1,819,966 Matching Annotations
  1. Last 7 days
  2. files.eric.ed.gov files.eric.ed.gov
    1. CoI fails as a modelfor achieving deep and meaningful learning because the procedures forachieving those outcomes do not materialize.

      Instead of using an absolute statements for the failure of CoI, it would be better to suggest further research on the topic for analyzing deep and meaningful learning in a valid and reliable way.

    2. In the language ofexperimental design, the presences are the independent variables thatdetermine deep and meaningful learning, the dependent variable.Therefore, deep and meaningful learning is the primary issue to beinvestigated substantially before other issues become relevant andresearchable.

      Determining the variables in an experimental design is essential to any research. The highlighted section forms part of the central critique because different constructs are measured. It makes sense that Rourke and Kanuka critique CoI as they only found fives studies that measure student learning other than the presence, as they suggest.

    1. Assessment of the environmental impacts of conservation practices for reporting at the regional and national scales. • �Continue CEAP activities designed to estimate environmental benefits of conservation practices and programs. • �Develop a framework for reporting impacts of conservation practices and programs in terms of ecosystem services. • �Identify future conservation requirements and provide information for setting national and regional priorities. • �Expand assessment capabilities to address potential impacts of changes in agricultural land use and policy and define necessary conservation programs to meet new environmental challenges brought about by alternative land use or policy changes.
    2. Three principal themes will guide CEAP investments and activities in the future (Maresch et al. 2008): 1. �Research addressing effective and efficient implementation of conservation practices and programs to meet environmental goals and enhance environmental quality. • �Continue and expand CEAP research projects on the effects and benefits of conservation practices for soil and water quality at the watershed and landscape scales. • �Implement a new research and assessment initiative for grazing lands designed to provide scientific evidence for implementation of conservation practices at the landscape scale. • �Determine the critical processes and attributes to be measured at the appropriate landscape position for evaluation of environmental benefits. • �Expand the scope of assessment to include evaluation of a full suite of ecosystem services influenced by conservation practices and programs.
    3. CEAP products would have wide utility for diverse stakeholders within the conservation community. CEAP has evolved into an assessment and research initiative directed at determining not only the impacts of conservation practices, but also evaluating procedures to more effectively manage agricultural landscapes in order to address environmental quality goals at local, regional, and national scales (Maresch et al. 2008).
    1. The steep cost of capture

      Welcome to our Love Data Week 2022 conversation! Please highlight, annotate, and comment.

    1. RESEARCH

      testing 123

    2. In the thesis-first model, a researcher would likely only encounter sources that argue for her pre-existing belief: that harsher penal-ties are needed. She would probably never be exposed to multi-ple perspectives on this complex issue, and the result would just be confirmation of her earlier beliefs. However, a researcher who begins with an open-ended question motivated by curiosity, whose goal is not to prove anything, but to discover salient ideas about a human rights issue, has the chance to explore different thoughts

      This is very good to remember. Use open-ended questions to get more in-depth answers.

    1. The USDA engaged the Soil and Water Conservation Society in 2005 to assemble a panel of university scientists and conservation community leaders to recommend the most effective, proactive, and scientifically credible CEAP activities—thereby ensuring that
    2. A secondary goal of CEAP is to establish a framework for assessing and reporting the full suite of ecosystem services impacted by various conservation practices. Ecosystem services represent the benefits that ecological processes convey to human societies and the natural environment. For example, agricultural lands provide flood and drought mitigation, water and air purification, biodiversity, carbon sequestration, nutrient cycling, and aesthetics and recreation, in addition to the primary agricultural commodities produced. These ecosystem services are often taken for granted and unpriced or underpriced by the marketplace. Research and assessment activities will be integrated within CEAP to provide a scientific foundation for assessing the extent to which ecosystem services are enhanced by conservation practices and programs.
    3. quality of managed lands. CEAP is focused on establishing principles to guide cost-effective conservation practices at landscape scales and to achieve multiple environmental quality goals by placing specified conservation practices or combinations of complementary practices at appropriate locations on the landscape to maximize their effectiveness. CEAP is also developing science-based guidance, information, and decision support tools to determine the appropriate practices to be implemented at various locations on the landscape and to provide conservation program managers with a blueprint for delivery of science-based and cost-effective conservation programs (Duriancik et al. 2008).
    1. there

      Something else about me is I am originally from California and moved here about a year ago with my family.

    2. My interest in academia is criminology or forensic psychology. A hobby I have is playing soccer. I have played soccer my whole life and committed to a school to play college soccer at CUNY John Jay next year.

    3. I enjoy reading books about crime or mystery because you are constantly wondering why and how.

    4. Question 2: What do you know about American literature already? For example, what courses in college or high school provided you with some kind of foundation? What American lit authors, books, or poetry have you enjoyed? What did you not enjoy?

      I don't really know much about American literature. If I remember correctly from high school we somewhat talked about some themes we may find but I am not 100% sure if it correct. We talked about the 5 major themes and the relationship with society. I am not the biggest fan or poetry especially when the words are really hard to understand but when I get what it is saying I do end up enjoying it.

    5. Question 1: Why are you taking this course?

      I am taking this course to replace a class I took at CUNY John Jay in order to get my English credits.

    6. Question 5: Is there anything else you’d like us to know about you?

      My best firend is my dog, Coco. He is a chocolate lab, but he's pretty large for his breed. He spends all his time taking up most of my bed or barking at nothing.

    7. Question 4: What are your interests outside of academia? Do you have any hobbies? Are you into anything interesting or quirky?

      I like to paint as well as read, but my main passion is writing. I am currently writing a YA fiction fantasy novel that will be the first of eight books in the series. I am currently editing my second draft and hope to find a publisher by the end of the summer.

    8. Question 3: What do you enjoy reading in your spare time? Be specific.

      I enjoy reading a lot of YA fiction books. I stick mostly to Fantasy or paranormal novels, but I do enjoy sci-fi, dystopian, and general fiction novels as well.

    9. Question 2: What do you know about American literature already? For example, what courses in college or high school provided you with some kind of foundation? What American lit authors, books, or poetry have you enjoyed? What did you not enjoy?

      I took American Literature 1, so I know a little about the gothic and horror elements of American Lit, both themes I sincerely enjoyed.

    10. Question 1: Why are you taking this course?

      I am taking this course becausenot only is it required for my degree, but I also enjoy English very much!

    1. Bread was likely to be stretched with chalk, pepper adulterated with the sweepings of warehouse floors, and sausage stuffed with all the horrors famously exposed by Upton Sinclair in The Jungle. Even the most reputable cookbooks recommended using concentrated sulphuric acid to inten­sify the color of jams.

      Standards have come a long long way from those days. Now it is almost impossible to get sick from packaged proscessed food.

    2. Nor are most “traditional foods” very old. For every prized dish that goes back two thousand years, a dozen have been invented in the last two hundred. The French baguette? A twentieth-century phenomenon, adopted nationwide only after World War II.

      I was really surprised by this. I had no idea that a lot of the food innovation of history was this recent.

    3. Fresh meat was rank and tough; fresh milk warm and unmistakably a bodily excretion; fresh fruits (dates and grapes being rare exceptions outside the tropics) were inedibly sour, fresh vegetables bitter.

      Our modern society does not take this into account. 200 years ago fresh food was not the tastiest option out there. Often it was hard to eat and could very easily make you sick and kill you

    4. We hover between ridicule and shame when we remember how our mothers and grand­mothers enthusiastically embraced canned and frozen foods. We nod in agreement when the waiter proclaims that the restaurant showcases the freshest local produce

      The essay continues to talk about this main topic of how we need go reevaluate how we look at processed food.

    1. Do you like sentences?

      no

    2. It

      it

    3. I liked the smell of the paint.

      Spoken like a true artist.

    4. It makes more sense to write one big book - a novel or nonfiction narrative - than to write many stories or essays. Into a long, ambitious project you can fit or pour all you possess and learn. A project that takes five years will accumulate those years' inventions and richnesses. Much of those years' reading will feed the work. Further, writing sentences is difficult whatever their subject. It is no less difficult to write sentences in a recipe than sentences in ''Moby-Dick.'' So you might as well write ''Moby-Dick.'' Similarly, since every original work requires a unique form, it is more prudent to struggle with the outcome of only one form - that of a long work - than to struggle with the many forms of a collection.

      this is a great idea

    5. plays the edges

      idk what the edges are but I play the saxophone

    6. well-

      ok

    7. chicken'

      yummy

    8. eople love pretty much the same things best. A writer looking for subjects inquires not after what he loves best, but after what he alone loves at all. Strange seizures beset us. Frank Conroy loves his yo-yo tricks, Emily Dickinson her slant of light; Richard Selzer loves the glistening peritoneum, Faulkner the muddy bottom of a little girl's drawers visible when she's up a pear tree. ''Each student of the ferns,'' I once read, ''will have his own list of plants that for some reason or another stir his emotions.'' Why do you never find anything written about that idiosyncratic thought you advert to, about your fascination with something no one else understands? Because it is up to you. There is something you find interesting, for a reason hard to explain. It is hard to explain because you have never read it on any page; there you begin. You were made and set here to give voice to this, your own astonishment. Write as if you were dying. At the same time, assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients. That is, after all, the case. What would you begin writing if you knew you would die soon? What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality? Write about winter in the summer. Describe Norway as Ibsen did, from a desk in Italy; describe Dublin as James Joyce did, from a desk in Paris. Willa Cather wrote her prairie novels in New York City; Mark Twain wrote ''Huckleberry Finn'' in Hartford. Recently scholars learned that Walt Whitman rarely left his room. The writer studies literature, not the world. She lives in the world; she cannot miss it. If she has ever bought a hamburger, or taken a commercial airplane flight, she spares her readers a report of her experience. She is careful of what she reads, for that is what she will write. She is careful of what she learns, because that is what she will know. The writer knows her field - what has been done, what could be done, the limits - the way a tennis player knows the court. And like that expert, she, too, plays the edges. That is where the exhilaration is. She hits up the line. In writing, she can push the edges. Beyond this limit, here, the reader must recoil. Reason balks, poetry snaps; some madness enters, or strain. Now gingerly, can she enlarge it, can she nudge the bounds? And enclose what wild power?

      eople love pretty much the same things best. A writer looking for subjects inquires not after what he loves best, but after what he alone loves at all. Strange seizures beset us. Frank Conroy loves his yo-yo tricks, Emily Dickinson her slant of light; Richard Selzer loves the glistening peritoneum, Faulkner the muddy bottom of a little girl's drawers visible when she's up a pear tree. ''Each student of the ferns,'' I once read, ''will have his own list of plants that for some reason or another stir his emotions.''

      Why do you never find anything written about that idiosyncratic thought you advert to, about your fascination with something no one else understands? Because it is up to you. There is something you find interesting, for a reason hard to explain. It is hard to explain because you have never read it on any page; there you begin. You were made and set here to give voice to this, your own astonishment.

      Write as if you were dying. At the same time, assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients. That is, after all, the case. What would you begin writing if you knew you would die soon? What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?

      Write about winter in the summer. Describe Norway as Ibsen did, from a desk in Italy; describe Dublin as James Joyce did, from a desk in Paris. Willa Cather wrote her prairie novels in New York City; Mark Twain wrote ''Huckleberry Finn'' in Hartford. Recently scholars learned that Walt Whitman rarely left his room.

      The writer studies literature, not the world. She lives in the world; she cannot miss it. If she has ever bought a hamburger, or taken a commercial airplane flight, she spares her readers a report of her experience. She is careful of what she reads, for that is what she will write. She is careful of what she learns, because that is what she will know.

