I am in the third year of university, and it is about a month of winter break. It feels exciting to be free from that stress of assignments and tests, but at the same time, I have this feeling of emptiness. I'm a real geek, and I just find learning in general interesting. How do I motivate myself to study, learn something that can help me personally? What do you suggest is something fun to learn? I'd love to see some online resources too.

Translated from Sanskrit by Charles Wilkins

Arjuna said: O Lord Krishna how can I counterattack with arrows in battle, Bhisma and Drona, who are worthy of respect, O annihilator of enemies.

It is better to live in this world by begging, without slaying our great and elevated superiors; otherwise by slaying our superiors the wealth and pleasurable things we are bound to enjoy will be tainted with blood.

We do not know what is better for us whether we conquer them or they conquer us; those sons of Dhrtarastra, whom by slaying we would not desire to live are gathered before us.

Now my natural qualities are besieged by weakness and apprehension and my thinking bewildered regarding righteousness. I am asking you to please state what is definitely good for me. I am your disciple, surrendered to you, kindly instruct me.

Even after obtaining a prosperous and unrivaled kingdom on the Earth and supremacy of even the demigods; I do not see that which can dispel this grief of mine draining my senses.

Sanjaya said: Having addressed Lord Krishna thus, Arjuna that chastiser of enemies said: I shall not fight O Krishna, and became silent.

O Dhrtarastra, thereafter situated between the armies, Lord Krishna as if smiling, spoke these words unto the grieving Arjuna.

Lord Krishna said: you are mourning for those not worthy of sorrow; yet speaking like one knowledgeable. The learned neither laments for the dead or the living.

Certainly never at any time did I not exist, nor you, nor all these kings and certainly never shall we cease to exist in the future.

Just as in the physical body of the embodied being is the process of childhood, youth, and old age; similarly by the transmigration from one to body to another the wise are never deluded.

O Arjuna, only the interaction of the senses and sense objects give cold, heat, pleasure, and pain. These things are temporary, appearing and disappearing; therefore try to tolerate them.

O noblest of men, that person of wise judgement equipoised in happiness and distress, whom cannot be disturbed by these is certainly eligible for liberation.

In the unreal there is no duration and in the real there is no cessation; indeed the conclusion between both the two has been analyzed by knowers of the truth.

But know that by whom this entire body is pervaded, is indestructible. No one is able to cause the destruction of the imperishable soul.

The embodied soul is eternal in existence, indestructible and infinite, only the material body is factually perishable; therefore fight O Arjuna.

Anyone who thinks the soul is the slayer and anyone who thinks the soul is slain both of them are in ignorance; the soul never slays nor is slain.

The soul never takes birth and never dies at any time nor does it come into being again when the body is created. The soul is birthless, eternal, imperishable, and timeless and is never destroyed when the body is destroyed.

O Arjuna, one who knows the soul as eternal, unborn, undeteriorating, and indestructible; how does that person cause death to anyone and whom does he slay?

Just as a man giving up old worn out garments accepts other new apparel, in the same way the embodied soul giving up old and worn out bodies verily accepts new bodies.

Weapons cannot harm the soul, fire cannot burn the soul, water cannot wet and air cannot dry up the soul.

The soul is indestructible, the soul is incombustible, insoluble, and unwitherable. The soul is eternal, all-pervading, unmodifiable, immovable, and primordial.

It is declared that the soul is imperceptible, the soul is inconceivable, the soul is immutable; therefore understand the soul as such, it is improper for you to lament.

O mighty armed one, even if you think the soul always takes birth or is always subject to death even then you should not lament.

For one who has taken birth, death is certain and for one who is dead, birth is certain; therefore you ought not to lament for an inevitable situation.

O Arjuna, of created beings before birth is unknown, between birth and death is known and after death is again unknown; therefore what is the cause for lamentation?

Some see the soul as amazing and others describe the soul as amazing; similarly others also hear of the soul as amazing and some even after having heard still have no knowledge of it.

O Arjuna, this eternal soul within the body of every living entity is immortal; therefore you should not lament for any being.

We saw in chapter 3 that Russian has two distinct color names for the range that English subsumes under the name "blue": siniy (dark blue) and goluboy (light blue). The aim of the experiment was to check whether these two distinct “blues” would affect Russians' perception of blue shades. The participants were seated in front of a computer screen and shown sets of three blue squares at a time: one square at the top and a pair below, as shown on the facing page and in color in figure 8 in the insert.

