine,

An' I heard the earth a-breathin' thu' the long night-time.

They've fiddled the rose, an' they've fiddled the thorn,

But they haven't fiddled the mountain-corn.

They've fiddled sinful an' fiddled moral,

But they haven't fiddled the breshwood-laurel.

They've fiddled loud, an' they've fiddled still,

But they haven't fiddled the whippoorwill.

I started off with a dump-diddle-dump,

(Oh, hell’s broke loose in Georgia!)

Skunk-cabbage growin' by the bee-gum stump,

(Whippoorwill, yo're singin’ now!)

Oh, Georgia booze is mighty fine booze,

The best yuh ever poured yuh,

But it eats the soles right offen yore shoes,

For Hell's broke loose in Georgia.

My mother was a whippoorwill pert,

My father, he was lazy,

But I'm Hell broke loose in a new store shirt

To fiddle all Georgia crazy.

Swing yore partners up an' down the middle!

Sashay now—oh, listen to that fiddle!

Flapjacks flippin' on a red-hot griddle,

An' hell broke loose,

Hell broke loose,

Fire on the mountains snakes in the grass.

Satan's here a-bilin'—oh, Lordy, let him pass!

Go down Moses, set my people free,

Pop goes the weasel thu' the old Red Sea!

Jonah sittin' on a hickory-bough,

Up jumps a whale—an' where's yore prophet now?

Rabbit in the pea-patch, possum in the pot,

Try an' stop my fiddle, now my fiddle's gettin' hot!

Whippoorwill, singin' thu' the mountain hush,

Whippoorwill, shoutin' from the burnin' bush,

Whippoorwill, cryin' in the stable-door,

Sing to-night as yuh never sang before!

Hell's broke loose like a stompin' mountain-shoat,

Sing till yuh bust the gold in yore throat!

Hell's broke loose for forty miles aroun'

Bound to stop yore music if yuh don't sing it down.

Sing on the mountains, little whippoorwill,

Sing to the valleys, an' slap 'em with a hill,

For I'm struttin' high as an eagle's quill,

An' Hell's broke loose,

Hell's broke loose,

Hell's broke loose in Georgia!

They wasn't a sound when I stopped bowin',

(Whippoorwill, yuh can sing no more.)

But, somewhere or other, the dawn was growing

(Oh, mountain whippoorwill!)

An' I thought, "I've fiddled all night an' lost.

Yo're a good hill-billy, but yuh've been bossed.

So I went to congratulate old man Dan,

—But he put his fiddle into my han'—

An' then the noise of the crowd began.

History

The St. Brice’s Day Massacre, which occurred on November 13, 1002, remains one of the most controversial and brutal moments in England's history. King Æthelred II, often known as Æthelred Unræd (meaning "Æthelred the Unready" or "poorly advised"), ordered the massacre of all… pic.twitter.com/ayBR4dtX2d

— Archaeo - Histories (@archeohistories) January 6, 2025

 

An Insight

Within only a span of 10 days, the New York Times published these two headlines.

1. "The End of Snow"
2. "How can a warming climate increase snowfall?"

How can anyone take these climate fanatics seriously? pic.twitter.com/2YRS9k643J

— Stephen Moore (@StephenMoore) January 18, 2024

 

I see wonderful things

This is the way ❤️🇺🇸💪🏼 https://t.co/4zEKH3M5cb

— ZitoSalena (@ZitoSalena) January 7, 2025

 

Offbeat Humor

Mozart - Rondo Alla Turcapic.twitter.com/cZHzsglMhH

— Massimo (@Rainmaker1973) January 16, 2025

 

Data Talks

For most Americans currently in poverty, being poor will be a temporary thing🧵

Take people in poverty in different years, and you'll see that each year's batch follows a similar trajectory:

After a year, almost half of the poor are no longer poor. After two years, >50% churn! pic.twitter.com/SBqfEbQG5j

— Crémieux (@cremieuxrecueil) January 8, 2025

 

Paddington Station at Night, 1992 by Doreen Fletcher

Paddington Station at Night, 1992 by Doreen Fletcher (England, 1952 - )

Click to enlarge.

The Raven By Edgar Allan Poe

The Raven

By Edgar Allan Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—

            Only this and nothing more.”

    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

    Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow

    From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

            Nameless here for evermore.

    And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

    “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—

            This it is and nothing more.”

    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—

            Darkness there and nothing more.

    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—

            Merely this and nothing more.

    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

    “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;

      Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—

            ’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;

    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

    But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—

            Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;

    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

    Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

            With such name as “Nevermore.”

