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UAE Moments
2 days ago
- Business
- UAE Moments
♓ Pisces Daily Horoscope for July 28, 2025
Love Your heart is wide open today, Pisces, and the emotional currents run deep. If you're in a relationship, take a moment to do something romantic or meaningful—your partner will notice the effort. Single Pisces may encounter someone through a shared creative or spiritual interest. Let things flow, don't force connection. Career Your ideas are gold—but only if you take action. Daydreaming won't move you forward unless you write those thoughts down and pitch them. Colleagues may be inspired by your gentle leadership today, so don't hold back from sharing your thoughts during meetings. Finance Today is ideal for envisioning your financial goals and creating a plan to reach them. It's not about big gains right now—it's about quiet consistency. Skip the gamble, trust the plan. Health You might feel more emotionally drained than physically tired. Your nervous system is sensitive today, so lean into calming routines: herbal teas, soft music, and early rest. Pay attention to your dreams tonight—they might reveal something useful. Other Important Note You're extra intuitive today, so if something feels off, trust that instinct.
Boston Globe
7 days ago
- Entertainment
- Boston Globe
A lock of hair, a baby rattle — and a history of slavery
It's fitting she begins with Samuel Coleridge's signature, located in a Cambridge library ledger, a seemingly innocuous record left by an author Nabugodi admired. In it, she locates the 'contemporary abolitionist poetry' he probably sourced for his prize-winning, anti-slavery-themed Greek ode, which, it turns out, was milk-fed on pro-slavery's watch. Coleridge, she notes, was a 'Rustat Scholar,' a prestigious award funded by the estate of Thomas Rustat — one of the founding members of the Royal African Company, the most prolific slave-trading organization in history. Nabugodi connects this funding to even more complicated systems of erasures. Get Starting Point A guide through the most important stories of the morning, delivered Monday through Friday. Enter Email Sign Up Related : At the Bristol library, she realizes how ledgers reinforce human hierarchies. 'The same record keeping techniques that help us sort and arrange books in a library also enable the reduction of human lives into nameless entries,' she writes, 'and paved the way for transforming humans into commodities.' These ledgers were more than neutral bookkeeping. 'The ledger is a powerful technology of dehumanization,' and a form of agnotology — a term for the deliberate production and maintenance of ignorance. Advertisement If this all feels abstract or victimless (lists, libraries, literary allowances) Nabugodi traces the pedigree of Coleridge's work to the finale of his descent: 'how [he] went from being an idealistic abolitionist to becoming a white supremacist.' Her critique contains discomfort, for Romantic literature has long been her field of expertise and joy. 'This is what I do not want to talk about,' she writes. But she does, and thankfully so. 'Much as I was appalled by discovering their views [Wordsworth, Coleridge] I was even more dismayed by the absence of any critical discussion of their statements, even though they had been in print and easily accessible for decades.' Romanticism was lit by ideas like equality and electricity, she writes, but those advancements came with an asterisk — progress wasn't for everyone: 'Europeans of the Romantic period considered themselves to be superior to people with darker skin.' Even abolitionists 'tended to regard Africans as inferior' and felt it was 'their duty to take pity on the poor savages.' Coleridge not only shared these views — he diagrammed them, placing Black Africans at the bottom of a racial hierarchy and 'crystallized' them in a lecture where he argued: ''Human Species consists of ONE historic Race and of several others .'' Related : Nabugodi also studied the stepladder of influences in Mary Shelley's work, finding them saturated with the racist pseudoscience Coleridge (whom she knew since childhood) later espoused. Shelley's personal physician, William Lawrence, was also deeply interested in comparative anatomy — 'the science that sought to define species, races, and varieties of man through comparison … skin tone, hair type, skull measurements' — eugenics, in other words. Shelley likely owned Lawrence's 'Introduction to Comparative Anatomy and Physiology' or knew of it, and she certainly borrowed from his lectures for ' Advertisement Her encounter with the Shelley 'relics,' as they were called, a word in lockstep with Nabugodi's suspicion that archives expose a racialized sense of exclusion, is the can opener of the book. As she holds Shelley's bracelet — mourning jewelry made from the author's hair: 'It takes me a while to realize that one reason why I do not expect to find any carefully preserved Black hair is because I myself do not value my Afro.' She recalls how, as a teen, her white schoolmates mocked loose Afro curls on the floor. 'Yuck, it's pubes.' When a white friend stuck some of Nabugodi's hair on a Barbie doll, 'It looked horrendous. … The other kids could see it. Yet [my friend] was beaming … seemingly unaware that, like a childish Frankenstein, she had created a monster.' These memories lead Nabugodi to explore racist Romantic-era taxonomies. If Black hair ever entered the archive, she writes, 'it is more likely to be a scientific specimen than a family heirloom.' Despite the scholarly weight of the book, as a writer Nabugodi is warm and witty, her prose both intimate and animated. To unite scholarship with storytelling, the political with the personal, and the funny with the grim, is something that really should be required for tenure because it shows how nimble her intellect is. There's another kind of archive she alludes to — our neural archives, which activate when we learn something new. If some people are excluded from the archives, do we accept their absence because they are not part of the networks our brains remember or design? Nabugodi has written a masterpiece about how history is made, maintained, and remembered, while also including what history forgot — with trembling hands, she admits — and with power and ferocity. Advertisement THE TREMBLING HAND: Reflections of a Black Woman in the Romantic Archive By Mathelinda Nabugodi Knopf, 432 pages, $32 Kerri Arsenault is the author of ' ' and director and founder of The Environmental Storytelling Studio (TESS).