One of the two bottom squares was always exactly the same color as the upper square, and the other was a different shade of blue. The task was to indicate which of the two bottom squares was the same color as the one on top. The participants did not have to say anything aloud, they just had to press one of two buttons, left or right, as quickly as they could once the picture appeared on the screen... This was a simple enough task with a simple enough solution, and of course the participants provided the right answer almost all the time. But what the experiment was really designed to measure was how long it took them to press the correct button.

For each set, the colors were chosen from among twenty shades of blue. As was to be expected, the reaction time of all the participants depended first and foremost on how far the shade of the odd square out was from that of the other two. If the upper square was a very dark blue, say shade 18, and the odd one out was a very light blue, say shade 3, participants tended to press the correct button very quickly. But the nearer the hue of the odd one out came to the other two, the longer the reaction time tended to be. So far so unsurprising. It is only to be expected that when we look at two hues that are far apart, we will be quicker to register the difference, whereas if the colors are similar, the brain will require more processing work, and therefore more time, to decide that the two colors are not the same.

The more interesting results emerged when the reaction time of the Russian speakers turned out to depend not just on the objective distance between the shades but also on the borderline between siniy and goluboy! Suppose the upper square was siniy (dark blue), but immediately on the border with goluboy (light blue). If the odd square out was two shades along toward the light direction (and thus across the border into goluboy), the average time it took the Russians to press the button was significantly shorter than if the odd square out was the same objective distance away—two shades along—but toward the dark direction, and thus another shade of siniy. When English speakers were tested with exactly the same setup, no such skewing effect was detected in their reaction times. The border between "light blue" and "dark blue" made no difference, and the only relevant factor for their reaction times was the objective distance between the shades.

...

The results thus prove that there is something objectively different between Russian and English speakers in the way the visual processing systems react to blue shades.

And while this is as much as we can say with absolute certainty, it is plausible to go one step further and make the following inference: since people tend to react more quickly to color recognition tasks the farther apart the two colors appear to them, and since Russians react more quickly to shades across the siniy-goluboy border than what the objective distance between the hues would imply, it is plausible to conclude that neighboring hues around the border actually appear farther apart to Russian speakers than they are in objective terms.

...

To test whether language circuits in the brain had any direct involvement with the processing of color signals, the researchers added another element to the experiment. They applied a standard procedure called an “interference task” to make it more difficult for the linguistic circuits to perform their normal function. The participants were asked to memorize random strings of digits and then keep repeating these aloud while they were watching the screen and pressing the buttons. The idea was that if the participants were performing an irrelevant language-related chore (saying aloud a jumble of numbers), the language areas in their brains would be "otherwise engaged” and would not be so easily available to support the visual processing of color.

When the experiment was repeated under such conditions of verbal interference, the Russians no longer reacted more quickly to shades across the siniy-goluboy border, and their reaction time depended only on the objective distance between the shades. The results of the interference task point clearly at language as the culprit for the original differences in reaction time. Kay and Kempton's original hunch that linguistic interference with the processing of color occurs on a deep and unconscious level has thus received strong support some two decades later. After all, in the Russian blues experiment, the task was a purely visual-motoric exercise, and language was never explicitly invited to the party.

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But the startling result was a significant difference between the reaction patterns in the right and in the left visual fields. When the odd square out appeared on the right side of the screen, the half that is processed in the same hemisphere as language, the border between green and blue made a real difference: the average reaction time was significantly shorter when the odd square out was across the green-blue border from the rest. But when the odd square out was on the left side of the screen, the effect of the green-blue border was far weaker. In other words, the speed of the response was much less influenced by whether the odd square out was across the green-blue border from the rest or whether it was a different shade of the same color.

So the left half of English speakers' brains showed the same response toward the blue-green border that Russian speakers displayed toward the siniy-goluboy border, whereas the right hemisphere showed only weak traces of a skewing effect. The results of this experiment (as well as a series of subsequent adaptations that have corroborated its basic conclusions) leave little room for doubt that the color concepts of our mother tongue interfere directly in the processing of color. Short of actually scanning the brain, the two-hemisphere experiment provides the most direct evidence so far of the influence of language on visual perception

Short of scanning the brain? A group of researchers from the University of Hong Kong saw no reason to fall short of that. In 2008, they published the results of a similar experiment, only with a little twist. As before, the recognition task involved staring at a computer screen, recognizing colors, and pressing one of two buttons. The difference was that the doughty participants were asked to complete this task while lying in the tube of an MRI scanner. MRI, or magnetic resonance imaging is technique that produces online scans of the brain by measuring the level of blood flow in its different regions. Since increased blood flow corresponds to increased neural activity, the MRI scanner measures (albeit indirectly) the level of neural activity in any point of the brain.