      The writer knows her field - what has been done, what could be done, the limits - the way a tennis player knows the court. And like that expert, she, too, plays the edges. That is where the exhilaration is. She hits up the line. In writing, she can push the edges. Beyond this limit, here, the reader must recoil. Reason balks, poetry snaps; some madness enters, or strain. Now gingerly, can she enlarge it, can she nudge the bounds? And enclose what wild power?eople love pretty much the same things best. A writer looking for subjects inquires not after what he loves best, but after what he alone loves at all. Strange seizures beset us. Frank Conroy loves his yo-yo tricks, Emily Dickinson her slant of light; Richard Selzer loves the glistening peritoneum, Faulkner the muddy bottom of a little girl's drawers visible when she's up a pear tree. ''Each student of the ferns,'' I once read, ''will have his own list of plants that for some reason or another stir his emotions.''

      Why do you never find anything written about that idiosyncratic thought you advert to, about your fascination with something no one else understands? Because it is up to you. There is something you find interesting, for a reason hard to explain. It is hard to explain because you have never read it on any page; there you begin. You were made and set here to give voice to this, your own astonishment.

      Write as if you were dying. At the same time, assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients. That is, after all, the case. What would you begin writing if you knew you would die soon? What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?

      Write about winter in the summer. Describe Norway as Ibsen did, from a desk in Italy; describe Dublin as James Joyce did, from a desk in Paris. Willa Cather wrote her prairie novels in New York City; Mark Twain wrote ''Huckleberry Finn'' in Hartford. Recently scholars learned that Walt Whitman rarely left his room.

      The writer studies literature, not the world. She lives in the world; she cannot miss it. If she has ever bought a hamburger, or taken a commercial airplane flight, she spares her readers a report of her experience. She is careful of what she reads, for that is what she will write. She is careful of what she learns, because that is what she will know.

      The writer knows her field - what has been done, what could be done, the limits - the way a tennis player knows the court. And like that expert, she, too, plays the edges. That is where the exhilaration is. She hits up the line. In writing, she can push the edges. Beyond this limit, here, the reader must recoil. Reason balks, poetry snaps; some madness enters, or strain. Now gingerly, can she enlarge it, can she nudge the bounds? And enclose what wild power?eople love pretty much the same things best. A writer looking for subjects inquires not after what he loves best, but after what he alone loves at all. Strange seizures beset us. Frank Conroy loves his yo-yo tricks, Emily Dickinson her slant of light; Richard Selzer loves the glistening peritoneum, Faulkner the muddy bottom of a little girl's drawers visible when she's up a pear tree. ''Each student of the ferns,'' I once read, ''will have his own list of plants that for some reason or another stir his emotions.''

      Why do you never find anything written about that idiosyncratic thought you advert to, about your fascination with something no one else understands? Because it is up to you. There is something you find interesting, for a reason hard to explain. It is hard to explain because you have never read it on any page; there you begin. You were made and set here to give voice to this, your own astonishment.

      Write as if you were dying. At the same time, assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients. That is, after all, the case. What would you begin writing if you knew you would die soon? What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?

      Write about winter in the summer. Describe Norway as Ibsen did, from a desk in Italy; describe Dublin as James Joyce did, from a desk in Paris. Willa Cather wrote her prairie novels in New York City; Mark Twain wrote ''Huckleberry Finn'' in Hartford. Recently scholars learned that Walt Whitman rarely left his room.

      The writer studies literature, not the world. She lives in the world; she cannot miss it. If she has ever bought a hamburger, or taken a commercial airplane flight, she spares her readers a report of her experience. She is careful of what she reads, for that is what she will write. She is careful of what she learns, because that is what she will know.

      The writer knows her field - what has been done, what could be done, the limits - the way a tennis player knows the court. And like that expert, she, too, plays the edges. That is where the exhilaration is. She hits up the line. In writing, she can push the edges. Beyond this limit, here, the reader must recoil. Reason balks, poetry snaps; some madness enters, or strain. Now gingerly, can she enlarge it, can she nudge the bounds? And enclose what wild power?eople love pretty much the same things best. A writer looking for subjects inquires not after what he loves best, but after what he alone loves at all. Strange seizures beset us. Frank Conroy loves his yo-yo tricks, Emily Dickinson her slant of light; Richard Selzer loves the glistening peritoneum, Faulkner the muddy bottom of a little girl's drawers visible when she's up a pear tree. ''Each student of the ferns,'' I once read, ''will have his own list of plants that for some reason or another stir his emotions.''

      Why do you never find anything written about that idiosyncratic thought you advert to, about your fascination with something no one else understands? Because it is up to you. There is something you find interesting, for a reason hard to explain. It is hard to explain because you have never read it on any page; there you begin. You were made and set here to give voice to this, your own astonishment.

      Write as if you were dying. At the same time, assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients. That is, after all, the case. What would you begin writing if you knew you would die soon? What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?

      Write about winter in the summer. Describe Norway as Ibsen did, from a desk in Italy; describe Dublin as James Joyce did, from a desk in Paris. Willa Cather wrote her prairie novels in New York City; Mark Twain wrote ''Huckleberry Finn'' in Hartford. Recently scholars learned that Walt Whitman rarely left his room.

      The writer studies literature, not the world. She lives in the world; she cannot miss it. If she has ever bought a hamburger, or taken a commercial airplane flight, she spares her readers a report of her experience. She is careful of what she reads, for that is what she will write. She is careful of what she learns, because that is what she will know.

      The writer knows her field - what has been done, what could be done, the limits - the way a tennis player knows the court. And like that expert, she, too, plays the edges. That is where the exhilaration is. She hits up the line. In writing, she can push the edges. Beyond this limit, here, the reader must recoil. Reason balks, poetry snaps; some madness enters, or strain. Now gingerly, can she enlarge it, can she nudge the bounds? And enclose what wild power?eople love pretty much the same things best. A writer looking for subjects inquires not after what he loves best, but after what he alone loves at all. Strange seizures beset us. Frank Conroy loves his yo-yo tricks, Emily Dickinson her slant of light; Richard Selzer loves the glistening peritoneum, Faulkner the muddy bottom of a little girl's drawers visible when she's up a pear tree. ''Each student of the ferns,'' I once read, ''will have his own list of plants that for some reason or another stir his emotions.''

      Why do you never find anything written about that idiosyncratic thought you advert to, about your fascination with something no one else understands? Because it is up to you. There is something you find interesting, for a reason hard to explain. It is hard to explain because you have never read it on any page; there you begin. You were made and set here to give voice to this, your own astonishment.

      Write as if you were dying. At the same time, assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients. That is, after all, the case. What would you begin writing if you knew you would die soon? What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?

      Write about winter in the summer. Describe Norway as Ibsen did, from a desk in Italy; describe Dublin as James Joyce did, from a desk in Paris. Willa Cather wrote her prairie novels in New York City; Mark Twain wrote ''Huckleberry Finn'' in Hartford. Recently scholars learned that Walt Whitman rarely left his room.

      The writer studies literature, not the world. She lives in the world; she cannot miss it. If she has ever bought a hamburger, or taken a commercial airplane flight, she spares her readers a report of her experience. She is careful of what she reads, for that is what she will write. She is careful of what she learns, because that is what she will know.

      The writer knows her field - what has been done, what could be done, the limits - the way a tennis player knows the court. And like that expert, she, too, plays the edges. That is where the exhilaration is. She hits up the line. In writing, she can push the edges. Beyond this limit, here, the reader must recoil. Reason balks, poetry snaps; some madness enters, or strain. Now gingerly, can she enlarge it, can she nudge the bounds? And enclose what wild power?eople love pretty much the same things best. A writer looking for subjects inquires not after what he loves best, but after what he alone loves at all. Strange seizures beset us. Frank Conroy loves his yo-yo tricks, Emily Dickinson her slant of light; Richard Selzer loves the glistening peritoneum, Faulkner the muddy bottom of a little girl's drawers visible when she's up a pear tree. ''Each student of the ferns,'' I once read, ''will have his own list of plants that for some reason or another stir his emotions.''

      Why do you never find anything written about that idiosyncratic thought you advert to, about your fascination with something no one else understands? Because it is up to you. There is something you find interesting, for a reason hard to explain. It is hard to explain because you have never read it on any page; there you begin. You were made and set here to give voice to this, your own astonishment.

      Write as if you were dying. At the same time, assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients. That is, after all, the case. What would you begin writing if you knew you would die soon? What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?

      Write about winter in the summer. Describe Norway as Ibsen did, from a desk in Italy; describe Dublin as James Joyce did, from a desk in Paris. Willa Cather wrote her prairie novels in New York City; Mark Twain wrote ''Huckleberry Finn'' in Hartford. Recently scholars learned that Walt Whitman rarely left his room.

      The writer studies literature, not the world. She lives in the world; she cannot miss it. If she has ever bought a hamburger, or taken a commercial airplane flight, she spares her readers a report of her experience. She is careful of what she reads, for that is what she will write. She is careful of what she learns, because that is what she will know.

      The writer knows her field - what has been done, what could be done, the limits - the way a tennis player knows the court. And like that expert, she, too, plays the edges. That is where the exhilaration is. She hits up the line. In writing, she can push the edges. Beyond this limit, here, the reader must recoil. Reason balks, poetry snaps; some madness enters, or strain. Now gingerly, can she enlarge it, can she nudge the bounds? And enclose what wild power?eople love pretty much the same things best. A writer looking for subjects inquires not after what he loves best, but after what he alone loves at all. Strange seizures beset us. Frank Conroy loves his yo-yo tricks, Emily Dickinson her slant of light; Richard Selzer loves the glistening peritoneum, Faulkner the muddy bottom of a little girl's drawers visible when she's up a pear tree. ''Each student of the ferns,'' I once read, ''will have his own list of plants that for some reason or another stir his emotions.''

      Why do you never find anything written about that idiosyncratic thought you advert to, about your fascination with something no one else understands? Because it is up to you. There is something you find interesting, for a reason hard to explain. It is hard to explain because you have never read it on any page; there you begin. You were made and set here to give voice to this, your own astonishment.

      Write as if you were dying. At the same time, assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients. That is, after all, the case. What would you begin writing if you knew you would die soon? What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?

      Write about winter in the summer. Describe Norway as Ibsen did, from a desk in Italy; describe Dublin as James Joyce did, from a desk in Paris. Willa Cather wrote her prairie novels in New York City; Mark Twain wrote ''Huckleberry Finn'' in Hartford. Recently scholars learned that Walt Whitman rarely left his room.

      The writer studies literature, not the world. She lives in the world; she cannot miss it. If she has ever bought a hamburger, or taken a commercial airplane flight, she spares her readers a report of her experience. She is careful of what she reads, for that is what she will write. She is careful of what she learns, because that is what she will know.

      The writer knows her field - what has been done, what could be done, the limits - the way a tennis player knows the court. And like that expert, she, too, plays the edges. That is where the exhilaration is. She hits up the line. In writing, she can push the edges. Beyond this limit, here, the reader must recoil. Reason balks, poetry snaps; some madness enters, or strain. Now gingerly, can she enlarge it, can she nudge the bounds? And enclose what wild power?eople love pretty much the same things best. A writer looking for subjects inquires not after what he loves best, but after what he alone loves at all. Strange seizures beset us. Frank Conroy loves his yo-yo tricks, Emily Dickinson her slant of light; Richard Selzer loves the glistening peritoneum, Faulkner the muddy bottom of a little girl's drawers visible when she's up a pear tree. ''Each student of the ferns,'' I once read, ''will have his own list of plants that for some reason or another stir his emotions.''

