Pieter Bruegel the Elder, Big Fish Eat Little Fish (1556)
The Death of Marcus Aurelius
Saturday, September 19, 2026
The Battle About Money
Pieter van der Heyden, after Pieter Bruegel the Elder, The Battle About Money (c. 1570)
Friday, September 18, 2026
Udana 1.2
When the seven days had come to a close, the Exalted one arose from the state of trance, and in the middle watch of the night thoroughly thought out the chain of cause and effect, in indirect order, thus: "If there is not this state, another state does not arise, by the non-arising of this state, a state is not produced, that is to say:
"By the destruction of Ignorance, Conformations are destroyed, by the destruction of Conformations, Consciousness is destroyed, by the destruction of Consciousness, Mind and Material Form are destroyed, by the destruction of Mind and Material Form, the six Organs of Sense are destroyed, by the destruction of the six Organs of Sense, Contact is destroyed, by the destruction of Contact, Sensations are destroyed, by the destruction of Sensations, Desire is destroyed, by the destruction of Desire, Attachment is destroyed, by the destruction of Attachment, Being is destroyed, by the destruction of Being, Birth is destroyed, and by the destruction of Birth, Decay, Death, Sorrow, Lamentation, Pain, Grief and Despair are destroyed. Thus the whole mass of suffering is brought to an end."
And the Exalted One, in this connection, on that occasion breathed forth this solemn utterance:
"When the conditions of Existence dawn upon the strenuous, meditative Brahmana,
When he understands the destruction of the causes,
Then all doubts depart."
Stockdale on Stoicism 59
In prison, there is one internal decision that is difficult beyond all others: when to first say "no" and knowingly force the commissar’s hand to carry out his threats and impose physical torture.
This turning point almost always takes place in a frenzied moment when the new prisoner is awash in a sea of guilt and fear.
The guilt arises from his having "gone along" with the commissar’s demand for a little of this and a little of that, while in the fashion of most of us well-brought-up American boys he had chosen "the middle way," to his now devastating regret, as he took preliminary measure of his predicament.
And the fear! Arthur Koestler, while in a Fascist prison in Spain, described his initial fear of torture as "not a healthy fear, but the obsessional and morbid variety . . . the neurotic type of anxiety . . . the irrational anticipation of an unknown punishment."
—from James B. Stockdale, Epictetus' Enchiridion: Conflict and Character
IMAGE: Francisco Goya, Confessions in Prison (c. 1812)
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Thursday, September 17, 2026
Seneca, Moral Letters 86.6
If what I am saying shall seem to you too pessimistic, charge it up against Scipio’s country house, where I have learned a lesson from Aegialus, a most careful householder and now the owner of this estate; he taught me that a tree can be transplanted, no matter how far gone in years.
We old men must learn this precept; for there is none of us who is not planting an olive-yard for his successor. I have seen them bearing fruit in due season after three or four years of unproductiveness. And you too shall be shaded by the tree which
“Is slow to grow, but bringeth shade to cheer
Your grandsons in the far-off years,”
as our poet Vergil says. Vergil sought, however, not what was nearest to the truth, but what was most appropriate, and aimed, not to teach the farmer, but to please the reader. For example, omitting all other errors of his, I will quote the passage in which it was incumbent upon me today to detect a fault:
“In spring sow beans then, too, O clover plant,
Thou’rt welcomed by the crumbling furrows; and
The millet calls for yearly care.”
You may judge by the following incident whether those plants should be set out at the same time, or whether both should be sowed in the spring. It is June at the present writing, and we are well on towards July; and I have seen on this very day farmers harvesting beans and sowing millet.
We old men must learn this precept; for there is none of us who is not planting an olive-yard for his successor. I have seen them bearing fruit in due season after three or four years of unproductiveness. And you too shall be shaded by the tree which
“Is slow to grow, but bringeth shade to cheer
Your grandsons in the far-off years,”
as our poet Vergil says. Vergil sought, however, not what was nearest to the truth, but what was most appropriate, and aimed, not to teach the farmer, but to please the reader. For example, omitting all other errors of his, I will quote the passage in which it was incumbent upon me today to detect a fault:
Thou’rt welcomed by the crumbling furrows; and
The millet calls for yearly care.”