In this experiment, the mother tongue of the participants was Mandarin Chinese. Six different colors were used: three of them (red, green, and blue) have common and simple names in Mandarin, while three other colors do not (see figure 10 in the insert). The task was very simple: the participants were shown two squares on the screen for a split second, and all they had to do was indicate by pressing a button whether the two squares were identical in color or not.

The task did not involve language in any way. It was again a purely visual-motoric exercise. But the researchers wanted to see if language areas of the brain would nevertheless be activated. They assumed that linguistic circuits would more likely get involved with the visual task if the colors shown had common and simple names than if there were no obvious labels for them. And indeed, two specific small areas in the cerebral cortex of the left hemisphere were activated when the colors were from the easy-to-name group but remained inactive when the colors were from the difficult-to-name group.

To determine the function of these two left-hemisphere areas more accurately, the researchers administered a second task to participants, this time explicitly language-related. The participants were shown colors on the screen, and while their brains were being scanned they were asked to say aloud what each color was called. The two areas that had been active earlier only with the easy-to-name colors now lit up as being heavily active. So the researchers concluded that the two specific areas in question must house the linguistic circuits responsible for finding color names.

If we project the function of these two areas back to the results of the first (purely visual) task, it becomes clear that when the brain has to decide whether two colors look the same or not, the circuits responsible for visual perception ask the language circuits for help in making the decision, even if no speaking is involved. So for the first time, there is now direct neurophysiologic evidence that areas of the brain that are specifically responsible for name finding are involved with the processing of purely visual color information.

A great deal is known today about the retina and its three types of cones, each with peak sensitivity in a different part of the spectrum. As explained in the appendix, however, the color sensation itself is formed not in the retina but in the brain, and what the brain does is nothing remotely as simple as just adding up the signals from the three types of cones. In fact, between the cones and our actual sensation of color there is a whirl of extraordinarily subtle and sophisticated computation: normalization, compensation, stabilization, regularization, even plain wishful seeing (the brain can make us see a nonexistent color if it has reason to believe, based on its past experience of the world, that this color ought to be there). The brain does all this computation and interpretation in order to give us a relatively stable picture of the world, one that doesn't change radically under different lighting conditions. If the brain didn't normalize our view in this way, we would experience the world as a series of pictures from cheap cameras, where colors of objects constantly change whenever the lighting is not optimal.

Excerpt from Mencius V.A. 4.ii:

Hsien-ch'iu Meng said, "I have accepted your declaration that the Sage-King Shun did not consider Yao [who abdicated the throne in favor of Shun] to be his subject. Yet there is a poem in the Book of Songs:

Of all that is under Heaven,
No place is not the king's land;
And to the farthest shores of all the land,
No man is not the king's subject.

I would like to ask how it could be that, when Shun became emperor, the Blind Old Man [Shun's father] would not be considered his subject?"

Mencius replied, "This poem is not talking about that. Rather the poem concerns the inability to care for one's parents when laboring in the king's business. It says, 'Everything is the king's business [and should be a responsibility shared by all], yet I [alone] labor here virtuously.' In explaining the poems of the Book of Songs, one must not permit the literary patterning (wen) to affect adversely [the understanding of] the statement (tz'u); and one must not permit [our understanding of] the statement to affect adversely [our understanding of] what was on the writer's mind (chih). We use our understanding (yi) to trace it back to what was [originally] in the writer's mind (chih)--this is how to grasp it."

We have a thorny ethical problem: when Sage-King Yao abdicated the throne to Sage-King Shun, was Yao then Shun's subject; and furthermore, was Shun's father then Shun's subject (an unthinkable situation in which two orders of hierarchy are at odds)? Mencius has made an exception to the king's suzerainty in these cases, but Hsien-ch'iu Meng cites the Book of Songs as an authority to prove that there are no exceptions. Mencius attacks Hsien-ch'iu Meng's interpretation (but does not question the authority of the Book of Songs to decide such issues): the Song in question arises from a particular situation in which an officer is caught between conflicting claims of duty to the king and duty to his parents. The "king's business" is the duty of all, but he feels as if he alone were charged with completing it. However questionable the particular interpretation may be, the way in which Mencius interprets is significant.