      Why do you never find anything written about that idiosyncratic thought you advert to, about your fascination with something no one else understands? Because it is up to you. There is something you find interesting, for a reason hard to explain. It is hard to explain because you have never read it on any page; there you begin. You were made and set here to give voice to this, your own astonishment.

      Write as if you were dying. At the same time, assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients. That is, after all, the case. What would you begin writing if you knew you would die soon? What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?

      Write about winter in the summer. Describe Norway as Ibsen did, from a desk in Italy; describe Dublin as James Joyce did, from a desk in Paris. Willa Cather wrote her prairie novels in New York City; Mark Twain wrote ''Huckleberry Finn'' in Hartford. Recently scholars learned that Walt Whitman rarely left his room.

      The writer studies literature, not the world. She lives in the world; she cannot miss it. If she has ever bought a hamburger, or taken a commercial airplane flight, she spares her readers a report of her experience. She is careful of what she reads, for that is what she will write. She is careful of what she learns, because that is what she will know.

      The writer knows her field - what has been done, what could be done, the limits - the way a tennis player knows the court. And like that expert, she, too, plays the edges. That is where the exhilaration is. She hits up the line. In writing, she can push the edges. Beyond this limit, here, the reader must recoil. Reason balks, poetry snaps; some madness enters, or strain. Now gingerly, can she enlarge it, can she nudge the bounds? And enclose what wild power?eople love pretty much the same things best. A writer looking for subjects inquires not after what he loves best, but after what he alone loves at all. Strange seizures beset us. Frank Conroy loves his yo-yo tricks, Emily Dickinson her slant of light; Richard Selzer loves the glistening peritoneum, Faulkner the muddy bottom of a little girl's drawers visible when she's up a pear tree. ''Each student of the ferns,'' I once read, ''will have his own list of plants that for some reason or another stir his emotions.''

      Why do you never find anything written about that idiosyncratic thought you advert to, about your fascination with something no one else understands? Because it is up to you. There is something you find interesting, for a reason hard to explain. It is hard to explain because you have never read it on any page; there you begin. You were made and set here to give voice to this, your own astonishment.

      Write as if you were dying. At the same time, assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients. That is, after all, the case. What would you begin writing if you knew you would die soon? What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?

      Write about winter in the summer. Describe Norway as Ibsen did, from a desk in Italy; describe Dublin as James Joyce did, from a desk in Paris. Willa Cather wrote her prairie novels in New York City; Mark Twain wrote ''Huckleberry Finn'' in Hartford. Recently scholars learned that Walt Whitman rarely left his room.

      The writer studies literature, not the world. She lives in the world; she cannot miss it. If she has ever bought a hamburger, or taken a commercial airplane flight, she spares her readers a report of her experience. She is careful of what she reads, for that is what she will write. She is careful of what she learns, because that is what she will know.

      The writer knows her field - what has been done, what could be done, the limits - the way a tennis player knows the court. And like that expert, she, too, plays the edges. That is where the exhilaration is. She hits up the line. In writing, she can push the edges. Beyond this limit, here, the reader must recoil. Reason balks, poetry snaps; some madness enters, or strain. Now gingerly, can she enlarge it, can she nudge the bounds? And enclose what wild power?eople love pretty much the same things best. A writer looking for subjects inquires not after what he loves best, but after what he alone loves at all. Strange seizures beset us. Frank Conroy loves his yo-yo tricks, Emily Dickinson her slant of light; Richard Selzer loves the glistening peritoneum, Faulkner the muddy bottom of a little girl's drawers visible when she's up a pear tree. ''Each student of the ferns,'' I once read, ''will have his own list of plants that for some reason or another stir his emotions.''

      Why do you never find anything written about that idiosyncratic thought you advert to, about your fascination with something no one else understands? Because it is up to you. There is something you find interesting, for a reason hard to explain. It is hard to explain because you have never read it on any page; there you begin. You were made and set here to give voice to this, your own astonishment.

      Write as if you were dying. At the same time, assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients. That is, after all, the case. What would you begin writing if you knew you would die soon? What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?

      Write about winter in the summer. Describe Norway as Ibsen did, from a desk in Italy; describe Dublin as James Joyce did, from a desk in Paris. Willa Cather wrote her prairie novels in New York City; Mark Twain wrote ''Huckleberry Finn'' in Hartford. Recently scholars learned that Walt Whitman rarely left his room.

      The writer studies literature, not the world. She lives in the world; she cannot miss it. If she has ever bought a hamburger, or taken a commercial airplane flight, she spares her readers a report of her experience. She is careful of what she reads, for that is what she will write. She is careful of what she learns, because that is what she will know.

      The writer knows her field - what has been done, what could be done, the limits - the way a tennis player knows the court. And like that expert, she, too, plays the edges. That is where the exhilaration is. She hits up the line. In writing, she can push the edges. Beyond this limit, here, the reader must recoil. Reason balks, poetry snaps; some madness enters, or strain. Now gingerly, can she enlarge it, can she nudge the bounds? And enclose what wild power?eople love pretty much the same things best. A writer looking for subjects inquires not after what he loves best, but after what he alone loves at all. Strange seizures beset us. Frank Conroy loves his yo-yo tricks, Emily Dickinson her slant of light; Richard Selzer loves the glistening peritoneum, Faulkner the muddy bottom of a little girl's drawers visible when she's up a pear tree. ''Each student of the ferns,'' I once read, ''will have his own list of plants that for some reason or another stir his emotions.''

      Why do you never find anything written about that idiosyncratic thought you advert to, about your fascination with something no one else understands? Because it is up to you. There is something you find interesting, for a reason hard to explain. It is hard to explain because you have never read it on any page; there you begin. You were made and set here to give voice to this, your own astonishment.

      Write as if you were dying. At the same time, assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients. That is, after all, the case. What would you begin writing if you knew you would die soon? What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?

      Write about winter in the summer. Describe Norway as Ibsen did, from a desk in Italy; describe Dublin as James Joyce did, from a desk in Paris. Willa Cather wrote her prairie novels in New York City; Mark Twain wrote ''Huckleberry Finn'' in Hartford. Recently scholars learned that Walt Whitman rarely left his room.

      The writer studies literature, not the world. She lives in the world; she cannot miss it. If she has ever bought a hamburger, or taken a commercial airplane flight, she spares her readers a report of her experience. She is careful of what she reads, for that is what she will write. She is careful of what she learns, because that is what she will know.

      The writer knows her field - what has been done, what could be done, the limits - the way a tennis player knows the court. And like that expert, she, too, plays the edges. That is where the exhilaration is. She hits up the line. In writing, she can push the edges. Beyond this limit, here, the reader must recoil. Reason balks, poetry snaps; some madness enters, or strain. Now gingerly, can she enlarge it, can she nudge the bounds? And enclose what wild power?eople love pretty much the same things best. A writer looking for subjects inquires not after what he loves best, but after what he alone loves at all. Strange seizures beset us. Frank Conroy loves his yo-yo tricks, Emily Dickinson her slant of light; Richard Selzer loves the glistening peritoneum, Faulkner the muddy bottom of a little girl's drawers visible when she's up a pear tree. ''Each student of the ferns,'' I once read, ''will have his own list of plants that for some reason or another stir his emotions.''

      Why do you never find anything written about that idiosyncratic thought you advert to, about your fascination with something no one else understands? Because it is up to you. There is something you find interesting, for a reason hard to explain. It is hard to explain because you have never read it on any page; there you begin. You were made and set here to give voice to this, your own astonishment.

      Write as if you were dying. At the same time, assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients. That is, after all, the case. What would you begin writing if you knew you would die soon? What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?

      Write about winter in the summer. Describe Norway as Ibsen did, from a desk in Italy; describe Dublin as James Joyce did, from a desk in Paris. Willa Cather wrote her prairie novels in New York City; Mark Twain wrote ''Huckleberry Finn'' in Hartford. Recently scholars learned that Walt Whitman rarely left his room.

      The writer studies literature, not the world. She lives in the world; she cannot miss it. If she has ever bought a hamburger, or taken a commercial airplane flight, she spares her readers a report of her experience. She is careful of what she reads, for that is what she will write. She is careful of what she learns, because that is what she will know.

      The writer knows her field - what has been done, what could be done, the limits - the way a tennis player knows the court. And like that expert, she, too, plays the edges. That is where the exhilaration is. She hits up the line. In writing, she can push the edges. Beyond this limit, here, the reader must recoil. Reason balks, poetry snaps; some madness enters, or strain. Now gingerly, can she enlarge it, can she nudge the bounds? And enclose what wild power?eople love pretty much the same things best. A writer looking for subjects inquires not after what he loves best, but after what he alone loves at all. Strange seizures beset us. Frank Conroy loves his yo-yo tricks, Emily Dickinson her slant of light; Richard Selzer loves the glistening peritoneum, Faulkner the muddy bottom of a little girl's drawers visible when she's up a pear tree. ''Each student of the ferns,'' I once read, ''will have his own list of plants that for some reason or another stir his emotions.''

      Why do you never find anything written about that idiosyncratic thought you advert to, about your fascination with something no one else understands? Because it is up to you. There is something you find interesting, for a reason hard to explain. It is hard to explain because you have never read it on any page; there you begin. You were made and set here to give voice to this, your own astonishment.

      Write as if you were dying. At the same time, assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients. That is, after all, the case. What would you begin writing if you knew you would die soon? What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?

      Write about winter in the summer. Describe Norway as Ibsen did, from a desk in Italy; describe Dublin as James Joyce did, from a desk in Paris. Willa Cather wrote her prairie novels in New York City; Mark Twain wrote ''Huckleberry Finn'' in Hartford. Recently scholars learned that Walt Whitman rarely left his room.

      The writer studies literature, not the world. She lives in the world; she cannot miss it. If she has ever bought a hamburger, or taken a commercial airplane flight, she spares her readers a report of her experience. She is careful of what she reads, for that is what she will write. She is careful of what she learns, because that is what she will know.

      The writer knows her field - what has been done, what could be done, the limits - the way a tennis player knows the court. And like that expert, she, too, plays the edges. That is where the exhilaration is. She hits up the line. In writing, she can push the edges. Beyond this limit, here, the reader must recoil. Reason balks, poetry snaps; some madness enters, or strain. Now gingerly, can she enlarge it, can she nudge the bounds? And enclose what wild power?eople love pretty much the same things best. A writer looking for subjects inquires not after what he loves best, but after what he alone loves at all. Strange seizures beset us. Frank Conroy loves his yo-yo tricks, Emily Dickinson her slant of light; Richard Selzer loves the glistening peritoneum, Faulkner the muddy bottom of a little girl's drawers visible when she's up a pear tree. ''Each student of the ferns,'' I once read, ''will have his own list of plants that for some reason or another stir his emotions.''

      Why do you never find anything written about that idiosyncratic thought you advert to, about your fascination with something no one else understands? Because it is up to you. There is something you find interesting, for a reason hard to explain. It is hard to explain because you have never read it on any page; there you begin. You were made and set here to give voice to this, your own astonishment.

      Write as if you were dying. At the same time, assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients. That is, after all, the case. What would you begin writing if you knew you would die soon? What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?

      Write about winter in the summer. Describe Norway as Ibsen did, from a desk in Italy; describe Dublin as James Joyce did, from a desk in Paris. Willa Cather wrote her prairie novels in New York City; Mark Twain wrote ''Huckleberry Finn'' in Hartford. Recently scholars learned that Walt Whitman rarely left his room.