You may judge by the following incident whether those plants should be set out at the same time, or whether both should be sowed in the spring. It is June at the present writing, and we are well on towards July; and I have seen on this very day farmers harvesting beans and sowing millet.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 86
Long before I ever started dabbling in philosophy, I was in love with the natural world, and I have never regretted fostering that particular instinct. Animals can feel as if they have been the best of friends, and plants can teach me about the core of what it means to live.
While I am not patient enough to train a dog, a tabby cat has been my loyal companion for many years. He gets me, even though he does not understand me.
While I have never had a green thumb, I care for a small bed of herbs in my backyard. Sometimes these plants grow strong, and sometimes they wither away, but they never fail to do their best, without any hesitation.
My mother and father kept the most exquisite garden—to remember it is to conquer despair. What happens in one aspect of nature is always mirrored in another, so I do not think it ridiculous to observe how the virtue of a tree has much in common with the virtue of a man. It is no accident that poets have long drawn from the language of seeds and of blossoms, of cultivating and of harvesting.
I would have to ask my parents if Cicero was right to question Vergil about the best growing seasons, but for the moment, my interest is in the likeness between nurturing a garden and nurturing a soul. How can an old tree be transplanted into new soil? How can ancient wisdom be passed on to younger minds? The goal should be to maintain that which is perennial, instead of merely starting over with a fresh batch of annuals.
The newest thing is usually the flashiest thing, so those who are driven first by their passions will be charmed by the sparkle of the impressions. Yet given a bit of time, which can lift us to a broader perspective, we begin to understand why, for all the comings and goings, the only real truths are the timeless truths. The sapling is sassy, though the oak is enduring.
Yes, every creature must eventually weaken and diminish, and this is only fitting, for when the new arises from the old, it will nevertheless express the patterns of what came before. This is the work of the Creator: the beings reflect Being, and the natures reflect Nature.
Do not underestimate those timeworn olive trees. They may have some fruit in them yet.
Long before I ever started dabbling in philosophy, I was in love with the natural world, and I have never regretted fostering that particular instinct. Animals can feel as if they have been the best of friends, and plants can teach me about the core of what it means to live.
While I am not patient enough to train a dog, a tabby cat has been my loyal companion for many years. He gets me, even though he does not understand me.
While I have never had a green thumb, I care for a small bed of herbs in my backyard. Sometimes these plants grow strong, and sometimes they wither away, but they never fail to do their best, without any hesitation.
My mother and father kept the most exquisite garden—to remember it is to conquer despair. What happens in one aspect of nature is always mirrored in another, so I do not think it ridiculous to observe how the virtue of a tree has much in common with the virtue of a man. It is no accident that poets have long drawn from the language of seeds and of blossoms, of cultivating and of harvesting.
I would have to ask my parents if Cicero was right to question Vergil about the best growing seasons, but for the moment, my interest is in the likeness between nurturing a garden and nurturing a soul. How can an old tree be transplanted into new soil? How can ancient wisdom be passed on to younger minds? The goal should be to maintain that which is perennial, instead of merely starting over with a fresh batch of annuals.
The newest thing is usually the flashiest thing, so those who are driven first by their passions will be charmed by the sparkle of the impressions. Yet given a bit of time, which can lift us to a broader perspective, we begin to understand why, for all the comings and goings, the only real truths are the timeless truths. The sapling is sassy, though the oak is enduring.
Yes, every creature must eventually weaken and diminish, and this is only fitting, for when the new arises from the old, it will nevertheless express the patterns of what came before. This is the work of the Creator: the beings reflect Being, and the natures reflect Nature.
Do not underestimate those timeworn olive trees. They may have some fruit in them yet.
—Reflection written in 1/2014
IMAGE: Georges Seurat, The Gardener (1883)
Wednesday, September 16, 2026
Henry David Thoreau 18
IMAGE: Giovanni De Min, The Choice of Hercules (1812)
_The_choice_of_Hercules_-_Giovanni_de_Min_-_gallerie_Accademia_Venice.jpg)
Ralph Waldo Emerson 23
—from Ralph Waldo Emerson, Journals (8 November, 1838)
Tuesday, September 15, 2026
Monday, September 14, 2026
The Basel Dance of Death 20
Matthäus Merian, The Basel Dance of Death: The Merchant (1616)
Your time is here, now you must die.
Death cannot be bribed with money or goods.
Now dance along in high spirits."
my chests and boxes were all full.
Death has despised my wealth,
and deprived me of life and limb."