    But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

    Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—

    Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—

On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”

            Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store

    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

            Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

    But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

            Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;

    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

    On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,

But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,

            She shall press, ah, nevermore!

    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

    “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee

    Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—

    On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—

Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—

    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—

“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!

    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

    Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

    And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,

    And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

            Shall be lifted—nevermore!

 

History

Joyeuse was, in medieval legend, the sword wielded by Charlemagne the Great as his personal weapon and is one of the most famous swords in history. Charlemagne is among the best-known and most influential figures of the Early Middle Ages and reigned some 1,200 years ago.… pic.twitter.com/mS4MWWhGKV

— Dr. M.F. Khan (@Dr_TheHistories) January 5, 2025

 

An Insight

The wisdom of Hiram Ulysses Grant, son of Point Pleasant Ohio, who fell on such hard times he was selling firewood to support his family; he was plucked from despair by an Illinois governor to command an unruly volunteer regiment & go on to saved our Union. ❤️ https://t.co/eV8TtSBdAx

— ZitoSalena (@ZitoSalena) January 8, 2025

 

I see wonderful things

Dead leaf butterfly. Natural selection is amazing pic.twitter.com/trcOdDVByV

— Steve Stewart-Williams (@SteveStuWill) January 7, 2025

 

Data Talks

Two countries in Europe have made a thorough analysis of the fiscal contribution of immigrants by country of origin, Denmark and the Netherlands.

The findings from these two countries look remarkably similar: pic.twitter.com/aWBFSTzH8U

— Jonatan Pallesen (@jonatanpallesen) January 15, 2025

 

Offbeat Humor

 

Click to enlarge.

Data Talks

Who is politically intolerant? (Who blocks or unfollows on social media for political reasons?)

In this 2016 survey following Trump's win, holding other factors constant, the most intolerant groups were: women, liberals, the highly educated. pic.twitter.com/ubclcFEkm5

— Emil Kirkegaard (@KirkegaardEmil) January 8, 2025

 

Interior of the Artist's House, 1918 by Léon de Smet

Interior of the Artist's House, 1918 by Léon de Smet (Belgium, 1881-1966) 

Click to enlarge.

Pickett's Charge by Stephen Vincent Benét

from John Brown's Body 

by Stephen Vincent Benét

Pickett's Charge

The cannonade fell still.  All along the fish-hook line,

The tired men stared at the smoke and waited for it to clear;

The men in the centre waited, their rifles gripped in their hands,

By the trees of the riding fate, and the low stone wall, and the

  guns.

These were Hancock's men, the men of the Second Corps,

Eleven States were mixed there, where Minnesota stood

In battle-order with Maine, and Rhode Island beside New York,

The metals of all the North, cooled into an axe of war.

The strong sticks of the North, bound into a fasces-shape,

The hard winters of snow, the wind with the cutting edge,

And against them came that summer that does not die with the year,

Magnolia and honeysuckle and the blue Virginia flag.

Tall Pickett went up to Longstreet--his handsome face was drawn.

George Pickett, old friend of Lincoln's in days gone by with the

  blast,

When he was a courteous youth and Lincoln the strange shawled man

Who would talk in a Springfield street with a boy who dreamt of a

sword.

Dreamt of a martial sword, as swords are martial in dreams,

And the courtesy to use it, in the old bright way of the tales.

Those days are gone with the blast.  He has his sword in his hand.

And he will use it today, and remember that using long.

He came to Longstreet for orders, but Longstreet would not speak.

He saw Old Peter's mouth and the thought in Old Peter's mind.

He knew the task that was set and the men that he had to lead

And a pride came into his face while Longstreet stood there dumb.

"I shall go forward, sir," he said and turned to his men.

The commands went down the line.  The grey ranks started to move.

Slowly at first, then faster, in order, stepping like deer,

The Virginians, the fifteen thousand, the seventh wave of the tide.

There was a death-torn mile of broken ground to cross,

And a low stone wall at the end, and behind it the Second Corps,

And behind that force another, fresh men who had not yet fought.

They started to cross that ground.  The guns began to tear them.

From the hill they say that it seemed more like a sea than a wave,

A sea continually torn by stones flung out of the sky,

And yet, as it came, still closing, closing and rolling on,

As the moving sea closes over the flaws and rips of the tide.

You could mark the path that they took by the dead that they left

  behind,

Spilled from that deadly march as a cart spills meal on a road,

And yet they came on unceasing, the fifteen thousand no more,

And the blue Virginia flag did not fall, did not fall, did not fall.

