Remarking on what really makes a person a writer, Christopher Hitchens offered that it comes down to whether the individual needs to write, or merely wants to. The true writer will find that something goes haywire within if the itch goes unscratched; writing “must be that without which you could not live.” The pen might as well be an internal organ.
Best not to assume one’s native tongue will provide even a sliver of insight into the language of a technical hobby. In this way, cycling resembles seafaring and the whole pandora’s box of nautica. Port and starboard, fore and aft—we all know some of these terms, but they only scratch the surface of an entire linguistic universe. That they are entirely without utility to the general public is of no matter; this stuff is reserved for professionals and rabbit hole navigators.
It was me, not you.
It is a common wish to relive one’s college years. For most people, I imagine this originates in a feeling of nostalgia, a longing for freer times long expired after the career grind fails to provide adequate intellectual and social nourishment.
Receiving several billions of dollars in aid from the world’s preeminent military superpower is apparently not enough. In addition to F-35 bombers, the Israel Defense Forces also need teens with lactose intolerance to run interference for their online reputation. Their posts follow a basic script: any sentiment against zionism not qualified with thirty or so proactive apologies to the Jewish people is antisemitic. And it’s not just Israel. All over the world, strife and conflict are reduced to linguistic squabbles, with sides racing to brand their enemies unpretty things like “racist” and “bigot,” all to win the hearts and minds of out-of-the-loop social media users.
I love reading. I read so much; reading sustains me in a way very little else does in life. I feel terrible on dating apps juxtaposed to all the people who list rock climbing, hiking the AT, and underwater basket weaving as active and exotic hobbies. I have even found a way to make a career of interacting with books. Yet even I have a limit.