Seneca, Moral Letters 86.5
How some persons nowadays condemn Scipio as a boor because he did not let daylight into his perspiring room through wide windows, or because he did not roast in the strong sunlight and dawdle about until he could stew in the hot water!
“Poor fool,” they say, “he did not know how to live! He did not bathe in filtered water; it was often turbid, and after heavy rains almost muddy!”
But it did not matter much to Scipio if he had to bathe in that way; he went there to wash off sweat, not ointment. And how do you suppose certain persons will answer me? They will say: “I don’t envy Scipio; that was truly an exile’s life—to put up with baths like those!”
Friend, if you were wiser, you would know that Scipio did not bathe every day. It is stated by those who have reported to us the old-time ways of Rome that the Romans washed only their arms and legs daily—because those were the members which gathered dirt in their daily toil—and bathed all over only once a week.
Here someone will retort: “Yes; pretty dirty fellows they evidently were! How they must have smelled!”
But they smelled of the camp, the farm, and heroism. Now that spick-and-span bathing establishments have been devised, men are really fouler than of yore.
What says Horatius Flaccus, when he wishes to describe a scoundrel, one who is notorious for his extreme luxury? He says: “Buccillus smells of perfume.”
Show me a Buccillus in these days; his smell would be the veritable goat-smell—he would take the place of the Gargonius with whom Horace in the same passage contrasted him. It is nowadays not enough to use ointment, unless you put on a fresh coat two or three times a day, to keep it from evaporating on the body. But why should a man boast of this perfume as if it were his own?
“Poor fool,” they say, “he did not know how to live! He did not bathe in filtered water; it was often turbid, and after heavy rains almost muddy!”
But it did not matter much to Scipio if he had to bathe in that way; he went there to wash off sweat, not ointment. And how do you suppose certain persons will answer me? They will say: “I don’t envy Scipio; that was truly an exile’s life—to put up with baths like those!”
Friend, if you were wiser, you would know that Scipio did not bathe every day. It is stated by those who have reported to us the old-time ways of Rome that the Romans washed only their arms and legs daily—because those were the members which gathered dirt in their daily toil—and bathed all over only once a week.
Here someone will retort: “Yes; pretty dirty fellows they evidently were! How they must have smelled!”
But they smelled of the camp, the farm, and heroism. Now that spick-and-span bathing establishments have been devised, men are really fouler than of yore.
What says Horatius Flaccus, when he wishes to describe a scoundrel, one who is notorious for his extreme luxury? He says: “Buccillus smells of perfume.”
Show me a Buccillus in these days; his smell would be the veritable goat-smell—he would take the place of the Gargonius with whom Horace in the same passage contrasted him. It is nowadays not enough to use ointment, unless you put on a fresh coat two or three times a day, to keep it from evaporating on the body. But why should a man boast of this perfume as if it were his own?
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 86
As a child of two continents, it was sometimes hard to feel at home, but it also gave me the benefit of seeing a few things from a broader perspective. Even in my own lifetime, many of those contrasts have gradually disappeared, as our cultures become homogenized, so I now torture my own children with endless stories about how both America and Europe used to be. Like Seneca, my intention is to point toward what is perennial, not merely to linger on the past.
At American schools, I was confused when my peers were always talking about taking showers, at many different times during the day, and they became deeply anxious if they were ever denied the chance to do so. There were showers in the morning, and showers in the evening, and showers after sports or any sort of physical exertion. I finally realized they had an aversion to the slightest presence of sweat, which also explained why the continually covered themselves with a variety of deodorants and antiperspirants.
Now my mother, very of much of the European old school, would not have permitted me to leave the house dirty or smelly, but I was never told to shower daily. I was, however, expected to wash thoroughly as a part of my routine, and I would be sent back to the bathroom if I cut any corners. A sink, a washcloth, and a bar of soap were the tools. A proper bath was added once a week, and only more often if I somehow made a terrible mess of myself.
To the American, the European would seem like a filthy beast, stinking to high heaven, and to the European, the American would seem like a spoiled brat, wallowing in decadence. Both were exaggerations, of course, and yet I couldn’t help but notice how the average Bostonian was still a far sloppier, grubbier, and, dare I say, ruder fellow than the average Austrian. Let us be careful about what we mean by being clean.
Both Seneca and my mother may have been on to something.