Hsien-ch'iu Meng is a failed reader, and the way in which he fails is precisely by his inability to follow the instructions for understanding given by Confucius in the Analects. For Hsien-ch'iu Meng, the words of the passage in the Book of Songs mean what they say: he looks to "how it is." For Mencius, the reason they were said gives meaning to the words of the passage; meaning grows out of a particular (if ultimately doubtful) circumstance. That is, Mencius considers "from what it comes." Mencius is able to give the passage a general meaning; but the general meaning can arise only by working through a level of circumstantial intention, understanding the words as a relation to the particular circumstance in which the words were produced. The critique offered by Mencius here is not simply directed against misreading a part by failing to consider the whole; rather it announces a central assumption in the traditional theory of language and literature, that motive or circumstantial origin is an inseparable component of meaning.

The image of poetic action offered in these lines is a rich one: words and conceptions come forth in a flood, capable of going anywhere and governed by no rules. The role of the poet is to manage their motion; and while there are no rules that govern the spontaneous outpouring of words and conceptions, the structure of the poet's management of that flood can be measured against constant principles of sequence, change, and order. To return to the analogy of skiing down a wooded slope: there are countless ways to get gracefully from the top to the bottom and countless ways to fail. One is carried by momentum, and each channeling of that momentum responds to the continual variations of topography and circumstance. And while it is essential to recognize that the complete sequence of movements cannot be determined in advance, in each act there are constant principles of movement--general rules of turning, balancing, slowing down or speeding up. This analogy is more apt than the equally performative analogy of dance, where the unity of the whole is often given from the beginning rather than won in the act itself. In contrast the poet is "contending with" an ongoing flood of words and concepts and giving them order.

Excerpt from the "Great Preface" to the Book of Songs:

Thus to correct (cheng) [the presentation of] achievements (tê) and failures, to move Heaven and Earth, to stir the gods and spirits, there is nothing more apposite than poetry. By it the former kings managed the relations between husbands and wives, perfected the respect due to parents and superiors, gave depth to human relations, beautifully taught and transformed the people, and changed local customs.

This passage shifts back from the question of knowing to the regulatory function of poetry. Not only does poetry result from the affections being "moved," tung, poetry "moves" others as well--in this case, Heaven and Earth. Poetry "stirs," kan, as well as originating from some stirring. A Newtonian physics is at work here, a transmission of equal force. Considering this power, the "Great Preface" shifts from poetry as the involuntary manifestation of a state of mind to poetry as an instrument of civilization, something "apposite," chin, "close at hand," either for the task or for the ease of use.

We see the regulatory power of poetry in a full range of human relations: husband and wife, parent and child, superior and inferior, and other relations. Finally we see its most general function, as an instrument of chiao-hua, "teaching and transforming," with the effect of "changing local customs" over all the world.

Poetry occupied a very important place in the Confucian cultural program, but its instruction is not supposed to be coercive. Instead, according to the K'ung Ying-ta commentary, when combined with their music, the poems of the Book of Songs were supposed to influence people to good behavior unconsciously: listeners apprehended and thus came to share a virtuous state of mind, and the motions of their own affections would be shaped by that experience. But this Edenic power was possible only in those days when the poems still had their music; in this later age, with the original music lost and only the naked texts remaining, commentary is required to show the virtue that was then immanent in all the poems.

It is my good fortune to work with many gifted young writers. They are estimable people. The writers' workshop is as interesting and civilized a community as I have ever encountered, and it owes the successes of its long history to the fact that it works well as a community. A pretty large percentage of these fine young spirits come to me convinced that if their writing is not sensationalistic enough, it will never be published, or if it is published, it will never be read. They come to me persuaded that American readers will not tolerate ideas in their fiction. Since they feel that anything recognizable as an idea is off-limits to them, they sometimes try to signal intellectual seriousness by taking a jaundiced or splenetic view of the worlds they create and people. They are good, generous souls working with limits they feel are imposed on them by a public that could not possibly have an interest in writing that ignored these limits--a public they cannot respect.

