odds and ends / 10.17.2025













*

A photograph of autumn clouds from the collection of P.J. Cohen.

*

Louise Bogan, writing to Morton D. Zabel, August 22, 1937. Via Letters of Note.

*

Emanuele Cavalli, "Solitario," 1936.

*

Austrian Essex Glass pendant depicting a bolete, circa 1890. Sourced by Will Martindale, Classical Gem Hunter, for J.W. Anderson.

*

Stained glass by Abraham van Linge, c.1633, in a Georgian window at Lydiard Park, photographed by Caro/@soniclb.

*


*

"I’m a Thing Finder," said Pippi. "The whole world is full of things and somebody has to look for them. And that’s just what a Thing Finder does."

"What kind of things?" asked Annika.

"Oh, all kinds," said Pippi. ‘Lumps of gold, ostrich feathers, candy snapcrackers, little tiny screws, and things like that."

Tommy and Annika thought it sounded as if it would be fun and wanted very much to be Thing Finders, too.

"We shall see what we shall see," said Pippi. "One always finds something."
Astrid Lindgren, Pippi Longstocking.

*

INTERVIEWER: I’m trying to imagine you writing here at your desk. I’m picturing a huge tower of books from obscure libraries that you’re collaging from as you go⁠⁠—you know, some ancient Greek texts about ant colonies in India or whatever⁠⁠—and a complex system for taking notes on all the source materials … Is that how it is?

WEINBERGER: Not exactly. I tend to do most of the research before I start. That can take months. And I’ve never kept a notebook or taken notes, because I can’t read my own handwriting. When I have to write little to-do lists, I do it in block letters.

INTERVIEWER: So where do you keep the research?

WEINBERGER: It’s all here.

INTERVIEWER: Are you pointing to your giant cranium?

WEINBERGER: No, no, I’m pointing to the books on the shelves, which are incredibly OCD-organized ... As I write, I’m trying to remember where I’ve read something, so there is a chance that I’ll lose something forever ...

Srikanth Reddy, "Eliot Weinberger, The Art of the Essay No. 4," The Paris Review, Issue 253, Fall 2025.

*

For sale: A former British prep school filled with 150,000 second-hand books "meticulously sorted into subject areas, from naval history to 19th-century literature, architecture to zoology ..." Includes a garden with "philosophical follies, such as doorknobs surreally attached to tree trunks" and a "modern version of the Tantalus myth ... a table and chairs in the middle of a pond, overhung with an unreachable fruit bowl." (Found thanks to Jess.)

*


*

Related: antilibrary (noun): A collection of books that are owned but have not yet been read.

*
We continue to know more and more about modern society, but we find the centers of political initiative less and less accessible. This generates a personal malady that is particularly acute in the intellectual who has labored under the illusion that his thinking makes a difference. In the world of today the more his knowledge of affairs grows, the less effective the impact of his thinking seems to become. Since he grows more frustrated as his knowledge increases, it seems that knowledge leads to powerlessness. He feels helpless in the fundamental sense that he cannot control what he is able to foresee. This is not only true of the consequences of his own attempts to act; it is true of the acts of powerful men whom he observes. 

Such frustration arises, of course, only in the man who feels compelled to act. The “detached spectator” does not know his helplessness because he never tries to surmount it. But the political man is always aware that while events are not in his hands he must bear their consequences. He finds it increasingly difficult even to express himself. If he states public issues as he sees them, he cannot take seriously the slogans and confusions used by parties with a chance to win power. He therefore feels politically irrelevant. Yet if he approaches public issues “realistically,” that is, in terms of the major parties, he has already so compromised their very statement that he is not able to sustain an enthusiasm for political action and thought. 

The political failure of nerve has a personal counterpart in the development of a tragic sense of life. This sense of tragedy may be experienced as a personal discovery and a personal burden, but it is also a reflex of objective circumstances. It arises from the fact that at the centers of public decision there are powerful men who do not themselves suffer the violent results of their own decisions. 

C. Wright Mills, “The Powerless People: The Social Role of the Intellectual,” Politics, 1944. Found thanks to an essay in N+1: "Large Language Muddle: It's OK to be a Luddite!"

*
Mass movements sound dramatic. But they are not built dramatically. They are built through many, many mundane actions. Talking to people. Making a list. Knocking on doors. Planning a meeting. Going to the meeting. Setting up for the meeting. Participating in the meeting. Cleaning up after the meeting. Planning the next meeting. On and on. You get to go hurl rocks at the barricades sometimes, yes, but you can’t just do that part, and not do the meetings. This is why the real heroes of mass movements are… the masses. Not the guy who gets in the spotlight to announce his unique plan to save us all—all the people who actually do all the stuff.

Hamilton Nolan, "Shift Change at the Wheel Reinvention Factory," How Things Work, 10/16/2025.