      The writer studies literature, not the world. She lives in the world; she cannot miss it. If she has ever bought a hamburger, or taken a commercial airplane flight, she spares her readers a report of her experience. She is careful of what she reads, for that is what she will write. She is careful of what she learns, because that is what she will know.

      The writer knows her field - what has been done, what could be done, the limits - the way a tennis player knows the court. And like that expert, she, too, plays the edges. That is where the exhilaration is. She hits up the line. In writing, she can push the edges. Beyond this limit, here, the reader must recoil. Reason balks, poetry snaps; some madness enters, or strain. Now gingerly, can she enlarge it, can she nudge the bounds? And enclose what wild power?eople love pretty much the same things best. A writer looking for subjects inquires not after what he loves best, but after what he alone loves at all. Strange seizures beset us. Frank Conroy loves his yo-yo tricks, Emily Dickinson her slant of light; Richard Selzer loves the glistening peritoneum, Faulkner the muddy bottom of a little girl's drawers visible when she's up a pear tree. ''Each student of the ferns,'' I once read, ''will have his own list of plants that for some reason or another stir his emotions.''

      Why do you never find anything written about that idiosyncratic thought you advert to, about your fascination with something no one else understands? Because it is up to you. There is something you find interesting, for a reason hard to explain. It is hard to explain because you have never read it on any page; there you begin. You were made and set here to give voice to this, your own astonishment.

      Write as if you were dying. At the same time, assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients. That is, after all, the case. What would you begin writing if you knew you would die soon? What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?

      Write about winter in the summer. Describe Norway as Ibsen did, from a desk in Italy; describe Dublin as James Joyce did, from a desk in Paris. Willa Cather wrote her prairie novels in New York City; Mark Twain wrote ''Huckleberry Finn'' in Hartford. Recently scholars learned that Walt Whitman rarely left his room.

      The writer studies literature, not the world. She lives in the world; she cannot miss it. If she has ever bought a hamburger, or taken a commercial airplane flight, she spares her readers a report of her experience. She is careful of what she reads, for that is what she will write. She is careful of what she learns, because that is what she will know.

      The writer knows her field - what has been done, what could be done, the limits - the way a tennis player knows the court. And like that expert, she, too, plays the edges. That is where the exhilaration is. She hits up the line. In writing, she can push the edges. Beyond this limit, here, the reader must recoil. Reason balks, poetry snaps; some madness enters, or strain. Now gingerly, can she enlarge it, can she nudge the bounds? And enclose what wild power?eople love pretty much the same things best. A writer looking for subjects inquires not after what he loves best, but after what he alone loves at all. Strange seizures beset us. Frank Conroy loves his yo-yo tricks, Emily Dickinson her slant of light; Richard Selzer loves the glistening peritoneum, Faulkner the muddy bottom of a little girl's drawers visible when she's up a pear tree. ''Each student of the ferns,'' I once read, ''will have his own list of plants that for some reason or another stir his emotions.''

      Why do you never find anything written about that idiosyncratic thought you advert to, about your fascination with something no one else understands? Because it is up to you. There is something you find interesting, for a reason hard to explain. It is hard to explain because you have never read it on any page; there you begin. You were made and set here to give voice to this, your own astonishment.

      Write as if you were dying. At the same time, assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients. That is, after all, the case. What would you begin writing if you knew you would die soon? What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?

      Write about winter in the summer. Describe Norway as Ibsen did, from a desk in Italy; describe Dublin as James Joyce did, from a desk in Paris. Willa Cather wrote her prairie novels in New York City; Mark Twain wrote ''Huckleberry Finn'' in Hartford. Recently scholars learned that Walt Whitman rarely left his room.

      The writer studies literature, not the world. She lives in the world; she cannot miss it. If she has ever bought a hamburger, or taken a commercial airplane flight, she spares her readers a report of her experience. She is careful of what she reads, for that is what she will write. She is careful of what she learns, because that is what she will know.

      The writer knows her field - what has been done, what could be done, the limits - the way a tennis player knows the court. And like that expert, she, too, plays the edges. That is where the exhilaration is. She hits up the line. In writing, she can push the edges. Beyond this limit, here, the reader must recoil. Reason balks, poetry snaps; some madness enters, or strain. Now gingerly, can she enlarge it, can she nudge the bounds? And enclose what wild power?eople love pretty much the same things best. A writer looking for subjects inquires not after what he loves best, but after what he alone loves at all. Strange seizures beset us. Frank Conroy loves his yo-yo tricks, Emily Dickinson her slant of light; Richard Selzer loves the glistening peritoneum, Faulkner the muddy bottom of a little girl's drawers visible when she's up a pear tree. ''Each student of the ferns,'' I once read, ''will have his own list of plants that for some reason or another stir his emotions.''

      Why do you never find anything written about that idiosyncratic thought you advert to, about your fascination with something no one else understands? Because it is up to you. There is something you find interesting, for a reason hard to explain. It is hard to explain because you have never read it on any page; there you begin. You were made and set here to give voice to this, your own astonishment.

      Write as if you were dying. At the same time, assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients. That is, after all, the case. What would you begin writing if you knew you would die soon? What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?

      Write about winter in the summer. Describe Norway as Ibsen did, from a desk in Italy; describe Dublin as James Joyce did, from a desk in Paris. Willa Cather wrote her prairie novels in New York City; Mark Twain wrote ''Huckleberry Finn'' in Hartford. Recently scholars learned that Walt Whitman rarely left his room.

      The writer studies literature, not the world. She lives in the world; she cannot miss it. If she has ever bought a hamburger, or taken a commercial airplane flight, she spares her readers a report of her experience. She is careful of what she reads, for that is what she will write. She is careful of what she learns, because that is what she will know.

      The writer knows her field - what has been done, what could be done, the limits - the way a tennis player knows the court. And like that expert, she, too, plays the edges. That is where the exhilaration is. She hits up the line. In writing, she can push the edges. Beyond this limit, here, the reader must recoil. Reason balks, poetry snaps; some madness enters, or strain. Now gingerly, can she enlarge it, can she nudge the bounds? And enclose what wild power?eople love pretty much the same things best. A writer looking for subjects inquires not after what he loves best, but after what he alone loves at all. Strange seizures beset us. Frank Conroy loves his yo-yo tricks, Emily Dickinson her slant of light; Richard Selzer loves the glistening peritoneum, Faulkner the muddy bottom of a little girl's drawers visible when she's up a pear tree. ''Each student of the ferns,'' I once read, ''will have his own list of plants that for some reason or another stir his emotions.''

      Why do you never find anything written about that idiosyncratic thought you advert to, about your fascination with something no one else understands? Because it is up to you. There is something you find interesting, for a reason hard to explain. It is hard to explain because you have never read it on any page; there you begin. You were made and set here to give voice to this, your own astonishment.

      Write as if you were dying. At the same time, assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients. That is, after all, the case. What would you begin writing if you knew you would die soon? What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?

      Write about winter in the summer. Describe Norway as Ibsen did, from a desk in Italy; describe Dublin as James Joyce did, from a desk in Paris. Willa Cather wrote her prairie novels in New York City; Mark Twain wrote ''Huckleberry Finn'' in Hartford. Recently scholars learned that Walt Whitman rarely left his room.

      The writer studies literature, not the world. She lives in the world; she cannot miss it. If she has ever bought a hamburger, or taken a commercial airplane flight, she spares her readers a report of her experience. She is careful of what she reads, for that is what she will write. She is careful of what she learns, because that is what she will know.

      The writer knows her field - what has been done, what could be done, the limits - the way a tennis player knows the court. And like that expert, she, too, plays the edges. That is where the exhilaration is. She hits up the line. In writing, she can push the edges. Beyond this limit, here, the reader must recoil. Reason balks, poetry snaps; some madness enters, or strain. Now gingerly, can she enlarge it, can she nudge the bounds? And enclose what wild power?eople love pretty much the same things best. A writer looking for subjects inquires not after what he loves best, but after what he alone loves at all. Strange seizures beset us. Frank Conroy loves his yo-yo tricks, Emily Dickinson her slant of light; Richard Selzer loves the glistening peritoneum, Faulkner the muddy bottom of a little girl's drawers visible when she's up a pear tree. ''Each student of the ferns,'' I once read, ''will have his own list of plants that for some reason or another stir his emotions.''

      Why do you never find anything written about that idiosyncratic thought you advert to, about your fascination with something no one else understands? Because it is up to you. There is something you find interesting, for a reason hard to explain. It is hard to explain because you have never read it on any page; there you begin. You were made and set here to give voice to this, your own astonishment.

      Write as if you were dying. At the same time, assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients. That is, after all, the case. What would you begin writing if you knew you would die soon? What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?

      Write about winter in the summer. Describe Norway as Ibsen did, from a desk in Italy; describe Dublin as James Joyce did, from a desk in Paris. Willa Cather wrote her prairie novels in New York City; Mark Twain wrote ''Huckleberry Finn'' in Hartford. Recently scholars learned that Walt Whitman rarely left his room.

      The writer studies literature, not the world. She lives in the world; she cannot miss it. If she has ever bought a hamburger, or taken a commercial airplane flight, she spares her readers a report of her experience. She is careful of what she reads, for that is what she will write. She is careful of what she learns, because that is what she will know.

      The writer knows her field - what has been done, what could be done, the limits - the way a tennis player knows the court. And like that expert, she, too, plays the edges. That is where the exhilaration is. She hits up the line. In writing, she can push the edges. Beyond this limit, here, the reader must recoil. Reason balks, poetry snaps; some madness enters, or strain. Now gingerly, can she enlarge it, can she nudge the bounds? And enclose what wild power?eople love pretty much the same things best. A writer looking for subjects inquires not after what he loves best, but after what he alone loves at all. Strange seizures beset us. Frank Conroy loves his yo-yo tricks, Emily Dickinson her slant of light; Richard Selzer loves the glistening peritoneum, Faulkner the muddy bottom of a little girl's drawers visible when she's up a pear tree. ''Each student of the ferns,'' I once read, ''will have his own list of plants that for some reason or another stir his emotions.''

      Why do you never find anything written about that idiosyncratic thought you advert to, about your fascination with something no one else understands? Because it is up to you. There is something you find interesting, for a reason hard to explain. It is hard to explain because you have never read it on any page; there you begin. You were made and set here to give voice to this, your own astonishment.

      Write as if you were dying. At the same time, assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients. That is, after all, the case. What would you begin writing if you knew you would die soon? What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?

      Write about winter in the summer. Describe Norway as Ibsen did, from a desk in Italy; describe Dublin as James Joyce did, from a desk in Paris. Willa Cather wrote her prairie novels in New York City; Mark Twain wrote ''Huckleberry Finn'' in Hartford. Recently scholars learned that Walt Whitman rarely left his room.

      The writer studies literature, not the world. She lives in the world; she cannot miss it. If she has ever bought a hamburger, or taken a commercial airplane flight, she spares her readers a report of her experience. She is careful of what she reads, for that is what she will write. She is careful of what she learns, because that is what she will know.

      The writer knows her field - what has been done, what could be done, the limits - the way a tennis player knows the court. And like that expert, she, too, plays the edges. That is where the exhilaration is. She hits up the line. In writing, she can push the edges. Beyond this limit, here, the reader must recoil. Reason balks, poetry snaps; some madness enters, or strain. Now gingerly, can she enlarge it, can she nudge the bounds? And enclose what wild power?eople love pretty much the same things best. A writer looking for subjects inquires not after what he loves best, but after what he alone loves at all. Strange seizures beset us. Frank Conroy loves his yo-yo tricks, Emily Dickinson her slant of light; Richard Selzer loves the glistening peritoneum, Faulkner the muddy bottom of a little girl's drawers visible when she's up a pear tree. ''Each student of the ferns,'' I once read, ''will have his own list of plants that for some reason or another stir his emotions.''