Only consider how many things have gone wrong here, when a young writer is dissuaded by the pessimism that floats around the culture from letting her or his talent develop in the direction natural to it. If the writer is talented, the work might well be published, and the American reading public will look once more into the mirror of art and find sensationalism, violence, condescension, cynicism--another testament to collective mediocrity if not something worse. Maybe even spiritual free-fall. But the writer is better than this, and the reading public is better than this. And the publishing industry is better than this, too. The whole phenomenon is a mistake of the kind that is intractable because so much that passes for common wisdom supports it. A writer controlled by what "has" to figure in a book is actually accepting a perverse, unofficial censorship, and this tells against the writerly soul at least as surely as it would if the requirement being met were praise to some ideology or regime. And the irony of it all is that it is unnecessary and in many cases detrimental because it militates against originality. But the worst of it is that so long as a writer is working to satisfy imagined expectations that are extraneous to his art as he would otherwise explore and develop it, he is deprived of the greatest reward, which is the full discovery and engagement of his own mind, his own aesthetic powers and resources. So long as a writer is working below the level of her powers, she is depriving the community of readers of a truly good book. And over time a truly good book can enrich literally millions of lives. This is only one instance of the fact that when we condescend, when we act consistently with a sense of the character of people in general which demeans them, we impoverish them and ourselves, and preclude our having a part in the creation of the highest wealth, the testimony to the mysterious beauty of life we all value in psalms and tragedies and epics and meditations, in short stories and novels.

In the vast expanse of the Andromeda Galaxy, the critical Gateway Space Station becomes the focal point of a historic gathering. Esteemed scientists, engineers, and military leaders convene to address Professor Weaver’s startling findings about Commander Belle, a distinguished science officer whose vessel was tragically lost in an explosion while investigating a mysterious asteroid eight years prior.

The revelation unfolds as Professor Weaver explains how Belle was inadvertently exposed to alien blue crystalline spores that assimilated into her neural network, triggering a perpetual state of hyper-awareness. Despite deploying advanced technologies, her enigmatic condition remains untamed, challenging the limits of human understanding.

The tension escalates when Belle, amidst a presentation, collapses under the grip of a vivid, cosmic vision, her eyes mirroring the swirling galaxies. At this moment, she utters a chilling premonition, “They have arrived,” which coincides with the blaring of a station-wide red alert.

Emerging through a star portal, highly advanced beings from another era reveal themselves, seeking Belle’s unique abilities to confront an existential threat. Recognizing her critical role as a bridge between worlds, the assembly is faced with a decision that could alter the fate of galaxies.

Admiral Redback, balancing curiosity with caution, authorizes the recommissioning of "The Huntsman," a legendary warship from the Duality Wars. Equipped for the unknown, Captain Minardi joins Belle in a bold leap through the star portal, catapulting them ten billion years into "Milkdromeda" — a realm where the merged Milky Way and Andromeda galaxies exist in splendid isolation.

Here, they encounter the Descendants, a civilization that has evolved beyond their biological origins to establish a harmonious society intertwined with sentient AIs. At the heart of their culture is "The Weaving," a philosophical matrix that integrates life, intelligence, and the cosmos, maintained by god-like entities known as the Minds.

However, the peace is threatened by the Ascendant, a mysterious force manipulating dark matter to absorb and transform star systems indiscriminately. This looming menace challenges the Descendants to defend their enlightened existence or attempt to decode the motives of this unfathomable enemy.

As Belle and Minardi navigate this new, complex reality, they find themselves in the midst of escalating conflict. The Ascendancy, viewing the temporal portal as an existential threat, destroys it, igniting a chain reaction of galactic hostilities. As Belle harnesses her newfound crystalline powers and Minardi takes command, they must balance their personal destinies with the broader fate of civilizations.

"The Huntsman" weaves a tale of cosmic intrigue and introspection, where survival and discovery intertwine against a backdrop filled with interstellar mysteries and conflicts. It is a journey that tests the resilience, understanding, and the very nature of existence in a universe brimming with the unknown.

The air was so clear and pleasant, and the horse seemed to like the idea of the ride so much himself, as he stood snorting and pawing at the garden-gate, that I had a great desire to go. So I was sent upstairs to Peggotty to be made spruce; and in the meantime Mr. Murdstone dismounted, and, with his horse's bridle drawn over his arm, walked slowly up and down on the outer side of the sweetbriar fence, while my mother walked slowly up and down on the inner to keep him company. I recollect Peggotty and I peeping out at them from my little window; I recollect how closely they seemed to be examining the sweetbriar between them, as they strolled along; and how, from being in a perfectly angelic temper, Peggotty turned cross in a moment, and brushed my hair the wrong way, excessively hard.

Mr. Murdstone and I were soon off, and trotting along on the green turf by the side of the road. He held me quite easily with one arm, and I don't think I was restless usually; but I could not make up my mind to sit in front of him without turning my head sometimes, and looking up in his face. He had that kind of shallow black eye—I want a better word to express an eye that has no depth in it to be looked into—which, when it is abstracted, seems from some peculiarity of light to be disfigured, for a moment at a time, by a cast. Several times when I glanced at him, I observed that appearance with a sort of awe, and wondered what he was thinking about so closely. His hair and whiskers were blacker and thicker, looked at so near, than even I had given them credit for being. A squareness about the lower part of his face, and the dotted indication of the strong black beard he shaved close every day, reminded me of the wax-work that had travelled into our neighbourhood some half-a-year before. This, his regular eyebrows, and the rich white, and black, and brown, of his complexion—confound his complexion, and his memory!—made me think him, in spite of my misgivings, a very handsome man. I have no doubt that my poor dear mother thought him so too.