*

"Trump is racing against time, trying to consolidate power before his unpopularity renders his coalition too small to accomplish much."

*
[O]bservers have been far too credulous of [broliagarch] libertarian self-narratives. Their actual behavior suggests fealty to a patronage market, not a free one, as they attempt to translate their proximity to President Trump into lucrative defense and surveillance contracts. These entrepreneurial parasites need a state they can feed on.

Suzanne Schneider, "From the Cesspool to the Mainstream," The New York Review, 10/23/2025. 

*
I recognize the situation is growing quite frightening, but it is also important to keep in mind that fear is a weapon. Fear is a force multiplier. If you strike terror into people’s hearts, they will obey, far beyond their actual exposure to danger. And the modern dictatorship does not need to rely on bloodcurdling terror of torture and death so much as the fear of nuisance, the fear of trouble, the fear of harassment. ... Even if your personal circumstances make it difficult for you, where and when you can, do not obey. Find ways to be intransigent; a pain in the ass. 

John Ganz, "This Is It: Obedience and Support are the Same." Unpopular Front, 9/18/2025.

*
Seriously, this is giving me blood pressure, I can’t take it. If only there could be some sort of great spontaneous gathering, in cities all across this great land of ours, citizens, exercising their right to the Freedom of Assembly, and Freedom of Speech, people who are mad as hell and not gonna take it any more! Maybe on a weekend? 

Joe Macleod + Tom Scocca, "Mr. Wrong: Congress' Day Off," Indignity Vol. 5, No. 84, 10/16/2025.

*

No Kings, 10/18/2025.

prime number / gifts some 47-year-olds might enjoy



















A hat from Wombhouse Books (Jamaica Kincaid forever and ever).

Grayson Perry's magical thinking tote, decorated with assorted delusions (reason, capitalism, the internet, etc.)

Eyes ex-voto, because "eyes can be a gentle protest against the moral and emotional blindness in the world. We see you."

Uusi's latest tarot deck, inspired by winter light.

Golden kicks, for chasing step goals.



A lovely twisted wood shoe horn by Emura Woodworking Studio, because I might finally, finally be old enough to stop stomping in the heels of my shoes when I put them on.


A 19th-century French architectural model of spinning doors, because every birthday is a revolution.


imaginary outfit: spiderwebs



A season in spiderwebs:

July, Sean calls me away from my desk: An orb weaver is working a marvel, throwing line from the cedar tree to the weeping cherry, a span of more than a meter. We stand and watch it, iridescent, nimble and deliberate, triangulating points of contact, moving methodically as time, laddering precise rungs between radiating lines. It is busy all afternoon, and the finished web is perfect. It sits in the center, and I hope it is pleased. When we look for it the next day, though, it's gone.

August: Nights and mornings, we walk to river. Its surface is a low, slow, late-summer fizz of insect life. Bats stutter-flap from bank to bank, and spiders claim the space between iron struts and wooden rails of the old train bridge. There are at least two different species we observe squatting at the center of the biggest webs—both thumb-sized, one mostly body, another, mostly leg. Their strong constructions last the week, gradually filling with unlucky gnats and flies. We never spot the smaller spiders that make the more beautiful webs; these hang lower and catch the dew, a fairy-tale netting of water and light.

September, sitting on the couch: I realize almost all of the living-room windows are filmed with old webs, greying the light. Leaves and dried flies bunch in the corners. I go outside with an old broom. The webs catch and twist in the bristles, a grey, sticky cloud like hell's cotton candy.

Last week, walking the dog, sun slanting sharply from the east: the narrowest laser-bright gleam. I stop to look; it vanishes. One step back, and it reappears. A foot or so of delicate line, suspended in space, like a crack in space repaired with microns of gold. One solitary thread of spider silk. Looking up, down, and around, I could not figure out how it was attached or what it was for. It felt like a miracle that it was there at all, and that I was there to see it.

*


*

A low-key everyday outfit inspired by the noncolor/color of spiderwebs and dusk and dew:

J. Crew Carolyn sweater (just bought this; I'm not normally a J. Crew shopper, but it is the exact color of the October fog in the river valley) / Madewell x Kaihara jeans / Amiacalva Easy Bag / Heureu Plegada shoes in greyMaria La Rosa laminated socks / Victorian sterling and ivory fly stud earrings / Susan Hable ebony love knot / Cirque Siren nail polish (Cirque is my favorite, though I have been enjoying some colors by Manicurist Paris lately).

sunday tune: bon iver - things behind things behind things

I would like the feeling, I would like the feeling
I would like the feeling gone
'Cause I don't like the way it's, I don't like the way it's
I don't like the way it's looking

'I was the one who wilted'















*

*


*


*

Two women resting beside bomb-damaged ruins in London, ca. 1950. Via Foxed Quarterly.

