Brain Pickings

The Most Generous Book in the World: An Illustrated Celebration of the Little-Known Sidekicks Behind Creative Geniuses

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A heartening homage to the wives, mothers, brothers, benefactors, and other quiet champions behind some of history’s most celebrated geniuses.

There is something quite wonderful about witnessing one human being selflessly bolster the creative achievement of another, especially in a culture where it’s easier to be a critic than a celebrator — from the man who helped Bukowski quit his soul-sucking day job to become a full-time writer to the way Ursula Nordstrom nurtured young Maurice Sendak’s talent. But those who blow quiet, steadfast wind into the sails of genius clash with our narrow mythology of solitary brilliance — not to mention that as we so readily dismiss creative contribution on the accusatory grounds of “privilege” today, we weigh the material advantages but forget that the loving and staunch support of human capital is often the greatest privilege of all. And for many people we’ve come to celebrate as geniuses, such human capital was precisely what made their achievements possible — a vital aid rather than a detractor of their greatness.

That’s precisely what illustrator extraordinaire Julia Rothman and her collaborators Jenny Volvovski and Matt Lamothe celebrate in The Who, the What, and the When: 65 Artists Illustrate the Secret Sidekicks of History (public library) — an illuminating inventory of the little-known champions behind a wide range of cultural icons and an homage to the gift of what Robert Krulwich once so poetically termed “friends in low places.” Each story is told by a different writer and illustrated by a different artist, all of astounding range and talent.

Among these enabling unknowns are George Washington’s dentist, Alan Turing’s teenage crush, Emily Dickinson’s dog, Alfred Hitchcock’s wife, and Roald Dahl’s mother. Indeed, as immeasurably heartening as the project is, there is also a heartbreaking undertone reminding us how consistently women are sidelined in history — throughout the book, the most frequently recurring roles of these silent supporters are of wife and mother, who doubled and tripled and quadrupled as assistant, caretaker, editor, publicist, and a great many more utilitarian and creative duties.

Illustration by Wendy MacNaughton

In the foreword to the book, Kurt Andersen shares his fascination with Friedrich Engels, “one of history’s most extraordinary and improbable secret accomplices, a promising young man who signed on as second fiddle to an unpromising young man who became one of the nineteenth century’s most famous and consequential men of all.” The latter, of course, was Karl Marx. Alongside illustrations by the inimitable Wendy MacNaughton, Andersen writes:

At twenty-three, Engels befriended a cranky, excitable, scrounging twenty-five-year-old journalist and rabble-rouser — Marx — and became his lifelong collaborator (The Communist Manifesto, Capital) and patron. And in order to fund his bourgeoisie-loathing BFF’s bourgeois lifestyle, Engels kept his lucrative capitalist-tool day job for the next quarter century. I’m a fan of Fitzgerald’s line about living with contradictions — “The test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in the mind at the same time, and still retain the ability to function” — but Engels’s life is a gobsmacker.

Illustration by Wendy MacNaughton

Rothman and team write in the introduction:

Behind every great person there is someone who enabled his or her ascension. These friends, relatives, partners, muses, colleagues, coaches, assistants, lovers, teachers, and caretakers deserve some credit… When you consider your own life, there are dozens of people who have guided you along your path — whether a teacher from fifth grade who finally got you to raise your hand in class, a family friend who gave you your first camera, or that whiskey-sipping neighbor who’d tell you stories of his childhood. These relationships shape our lives, some lightly and others with more impact.

Véra Nabokov, 1902–1991; art by Thomas Doyle

Many of these electrifying batteries of support spring from great romances. Paris Review contributor Lauren Acampora tells the story behind the love of Vladimir Nabokov‘s life, thickly entwined with his momentous contribution to the literary canon:

Their first meeting in 1923 was the stuff of legend: She wore a black satin mask on a bridge in Berlin and recited his own poetry to him. From that moment, the young writer Vladimir Nabokov felt that Véra Slonim was destined to share his life. In one of the passionate letters of their courtship, he wrote, “It’s as if in your soul there is a preprepared spot for every one of my thoughts.” For the next fifty-four years, he was nearly inseparable from the brilliant, elegant, and self-effacing woman who became Mrs. Nabokov.

Over the half-century that followed, Véra Nabokov dedicated her life to bolstering her husband’s genius, in which she believed resolutely and which she felt honored to nurture and protect — rumor even has it that she carried a handgun in her purse to protect her husband from assassination at his public appearances, which sounds decidedly less implausible given Véra learned to shoot an automatic weapon as a teenager and was allegedly involved in an assassination plot against a Soviet despot.

Acampora writes:

Among her many roles, Véra was amanuensis, translator, chief correspondent, teaching assistant, literary agent, chauffeur, Scrabble partner, and butterfly-catching companion. She was the first reader of all her husband’s works, as well as critic, editor, and inspiration. Many suspected she had a hand in the writing itself; some believed Véra was the true author.