They halted but once to fire as they came.  Then the smoke closed

  down

And you could not see them, and then, as it cleared again for a

  breath,

They were coming still but divided, gnawed at by blue attacks,

One flank half-severed and halted, but the centre still like a tide.

Cushing ran down the last of his guns to the battle-line.

The rest had been smashed to scrap by Lee's artillery fire.

He held his guts in his hand as the charge came up to the wall

And his gun spoke out for him once before he fell to the ground.

Armistead leapt the wall and laid his hand on the gun,

The last of the three brigadiers who ordered Pickett's brigades,

He waved his hat on his sword and "Give 'em the steel!" he cried,

A few men followed him over.  The rest were beaten or dead.

A few men followed him over.  There had been fifteen thousand

When that sea began its march toward the fish-hook ridge and the

  wall.

So they came on in strength, light-footed, stepping like deer,

So they died or were taken.  So the iron entered their flesh.

Lee, a mile away, in the shade of a little wood,

Stared, with his mouth shut down, and saw them go and be slain,

And then saw for a single moment, the blue Virginia flag

Planted beyond the wall, by that other flag that he knew.

The two flags planted together, one instant, like hostile flowers.

Then the smoke wrapped both in a mantle--and when it had blown away,

Armistead lay in his blood, and the rest were dead or down,

And the valley grey with the fallen and the wreck of the broken wave.

Pickett gazed around him, the boy who had dreamt of a sword

And talked with a man named Lincoln.  The sword was still in his

  hand.

He had gone out with fifteen thousand.  He came back to his lines

  with five.

He fought well till the war was over, but a thing was cracked in his

  heart.

History

The Vespasianus Titus Tunnel is a 2,000-year-old engineering marvel – a massive tunnel dug through a mountain that was built to divert floodwaters threatening the harbor near the ancient city of Seleuceia Pieria in what is now Türkiye. According to UNESCO; it is one of the most… pic.twitter.com/6bfAkVbgAm

— Archaeo - Histories (@archeohistories) January 6, 2025

 

A Insight

Rome fell not in a day, but over several generations — although not as many as you think.

The colosseum went from a roaring crowd of 80,000 to livestock roaming its ruins so quickly it's hard to believe... pic.twitter.com/zUAsdLdTvT

— Culture Critic (@Culture_Crit) January 7, 2025

I see wonderful things

Isn't the Spanish Synagogue in Prague a glorious feast for the eyes!? pic.twitter.com/DRX8cIKb4i

— Culture Explorer (@CultureExploreX) January 5, 2025

 

Offbeat Humor

Of all the student papers I've ever received, my favorite is the one that began: "As Karl Marx wrote in his famous book, Selected Writings of Karl Marx, . . . "
It's the little touches that make teaching worthwhile.

— Joseph Bottum (@JosephBottum) January 8, 2025

 

Data Talks

A riguros randomization study @Nature done on ~1000 animals shows how, even in mice, genetics literally mater more (24% vs 7%) than dietary interventions such as fasting or calorie restriction for extending lifespan - confirming anecdotes that we all heard or saw in our families pic.twitter.com/uN08wcWbz3

— Simona Cristea (@simocristea) January 7, 2025

 

Maine Surf, 1948 by John Philip Falter

Maine Surf, 1948 by John Philip Falter (America, 1910-1982) 

Click to enlarge.

Quivira by Arthur Guiterman

Quivira

by Arthur Guiterman

Francisco Coronado rode forth with all his train,

Eight hundred savage bowmen, three hundred spears of Spain,

To seek the rumored glory that pathless deserts hold —

The city of Quivira whose walls are rich with gold.

Oh, gay they rode with plume on crest and gilded spur at heel,

With gonfalon of Aragon and banner of Castile!

While High Emprise and Joyous Youth, twin marshals of the throng,

Awoke Sonora's mountain peaks with trumpet-note and song.

Beside that brilliant army, beloved of serf and lord,

There walked as brave a soldier as ever smote with sword,

Though nought of knightly harness his russet gown revealed —

The cross he bore as weapon, the missal was his shield.

But rugged oaths were changed to prayers, and angry hearts grew tame,

And fainting spirits waxed in faith where Fray Padilla came;

And brawny spearmen bowed their heads to kiss the helpful hand

Of him who spake the simple truth that brave men understand.

What pen may paint their daring — those doughty cavaliers!

The cities of the Zuni were humbled by their spears.