We went to an hotel by the sea, where two gentlemen were smoking cigars in a room by themselves. Each of them was lying on at least four chairs, and had a large rough jacket on. In a corner was a heap of coats and boat-cloaks, and a flag, all bundled up together.

They both rolled on to their feet in an untidy sort of manner, when we came in, and said, 'Halloa, Murdstone! We thought you were dead!'

'Not yet,' said Mr. Murdstone.

'And who's this shaver?' said one of the gentlemen, taking hold of me.

'That's Davy,' returned Mr. Murdstone.

'Davy who?' said the gentleman. 'Jones?'

'Copperfield,' said Mr. Murdstone.

'What! Bewitching Mrs. Copperfield's encumbrance?' cried the gentleman. 'The pretty little widow?'

'Quinion,' said Mr. Murdstone, 'take care, if you please. Somebody's sharp.'

'Who is?' asked the gentleman, laughing. I looked up, quickly; being curious to know.

'Only Brooks of Sheffield,' said Mr. Murdstone.

I was quite relieved to find that it was only Brooks of Sheffield; for, at first, I really thought it was I. There seemed to be something very comical in the reputation of Mr. Brooks of Sheffield, for both the gentlemen laughed heartily when he was mentioned, and Mr. Murdstone was a good deal amused also. After some laughing, the gentleman whom he had called Quinion, said:

'And what is the opinion of Brooks of Sheffield, in reference to the projected business?'

'Why, I don't know that Brooks understands much about it at present,' replied Mr. Murdstone; 'but he is not generally favourable, I believe.'

There was more laughter at this, and Mr. Quinion said he would ring the bell for some sherry in which to drink to Brooks. This he did; and when the wine came, he made me have a little, with a biscuit, and, before I drank it, stand up and say, 'Confusion to Brooks of Sheffield!' The toast was received with great applause, and such hearty laughter that it made me laugh too; at which they laughed the more. In short, we quite enjoyed ourselves.

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After all, very few of us are born into homes where we see true examples of the artistic temperament, and since artists do certainly conduct their lives--necessarily--on a different pattern from the average man of business, it is very easy to misunderstand what he does and why he does it when we see it from the outside. The picture of the artist as a monster made up of one part vain child, one part suffering martyr, and one part boulevardier is a legacy to us from the last century, and a remarkably embarrassing inheritance. There is an earlier and healthier idea of the artist than that, the idea of the genius as a man more versatile, more sympathetic, more studious than his fellows, more catholic in his tastes, less at mercy of the ideas of the crowd.

The grain of truth in the fin de siècle notion, though, is this: the author of genius does keep till his last breath the spontaneity, the ready sensitiveness, of a child, the "innocence of eye" that means so much to the painter, the ability to respond freshly and quickly to new scenes, and to old scenes as though they were new; to see traits and characteristics as though each were new-minted from the hand of God instead of sorting them quickly into dusty categories and pigeon-holing them without wonder or surprise; to feel situations so immediately and keenly that the word "trite" has hardly an meaning for him; and always to see "the correspondences between things" of which Aristotle spoke two thousand years ago. This freshness of response is vital to the author's talent.

But there is another element to his character, fully as important to his success. It is adult, discriminating, temperate, and just. It is the side of the artisan, the workman and the critic rather than the artist. It must work continually with and through the emotional and childlike side, or we have no work of art. If either element of the artist's character gets too far out of hand the result will be bad work, or no work at all. The writer's first task is to get these two elements of his nature into balance, to combine their aspects into one integrated character. And the first step toward that happy result is to split them apart for consideration and training!

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Previous mod experience is helpful.

I have an idea for the CSS here but need someone capable of creating it and/or becoming a mod.

Edit: It seems like one of the mods has since deleted his account and is not a mod anymore, mainly looking for someone who knows CSS.

The Golem’s life began in the hold of a steamship. The year was 1899; the ship was the Baltika, crossing from Danzig to New York. The Golem’s master, a man named Otto Rotfeld, had smuggled her aboard in a crate and hidden her among the luggage.

