She’s the girl with the messy notebooks scattered all over her bedroom, the ones with scratches over words and words trailing behind arrows of curved paths and a corrected direction. She never wrote with neat pens or fancy brushes, the ones you dipped into dark-soul ink and wrote a few letters, then stopped to stare at the beauty the feathers left behind. No. She didn’t. And her pencils were never sharpened. She left it to her ideas to sharpen words, then printed them with thick graphite on small sheets of old brown paper that smelled like yesterday, and her hand never wrote straight.
When she was at home, she would drink her coffee in an orange mug with a metal spoon inside. You always found it on the small round oak table to the right of her bed, sometimes full and boiling hot, other times empty and cold, always with the spoon standing inside. And right there, just to the left of the mug on that small round oak table she bought from the antiquity store for 20$, you always found a Hemingway novel on top of “Post Office” or a Hawking book lying over “Ham on Rye.” She would not let Henry Chinaski leave, and he did not mind. She fell in love with how they both lived over their writings : Him, through currency he got paid for writing raw novels to a sparrow; her, through the sheer existence of assembled words.
And every night before she went to sleep, she always ran her fingers through his books as she imagined how he had once written them on a barely-working typewriter in the corner of his bedroom while his head hurt from alcohol, his stomach rumbled from hunger, and his eyes darted back and forth to his bed where a women he had met a few hours ago lay peacefully sleeping naked. She shuddered as she thought of the scene, but didn’t shut the book for his tales of ordinary men were too beautiful. “One more hour,” she told herself as the hands of the clock struck 2 AM, then dove into the pages.
Much ado has been made in recent years over the quickly rising cost of healthcare in the United States. But the cost of college tuition and fees has skyrocketed at nearly twice that rate. Going to college today will cost a student 559% more than it did in 1985, on average.
In an exciting talk given at TEDGlobal 2012, Stanford professor Daphne Koller explains why she was inspired — alongside fellow professor Andrew Ng — to create Coursera, which brings great classes from top universities online for free. Coursera classes have specific start dates, require students to take quizzes and turn in assignments, as well as allowing professors to customize their course into online chunks rather than simply recording their lectures.
When she spoke at TED Global, Coursera offered classes from four top colleges — Princeton University, the University of Michigan, Stanford University and the University of…
Teens, tweens and kids are often referred to as “digital natives.” Having grown up with the Internet, smartphones and tablets, they’re often extraordinarily adept at interacting with digital technology. But Mitch Resnick, who spoke at TEDxBeaconStreet in November, is skeptical of this descriptor. Sure, young people can text and chat and play games, he says, “but that doesn’t really make you fluent.”
[ted_talkteaser id=1657]Fluency, Resnick proposes in today’s talk, comes not through interacting with new technologies, but through creating them. The former is like reading, while the latter is like writing. He means this figuratively — that creating new technologies, like writing a book, requires creative expression — but also literally: to make new computer programs, you actually must write the code.
The point isn’t to create a generation of programmers, Resnick argues. Rather, it’s that coding is a gateway to broader learning.“When you learn to read, you…
He walks through the streets with his tongue hanging out of his rosy lips, dripping salty water that mixes with the dust and sand on his feet to leave a trail of dirt behind his hairy steps. He wanders them streets with a magnifier in hand, an ax in another, speculating over every pebble lying in the corner, every scratch strolling on the wall. The magnifier has been partially painted red, the color of the flag, to remind him of his enmity to a movement that held resilient for decades but has long been dead. He shall see red in that pebble, and in every pebble and every scratch, and shall destroy all what poses a potential threat.
On that wall, in the dark alley by the bar where the prostitutes hang for drinks after their nights, he saw lines that made up men whose figures shone in that red. They were playing with glass they did not know held their death.