Daily Maverick
22-07-2025
- Entertainment
- Daily Maverick
The thrill of a live classical music performance is here to stay
Why still hear classical music live? What can a concert by your local orchestra offer, when there are more than 100 years of unsurpassable recordings available to listeners? No less a towering giant than Glenn Gould considered live performances outdated and artistically inappropriate. He gave his last concert in 1964, and spent the next 20 years in recording studios, changing the way people listened to piano music. No local musician could recreate what masters like this produced in studio conditions, so why go to hear them play those same pieces? It was something I wondered myself as I trudged through Parktown, on the icy first night of the Johannesburg Philharmonic's Winter Symphony Season, to hear Grieg's Piano Concerto. When I open my Idagio app, I can find 40 different recordings of the same piece within a few seconds, from Dinu Lipatti's poetic, intimate account with the Philharmonia Orchestra in 1947, to Leif Ove Andsnes's 2003 epic drama with the Berlin Philharmonic, which reaches a technical refinement that not even machines could reproduce. What could a concertgoer hope to get out of a Joburg performance in 2025, with so much freshness and bravura available at their fingertips? One resounding answer arrived in the person of Aleksandra Świgut, a 33-year-old Polish pianist with an enthralling stage presence. She showed up to play the Grieg looking like a conventional concert pianist, though what emerged from her playing was something quite unique. She opened the concerto with the solid force that Grieg's A-minor chords demand (and that JPO listeners have come to expect, in the wake of Olga Kern). But her strength turned out to be just one bright shade in a broader spectrum. Brawn gave way to a smooth elegance in the main theme, and eventually to a tender sensuousness in the romantic second theme. In between, there were so many sharp switches in touch, tone, timbre and articulation – like hairpin bends turning from one colour of the rainbow to the next – navigated with a thrilling virtuosic energy. Call her a chameleon in combat boots. What was perhaps an even rarer achievement was her total musical and dramatic integration with the ensemble. Many Romantic concertos are performed either as a contest between piano and orchestra, or to extol a shining hero among the duller masses. Świgut carried off the impressive interpretive achievement of taking up a lead role while honouring a larger structure. Could it match the precision or intensity of the Grieg recordings on offer? It hardly matters, because it was unique, a performance that could not be replaced by any other. Here was an artist who brought both thought and passion to her work, and it crackled with energy as it came to life before an audience's rapt ears. The soloist who appeared the following week – Andrey Gugnin (38), Russian – was no less dazzling in his technique, but his standout moment came after he had played his programmed work. Rachmaninoff's First Piano Concerto is often heard in the shadow of his titanic Second and Third Concertos, but it glitters with something not found in its successors, a wonderful weirdness and youthful tension, where you can almost hear the composer forming his own voice in real time. Gugnin discharged it with a poised athleticism, and then returned amid loud applause to play an encore, which turned out to be one of the highlights of an entire musical year. His encore, Rachmaninoff's G-major Prelude, emerged with a tender intimacy that drew the entire hall inward. The melody unfolded tremulously, as if Gugnin himself didn't know what the next note might be. His right hand was light, with its notes shimmering over the Steinway's strings like sunlight on water, and his left hand gently and elegantly grounded the Prelude's lyricism. A quiet radiance emanated from the stage throughout the hall, and the moment felt suspended out of time. For two and a half minutes, its tenuous enchantment brought present listeners closer to the deep heart's core. Recordings by even better pianists could not do that. Some regular concertgoers may groan to see Beethoven on the programme. His symphonies are both intellectually and emotionally vibrant (they're classics for a reason), but are treated by many musicians with either a reverence or a torpor that deadens their spirit. Conrad van Alphen clearly is not one of those musicians. The South African-born conductor, who led the third week