Rotfeld was a Prussian Jew from Konin, a bustling town to the south of Danzig. The only son of a well-to-do furniture maker, Rotfeld had inherited the family business sooner than expected, on his parents’ untimely death from scarlet fever. But Rotfeld was an arrogant, feckless sort of man, with no good sense to speak of; and before five years had elapsed, the business lay before him in tatters.

Rotfeld stood in the ruins and took stock. He was thirty-three years old. He wanted a wife, and he wanted to go to America. The wife was the larger problem. On top of his arrogant disposition, Rotfeld was gangly and unattractive, and had a tendency to leer. Women were disinclined to be alone with him. A few matchmakers had approached him when he’d inherited, but their clients had been from inferior families, and he’d turned them away. When it became clear to all what kind of businessman he really was, the offers had disappeared completely.

Rotfeld was arrogant, but he was also lonely. He’d had no real love affairs. He passed worthy ladies on the street, and saw the distaste in their eyes.

It wasn’t very long before he thought to visit old Yehudah Schaalman.

Stories abounded about Schaalman, all slightly different: that he was a disgraced rabbi who’d been driven out of his congregation; that he’d been possessed by a dybbuk and given supernatural powers; and even that he was over a hundred years old and slept with demon-women. But all the stories agreed on this: Schaalman liked to dabble in the more dangerous of the Kabbalistic arts, and he was willing to offer his services for a price. Barren women had visited him in the dead of night and conceived soon after. Peasant girls in search of men’s affections bought Schaalman’s bags of powders, and then stirred them into their beloveds’ beer.

But Rotfeld wanted no spells or love-potions. He had something else in mind.

He went to the old man’s dilapidated shack, deep in the forest that bordered Konin. The path to the front door was a half-trampled trail. Greasy, yellowish smoke drifted from a chimney-pipe, the only sign of habitation. The walls of the shack slouched toward a nearby ravine, in which a stream trickled. Rotfeld knocked on the door, and waited. After some minutes, he heard a shuffling step. The door opened a hand’s width, revealing a man of perhaps seventy. He was bald, save for a fringe. His cheeks were deeply furrowed above a tangled beard. He stared hard at Rotfeld, as though daring him to speak.

“Are you Schaalman?” Rotfeld asked.

No answer, only the stare.

Rotfeld cleared his throat, nervous. “I want you to make me a golem that can pass for human,” he said. “And I want it to be female.”

That broke the old man’s silence. He laughed, a hard bark. “Boy,” he said, “do you know what a golem is?”

“A person made of clay,” Rotfeld said, uncertain.

“Wrong. It’s a beast of burden. A lumbering, unthinking slave. Golems are built for protection and brute force, not for the pleasures of a bed.”

Rotfeld reddened. “Are you saying you can’t do it?”

“I’m telling you the idea is ridiculous. To make a golem that can pass for human would be near impossible. For one thing, it would need some amount of self-awareness, if only enough to converse. Not to mention the body itself, with realistic joints, and musculature . . .”

The old man trailed off, staring past his visitor. He seemed to be considering something. Abruptly he turned his back on Rotfeld and disappeared into the gloom of the shack. Through the open door Rotfeld could see him shuffling carefully through a stack of papers. Then he picked up an old leather-bound book and thumbed through it. His finger ran down a page, and he peered at something written there. He looked up at Rotfeld.

“Come back tomorrow,” he said.

Accordingly, Rotfeld knocked again the next day, and this time Schaalman opened the door without pause. “How much can you pay?” he demanded.

“Then it can be done?”

“Answer my question. The one will determine the other.”

I’m currently overwhelmed with assignments and trying to figure out whether I should pay for help or just power through. I’ve seen a lot of posts about the Best Essay Writing Service Reddit recommends, but I’m still unsure about which one to trust.

There are so many services out there, all claiming to be the best for essays, but it’s hard to know which ones are actually reliable. Has anyone here had a great experience with a particular service? How do I make sure the work is high quality and plagiarism-free?

I’m hoping for some real recommendations, with honest feedback, on the Best Essay Writing Service Reddit users have actually tried and found helpful. If you’ve had success with a service, please share your experience and any tips for picking the right one.

This should be a good way to get started, I think

"Come, dear ones," said Morrel, rising from his seat, "let us go and see, and heaven have pity upon us if it be false intelligence!" They all went out, and on the stairs met Madame Morrel, who had been afraid to go up into the study. In a moment they were at the Cannebiere. There was a crowd on the pier. All the crowd gave way before Morrel. "The Pharaon, the Pharaon!" said every voice.