By the time I became a teacher, my students still appeared to be showering before class, since most of them crawled in with wet hair, but I was sometimes alarmed by the smell in the room. No, it wasn’t just sweat, it was also stale beer, masked by the pungent scent of cheap body spray. I once observed a young man fumigate himself from head to toe with a can, for well over a minute, which was a world away from my spritz of 4711 after shaving, or that dab of Eau Sauvage on a special occasion, from a bottle that lasted me over a decade.
The more things change, the more they stay the same.
I can honestly say that I am very rarely offended by someone’s body odor, and when I am, I must remind myself that it is usually due to circumstances beyond their control. A man who has been working probably should smell of sweat, though if he is well-mannered, he will wash up before he sits down at the table. Nor do I mind the smell of hay, compost, goats, horses, or cattle, as they are a sign that I am in a properly natural place.
What does sadden me, however, is the attempt to conceal our rough physicality, to hide behind some fancy perfume. It is yet another instance of putting on an act, of pretending to be better than we really are. No, I correct myself: not better at all, but worse, because we are hardly being authentic. It isn’t our scent to begin with.
A man should not have to drench himself with chemicals before he faces the world, and a woman should not have to spend an hour “putting on her face” before she is taken seriously.
As a child of two continents, it was sometimes hard to feel at home, but it also gave me the benefit of seeing a few things from a broader perspective. Even in my own lifetime, many of those contrasts have gradually disappeared, as our cultures become homogenized, so I now torture my own children with endless stories about how both America and Europe used to be. Like Seneca, my intention is to point toward what is perennial, not merely to linger on the past.
At American schools, I was confused when my peers were always talking about taking showers, at many different times during the day, and they became deeply anxious if they were ever denied the chance to do so. There were showers in the morning, and showers in the evening, and showers after sports or any sort of physical exertion. I finally realized they had an aversion to the slightest presence of sweat, which also explained why the continually covered themselves with a variety of deodorants and antiperspirants.
Now my mother, very of much of the European old school, would not have permitted me to leave the house dirty or smelly, but I was never told to shower daily. I was, however, expected to wash thoroughly as a part of my routine, and I would be sent back to the bathroom if I cut any corners. A sink, a washcloth, and a bar of soap were the tools. A proper bath was added once a week, and only more often if I somehow made a terrible mess of myself.
To the American, the European would seem like a filthy beast, stinking to high heaven, and to the European, the American would seem like a spoiled brat, wallowing in decadence. Both were exaggerations, of course, and yet I couldn’t help but notice how the average Bostonian was still a far sloppier, grubbier, and, dare I say, ruder fellow than the average Austrian. Let us be careful about what we mean by being clean.
Both Seneca and my mother may have been on to something.
By the time I became a teacher, my students still appeared to be showering before class, since most of them crawled in with wet hair, but I was sometimes alarmed by the smell in the room. No, it wasn’t just sweat, it was also stale beer, masked by the pungent scent of cheap body spray. I once observed a young man fumigate himself from head to toe with a can, for well over a minute, which was a world away from my spritz of 4711 after shaving, or that dab of Eau Sauvage on a special occasion, from a bottle that lasted me over a decade.
The more things change, the more they stay the same.
I can honestly say that I am very rarely offended by someone’s body odor, and when I am, I must remind myself that it is usually due to circumstances beyond their control. A man who has been working probably should smell of sweat, though if he is well-mannered, he will wash up before he sits down at the table. Nor do I mind the smell of hay, compost, goats, horses, or cattle, as they are a sign that I am in a properly natural place.
What does sadden me, however, is the attempt to conceal our rough physicality, to hide behind some fancy perfume. It is yet another instance of putting on an act, of pretending to be better than we really are. No, I correct myself: not better at all, but worse, because we are hardly being authentic. It isn’t our scent to begin with.
A man should not have to drench himself with chemicals before he faces the world, and a woman should not have to spend an hour “putting on her face” before she is taken seriously.
—Reflection written in 1/2014
Sunday, September 13, 2026
Maxims of Goethe 93
When you lose interest in anything, you also lose the memory for it.
IMAGE: Elihu Vedder, Memory (1870)
Ellis Walker, Epictetus in Poetical Paraphrase 65
If I should boast I wealthier am than you,
It follows not that I am better too;
If I should say, I'm the more florid man,
It follows not, I therefore better am.