*


*


Love-in-the-mist seed packet from Thomas Hedley & Co., ca. 1955, collection of the Garden Museum.

*

The ticket to a flower show, ca. 1891, that inspired Tom Crewe's story, "The Fête," which is in The Paris Review, Issue 252, Summer, 2025: 
Seven or eight years ago, a friend showed me a tatty packet of odd papers he’d picked up for six pounds at a sale … What got my attention right away was the remarkably pristine purple invitation to a flower show taking place on July 27, 1891. The back of the invitation, however, contained something unexpectedly dramatic. Someone had copied out another letter in a tiny hand, titling it ‘Mrs. Jacques’s account of the catastrophe that took place at this flower show.’ I read it, and felt the shiver of an idea.

From the story: 

Two boys got into a fight. Another boy, Sam, kissed a girl, Mary, the two of them pressed up behind the tea tent, their feet in a rose bed, unsuspected by the aproned ladies cutting cake on the other side. For both it was their first kiss, and neither ever forgot it. Sam swore that Mary’s mouth tasted of roses.

And after all the weather was ideal. They could not have had a more perfect day for a garden-party if they had ordered it. Windless, warm, the sky without a cloud. Only the blue was veiled with a haze of light gold, as it is sometimes in early summer. The gardener had been up since dawn, mowing the lawns and sweeping them, until the grass and the dark flat rosettes where the daisy plants had been seemed to shine. As for the roses, you could not help feeling they understood that roses are the only flowers that impress people at garden-parties; the only flowers that everybody is certain of knowing. Hundreds, yes, literally hundreds, had come out in a single night; the green bushes bowed down as though they had been visited by archangels.

Katherine Mansfield, "The Garden Party."

I could not help myself, I fell in love with the florist. Each day he handed me arrangements of flowers: lilies-of-the-valley, chrysanthemums and roses, exotic willows and violets. As a lover he was strange and melancholy: he had an intense hatred for the out-of-doors and almost never left the house; the mention of sports made him dizzy and a car moving too fast would bring him close to tears. … When he threatened to leave I became the carnation in his lapel, I was his brooch. When the weather became warm and clear, somehow it was he who wrapped me in a blanket, dragged me outside to a park; and when we made love I was the one who wilted, I felt my color brush off on his chin.


Ira Sadoff, "Seven Romances." The Paris Review, Issue no. 68, Winter 1976.  

*
It was in Cut Bank that I saw the garden and the kind of gardener that I am not. In the front yard of each little house—the houses were small, bungalow-like, a style of architecture very much suited to vast expanses of landscape—were little gardens blooming with flowers. The flowers, almost without exception, were petunias (red, purple, white), impatiens, portulaca, and short, red salvia. There was one garden that seemed more cared for than the others and that had a plaque placed prominently in a garden bed that read: “Garden of The Week.”

And that is exactly the kind of gardener I am not and exactly the kind of garden I will never have. A garden made for a week is unknown to me. For years I have been making a garden and unmaking it too. It isn’t out of dissatisfaction that I do and undo, it is out of curiosity. That curiosity has not lead to stasis. It has lead to a conversation. And so it is, I have been having a conversation in the garden. And so it will be until I die.

Jamaica Kincaid, "The Kind of Gardener I Am Not." Book Post, March 9, 2025.

*

imaginary outfit: painting shadows on the longest day

 


So, hey, hey, we've made it to the longest day, and here's what I'd like to do: load up an insulated basket with sandwiches (some with soppressata sliced very, very thin, thickly stacked on very white, very soft bread, and nothing else; some with tomato and Kewpie), cherries and nectarines packed on ice, matchstick shards of crisp carrots and celery, a jar of olives and a jar of pickles, lots of potato chips (flat, not ridged), sugar wafers, bottles of extremely fizzy water, and mini cans of Coca-Cola. My dearest friends would not be scattered far and wide; they'd all be here, and we'd all troop off, bumping baskets against hips and shins, to find a particularly splendid tree. We throw down a blanket and after feasting and gabbing, I'd unroll long sheets of paper and weigh them down with rocks and empty bottles. We'd fill the olive jar with water and pull out a set of paints and trace the shadows of leaves and branches, marking the places where we cannot see the light. And then it would be time to pack up and find some ice cream and wait for the fireflies to come out. I saw the first ones of the summer this week, in between the thunderstorms. 

*

Labo.Art Camicia Leva top in sushi / Toast macro gingham lightweight linen pants / insulated Bondi picnic hamper by Woven / Golden Rabbit marbled enamel plate / Irodori Kobako watercolor set in graphite / Melin Tregwynt blanket in Catkin / Cirque NSFW jelly polish / Moonstar "Lite Prim" sneakers / Ted Muehling onyx acorn earrings / Dezso gold wire necklace / Victorian engraved foliage ring / Le Sibelle micromosaic butterfly ring.