      Why do you never find anything written about that idiosyncratic thought you advert to, about your fascination with something no one else understands? Because it is up to you. There is something you find interesting, for a reason hard to explain. It is hard to explain because you have never read it on any page; there you begin. You were made and set here to give voice to this, your own astonishment.

      Write as if you were dying. At the same time, assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients. That is, after all, the case. What would you begin writing if you knew you would die soon? What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?

      Write about winter in the summer. Describe Norway as Ibsen did, from a desk in Italy; describe Dublin as James Joyce did, from a desk in Paris. Willa Cather wrote her prairie novels in New York City; Mark Twain wrote ''Huckleberry Finn'' in Hartford. Recently scholars learned that Walt Whitman rarely left his room.

      The writer studies literature, not the world. She lives in the world; she cannot miss it. If she has ever bought a hamburger, or taken a commercial airplane flight, she spares her readers a report of her experience. She is careful of what she reads, for that is what she will write. She is careful of what she learns, because that is what she will know.

      The writer knows her field - what has been done, what could be done, the limits - the way a tennis player knows the court. And like that expert, she, too, plays the edges. That is where the exhilaration is. She hits up the line. In writing, she can push the edges. Beyond this limit, here, the reader must recoil. Reason balks, poetry snaps; some madness enters, or strain. Now gingerly, can she enlarge it, can she nudge the bounds? And enclose what wild power?eople love pretty much the same things best. A writer looking for subjects inquires not after what he loves best, but after what he alone loves at all. Strange seizures beset us. Frank Conroy loves his yo-yo tricks, Emily Dickinson her slant of light; Richard Selzer loves the glistening peritoneum, Faulkner the muddy bottom of a little girl's drawers visible when she's up a pear tree. ''Each student of the ferns,'' I once read, ''will have his own list of plants that for some reason or another stir his emotions.''

      Why do you never find anything written about that idiosyncratic thought you advert to, about your fascination with something no one else understands? Because it is up to you. There is something you find interesting, for a reason hard to explain. It is hard to explain because you have never read it on any page; there you begin. You were made and set here to give voice to this, your own astonishment.

      Write as if you were dying. At the same time, assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients. That is, after all, the case. What would you begin writing if you knew you would die soon? What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?

      Write about winter in the summer. Describe Norway as Ibsen did, from a desk in Italy; describe Dublin as James Joyce did, from a desk in Paris. Willa Cather wrote her prairie novels in New York City; Mark Twain wrote ''Huckleberry Finn'' in Hartford. Recently scholars learned that Walt Whitman rarely left his room.

      The writer studies literature, not the world. She lives in the world; she cannot miss it. If she has ever bought a hamburger, or taken a commercial airplane flight, she spares her readers a report of her experience. She is careful of what she reads, for that is what she will write. She is careful of what she learns, because that is what she will know.

      The writer knows her field - what has been done, what could be done, the limits - the way a tennis player knows the court. And like that expert, she, too, plays the edges. That is where the exhilaration is. She hits up the line. In writing, she can push the edges. Beyond this limit, here, the reader must recoil. Reason balks, poetry snaps; some madness enters, or strain. Now gingerly, can she enlarge it, can she nudge the bounds? And enclose what wild power?eople love pretty much the same things best. A writer looking for subjects inquires not after what he loves best, but after what he alone loves at all. Strange seizures beset us. Frank Conroy loves his yo-yo tricks, Emily Dickinson her slant of light; Richard Selzer loves the glistening peritoneum, Faulkner the muddy bottom of a little girl's drawers visible when she's up a pear tree. ''Each student of the ferns,'' I once read, ''will have his own list of plants that for some reason or another stir his emotions.''

      Why do you never find anything written about that idiosyncratic thought you advert to, about your fascination with something no one else understands? Because it is up to you. There is something you find interesting, for a reason hard to explain. It is hard to explain because you have never read it on any page; there you begin. You were made and set here to give voice to this, your own astonishment.

      Write as if you were dying. At the same time, assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients. That is, after all, the case. What would you begin writing if you knew you would die soon? What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?

      Write about winter in the summer. Describe Norway as Ibsen did, from a desk in Italy; describe Dublin as James Joyce did, from a desk in Paris. Willa Cather wrote her prairie novels in New York City; Mark Twain wrote ''Huckleberry Finn'' in Hartford. Recently scholars learned that Walt Whitman rarely left his room.

      The writer studies literature, not the world. She lives in the world; she cannot miss it. If she has ever bought a hamburger, or taken a commercial airplane flight, she spares her readers a report of her experience. She is careful of what she reads, for that is what she will write. She is careful of what she learns, because that is what she will know.

      The writer knows her field - what has been done, what could be done, the limits - the way a tennis player knows the court. And like that expert, she, too, plays the edges. That is where the exhilaration is. She hits up the line. In writing, she can push the edges. Beyond this limit, here, the reader must recoil. Reason balks, poetry snaps; some madness enters, or strain. Now gingerly, can she enlarge it, can she nudge the bounds? And enclose what wild power?eople love pretty much the same things best. A writer looking for subjects inquires not after what he loves best, but after what he alone loves at all. Strange seizures beset us. Frank Conroy loves his yo-yo tricks, Emily Dickinson her slant of light; Richard Selzer loves the glistening peritoneum, Faulkner the muddy bottom of a little girl's drawers visible when she's up a pear tree. ''Each student of the ferns,'' I once read, ''will have his own list of plants that for some reason or another stir his emotions.''

      Why do you never find anything written about that idiosyncratic thought you advert to, about your fascination with something no one else understands? Because it is up to you. There is something you find interesting, for a reason hard to explain. It is hard to explain because you have never read it on any page; there you begin. You were made and set here to give voice to this, your own astonishment.

      Write as if you were dying. At the same time, assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients. That is, after all, the case. What would you begin writing if you knew you would die soon? What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?

      Write about winter in the summer. Describe Norway as Ibsen did, from a desk in Italy; describe Dublin as James Joyce did, from a desk in Paris. Willa Cather wrote her prairie novels in New York City; Mark Twain wrote ''Huckleberry Finn'' in Hartford. Recently scholars learned that Walt Whitman rarely left his room.

      The writer studies literature, not the world. She lives in the world; she cannot miss it. If she has ever bought a hamburger, or taken a commercial airplane flight, she spares her readers a report of her experience. She is careful of what she reads, for that is what she will write. She is careful of what she learns, because that is what she will know.

      The writer knows her field - what has been done, what could be done, the limits - the way a tennis player knows the court. And like that expert, she, too, plays the edges. That is where the exhilaration is. She hits up the line. In writing, she can push the edges. Beyond this limit, here, the reader must recoil. Reason balks, poetry snaps; some madness enters, or strain. Now gingerly, can she enlarge it, can she nudge the bounds? And enclose what wild power?eople love pretty much the same things best. A writer looking for subjects inquires not after what he loves best, but after what he alone loves at all. Strange seizures beset us. Frank Conroy loves his yo-yo tricks, Emily Dickinson her slant of light; Richard Selzer loves the glistening peritoneum, Faulkner the muddy bottom of a little girl's drawers visible when she's up a pear tree. ''Each student of the ferns,'' I once read, ''will have his own list of plants that for some reason or another stir his emotions.''

      Why do you never find anything written about that idiosyncratic thought you advert to, about your fascination with something no one else understands? Because it is up to you. There is something you find interesting, for a reason hard to explain. It is hard to explain because you have never read it on any page; there you begin. You were made and set here to give voice to this, your own astonishment.

      Write as if you were dying. At the same time, assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients. That is, after all, the case. What would you begin writing if you knew you would die soon? What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?

      Write about winter in the summer. Describe Norway as Ibsen did, from a desk in Italy; describe Dublin as James Joyce did, from a desk in Paris. Willa Cather wrote her prairie novels in New York City; Mark Twain wrote ''Huckleberry Finn'' in Hartford. Recently scholars learned that Walt Whitman rarely left his room.

      The writer studies literature, not the world. She lives in the world; she cannot miss it. If she has ever bought a hamburger, or taken a commercial airplane flight, she spares her readers a report of her experience. She is careful of what she reads, for that is what she will write. She is careful of what she learns, because that is what she will know.

      The writer knows her field - what has been done, what could be done, the limits - the way a tennis player knows the court. And like that expert, she, too, plays the edges. That is where the exhilaration is. She hits up the line. In writing, she can push the edges. Beyond this limit, here, the reader must recoil. Reason balks, poetry snaps; some madness enters, or strain. Now gingerly, can she enlarge it, can she nudge the bounds? And enclose what wild power?eople love pretty much the same things best. A writer looking for subjects inquires not after what he loves best, but after what he alone loves at all. Strange seizures beset us. Frank Conroy loves his yo-yo tricks, Emily Dickinson her slant of light; Richard Selzer loves the glistening peritoneum, Faulkner the muddy bottom of a little girl's drawers visible when she's up a pear tree. ''Each student of the ferns,'' I once read, ''will have his own list of plants that for some reason or another stir his emotions.''

      Why do you never find anything written about that idiosyncratic thought you advert to, about your fascination with something no one else understands? Because it is up to you. There is something you find interesting, for a reason hard to explain. It is hard to explain because you have never read it on any page; there you begin. You were made and set here to give voice to this, your own astonishment.

      Write as if you were dying. At the same time, assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients. That is, after all, the case. What would you begin writing if you knew you would die soon? What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?

      Write about winter in the summer. Describe Norway as Ibsen did, from a desk in Italy; describe Dublin as James Joyce did, from a desk in Paris. Willa Cather wrote her prairie novels in New York City; Mark Twain wrote ''Huckleberry Finn'' in Hartford. Recently scholars learned that Walt Whitman rarely left his room.

      The writer studies literature, not the world. She lives in the world; she cannot miss it. If she has ever bought a hamburger, or taken a commercial airplane flight, she spares her readers a report of her experience. She is careful of what she reads, for that is what she will write. She is careful of what she learns, because that is what she will know.

      The writer knows her field - what has been done, what could be done, the limits - the way a tennis player knows the court. And like that expert, she, too, plays the edges. That is where the exhilaration is. She hits up the line. In writing, she can push the edges. Beyond this limit, here, the reader must recoil. Reason balks, poetry snaps; some madness enters, or strain. Now gingerly, can she enlarge it, can she nudge the bounds? And enclose what wild power?eople love pretty much the same things best. A writer looking for subjects inquires not after what he loves best, but after what he alone loves at all. Strange seizures beset us. Frank Conroy loves his yo-yo tricks, Emily Dickinson her slant of light; Richard Selzer loves the glistening peritoneum, Faulkner the muddy bottom of a little girl's drawers visible when she's up a pear tree. ''Each student of the ferns,'' I once read, ''will have his own list of plants that for some reason or another stir his emotions.''

      Why do you never find anything written about that idiosyncratic thought you advert to, about your fascination with something no one else understands? Because it is up to you. There is something you find interesting, for a reason hard to explain. It is hard to explain because you have never read it on any page; there you begin. You were made and set here to give voice to this, your own astonishment.

      Write as if you were dying. At the same time, assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients. That is, after all, the case. What would you begin writing if you knew you would die soon? What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?