It rather follows, I am richer far,
Therefore my well-fill'd bags the better are:
My tongue is better hung, my phrase more neat,
Therefore my language is the more compleat,
Your bags and fluent speech have some pretence
To being better, to more excellence,
But you are neither wealth, nor eloquence.
It follows not that I am better too;
If I should say, I'm the more florid man,
It follows not, I therefore better am.
It rather follows, I am richer far,
Therefore my well-fill'd bags the better are:
My tongue is better hung, my phrase more neat,
Therefore my language is the more compleat,
Your bags and fluent speech have some pretence
To being better, to more excellence,
But you are neither wealth, nor eloquence.
Saturday, September 12, 2026
Frippisms 8
When we have nothing to say, it is very hard to say nothing.
When we have nothing to do, it is very hard to do nothing.
William Hogarth, Industry and Idleness 3
The most unsuitable thoughts can have a way of popping into our heads during the most dignified occasions. For a good number of years, any formal dinner would have me obsessed with watching television, and going to church would make me crave a cigarette. I suspect the sense that I was being "forced" to fulfill some tedious duty was an excuse to stubbornly dwell upon an instant gratification.
I could also blame the Devil for my temptations, of course, but wherever that itch is coming from, I am the only one who decides if I will scratch it. Why might I call it such a great sacrifice to give an hour to honor my own family, or to praise the Almighty? In the end, our habits won't change if our priorities won't change—the more we choose to value it, the more we will gladly endure to achieve it.
In other words, when I truly recognize it as a duty, I will no longer consider it to be tedious.
So Francis prays on a Sunday because he judges his character to be most important. And Tom gambles on a Sunday because he judges his passions to be most important. Given, once again, that they have both been handed the same opportunities, there is no getting around their personal responsibility as the root cause.
Some of my students have tried to defend Tom, and I an actually quite sympathetic. Perhaps Francis and Tom have different temperaments, or they were raised under different conditions? We all have our peculiar inclinations, and our environment will indeed impose incredible obstacles: could we not show a bit more compassion to Tom, and perhaps teach him gently before callously casting him aside?
I wholeheartedly agree, for we should offer forgiveness not once, not twice, but seventy by seven times, just as it is only through our own patient understanding that we can inspire others to understand. Nevertheless, there is little to be done for someone who absolutely refuses to be helped, and there is a vast difference between the man who falls down and the man who won't get back up.
I know the burden of a bad habit all too well, yet I also know the power of a good habit to lighten the load. Despite the inertia, changing the direction of my life begins with a purity of intention, and great oaks from little acorns grow.
Having been there myself, I do not think it unfair to say that Tom fails to be good because he still doesn't want to be good.
I do not agree with those who claim there are certain "criminal types" who are beyond any chance of reform, mainly because I do not subscribe to their view of a man as a mere machine. Where there is a good will, my redemption is always possible, but I condemn myself when I obstinately cling to my vices.
The politicians will blame the economy, and the therapists will blame your mother, and the doctors will try to sell you a little pill. In the meantime, those of common sense will recognize why fiddling with the circumstances is never enough. Ultimately, we will all have to be accountable for ourselves.
So there can be no doubt concerning the gravity of Tom's choices, Hogarth presents an especially vivid scene. Tom isn't just skipping church, he is gambling. He isn't just gambling, he is cheating at the game of hustle-cap. He isn't just cheating, he is doing so on a tombstone.
One would think that being surrounded by bones might offer him a clue. . . .
Proverbs 19:29
Judgments are prepared for scorners
and stripes for the back of Fools
Friday, September 11, 2026
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Seneca, Moral Letters 86.4
In the early days, however, there were few baths, and they were not fitted out with any display. For why should men elaborately fit out that which, costs a penny only, and was invented for use, not merely for delight?
The bathers of those days did not have water poured over them, nor did it always run fresh as if from a hot spring; and they did not believe that it mattered at all how perfectly pure was the water into which they were to leave their dirt.
Ye gods, what a pleasure it is to enter that dark bath, covered with a common sort of roof, knowing that therein your hero Cato, as aedile, or Fabius Maximus, or one of the Cornelii, has warmed the water with his own hands!
For this also used to be the duty of the noblest aediles—to enter these places to which the populace resorted, and to demand that they be cleaned and warmed to a heat required by considerations of use and health, not the heat that men have recently made fashionable, as great as a conflagration—so much so, indeed, that a slave condemned for some criminal offence now ought to bebathed alive!
