Over One Billion Edits

I had been watching the growth of open source software and I had this concept of a free encyclopedia...

Mocking laughter of the gods at “the high Eighties”

Fertile myth of the Green Man

Ballad of the Green Man | By Richard Hayman

History Today

The term 'Green Man', coined in the 1930s for the medieval image of a face sprouting foliage, has transformed itself in meaning across the centuries.

Questioning intent at the Boston Massacre

(Listen to Dominic Lieven discuss Russia against Napoleon)

Raul Hilberg’s lifelong grudge against Hannah Arendt

‘Did Herodotus invent his story of forced sex among the women of Babylon? Gender researchers think so.’

Why the United States might never have come into existence without the help of Haiti

Kristina Božić interviews Tony Judt

‘Remembered more for her violent death, Hypatia was one of the last great thinkers of ancient Alexandria’

Social scars left by France’s role in slavery and colonialization

Entanglements of Cold War historiography

The Siege of Cádiz: Napoleon’s fatal knot

‘Paradoxically, Churchill’s fight to save the Empire led to its loss’

Melissa Broder’s Latest 32 Tweets

almost ready to be ok but not yet

The memories are like stutters. Sometimes I inhale for air, and exhale a shaking chain of memories. A choking hazard. I for the ghost. The ghost for me.

D. Joyce-Ahearne on Federico García Lorca

D. Joyce-Ahearne

If duende, the source of inspiration that Lorca sets out to champion in his essay at the expense of the Muse, is “in sum, the spirit of the earth”, a force linking body and soil through a struggle akin to death, then the Muse is a force that speaks to the head and inspires art that is, in the words’ most negative senses, cerebral and high-minded.

‘We Like Philosophers And Live Like Fools.’ by Shane Jesse Christmass

Burton was born in Kentucky. He moved itinerantly before settling in Oakland. Temperatures rise, so does the suicide rate.

Jenny Diski is not cheery or brave or serene at the moment…

Jenny Diski

I’ve been writing a more or less monthly memoir of my life in the sixties and seventies when I lived with Doris Lessing, and my continuing relationship with her until her death last year at 94. It is also an ongoing portrait of my incurable cancer.

From seat 8A, clouds mountainous, I’m considering flat-earthers.

The cars came scudding in towards Dublin, running evenly like pellets in the groove of the Naas Road. At the crest of the hill at Inchicore sightseers...