of the season, has forged a successful career in Europe; listening to his guest appearances at the JPO, it's not difficult to see why. His Pastoral Symphony (Beethoven's Sixth, in F major) blasted away all thoughts of cold fronts, winter winds and Joburg's general June jitters. The first movement, which Beethoven titled 'Awakening of cheerful feelings on arrival in the countryside', was light and lucent. The first violins sailed through their melodies like a swallow soaring in springtime, and when the winds and French horns joined them the sound beamed from the stage with very cheerful feelings indeed. In fact, a lot of Van Alphen's direction was marked by an irresistibly strong forward momentum and upward lift; or, put more bluntly, it was remarkably bright, loud and fast. Not in a roughshod way, but with long, flowing lines, and a warmer and more luminous energy than this reviewer has ever heard in the Pastoral Symphony. The third movement, a 'Merry gathering of country folk', was a vivacious dance, and many listeners in the audience seemed to be bopping their heads along to the music. Van Alphen didn't rush mindlessly through it, but steered the orchestra effortlessly through shifts in tempo and volume to evoke a vibrant, three-dimensional setting. The thunderstorm of the fourth movement was a rip-roaring force of nature, and when the sun came out again in the final movement, it was with a luster that sun-loving South Africans could wholeheartedly embrace. As the orchestra breezed through the last few minutes of the shepherd's grateful song, there seemed to be radiance arising and filling the hall. For now, it seems that the JPO and its audiences will still have to do with only one concert per week, which can seem scant to many when they find that performances are sold out long in advance. No Wednesday-night concerts are scheduled for next month's Early Spring Season either. But a gratifying appendage to the Winter Season was the JPO's accompaniment of Joburg Ballet's stunning production of Swan Lake, which opened at the Joburg Theatre and will soon travel to the Cape Town International Convention Centre. Unsurprisingly, the orchestra dazzled the audience on the night I attended. Note mistakes aside, they played with a sharp, snappy energy that kept the drama humming from each moment to the next, and a sprightly, buoyant sound that seemed to lift the dancers onstage. Particularly noteworthy is Johan Ferreira, the principal oboist, who had to carry the famous theme many times throughout the performance, as well as the concertmaster Miro Chakaryan and principal cellist Susan Mouton, who accompanied Siegfried and Odette in their moving pas de deux. I also especially enjoyed trumpeter Donald Bower's jovial solo in the Neapolitan Dance. The conductor, Eddie Clayton, welcomed a resounding applause for the players in the pit at the end of the show, securing the irreplaceable sense of joyful communion and spontaneous energy that brings a packed theatre together. Recordings have their beauty, but the thrill of a live performance is certainly here to stay. DM
UAE Moments
22-07-2025
- Business
- UAE Moments
♋ Cancer Daily Horoscope for July 22, 2025
Love & Relationships Your emotions run deep today, Cancer, and you're being nudged to speak your truth. If you've been holding back feelings — especially in a romantic relationship — this is your cosmic cue to open up. Singles may feel pulled toward someone with depth and emotional intelligence. Go slow, but trust your gut. Career & Work Life You may feel a bit overwhelmed by responsibilities today, but don't rush to fix everything at once. Delegation and pacing yourself will help you stay grounded. A coworker or client may surprise you with an unexpected opportunity — don't ignore it just because it's out of your comfort zone. Money & Finances Avoid impulsive spending today, especially on emotional buys. Your financial intuition is sharp, but only when you're calm. A long-term investment or savings decision may finally start to make sense — take your time before signing anything. Health & Wellness Listen to your body's signals. You might feel a bit drained due to mental stress or lack of rest. A short walk near water or a quiet journaling session could do wonders. Stay hydrated and protect your emotional boundaries — they're just as important as physical ones today. Other Important Notes Family matters may rise to the surface today — don't avoid the hard conversations. You're in a position to help someone heal, even with just your presence.
