Articles

  • 2 months ago | quillette.com | Samuel Kronen |Jonathan Rauch |Jonathan Kay |Marilyn Simon

    Before American musician Marshall Mathers made a name for himself as the global cultural sensation Eminem, he was already a gifted lyricist and wordsmith on the Detroit underground scene. “I’ve been writing lyrics since I was like fourteen years old,” he explained at a press conference some years ago, “and just the more I wrote the better I kept getting at it.” His lyrics are sometimes outrageous, but they can just as often be thoughtful and introspective.

  • 2 months ago | quillette.com | Jonathan Rauch |Jonathan Kay |Marilyn Simon

    If you ask most Americans where knowledge comes from, they will probably say: the marketplace of ideas. This is a concept that goes back to English philosopher John Stuart Mill (1806–73) in theoretical terms; and was first enunciated in its modern form by US Supreme Court Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr. in his dissent in the 1919 case of Abrams v.

  • 2 months ago | quillette.com | Jonathan Kay |Marilyn Simon |Aaron Sarin

    Last month, I received a tip from a nursing student at University of Alberta who’d been required to take a course called Indigenous Health in Canada. It’s a “worthwhile subject,” my correspondent (correctly) noted, “but it won’t surprise you to learn [that the course consists of] four months of self-flagellation led by a white woman.

  • 2 months ago | quillette.com | Marilyn Simon |Aaron Sarin |Claire Lehmann

    My husband sends me a photo of himself to show me his new glasses. In the corner of the shot, just behind him on our bed, I see the face of a woman smiling up at him. My heart stops momentarily. I’m angry, I’m afraid, but I’m also a little bit—not excited, exactly, and definitely not thrilled—but... roused, perhaps? Yes. Flushed? Certainly. Aroused? No. But then again, it is hard to say. The moment passes when I recognise the face on the bed as my own.

  • 2 months ago | quillette.com | Marilyn Simon |Aaron Sarin |Claire Lehmann

    My husband sends me a photo of himself to show me his new glasses. In the corner of the shot, just behind him on our bed, I see the face of a woman smiling up at him. My heart stops momentarily. I’m angry, I’m afraid, but I’m also a little bit—not excited, exactly, and definitely not thrilled—but... roused, perhaps? Yes. Flushed? Certainly. Aroused? No. But then again, it is hard to say. The moment passes when I recognise the face on the bed as my own.

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