      Write about winter in the summer. Describe Norway as Ibsen did, from a desk in Italy; describe Dublin as James Joyce did, from a desk in Paris. Willa Cather wrote her prairie novels in New York City; Mark Twain wrote ''Huckleberry Finn'' in Hartford. Recently scholars learned that Walt Whitman rarely left his room.

      The writer studies literature, not the world. She lives in the world; she cannot miss it. If she has ever bought a hamburger, or taken a commercial airplane flight, she spares her readers a report of her experience. She is careful of what she reads, for that is what she will write. She is careful of what she learns, because that is what she will know.

      The writer knows her field - what has been done, what could be done, the limits - the way a tennis player knows the court. And like that expert, she, too, plays the edges. That is where the exhilaration is. She hits up the line. In writing, she can push the edges. Beyond this limit, here, the reader must recoil. Reason balks, poetry snaps; some madness enters, or strain. Now gingerly, can she enlarge it, can she nudge the bounds? And enclose what wild power?eople love pretty much the same things best. A writer looking for subjects inquires not after what he loves best, but after what he alone loves at all. Strange seizures beset us. Frank Conroy loves his yo-yo tricks, Emily Dickinson her slant of light; Richard Selzer loves the glistening peritoneum, Faulkner the muddy bottom of a little girl's drawers visible when she's up a pear tree. ''Each student of the ferns,'' I once read, ''will have his own list of plants that for some reason or another stir his emotions.''

      Why do you never find anything written about that idiosyncratic thought you advert to, about your fascination with something no one else understands? Because it is up to you. There is something you find interesting, for a reason hard to explain. It is hard to explain because you have never read it on any page; there you begin. You were made and set here to give voice to this, your own astonishment.

      Write as if you were dying. At the same time, assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients. That is, after all, the case. What would you begin writing if you knew you would die soon? What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?

      Write about winter in the summer. Describe Norway as Ibsen did, from a desk in Italy; describe Dublin as James Joyce did, from a desk in Paris. Willa Cather wrote her prairie novels in New York City; Mark Twain wrote ''Huckleberry Finn'' in Hartford. Recently scholars learned that Walt Whitman rarely left his room.

      The writer studies literature, not the world. She lives in the world; she cannot miss it. If she has ever bought a hamburger, or taken a commercial airplane flight, she spares her readers a report of her experience. She is careful of what she reads, for that is what she will write. She is careful of what she learns, because that is what she will know.

      The writer knows her field - what has been done, what could be done, the limits - the way a tennis player knows the court. And like that expert, she, too, plays the edges. That is where the exhilaration is. She hits up the line. In writing, she can push the edges. Beyond this limit, here, the reader must recoil. Reason balks, poetry snaps; some madness enters, or strain. Now gingerly, can she enlarge it, can she nudge the bounds? And enclose what wild power?

    9. Frank Conroy loves his yo-yo tricks

      interesting

    10. he world; she cannot miss it. If she has ever bo

      material gurl

    11. heyyyyy

    12. Ibsen did, from a d

      good

    13. The writer studies literature, not the world.

      Test

    14. The writer knows her field - what has been done, what could be done, the limits - the way a tennis player knows the court. And like that expert, she, too, plays the edges. That is where the exhilaration is. She hits up the line. In writing, she can push the edges. Beyond this limit, here, the reader must recoil. Reason balks, poetry snaps; some madness enters, or strain. Now gingerly, can she enlarge it, can she nudge the bounds? And enclose what wild power?

      this is a test

    15. been done, what could be done, the limits - the way a tennis player knows the court. And like that expert, she, too, plays the edges. That is where the exhilaration is. She hits up the line. In writing, she can push the edges. Beyond this limi

      yes

    16. Write

      annotate

    17. Write as if you were dying. At the same time, assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients. That is, after all, the case. What would you begin writing if you knew you would die soon? What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?

      Really neat.

    18. s not after what he loves best, but after what he alone loves at all. Strange seizures beset us. Frank Conroy loves his yo-yo tricks, Emily Dickinson her slant of light; Richard Selzer loves the glistening peritoneum, Faulkner the muddy bottom of a little girl's drawers visible when she's up a pear tree. ''Each student of the ferns,'' I once read, ''will have his own list of plants that for some reason or another stir his emotions.'' Why do you never find anything written about that idiosyncratic thought you advert to, about your fascination with something no one else understands? Because it is up to you. There is something you find interesting, for a reason hard to explain. It is hard to explain because you have never read it on any page; there you begin. You were made and set here to give voice to this, your own astonishment. Write as if you were dying. At the same time, assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients. That is, after all, the case. What would you begin writing if you knew you would die soon? What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?

      This is a test

    19. . A writer looking for subjects inquires not after what he loves best, but after what he alone loves at all. Strange seizures beset us. Frank Conroy loves his yo-yo tricks, Emily Dickinson her slant of light; Richard Selzer loves the glisteni

      This is an annotation

    20. This Works

    1. Reflection and Review

      This is a great idea that I wouldn't have thought of.

    2. Pre and post reflections or tests that let you see what you have learned or what has changed

      Is this relevant for Remote Days?

    1. Virtual Tours
    2. Creating Online Assignments

      Could this also be a place for some student creativity, like a PowerPoint or a creative/annotated image to represent what they know?

      Tinkercad is a tool we use to design in 3D and then 3D print in the Makerspace. Maybe that could also be a creative assignment?

    3. do something

      This is where I think the Do from the Engaging section could go.

    1. when we assume we will be able to access a particular fact online, we’re less likely to commit it to memory

      I think that largely depends on how important that fact was to us. Also repeated accessing of the same online fact fixes it in my memory

    2. when students have formed a more solid base of knowledge—such as through retrieval practice—they are more able to engage in processes like inference and extension, not less

      that's what I would have guessed, but i'm also thinking how they have been led to form the solid base of knowledge has a lot of influence on how much they are willing to engage processes beyond retention and retrieval

    3. memory theory is also an incredibly practical body of work, one that we can put to use in countless arenas,

      "nothing so practical as a good theory" PDF

    1. Start each meeting with 10 minutes of updates from team members, focusing them back on their passion for the cause.

      I had a supervisor in my past that would do this every morning with the team. He would ask how our families were doing, how we were doing, etc. It was an unusual experience for me, but one that I value to this day and try to incorporate into my current team. It really did make me feel valued as a member of the team.

    2. Model the behaviors you want to see in others.

      I try to follow this in all of my interactions, hoping to encourage everyone be their "best selves."

    3. best selves

      I would like to see a definition of this from the author's perspective. "Best self" can mean so many different things, and it's important to be clear as to what that means for each individual case. "Best self" can differ very greatly from person to person. I do like the emphasis below on you working to your best self motivates others to do the same, but those comparisons may not be entirely fair.

    4. you will be leading by example

      This has great intention and drawing in of your immediate community, but all the examples above already show a person in a position of leader. It would be interesting to see examples from positions outside of a leader role without the benefit of time at meetings/tech support.

    1. Development is Multidisciplinary

      "Discipline" is another work with multiple meanings.

    2. Development is contextual

      Do you see the connection to Bronfenbrenner's Ecological Systems Theory?

    3. Development is plastic

      "Plastic" has the opposite meaning of what you might assume!

    4. Development is multidirectional

      This one was trickier for people

    5. Development is multidimensional

      Heard of the biopsychosocial model?

    6. Development is lifelong

      Makes the most sense to the class

    1. Lenin’s proposition on the difference between federal relations among the Soviet republics based on autonomy, and federal relations among independent republics. In a letter to Lenin, dated June 12, 1920, he declared that in reality “there is no difference between these two types of federal relations, or else it is so small as to be negligible”

      what is the difference exactly? why did Stalin want to say there wasn't one?

    2. if it proves impossible to reach economic agreement with the leading national groups, the latter will inevitably be suppressed by force and economically important regions will be compelled to join a union of European Republics.” Lenin decisively objected to this remark: “. . . it goes too far. It cannot be proved, and it is wrong to say that suppression by force is “inevitable”. That is radically wrong”

      Lenin was more of a pacifist, didn't want to force countries or peoples into the union

    3. The despicable betrayal of socialism by the majority of the official leaders of this proletariat in 1914-19, when “defence of country” was used as a social-chauvinist cloak to conceal the defence of the “right” of their “own” bourgeoisie to oppress colonies and fleece financially dependent countries

      there is animosity between proletariats of colonial and colonized nations, especially when the socialist parties in imperial countries like UK, France, Germany etc actually mobilized in favor of the WW1 war effort

    4. Communist International should support bourgeois-democratic national movements in colonial and backward countries only on condition that, in these countries, the elements of future proletarian parties, which will be communist not only in name, are brought together and trained to understand their special tasks, i.e., those of the struggle against the bourgeois-democratic movements within their own nations

      support democracy (even capitalist democracy) as a temporary transitional stage for independence from colonial overlords, eventually replaced by socialism and then communism

    5. The urgency of the struggle against this evil, against the most deep-rooted petty-bourgeois national prejudices, looms ever larger with the mounting exigency of the task of converting the dictatorship of the proletariat from a national dictatorship (i.e., existing in a single country and incapable of determining world politics) into an international one (i.e., a dictatorship of the proletariat involving at least several advanced countries, and capable of exercising a decisive influence upon world politics as a whole)

      Grand politics truly - a unified communist system working to change the world in a coordinated way

    6. that there is a tendency towards the creation of a single world economy, regulated by the proletariat of all nations as an integral whole and according to a common plan.

      How would this work? How could it be achieved? Is it meaningful to strive for this?

    7. Federation is a transitional form to the complete unity of the working people of different nations

      USSR and other federations were meant to be temporary, and not completely dominated by any given ethnic group

    8. policy must be pursued that will achieve the closest alliance, with Soviet Russia, of all the national and colonial liberation movements. The form of this alliance should be determined by the degree of development of the communist movement in the proletariat of each country

      Lenin said outright what his policy would be - to support communist movements in colonially oppressed countries worldwide.

    1. Exam 3 (200 pts): Final Exam Week

      I'm pretty sure you've mentioned this before in class, but do we have a final? Or do we only have the three exams that make up 50% of our grade?

    2. small groups to facilitate 1-2 class discussions on a research paper in molecular or cellular neuroscience.

      I am very excited about discussing various research papers! I have done this in the past in other classes, and I think it is a great way to do group work, meet new people, and stay engaged in class/discussions!

    Annotators

    1. The problem with Juass’s model was that an audience was less likely to have similar or shared reactions if they did not have anything in common with the author so their personal experience would vary person to person and be completely different then the author’s intended encoding.

      Is there any actual way to know with certainty whether an audience member decoded the intended message? Or rather, is there any way to completely decode the exact message? Isn't there always going to be some level of disparity or subjectivity due to unavoidable cognitive biases?

    2. During the production of the message, the sender uses verbal cues, signs, and body language that he or she believes the person or group receiving the message will understand (Hall, 1973).

      The importance of body-language is extremely undervalued. Gestures, facial expressions, posture can certainly help in the decoding of the intended message. For example, take a play such as Merchant of Venice and a comparison of its portrayal in the Elizabethan Era and the Modern Era. Actors playing Shylock today, want to simultaneously present him as a villain but more so as a victim of the old, prejudiced Christian Society and therefore deliver the same dialogues with more compassion, their body language is more of someone "hurt" than just evil and careless as compared to actors playing Shylock in the elizabethan era, where the intention was to spark distaste for jews like him.