Wild Arizona's barrens grew pallid in the glow

Of blades that won Granada and conquered Mexico.

They fared by lofty Acoma; their rally-call was blown

Where Colorado rushes down through Godhewn walls of stone;

Still, North and East, where deserts spread, and treeless prairies rolled,

A Fairy City lured them on with pinnacles of gold.

Through all their weary marches toward that flitting goal

They turned to Fray Padilla for aid of heart and soul.

He bound the wounds that lance-thrust and flinty arrow made;

He cheered the sick and failing; above the dead he prayed.

Two thousand miles of war and woe behind their banners lay:

And sadly fever, drought and toil had lessened their array,

When came a message fraught with hope to all the steadfast band:

" Good tidings from the northward, friends! Quivira lies at hand! "

How joyously they spurred them! How sadly drew the rein!

There shone no golden palace, there blazed no jewelled fane.

Rude tents of hide of bison, dog-guarded, met their view —

A squalid Indian village; the lodges of the Sioux!

Then Coronado bowed his head. He spake unto his men:

" Our quest is vain, true hearts of Spain! Now ride we home again.

And would to God that I might give that phantom city's pride

In ransom for the gallant souls that here have sunk and died! "

Back, back to Compostela the wayworn handful bore;

But sturdy Fray Padilla took up the quest once more.

His soul still longed for conquest, though not by lance and sword;

He burned to show the Heathen the pathway to the Lord.

Again he trudged the flinty hills and dazzling desert sands,

And few were they that walked with him, and weaponless their hands —

But and the trusty man-at-arms, Docampo, rode him near

Like Great Heart, guarding Christian's way through wastes of Doubt and Fear.

Where still in silken harvests the prairie-lilies toss,

Among the dark Quiviras Padilla reared his cross.

Within its sacred shadow the warriors of the Kaw

In wonder heard the Gospel of Love and Peace and Law.

They gloried in their Brown-robed Priest; and oft in twilight's gold

The warriors grouped, a silent ring, to hear the tale he told,

While round the gentle man-at-arms their lithe-limbed children played

And shot their arrows at his shield and rode his guarded blade.

When thrice the silver crescent had filled its curving shell,

The Friar rose at dawning and spake his flock farewell:

" — And if your Brothers northward be cruel, as ye say,

My Master bids me seek them — and dare I answer " Nay"? "

Again he strode the path of thorns; but ere the evening star

A savage cohort swept the plain in paint and plumes of war.

Then Fray Padilla spake to them whose hearts were most his own:

" My children, bear the tidings home — let me die here alone. "

He knelt upon the prairie, begirt by yelling Sioux. —

" Forgive them, oh, my Father! they know not what they do! "

The twanging bow-strings answered.

Before his eyes, unrolled

The City of Quivira whose streets are paved with gold.

History

The Sacred City of Caral-Supe, located in the Supe Valley of Peru, stands as one of the most extraordinary archaeological discoveries in the Americas.

With an antiquity of approximately 5,000 years, Caral is not only the oldest city in the Americas but also one of most ancient… pic.twitter.com/N3oXF42t0q

— ArchaeoHistories (@histories_arch) January 5, 2025

 

An Insight

Of mankind we may say in general they are fickle, hypocritical, and greedy of gain.

— Niccolò Machiavelli | The Prince ⚔️ (@NiccoloDaily) January 7, 2025

 

I see wonderful things

Lascaux Cave - the Sistine Chapel of the Paleolithic Period :

Lascaux Cave is a Palaeolithic cave situated in southwestern France, near village of Montignac in Dordogne region, which houses some of most famous examples of prehistoric cave paintings...

Close to 600 paintings –… pic.twitter.com/qPxtSz8EsW

— Archaeo - Histories (@archeohistories) January 6, 2025

 

Offbeat Humor

Dog politely drops hints that he's interested in walking..🐕🐾😅 pic.twitter.com/fUFM7erYFW

— 𝕐o̴g̴ (@Yoda4ever) January 8, 2025

Data Talks

Summary of the first wave of RTW laws in America (1944-1963): Event study plots reveal gains in top 1% income share, worker income (with varied deflators), employment rate, and labor income share—benefits for all exist but are disproportionately skewed toward the wealthiest. https://t.co/lG9AiO9fsq pic.twitter.com/zcviJXEMPL

— Vincent Geloso (@VincentGeloso) January 7, 2025

 

Comedia (Montparnasse's Blues), 1922-1925 by Kees van Dongen

Comedia (Montparnasse's Blues), 1922-1925 by Kees van Dongen (Netherlands, 1877-1968)

Click to enlarge.