Whether or not Véra authored any of the work will forever remain a matter of speculation, but she did save her husband’s magnum opus from destruction on several occasions when, exasperated by its narrow-minded reception, he attempted to burn Lolita. She was the first reader of all his work and his lifelong inspiration. The inscription on every single one of his novels reads, simply, “To Véra.” So intense was their psychic bond that they even shared the uncommon neurological condition synesthesia. When Nabokov’s obituary stated that “their dedication to each other was total,” it was a statement of simple fact rather than bombast.

But not all of the love stories in the book subscribe to the Happily Ever After myth. One of the most touching is that of computing pioneer Alan Turing, who laid the foundations of artificial intelligence and paid with his life for being queer. But the dawn of artificial intelligence was built on the loss of another life as well.

Christopher Morcom, 1911?–1930; art by Keith Hegley

Writer Nas Hedron tells the story of a British boy named Christopher Morcom — Turing’s teenage crush –t who pulled young Alan out of his notoriously awkward shell:

Alan was a terrible conversationalist — before Chris, he’d had no friends at all — but he and Chris shared the language of mathematics and began setting problems for each other and comparing solutions… Alan wrote that Chris made everyone else seem ordinary. He made a point of sitting with Chris in classes, and though he had no interest in music, he joined the gramophone society, a music appreciation group of which Chris — a piano player — was a member, so they could have more time together. Alan never spoke of his romantic feelings, but they talked passionately about science and mathematics, and Chris brought a discipline to Turing’s work that had never been there before.

When Morcom died of bovine tuberculosis, his death devastated Turing beyond measure and sent him down an obsessive spiral. As he struggled to understand how a mind as brilliant as Chris’s could just cease to exist with the death of the brain, he inevitably began probing the relationship between the two and the foundation of consciousness. Hedron elegantly captures the lifelong impact of the tragedy:

This line of thinking, about intangible thoughts housed in tangible brains, would run through each of Turing’s accomplishments.

Chris’s death was what prompted Turing’s voracious reading on such wide-ranging subjects as biology and logic, the pursuit of which precipitated his landmark 1936 paper envisioning the “universal thinking machine” — the springboard for our modern technological and philosophical tussles with artificial intelligence.

Returning to the subject of Russian literary wives, undoubtedly the most remarkable of all is Anna Dostoyevskaya, Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s second wife. The origin story of their love looks at first blush to have taken a page out of another Russian literary titan’s classic — she was a 19-year-old stenography student who came to work for the already famous 45-year-old author and at first considered the idea of romance laughable. “Nothing can convey the pitiful appearance of Fyodor Mikhailovich when I met him for the first time,” she wrote. “He seemed confused, anxious, helpless, lonely, irritable, and almost ill.” He, on the other hand, was quick to propose marriage — but she declined, citing her desire to “live an independent life.” It was an ideal that ran in the family — her sister, Sofia Kovalevskaya, was the first Russian female scientist, and young Anna herself the first Russian philatelist.

Anna Dostoyevskaya, 1846–1918; art by Laura Callaghan

In telling their unusual story, Igor Levshin offers an illuminating aside on the professional women who invented typewriter art, which illustrates both the differences between Anna and Fyodor and her own vibrant nonconformity:

Stenographers were very different from the typists who came half a century later. Stenography was a high-tech radical innovation and the stenographers Dostoyevsky was used to were a special sort of women. In Russian they were called nihilistki — “women who believed in nothing.” They smoked a lot (like Dostoyevsky himself) and had spectacles. She did not. He liked that she happened to not be a nihilistka.

When they did eventually get married, Dostoyevsky’s gambling problem ran the family into debt, which he attempted to solve by inventing a “foolproof” system for winning at roulette. Anna was clearly the rational head of the family — instead, she set out to revolutionize the publishing industry by turning her husband into Russia’s first self-published author, an ambitious and radical proposition. Anna studied the book market meticulously, researched the best vendors in the country, negotiated with art directors, and masterminded a distribution plan. Soon, Dostoyevsky was a national brand. Today, many consider Anna the first Russian female publisher and the first Russian businesswoman.

Sofie Magdalene Dahl, 1885–1967; art by Jensine Eckwall

Then there are the mothers. Roald Dahl called his, Sofie Magdalene Dahl, “undoubtedly the absolute primary influence” on his life. In his memoir, he extolled her storytelling talents and recounted how she used to tell him tales of mythical Norwegian trolls — creatures that would come to reverberate throughout Dahl’s beloved children’s books. Indeed, writer Jackie Levitt notes in the book, Roald took his own first steps in storytelling in the letters he wrote to his mother, which he began at the age of nine at boarding school and continued for the remainder of his mother’s life, writing to her whenever he was away — even during his gremlin days during WWII.

Julia Warhola, 1891–1971; art by Leslie Herman

The story of Andy Warhol’s mother, Julia Warhola, serves as a potent reminder of just how important presence is in parenting. A sickly child, Warhol stayed home with his mother much of the time. To keep him close by, she used to place a bed at the edge of the kitchen. John Niekrasz writes:

This sickroom, looking in on his mother’s kitchen workshop, became Andy Warhol’s first art studio.