    3. We are constantly surrounded by images and texts that are supposed to trigger reactions. Hall stated that “We must recognize that the discursive form of the message has a privileged position in the communicative exchange… and that the moments of ‘encoding’ and ‘decoding,’ though only ‘relatively autonomous’ in relation to the communicative process as a whole, are determinate moments” (Hall, 1973). Hall argues that though media is encoding with one meaning, each one of us interacts with our media in different ways.

      This reminds me of a theory I came across while reading Dan Ariely's 'Predictably Irrational'. "We are constantly surrounded by images and texts that are supposed to trigger reactions." -- The human brain is irrational in nature, and is subject to the natural phenomena of ‘imprinting’ which implies that our first impression or perception of a certain object or entity (which Ariely refers to as an anchor) has the power to influence future decisions we make relating to that object or entity. In terms of markets and prices for example, although initial prices we pay or are subject to are arbitrary in nature, they shape present and future prices and decisions because they become established anchors in the minds of consumers. Similarly, a message promoted by Colgate in its advertisement for toothpaste, is bound to influence the way we decode every other advertisement about toothpaste in relation to it. This phenomena, called the "Arbitrary Coherence Theory" is therefore actually the root cause of the disparity in encoding and decoding messages, and can be applied to everything from a fiction book, to a ted-talk about success. We never view anything in absolute, and therefore it is impossible to decode a message someone is delivering to us in absolute terms too.

    4. Hall also points out that how the meaning of a message is received is influenced by how the message is circulated. “…the broadcasting structures must yield encoded messages in the form of a meaningful discourse. The institution-societal relations of production must pass under the discursive rules of language for its product to be ‘realized’” (Hall, 1973). The slogan of Black Lives Matter was originally circulated from a Facebook post by Alicia Garza (Collurs, 2017).

      The power and speed of the internet and social media today is also a threat to this idea of "encoding the right message". Like the article says, "he slogan of Black Lives Matter was originally circulated from a Facebook post by Alicia Garza", think about it. An individual posts something on a site like facebook, another individuals decodes it in a manner not intended and puts up a story expressing his/here views against it. In seconds, maybe even milliseconds, this story has the power to be viral in over a million households. That one incorrectly decoded message, has now been encoded to millions making the task of rectifying or truly understanding it almost impossible.

    5. he tried to establish the relationship between the sender and receiver and stated that there are a number of steps that play a role in the sending and receiving of a message.

      This is actually such an interesting statement. I think over the last few years, we often attribute the impact globalization and industrialization to the ease of communication they have resulted in. However, Hall's view about how complex "communication" is going to remain eternally, irrespective of how easy and effective channels of communication become, is so true.

    6. As a result, culture was not simply to be appreciated, but it was the place where the power relation was established

      Hall says that as a result of hegemony, society prioritised establishing a power relation, over appreciating culture. Is this particularly true? To my knowledge, the hegemonic stability theory argues for facilitating international cooperation. If this is true won't greater international cooperation, inadvertently lead to a greater appreciation and respect for different nations and cultures?

    7. Hall did not think language and communication were as easily understandable as a tap on the shoulder.

      To play devil's advocate, I think an alternate stance could be: As the world moves towards a more conscious and well informed era, it is maybe subconsciously so, striving for language and communication to become less subjective; it is striving for certain words/phrases to be associated with one connotation rather than varying connotations based on culture. An example would be a term such as "gay". In the last decade, we have seen a paradigm shift from its use in everyday language as a derogatory term as different cultures had different ideologies and levels of wake-ness, to now a more sensitive, respectful use of the word.

    1.  Films on Demand and ICE Video Library 

      These links aren't working for me.

    2. Faculty Introduction to Video

      Duplicate from previous section.

    3. Preparing video content in advance of the day students need to access it can help greatly with giving you the time to consider and resolve copyright concerns. 

      Again, is this possible for Remote Days?

    4. Preparing video content in advance of the day students need to access it can help greatly with giving you the time to consider and resolve accessibility concerns. 

      Will this be possible for Remote Days?

    5. Strategies for Creating Engaging Videos.

      Access is denied for me here.

    1. This is the item on the page that conveys the main content.

      Hello Adriana. I'm an annotation added via Hypothesis.

    1. Research on HBCC settings, however, lags behind research on center-based ECE settings, Head Start, and prekindergarten. Moreover, within HBCC, regulated family child care (FCC) providers are more likely to be the focus of research than family, friend, and neighbor (FFN) providers. Generally, the field lacks research about how the dynamics of HBCC availability and the features of HBCC settings relate to child and family outcomes.

      Rationale for a lot of our work

    2. The research agenda is intended to (1) help ACF, state and local agencies, and other stakeholders deepen their understanding of HBCC availability and quality, and the factors that influence its availability and quality; (2) reveal key gaps in knowledge and data and propose research questions that can help fill those gaps; (3) propose study designs to inform policy and practice; and (4) set the stage for the HBCCSQ project’s next steps.

      always good to note the purpose of the document you are reading. This is what the authors intend. Now, think about why you are reading it!

    1. Una de las Políticas Públicas más exitosas que ha puesto en marcha Conavim ha sido la creación de los Centros de Justicia para las Mujeres.

      Confrontar información con (...).

    1. Do

      I'm wondering if this "Do" section should be in the "Creating" section.

    2. parenting

      presenting?

    3. they're logged into it in the classroom, or remotely. All students can add contributions in real-time. Zoom also has a built-in whiteboard space that can be utilized, but there are challenges with having students in the classroom logged into the Zoom meeting at the same time. These options allow all students to easily contribute at once.

      Is this pertinent to asynchronous work? I'm not sure Virtual Whiteboards are a good asynchronous option... maybe if students realize that they will be contributing at different times?

    4. Click here to learn more about using the Collaboration feature. Click here to learn more about Groups in Canvas

      Missing links... or is the link below the tips?

    1. The women and men who have broken their silence span all races, all income classes, all occupations and virtually all corners of the globe.

      It can happen to anyone, anywhere, anytime.

    1. people sign up to communicate and share messages and media

      These people are of all different ages and backgrounds. How can we ensure that what they are posting is correct morally or factually.

    2. Facebook and others are bound by the same rules that most companies must follow, such as generally agreed-upon definitions of fair business practices, truth in advertising, and so on.

      Most of the time when you’re on Facebook, the ads are custom to your interest. They want you to purchase what they are putting out there. Their profit is the main priority even if that means selling something that is not true.

    3. But unlike, say, a firearm or drug manufacturer, there is no designated authority that says what these platforms can and can’t do. So who regulates them?

      Since there is no physical damage/consequence is that why there is not much action being done to put this to rest?

    1. is concerned with judging such things as historical accuracy (e.g., Did a person named Siddhartha Gautama actually exist, and if so, when and where?) and descriptive accuracy (e.g., What do Muslims say they mean when they say that Muhammad was the “seal of the prophets”?), it is not concerned to make normative judgements concerning the way people ought to live or behave.

      I think this is important to remember when studying a topic that can be sensitive to people; we aren't here to denounce or promote Christianity, just to study it with historical accuracy

    2. Fundamental to its decision was the Court’s distinction between religious instruction and instruction about religion.

      An anthropologically-based approach towards religion requires an unprejudiced point of view. The academic study of religion includes historically accurate information based on observing people, practices, beliefs, and institutions within religion and culture.

    3. Christian prayer was recited over the school’s public address system.

      this reminded me of the pledge of allegiance that was cited before school when I was younger

    4. why just those differences.

      As I was reading this I was also wondering WHEN some of these differences came to be

    5. terms such as religare or religere which, in their original contexts, simply meant such things as “to bind something tightly together” or “to pay close or careful attention to something.”

      The meaning of these Latin words really stick out to me because I think that their meanings can be applied to the way religion is defined.

    1. Then the quiet returns, rising on the congregation’s collected breath. Church bells chime a quarter-past, and a breeze blows through the window that looks out over the poplar trees. A sniffle, a cough, a motorcycle going by outside. The click of prayer beads as worshipers slide the tespih across the carpets. The old men leave, the Mufti of Banja Luka takes off his hat, and one by one, the suspended chandeliers go out. Share

      What an ending.

    1. Bodin’s original point – that constraints can be empowering andnecessary for political survival – may not have been entirely lost onmonarchs.

      democratic principles in a nondemocratic system

    Annotators

    1. Maybe some combination of fact-checking and other tools can curb the public’s susceptibility to being misled. But by focusing a little less on the facts and more on the complexities of the problems that divide them, Americans can take one big step back from the abyss, and toward each other.

      Conclusion

    2. Rather than label the “lab leak” hypothesis or “natural immunity” idea as true or false, disagreement checkers would highlight the complicated sub-issues involved. They would show how the uncertain science looks very different depending on people’s values and level of trust.

      Begin with students clarifying tryst in source and preconceived belief to avoid confirmation bias

    1. We develop trust across the miles and distrust around the corner. What we believe, endorse, agree with, and depend on is representable and, increas- ingly, represented on the Web.
      • [[information]]–[[network]]–[[trust]]
    1. “When digital transformation is done right, it’s like a caterpillar turning into a butterfly, but when done wrong, all you have is a really fast caterpillar.”George Westerman | Principal Research Scientist with the MIT Sloan Initiative on the Digital Economy

      Applied to sustainability:

      • a caterpillar that eats less
      • a caterpillar that eats more slowly
      • a caterpillar that eats a less valuable crop
      • a caterpillar that plants a tree in South America
  3. moodle.southwestern.edu moodle.southwestern.edu
    1. It might seem most sensible for her to wait until copulation is over before she starts to eat him. But the loss of the head does not seem to throw the rest of the male’s body off its sexual stride. Indeed, since the insect head is the seat of some inhibitory nerve centres, it is possible that the female improves the male’s sexual performance by eating his head.*

      WHAT

    1. t. “It’s not a front-burner issue for me or for my district. I think in the hiring process, we are always giving preference to people who are bilingual, bilingual Spanish. There aren’t that many of them.”

      It seems like the attitude here is it's not my problem. It reminds me of the Ted Talk - Your Privilege is showing. People don't take action to change society because they have the privilege not to be affected by it. I find this statement to be troubling. It's saying "We tried. What do you want me to do about it?" It should be a front-burner issue. Are their recruitment programs they could start? Why don't they start an student-teacher program? Have members of the community sub?

    2. black

      I think this has a lot to do with Brown v. Board of Education. I recently read in article that broke down the impact of the Supreme Court decision on black teachers. The article addresses how Black teachers were pushed out of the profession as integration began.

      https://commons.trincoll.edu/edreform/2018/05/the-rise-and-fall-of-black-teachers-and-principals-in-u-s-public-schools-since-brown-v-board/

    3. Latina

      This reminded me of the Ted Talk video with Sue Borrego - representation matters. Students hearing from teachers who are like them and come from similar backgrounds is so important. Ricardo's Latina teacher and later himself are able to connect and encourage students who may struggle to connect with their white counterparts.

    1. transtemporal liveliness of texts”

      Can this work backwards, i.e. when we think of a newly created text, often it also reaches into the past

    2. History is not a box—that is to say, standard ways of thinkingabout historical contexts are unable to explain how works of art move across time.

      a good example is tripping through time subreddit and memes

    Annotators

    1. la raison nous en faisait un devoir.

      Donc, il ne s'agit pas d'une opinion, selon Socrate, mais bel et bien d'un devoir : un devoir moral, à la manière kantienne (éthique déontologique).

    2. La poésie imitative produit en nous le même effet pour l’amour, la colère, et toutes les passions de l’âme, agréables ou pénibles, dont nous avons reconnu que nous sommes sans cesse obsédés

      Et il faudrait combattre ces passions parce qu'elles nous troublent, nous empêchant de nous adonner à des choses du domaine de la raison. Il faut se détourner de ces passions, comme il faut se détourner, le plus possible, des plaisirs sensibles. D'ailleurs, ces passions sont "addictives" parce qu'elles entretiennent une étroite relation avec les sens et le corps.