It seems to me that nowadays there is no difference between “the bath is on fire,” and “the bath is warm."
The bathers of those days did not have water poured over them, nor did it always run fresh as if from a hot spring; and they did not believe that it mattered at all how perfectly pure was the water into which they were to leave their dirt.
Ye gods, what a pleasure it is to enter that dark bath, covered with a common sort of roof, knowing that therein your hero Cato, as aedile, or Fabius Maximus, or one of the Cornelii, has warmed the water with his own hands!
For this also used to be the duty of the noblest aediles—to enter these places to which the populace resorted, and to demand that they be cleaned and warmed to a heat required by considerations of use and health, not the heat that men have recently made fashionable, as great as a conflagration—so much so, indeed, that a slave condemned for some criminal offence now ought to bebathed alive!
It seems to me that nowadays there is no difference between “the bath is on fire,” and “the bath is warm."
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 86
As much as this whole letter may come across as an extended grievance, I find it encouraging to learn how the people of any time or place are tempted by extravagance. Whether in ancient Rome or in modern New York, to recognize our weaknesses can point us back to our strengths.
We are all, of course, drawn to the pleasures of the flesh, but on an even deeper level, we desperately crave being significant, and we come to believe that putting on an elaborate show is the quickest way to making our mark. If we pretend on the outside, other people will surely think us worthy on the inside, and so a pursuit of vanity takes the place of building any genuine character.
We collect the trinkets and the trophies, acting as if our lives must be a continual performance, such that a bath is no longer about getting clean, or our work is no longer about being of service, or our friendships are no longer about offering love. How can it be used to promote the image? How can it increase our prestige? How can it make us feel more important?
If I only choose to look honestly, I can find the pretensions in the most ridiculous of places. How many of us remember drinking water from what we used to call bubblers? I would keep track of which ones actually ran cold, something I considered a special treat.
Yet somewhere during the 1990’s, bottled water became all the rage, to the point where the designer labels we carried around with us were an expression of our cultural identity, a statement about the smartest style and the most progressive politics wrapped up in a tidy package.
Was it cleaner, or healthier, or better for the planet? I don’t rightly know, but I do know how much money we spent for those accessories, how much new trash it produced, and how people would insist they could taste the purity, even after a mischievous friend of mine had secretly replaced the contents with regular tap water. Is it technically a lie if we have convinced ourselves of the falsehood?
Every generation has its own varieties. I suspect a good man will drink or bathe with whatever water he has at hand, without getting too worried about its pedigree.
As much as this whole letter may come across as an extended grievance, I find it encouraging to learn how the people of any time or place are tempted by extravagance. Whether in ancient Rome or in modern New York, to recognize our weaknesses can point us back to our strengths.
We are all, of course, drawn to the pleasures of the flesh, but on an even deeper level, we desperately crave being significant, and we come to believe that putting on an elaborate show is the quickest way to making our mark. If we pretend on the outside, other people will surely think us worthy on the inside, and so a pursuit of vanity takes the place of building any genuine character.
We collect the trinkets and the trophies, acting as if our lives must be a continual performance, such that a bath is no longer about getting clean, or our work is no longer about being of service, or our friendships are no longer about offering love. How can it be used to promote the image? How can it increase our prestige? How can it make us feel more important?
If I only choose to look honestly, I can find the pretensions in the most ridiculous of places. How many of us remember drinking water from what we used to call bubblers? I would keep track of which ones actually ran cold, something I considered a special treat.
Yet somewhere during the 1990’s, bottled water became all the rage, to the point where the designer labels we carried around with us were an expression of our cultural identity, a statement about the smartest style and the most progressive politics wrapped up in a tidy package.
Was it cleaner, or healthier, or better for the planet? I don’t rightly know, but I do know how much money we spent for those accessories, how much new trash it produced, and how people would insist they could taste the purity, even after a mischievous friend of mine had secretly replaced the contents with regular tap water. Is it technically a lie if we have convinced ourselves of the falsehood?
Every generation has its own varieties. I suspect a good man will drink or bathe with whatever water he has at hand, without getting too worried about its pedigree.
—Reflection written in 1/2014
IMAGE: Edmond Paulin, Cross-section of the Baths of Diocletian (1880)
Thursday, September 10, 2026
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