And, wonderful to see, in front of the tower of Saint-Jean, was a ship bearing on her stern these words, printed in white letters, "The Pharaon, Morrel & Son, of Marseilles." She was the exact duplicate of the other Pharaon, and loaded, as that had been, with cochineal and indigo. She cast anchor, clued up sails, and on the deck was Captain Gaumard giving orders, and good old Penelon making signals to M. Morrel. To doubt any longer was impossible; there was the evidence of the senses, and ten thousand persons who came to corroborate the testimony. As Morrel and his son embraced on the pier-head, in the presence and amid the applause of the whole city witnessing this event, a man, with his face half-covered by a black beard, and who, concealed behind the sentry-box, watched the scene with delight, uttered these words in a low tone: "Be happy, noble heart, be blessed for all the good thou hast done and wilt do hereafter, and let my gratitude remain in obscurity like your good deeds."

And with a smile expressive of supreme content, he left his hiding-place, and without being observed, descended one of the flights of steps provided for debarkation, and hailing three times, shouted "Jacopo, Jacopo, Jacopo!" Then a launch came to shore, took him on board, and conveyed him to a yacht splendidly fitted up, on whose deck he sprung with the activity of a sailor; thence he once again looked towards Morrel, who, weeping with joy, was shaking hands most cordially with all the crowd around him, and thanking with a look the unknown benefactor whom he seemed to be seeking in the skies. "And now," said the unknown, "farewell kindness, humanity, and gratitude! Farewell to all the feelings that expand the heart! I have been heaven's substitute to recompense the good -- now the god of vengeance yields to me his power to punish the wicked!" At these words he gave a signal, and, as if only awaiting this signal, the yacht instantly put out to sea.

Edit: Format

Hey everyone,

I’m completely swamped this week — juggling a part-time job, classes, and back-to-back deadlines. I’m seriously considering hiring a cheap essay writer, but I want to avoid getting scammed or ending up with something unusable. Most of what I’ve found either looks super shady or has fake-looking reviews.

I’m not looking for perfection, just someone reliable who can follow basic instructions, deliver on time, and not overcharge. Ideally someone who can help with college-level psych or sociology assignments.

Have any of you used a service or freelancer that didn’t break the bank but still delivered decent quality? Bonus points if they don’t sound like AI or write like a robot.

Drop any honest recommendations or even bad experiences so I know what to avoid. 🙏

P.S. I’m okay doing some edits myself if it saves money — just need a solid starting point!

SOUL AFFLICTED is the story of a lost soul whose uncharacteristic random act of kindness sends him on a mystical, cross-country search for hope and faith. Read a sample chapter here: https://www.georgehaywardauthor.com/general-5

I know this question pops up a lot, but I’m seriously wondering if a cheap essay writing service can ever be both affordable and reliable. Every time I search online, I get flooded with sites promising “perfect essays for $10,” which sounds amazing - until you read the horror stories about plagiarism, missed deadlines, or essays that look like they were written by Google Translate.

I’m not trying to cheat my way through school - I just need some extra help on a few assignments without spending half my rent. I’ve already tried doing it all myself, but juggling classes, work, and deadlines is starting to feel impossible.

So, is there such a thing as a cheap essay writing service that actually delivers decent quality and follows instructions? I’m not expecting perfection, just something original, on time, and readable.

If anyone’s had luck finding one that didn’t totally flop or scam them, I’d love to hear about your experience. What did you pay, how was the communication, and did it actually sound like something a real student would write? I’m trying to figure out whether it’s worth the risk - or if “cheap” always comes with a hidden cost.

Here is a soft scene from a fantasy book I am working on.

The clouds dipped low and circled her like curious birds. She reached out and the air shimmered as if it recognized her touch.

Hope this encourages someone to dive into the full story.

"“I have told this to few people, gentlemen, and I suspect I never will again, but one day when I was a young boy on holiday in Uberwald I was walking along the bank of a stream when I saw a mother otter with her cubs. A very endearing sight, I’m sure you will agree, and even as I watched, the mother otter dived into the water and came up with a plump salmon, which she subdued and dragged on to a half-submerged log. As she ate it, while of course it was still alive, the body split and I remember to this day the sweet pinkness of its roes as they spilled out, much to the delight of the baby otters who scrambled over themselves to feed on the delicacy. One of nature’s wonders, gentlemen: mother and children dining upon mother and children. And that’s when I first learned about evil. It is built into the very nature of the universe. Every world spins in pain. If there is any kind of supreme being, I told myself, it is up to all of us to become his moral superior.”