    3. je veux dire d’être fermes [605e] et tranquilles, persuadés que ce parti convient à un homme, et qu’il faut laisser aux femmes ces mêmes plaintes que nous venons d’applaudir.

      Chacun a sa place dans la cité, de par sa nature, et cela ne doit être bousculé : les femmes, en l'occurrence, sont les seules qui peuvent s'adonner à de telles passions puisqu'elles sont inférieures, par nature, aux hommes. (Un autre exemple de la misogynie dans la Grèce antique).

    4. nous ressentons alors un plaisir secret auquel nous nous laissons aller insensiblement, et qu’à la compassion pour le héros

      Nous délaissons la raison au profit de la passion, du plaisir des apparences et des sentiments tragiques.

    5. nous n’avons rien dit encore de la plus grave accusation qu’il y aurait à porter contre elle. N’est-ce pas en effet quelque chose de bien fâcheux, de voir qu’à l’exception d’un très petit nombre, elle est capable de corrompre les gens sages ?

      Sa capacité à corrompre les gens sages est d'autant plus dangereuse : la raison ne suffit pas. C'est pourquoi même l'enseignement de la philosophie, par exemple, ne pourra être satisfaisante tant qu'il y aura de tels poètes dans la cité.

    6. car c’est l’image du désordre que le poète imitateur introduit dans le gouvernement intérieur de chaque homme, par l’excessive complaisance qu’il a pour cette partie insensée de notre âme

      C'est que le poète encourage cette partie de l'âme ignorante à ne "connaître" que le faux, l'artifice, les passions, etc. Ensuite, il n'engage pas la raison à vérifier ces opinions fausses.

    7. Par conséquent ce qui juge en nous sans égard à la mesure, est différent de ce qui juge conformément à la mesure.

      Socrate distingue l'opinion fondée sur les apparences et la connaissance, qui se fonde sur la raison, qui prend ses distances avec les apparences en les questionnant d'abord.

    8. Mais la partie de l’âme qui s’en rapporte à la mesure et au calcul, est ce qu’il y a de plus excellent dans l’âme.

      Donc, la connaissance est supérieure à l'opinion (fondée sur les apparences) et, puisque c'est une certaine partie de l'âme qui permet la connaissance, celle-ci doit être supérieure.

    9. et pourtant tel que des gens qui n’y entendent pas plus que lui, et qui ne regardent qu’à la couleur et au dessin, croiront voir un cordonnier véritable.

      Mais cela ne plaide-t-il pas en faveur d'une éducation à la philosophie dès un jeune âge, et ce pour tous (et toutes) ? Ainsi, l'on serait capable de voir la différence.

    1. On November 27, 1095, Pope Urban II makes perhaps the most influential speech of the Middle Ages, giving rise to the Crusades

      This day is special to me because when I was in middle school I took a trip to Atlanta with my sisters, mom, and aunt. I was very happy and had the best time ever.

  4. gordonbrander.com gordonbrander.com
    1. The meaning comes from the system surprising itself
      • [[network]]–[[word]]–[[magic]]
    1. processes are linked together through flows of resources.
      • [[trade]]–[[value]]–[[network]]
    1. ensures

      key idea

    2. student right in the center

      key idea

    3. more student-centered

      what is being seen by teachers

    4. increased collaboration

      yay

    5. pandemic has caused many educators to reassess their teaching

      what has changed already

    6. backward design approach

      key phrase

    7. experts to build or revamp their syllabi.

      collaborate with others

    8. reaching out to the centers for teaching and learning

      probably afraid to be viewed as a bad teacher for seeking help

    9. smaller rewards for their faculty members to study teaching.

      the change needed

    10. tenure requirements updated

      what should change

    11. grants.

      is money a problem and tenure

    12. focus is on their research, their tenure will be based on their research,”

      Should be changed

    13. meld these two kinds

      what we need to do is combine Bothe expertise in teaching and specified field

    14. op-dow

      what's not working

    15. worry about mandatory training and required course reviews

      what scares teachers

    16. how to reach all types of students

      different learning types

    17. more traditional universities it is left to individua

      most universities probably

    18. master course m

      important model

    19. wide range of learning outcomes

      Key

    20. better to more frequent low-stakes assignments. 

      important note

    21. trial and error,

      Students are test subjects for their own learning

    22. never been taught to teach. 

      key idea

    1. Recognizing that there has not yet been a commercialized energy source that has clearly peaked and then declined in favor of another source is key to understanding why emissions have remained stubbornly high.

      D.h. dass Energie eingespart werden muss, um die fossilene Energien tatsächlich zu reduzieren.

    2. importance and role of geopolitics remain, with few exceptions (52), oddly underaddressed in climate policy debates. T

      obstructions to mitigation: (1) Globale Machtstrukturen, die militärischen Aspekte haben, sich auf die Kontrolle von fossilen Brennstoffen stützen und diese absichern und ausweiten wollen. (2) Militär als Verursacher von Emissionen (3) Kontrollideologien, die sich aus der militärischen Haltung ergeben

    3. these critiques appear overshadowed by the effects of deliberate political strategy, unequal power, and the absence of leadership.

      Relevanter als die Designfehler sind die politischen Strategien der relevanten Staaten und das Machtungleichgewicht zwischen den Staaten. Die politisch-wirtschaftlichen Eliten der reichen Länder halten den Status quo aufrecht, in Verbindung mit den davon profitierenden Eliten der sich entwickelnden Länder.

    1. xtensive list of exceptions

      What are the exceptions?

    2. Rather, the selection terms used by the NSA may include broad subjects, such as “Yemen” or “nuclear proliferation.”

      Again, seems like it would bring in a load of information to large to be manageable or helpful.

    3. thering all of the telephone calls going into or out of certain countrie

      How can this be more beneficial than overbearing?

  5. med.libretexts.org med.libretexts.org
    1. percentage of Daily Value (percent DV) | The percentage of the amount of the nutrient in relationship to the Daily Value based on a 2,000-calorie daily diet.

      The percentage of how much the nutrient in a serving contributes to the Daily Value based on a 2,000 calorie daily diet.

    2. pepsin | An enzyme secreted by stomach cells. It breaks the peptide bonds between amino acids, producing much shorter protein fragments.

      An enzyme secreted by the stomach that breaks the peptide bonds between amino acids to produce shorter protein fragments.

    1. unnoticed

      In the illustration it is very evident to me how unnoticed this occurrence was. You can see this in how almost everyone is turned away.

    1. Langlade, Lacelle, 2007]

      Pourriez-vous nous transmettre cette référence ?

    2. Louichon, 2012

      La références semble absente de la bibliographie, nous avons cependant un ouvrage de 2011, est-ce celui-ci ?

    3. (Shawky-Milcent, 2016)

      La référence en bibliographie est datée de 2014, alors que le texte original indique 2016 : quelle est la bonne date?

    4. Louichon, 2020, 3)

      s'agit-il ici de l'article écrit avec Perrin-Doucey ?

    1. The Lombard settlement did not , therefore , produce a completelyradical change in social struclUre. Doubtless many Roman landownerswere dispossessed through greed, as Paul says, but enough of them musthave survived to ensure The predominance of the Roman ideology ofproperty ownership in later cenTuries, as well as the Roman elements inroyal governmenl discussed in the preceding chapter. The assumedequality between Lombard and Roman law in Liutprand shows thatthere was no necessary difference of status between Lombards andRomans, even though we need not do ubt that masl Romans weredependenl peasan ts and a far higher proportion of Lornbards were not .The Lombards may even, in some places, have operated the Iwspitali/(ljsystem Ihat Paul refers to, though this is not something we can check.There were not enough of them, however, 10 destroy the socialhierarchies of Italy, and their swift fusion wilh the Romans must showthat they did not. When the Franks came, Lombards and Romans weremuch more similar to each other than either were to the new northerninvaders

      More lombards were landowners, more romans were peasants

    1. Met de klassieke medische benadering bedoelen we hier de benadering van psychische problemen als (hersen)ziekten of ziekteverschijnselen. Op basis van die verschijnselen wordt een diagnose gesteld. De diagnose wordt het uitgangspunt voor een passende behandeling, waarin medicijnen doorgaans een belangrijke plaats innemen.

      Klassieke medische benadering

    1. Notez que le coût pour une grande sécurité est incroyablement élevé. Si vous voulez fournir des données sur lesquelles vous êtes capable d’effectuer des calculs de manière complètement homomorphe, la taille va être extrêmement grande par rapport aux données initiales. Actuellement, c’est quelque chose qui n’est pas exploitable pour des calculs de type big data.

      Ne pas faire de big data avec des donnees personnelles et faire du chiffrement homomorphe sur les donnees personnelles

    1. Abstract

      A version of this preprint has been published in the Open Access journal GigaScience (see paper https://doi.org/10.1093/gigascience/giab074 ), where the paper and peer reviews are published openly under a CC-BY 4.0 license.

      These peer reviews were as follows:

      Reviewer 1: http://dx.doi.org/10.5524/REVIEW.102883 Reviewer 2: http://dx.doi.org/10.5524/REVIEW.102884 Reviewer 3: http://dx.doi.org/10.5524/REVIEW.102885

    1. Abstract

      A version of this preprint has been published in the Open Access journal GigaScience (see paper https://doi.org/10.1093/gigascience/giab061 ), where the paper and peer reviews are published openly under a CC-BY 4.0 license.

      These peer reviews were as follows:

      Reviewer 1: http://dx.doi.org/10.5524/REVIEW.102870 Reviewer 2: http://dx.doi.org/10.5524/REVIEW.102871

    1. These issues include social justice and equity in urban sustainability initiatives, the urgency of climate adaptation and mitigation, and the need for broader and more fundamental transformation of the infrastructural systems underpinning social well-being.

      yay!

    2. The NATURA project has defined NbS as “…solutions that are based on nature-preserving protective ecosystems, incorporating ecological elements, or even mimicking ecological processes in built infrastructure, offering flexibility in the face of changing conditions and providing multiple benefits to society, often at relatively low cost.” NbS then serves as an umbrella term encompassing different ecosystem-based approaches for climate adaptation inclusive of existing concepts such as green infrastructure, urban ecological infrastructure, and ecological engineering. In the broadest sense, NbS refers to the use of ecological elements to improve urban quality of life in the face of climate change and other social ills stemming from current infrastructure systems.

      NbS as an alternative pathway from our existing and current infrastructure systems which are rooted in the "techno-managerial paradigm" of industrialization, colonization, imperialism.

    3. Building off of pre-existing approaches to integrating ecological and built systems, NbS attempt to meet a wide array of social goals including improving urban quality of life, supporting transit and recreation, and mitigating the impacts of extreme events

      wide array

    4. Without transdisciplinary research approaches drawing on both biophysical, social science, and participatory research paradigms, it will be impossible to have projects that are context-specific, co-produced and owned by the communities navigating competing demands of different groups.

      oooh yes

    1. Le réseau privé n’est pas dans l’obligation de former tous les jeunes.

      Semble-t-il également qu'il arrive parfois que des élèves qui avaient été admis au privé reviennent à l'école publique pour y être scolarisés alors que leurs résultats et/ou leurs comportements ne conviennent pas aux exigences de l'école privée. Pourtant, l'école privée a reçu la subvention en lien avec la fréquentation scolaire du 30 septembre tandis que l'école publique a dorénavant le devoir de scolariser ces élèves.