Elizabeth Hardwick’s writing is like a sharp edge that cuts through the haze of my own thoughts. I’ve been reading her essays for months now, and every time I pick up “Sleepless Nights,” I feel like I’m confronting a part…
I’m sitting in the living room watching John Mercer attempt to replace a guitar string, and based on the noises he’s making, I’m beginning to suspect the guitar has insulted his family. He’s hunched over the coffee table with the…
Ernst Mach’s name keeps popping up in my research for a paper on the philosophy of science. At first, I thought it was just because he was a prominent figure in the history of physics and psychology. But as I…
I’m staring at the coffee mug on the kitchen counter, and something’s wrong with it. Not damaged wrong. Not dirty wrong. Just wrong. I used it yesterday morning, washed it, and put it away exactly where it belongs. At least…
Choosing Calm over Productivity During Crowded Summer Weeks deserves more than a quick seasonal mention because it sits at the place where style, comfort, and ordinary decision-making meet. When the weather is warm, small choices become mor
May Sarton – the writer who has been on my mind lately, like a gentle hum in the background of my thoughts. I first stumbled upon her poetry and prose in college, where we were assigned to read some of…
I’m staring at the kitchen counter, trying to focus on the fact that John Mercer left his mug there again. This should not be important. People leave mugs on counters every day without triggering investigations. I understand that intellectually. Still,…
Edward Said. I’ve been reading his work for years, but it wasn’t until I stumbled upon a collection of his essays that I felt like I was finally grasping what drew me to him. It’s not just the way he…
I’m sitting on the couch watching John Mercer fiddle with his phone, and I’m beginning to understand why some people throw electronics into lakes. He’s been trying to order a new charger for what feels like several hours, although realistically…
Anna Akhmatova’s poetry has been haunting me for months now, ever since I stumbled upon her work in a used bookstore. At first, it was just the words that caught my attention – the way she wove together disparate threads…
I’m sitting in the living room watching Mr Whiskers groom one paw with the kind of concentration I usually reserve for problems that don’t exist yet. Pandora is curled up on the other end of the couch scrolling through her…
As summer reaches its peak, people often find themselves reacting to sun exposure with an array of products, each promising to soothe, hydrate, or…
C.P. Snow – the man who coined the phrase “the two cultures,” a term that has stuck with me since I first stumbled upon it in my literature class. As I reflect on why he holds my attention, I find…
I’m sitting on the couch, staring at Pandora while she’s completely engrossed in her phone. Mr Whiskers is sprawled across my lap, purring softly as he wedges his head into the crook of my arm like he pays rent here,…
I’ve always been drawn to Christina Rossetti’s poetry, but it wasn’t until I stumbled upon her collection “The World is Too Much With Us” that I really began to understand why. Her words seemed to capture the suffocating weight of…
I’m making coffee, and it should be a completely normal morning. Pandora is still asleep, Mr. Whiskers is sitting outside the bedroom complaining like he hasn’t eaten since the Eisenhower administration, and John Mercer is nowhere to be seen. None…
As summer approaches, people often find themselves standing in front of a rack of swimwear, trying to decide which suit will make them look and feel…
I’ve found myself returning to Gaston Bachelard again and again, not because I’m reading a specific book of his, but because I keep finding him in my own thoughts. It started with “The Poetics of Space,” which a friend recommended…
I noticed Karen’s car before I even made it through the front doors at work. That probably doesn’t sound important, and under normal circumstances it wouldn’t be, except Karen’s car wasn’t parked where she normally parks it. It was sitting…
Nella Larsen. Her name has been stuck in my head for months now, like a line from a poem I’ve yet to decipher. What draws me to her, really? Is it the way she defied convention, embracing her mixed heritage…