The Cowboy's Lament by Burl Ives

The Cowboy's Lament

by Burl Ives

As I walked out in the streets of Laredo

As I walked out in Laredo one day

I spied a young cowboy all wrapped in white linen

Wrapped in white linen as cold as the clay

I see by your outfit that you are a cowboy

These words he did say as I boldly walked by

Come sit down beside me and hear my sad story

I'm shot in the breast and I know I must die

It was once in the saddle I used to go dashing

Once in the saddle I used to go gay

First down to Rosie's and then to the card house

Got shot in the breast and I'm dying today

Get sixteen gamblers to carry my coffin

Get six jolly cowboys to sing me a song

Take me to the graveyard and lay the sod o'er me

For I'm a young cowboy and know I've done wrong

Get six jolly cowboys to carry my coffin

Get six pretty maidens to sing me a song

Take me to the valley and lay the sod o'er me

For I'm a young cowboy, and know I've done wrong

Oh beat the drum slowly and play the fife lowly

Play the Dead March as they carry me along

Put bunches of roses all over my coffin

Put roses to deaden the clods as they fall

As I walked out in the streets of Laredo

As I walked out in Laredo one day

I spied a young cowboy all wrapped in white linen

Wrapped in white linen as cold as the clay

History

Do childhoods like this exist anymore?

from CS Lewis, Surprised by Joy pic.twitter.com/ZPHuDlhLbE

— CoffeeWithTheClassics (@CoffeewClassics) January 5, 2025

 

An Insight

This might be my most unpopular take, but whatever

The West works FAR BETTER when guys are drinking more

Time for a very short 🧵

🧵👇 https://t.co/R1T6HT0QAp pic.twitter.com/gajJaqv7ep

— Will Tanner (@Will_Tanner_1) September 5, 2024

 

I see wonderful things

The book of nature is written in the language of mathematics.

– Galileo Galilei pic.twitter.com/jk2paFs4iN

— Physics In History (@PhysInHistory) January 5, 2025

 

Offbeat Humor

pic.twitter.com/mddY4Kn2Aa

— Students For Liberty (@sfliberty) January 7, 2025

 

Data Talks

Reminder for the new semester

When researchers secretly added AI-created papers to the exam pool: “We found that 94% of our AI submissions were undetected. The grades awarded to our AI submissions were on average half a grade boundary higher than that achieved by real students.” pic.twitter.com/JPzUTFn9DD

— Ethan Mollick (@emollick) January 6, 2025

 

Cottages at Burghclere, 1927-30 by Stanley Spencer

Cottages at Burghclere, 1927-30 by Stanley Spencer (England, 1891-1959)

 

Click to enlarge.

History

West Kennet Long Barrow is one of the largest and best-preserved Neolithic chambered tombs in Britain, located near Avebury in Wiltshire.

Built over 5,600 years ago, this massive structure stretches approximately 100m and served as a communal burial site. It is considered one… pic.twitter.com/D8l83uaBmU

— Dr. M.F. Khan (@Dr_TheHistories) January 4, 2025

 

An Insight

Safetyism is such an anti-Western plague

Pretty much every person you have heard of from before a few decades ago drank copious amounts regularly and they were fine, if not better for it

One example: George Washington ordered fortified wine, particularly port and madeira, in… https://t.co/JW2pbiN2OE pic.twitter.com/Px6CsuA8Ru

— Will Tanner (@Will_Tanner_1) January 6, 2025

 

I see wonderful things

Reindeer Herder in Northern Mongolia 🇲🇳

Mongolia’s Tsaatan Reindeer Herders; a diminishing nomadic tribe who live in the depths of the Taiga in northern Mongolia are one of last groups of nomadic reindeer herders in the world. There about 400 Dukha people of 70-80 families live… pic.twitter.com/W1cf3yfctS

— Archaeo - Histories (@archeohistories) January 5, 2025

 

Offbeat Humor

Nooo!! Ray Epps! Not during the snowball fight! 😂 pic.twitter.com/l55OAuAV53

— drefanzor memes (@drefanzor) January 6, 2025

 

Data Talks

Danube River, the epicentre of European history, civilization and culture...

Throughout history, waterways have been cheapest and easiest means of transporting people and goods. Danube is one of world’s most famous rivers, standing alongside likes of Nile, Yangtze, Indus,… pic.twitter.com/FOWDm4JELY

— Archaeo - Histories (@archeohistories) January 5, 2025

 

Brampton Bryan by Annie Ovenden

Brampton Bryan by Annie Ovenden (England, 1945 - )

Click to enlarge.

