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What Kindle Can’t Do
In 1936, the publishers of The Dolphin: A Journal of the Making of Books, began work on “A History of the Printed Book.”

They commissioned essays, sent staff into the cauldron of pre-war Europe to rescue woodblocks, copperplates, etchings, and examples. Convinced that books would always exist, they felt an obligation to document the original materials and methods, and the talented artisans who invented and perfected printing.The result is a richly illustrated and unique, detailed history, written by scholars.
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What Kindle Can’t Do
found
Today four mild doctors on the Upright East Side, four Mosi from Mount Sinai, tell me it's Parkinson's.
No. It's not.
They turn my hands and watch me walk, hold one arm and elbow while making me touch finger to thumb, and they nod and query—did you know you do not swing your right arm when you walk?—and whisper and type, and because they are The Best I get quality eye-contact and bright sentences and a sincere promise to monitor my decay every four months from here on in.
From here on in.
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found
o bury me not
Foundering to the grave, mama in their pockets, they tear full chisel across my plain horizon, rip-snorters and gallivants, forsaken darlins’ all. And when the sad stanza comes ’round and the red rose blooms—over an ill look, a wrong card, a bad turn—I crybaby their beautiful words. Unseen in blue and green I weep for cut-and-come-again chirks fine as cream gravy, frozen in line camps, undiscovered until spring. For tired riders fetched up on forgotten trails, who offered their dust to heaven. For ghosts who pick violets in cottonwood draws.
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o bury me not
rough Lunts
I walk the mystery city,
its dark angles and golden slices.
I make my way up
glasstic, gargoyle’d, rubble-shine
to the only way in

where dirt poets dance
in a field behind chainlink,
a stubbled field of forgotten geometry,
where a drunk mower makes cloddy Bijou,
trampled Panteges, botched Belasco
for rough Lunts like us.
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rough Lunts
compressidue
One urgent press of my crumbly stick
—a drag, a mark on pulpwood fiber—
and your bleached, watermark’d world is
marred by my desire.

The making of my line saturates,
and I Brando.
I taste minerals.
I maraca.
I floor it.

Carbon is the ash of romance,
compressidue of prehistoric fuck.
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compressidue
Massimo Pigliucci
If a nine-year-old can effectively debunk Therapeutic Touch with a well-designed, simple experiment, why can’t anyone deploy science?
The case of "Emily Rosa", the 9-year old you are referring to, is somewhat exceptional (and, crucially, she was guided by a supportive family), but obviously shows that critical thinking can be learned and practiced at a very young age. The thing to understand, though, is that critical thinking - like science itself - doesn’t come natural to human beings, it is a skill that needs to be acquired. We naturally tend to jump to conclusions based on very little evidence, rationalize our theories to the utmost degree, and stick with the wrong idea long after it has been shown to be false.
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Massimo Pigliucci
writer
editor
artist
designer
As 2017 CUNY Writers Institute Fellow I got to edit with Leo Carey (The New Yorker) and Jon Galassi (FSG). Wrote a few things for Salon, some anthologies. I edit manuscripts, fiction and non-fiction. I design (and illustrate) books.
Illustrated for the New Yorker years ago; with movement disorders now I work with (forgiving) pastels and digital collage. Wrote an unpublished memoir with my daughter Molly, who I raised alone until she was 10. She died in July, 2018.
In 1970, at 14, I was raped and tortured for five days and nights by three older boys in a facility in St. Louis. The guards who permitted it were never prosecuted. Dozens, maybe hundreds of boys shared my fate there. No one cares about boys in facilities, though. Phuck Missouri.
Poo-tee-weet.
Other things: I engineered Yale's Climate Institute site and tools, designed and ran the first multimedia stage set at Avery Fisher Hall in NYC, won a package design CLIO, and had a few short plays produced, one off-Broadway. I serve on the board of CAPS, an 18-year-old poetry organization in New York.