Hamilton Spectator
20-07-2025
- Entertainment
- Hamilton Spectator
In her gripping whodunnit ‘Fox,' Joyce Carol Oates jolts with a superb twist ending
Have you ever wondered why turkey vultures are bald? The answer is not pleasant. Turkey vultures feed on the viscera of dead animals, and sliding their heads into and out of carcasses — preferably through the anus — is easier without feathers. Turkey vultures are scavengers; they see opportunity where others can't bring themselves to look. In this they bear some resemblance to serious novelists, like Joyce Carol Oates , who, at 87, has made an astonishing career in part by turning over what others wouldn't touch, sliding into the darkest orifices, pushing forward until she's found all the tenderest bits. Her novels can be hard to stomach, but for this she can blame reality. Some truths are revolting. Oates's latest novel is 'Fox' (Hogarth), which begins at the Wieland Swamp in southern New Jersey, where turkey vultures circle ominously over what turns out to be a human corpse. At first, the corpse is unidentifiable — due to 'significant animal activity,' as the police chief puts it — but is found alongside a vehicle belonging to Francis Fox, a popular new teacher at the prestigious local prep school, the Langhorne Academy. 'Fox,' by Joyce Carol Oates, Hogarth, 672 pages, $42. In an interview with People , Oates described the novel as a 'classic whodunit,' and the unfolding of the police inquiry — and multiple related storylines — is mostly propulsive, despite the novel's 672 pages and some tiresome stylistic tics ( so many words are in italics ). The most impressive structural feature is the superb twist ending. This is a book that continues to change shape until the very last page. But the novel's real interest lies in its anatomy of the crimes of Francis Fox — a predator, as his name implies, who preys on his middle-school students — and the institutions and norms that make his behaviour possible. Oates does not seek out the origins of his conduct in some childhood trauma or — as in the case of 'Lolita''s Humbert Humbert — a thwarted erotic encounter, but in Fox's own sense of superiority. Fox is the product of a partial Ivy League education — he was ejected from a Columbia PhD program for plagiarism — and the heir to a Romantic tradition that insists on the individual's right to transgress convention in pursuit of his own personal ideal of beauty. Fox quotes Blake and Thoreau as his grandiloquent authorities — 'God himself culminates in the present moment, and will never be more divine in the lapse of all the ages' — as he flatters himself that his obsession with prepubescent girls is a sign of esthetic refinement. Fox keeps a bust of Edgar Allan Poe — who married his 13-year-old cousin, Virginia — on his desk, and fills his apartment with the paintings of the controversial French Polish painter Balthus, best known for his prurient portraits of very young female models. In this way, Oates's analysis of child abuse goes beyond the psychology of the criminal to indict American society, where every educated child is expected to know Poe's poems and where Balthus's portraits hang in the Met. On a more immediate level, the adult characters in 'Fox' are guilty of extreme neglect. In the same interview with People, Oates described Fox as a 'charming con man,' but the novel has no sympathy for the adults who let themselves be conned. Teachers on hiring committees neglect to look into Fox's past, though several red flags call out for closer scrutiny. Later, rather than raising alarm bells, the attention Fox receives from his female students elicits jealousy from his petty colleagues. Parents, too, are fooled by Fox, and lulled into a moral stupor by their reluctance to believe the worst. Even those who harbour suspicions prove unwilling to jeopardize their professional status by levelling accusations against a teacher who has made himself a favourite of the headmistress. One of the few adult characters to see through Francis Fox is a lawyer Fox hires to help him through his first scandal with a student. (Fox tries to quote Kierkegaard to the lawyer: ' The crowd is a lie … The individual is the highest truth. ') The lawyer has nothing but contempt for Fox, but professional pride makes him pursue the best possible settlement for his client — an outcome that all but ensures that Fox will be able to continue teaching. How did things get so bad? The novel hints that the community's (almost complete) failure to stop Fox has something to do with the fragmentation of the community itself. The rich and the poor of 'Fox''s Atlantic County have almost nothing to do with each other. Instead, the locals — 'poor whites,' 'old families that have failed to thrive in the twenty-first century, left behind by the computerized, high-tech economy' — are filled with resentment for the smug nouveau riche who try to ignore them while enjoying a much more comfortable existence, one they seek to make hereditary by sending their children to Langhorne and onward to the Ivy League. Political scientists like Katherine Cramer have been warning of the growing rents in the American social fabric caused by the increasing distance between the well-off and the hard-done-by. As Cramer and her co-author put it in a recent piece in the Hill , 'Constitutional democracy flourishes when people feel common purpose with one another, and it is impossible for people who never come into contact to build that common purpose.' The institutions depicted by Oates serve not to advance a common purpose — or enforce a shared morality — but to prop up the strivers while grinding down the rest. This is an unflattering portrait, but not a hopeless one. Over a long and illustrious career — including a National Book Award for Fiction (1970), a National Humanities Medal (2010) and a 'by the same author' page in 'Fox' that looks like the sides of the Stanley Cup — Oates has sometimes been accused of trafficking in moral turpitude for its own sake. A 1991 review of 'Heat and Other Stories' claimed that 'Ms. Oates … is as cavalierly cynical as a teenager. Her stock in trade is precisely not to be shocked, and she pretends to be equally, mildly, analytically interested in all forms of human behaviour, however grotesque.' But 'Fox' reads more like a quiet jeremiad against complacency and hypocrisy, masquerading as a coolly analytic murder mystery. In a 1972 article about the role of literature in America, Oates claimed that the serious writer must recognize that his or her destiny is inescapably 'part of the nation's spiritual condition.' More than 50 years later, Oates has become an integral part of her nation's spiritual condition, circling its revolting truths as the tireless turkey vulture circles a kill. A weak stomach is no excuse for looking away.