History

Engraved Giraffes and Cow, around 8000 years old (Neolithic Period), at Wadi Mathendous prehistoric archaeological site - Messak, Settafet, Libya 🇱🇾

Wadi Mathendous is a prehistoric archaeological site in the Mesak Settafet escarpment, located in the southwestern Fezzan region… pic.twitter.com/an7OtdlAmg

— ArchaeoHistories (@histories_arch) January 5, 2025

 

An Insight

"By the age of 70, he who doesn’t read will have lived only one life. He who reads will have lived 5000 years. Reading is immortality backwards."
Umberto Eco pic.twitter.com/bRQ1jnUOGM

— La femme merveilleuse invisible (@larwoolf) January 5, 2025

 

I see wonderful things

The fur of the Arctic fox provides the best insulation of any mammal and its thickness increases by 140% during winter.

Apparenly they do not start to shiver until the temperature drops to −70 °C (−94 °F).pic.twitter.com/V6CWgnTuhN

— Massimo (@Rainmaker1973) January 5, 2025

 

Offbeat Humor

Should I leave the hotel? pic.twitter.com/niMdjUT43G

— non aesthetic things (@PicturesFoIder) January 5, 2025

 

Data Talks

When fatherlessness happens via a death of the father, child outcomes are pretty similar to two-parent families.

This indicates the issue is not "fatherlessness" itself. https://t.co/ekpm1xTeYP pic.twitter.com/DShBi9KStk

— Jeremy Kauffman 🦔🌲🌕 (@jeremykauffman) January 5, 2025

 

The Widower, 1873 by Edward Lamson Henry

The Widower, 1873 by Edward Lamson Henry (America, 1841-1919)

Click to enlarge.

History

When Christopher Columbus reached the Americas, he hoped the land would be rich with gold, silver and precious spices, but perhaps the New World’s greatest treasure was its bounty of native food crops cultivated for millennia by Indigenous Americans.

As much as three-fifths of… pic.twitter.com/0uzpvQbbnP

— Archaeo - Histories (@archeohistories) January 5, 2025

 

An Insight

One of the main reasons behind the political alignment we’re seeing in the West is that the working & middle classes finally woke up to the fact that the Left hates them.

— Rita Panahi (@RitaPanahi) January 5, 2025

 

I see wonderful things

A Flight Over Pluto pic.twitter.com/lYoSd8lePh

— Curiosity (@MAstronomers) January 4, 2025

 

Offbeat Humor

I don't know how many hints God can send. https://t.co/QO5nov2823

— Scott Adams (@ScottAdamsSays) January 5, 2025

 

Data Talks

There are more living 84 year olds than 1 year olds in South Korea today. pic.twitter.com/ukQmusu4jt

— molson 🧠⚙️ (@Molson_Hart) January 5, 2025

 

The Three Wise Men, 1900 by J.C. Leyendecker

The Three Wise Men, 1900  by J.C. Leyendecker (America, 1874-1951)

Click to enlarge.

History

This Roman folding pocketknife, dated to around 50 AD, is a fascinating example of ancient ingenuity and craftsmanship. The folding knife, a tool we often associate with modern convenience, was already a known and used object in ancient Rome, demonstrating the practical mindset… pic.twitter.com/1tWnxcrVGf

— Dr. M.F. Khan (@Dr_TheHistories) January 5, 2025

 

An Insight

You should know this as a Catholic pic.twitter.com/b7LU0VnqIG

— 🕯️Rev. Vitus🇻🇦✝️ (@Vitus_oss) January 4, 2025

 

I see wonderful things

The hypnotic beauty of Persian architecture. 💎 https://t.co/U5almTcFsM pic.twitter.com/WuOvp1uwjO

— Muse (@xmuse_) January 4, 2025

 

Offbeat Humor

13. When nature itself tells you to shut up pic.twitter.com/mbCWc5AcLt

— Today In History (@historigins) January 5, 2025

 

Data Talks

Maps showing how fast could you travel across the U.S. in the 1800s pic.twitter.com/enmiV1JTMp

— Vintage Maps (@vintagemapstore) January 5, 2025

 

A View of the Thames from Cockmarsh Hill, Cookham, 1935 by Stanley Spencer

A View of the Thames from Cockmarsh Hill, Cookham, 1935 by Stanley Spencer (England, 1891-1959)

Click to enlarge.