As an immigrant family in suburban Pittsburgh, with no TV or radio, Julia and young Andy turned to art-making as their most reliable coping mechanism for the poverty and alienation in which they lived. It was Julia who first exposed Andy to the pop-culture aesthetic by buying him comic books with whatever little money they had. He was fascinated by the pictures in them and began cutting and rearranging them. Warhol was well aware of this formative influence and made a habit of giving his mother creative credit. Half a century later, Warhol told his official biographer:

The tin flowers she made out of those fruit tins, that’s the reason why I did my first tin-can paintings. My mother always had lots of cans around, including the soup cans. She was a wonderful woman and a real good and correct artist.

Niekrasz writes:

In his early twenties, Andy moved to New York City to try to make it as a commercial illustrator. He had trouble finding work, so Julia prayed for him every day and, when she could, sent letters with a one- or five-dollar bill enclosed. In the spring of 1952, Julia learned that Andy was nearly destitute. She left her home in Pittsburgh to live with her son in his squalid apartment on East Seventy-fifth Street. They had to share a bedroom, sleeping on mattresses on the floor, but with Julia there to take care of him and the household, Andy was able to spend long hours making art at the kitchen table.

That was also the period when they began collaborating on Warhol’s little-known cookbook while he was freelancing as a children’s book illustrator. But as the art world finally started paying attention, Warhol, image-conscious as he was, began feeling ashamed of his babushka-wearing mother and their codependent relationship grew strained. Niekrasz captures the strange irony of their lives:

Fed up with Andy’s profligate spending and her increasing loneliness, Julia moved back to Pittsburgh. Andy demanded she return to New York and, upon her arrival, Julia expressed frustration at her lack of recognition by yelling, “I am Andy Warhol!

G.P. Putnam, 1887–1950; art by Bjorn Rune Lie

There is also the story of Amelia Earhart and the publishing heir G.P. Putnam, who proposed marriage to her six times before she finally agreed to enter its “attractive cage,” but only on the conditions of an open relationship, which she outlined in a spectacular letter decades ahead of its time. Whether the marriage was one of true love or a pure business arrangement or some combination of the two remains uncertain, but Putnam became Earhart’s tireless publicist who powered her “brand” for nine years, through the Great Depression, as she reached worldwide acclaim, then ensured her status as a cultural legend after her tragic disappearance.

The spouse-publicist is another recurring theme of the book. Alice B. Toklas may have been the love of Gertrude Stein’s life, but she was also the legendary author’s proofreader, typist, cook, chauffeur, and constant intravenous praise drip in moments of self-doubt.

Alice B. Toklas, 1877–1957; art by Katty Maurey

And yet despite Toklas’s many utilitarian roles, their story is an immeasurably romantic one, doubly so because it unfolded against great cultural bias a century before marriage equality. Svetlana Kitto writes:

On the occasion of an early trip to Florence, Gertrude professed her love to Alice with the intention of entreating Toklas into marriage: “Pet me tenderly and save me from alarm. . . . A wife hangs on her husband that is what Shakespeare says a loving wife hangs on her husband that is what she does.” Toklas wept and wept, and accepted: “She came and saw and seeing cried I am your bride.”

Jack Sendak, 1923–1995; art by Phoebe Wahl

Then there is Jack Sendak, Maurice Sendak‘s brother. Long before Ursula Nordstrom cultivated Sendak’s genius, Jack encouraged his brother to keep at his hobby of making small handmade books and they collaborated on making wooden toys. They shared such a deep spiritual and creative bond that Maurice never recovered from Jack’s death in 1995. His brother became the inspiration behind Sendak’s darkest yet most hopeful children’s book, as well as the subject of his bittersweet final farewell to the world.

Not all the spirit-lifters in the book are human — one of the tenderest stories is that of Carlo, the Newfoundland pup Emily Dickinson’s father gave her when she was nineteen, named after the dog in Jane Eyre.

Carlo, 1849–1866; art by Sarah Jacoby

Sara Levine writes:

Carlo was discreet, like all of dogkind, but probably larger than Dickinson. Male Newfoundlands weigh about 150 pounds; Dickinson was five foot three and “small, like the wren.”

The legend of Dickinson as recluse is hard to sustain in light of the time she spent with this boisterous animal. (One poem begins, “I started Early—Took my Dog—” Elsewhere, “Emily with her dog, & Lantern!” a friend recalled, suggesting that Dickinson walked with Carlo at night.) When Dickinson explored Pelham Woods and the surrounding meadows, Carlo tramped along, offering her physical confidence and mental freedom. She praised him for being “brave and dumb.”

For sixteen faithful years, Carlo slept at Dickinson’s feet as she penned some of the most exquisite poetry the world has ever known — a touching testament to what dogs do for the human soul and their enduring status as poetic muses.

The Who, the What, and the When, which goes on to tell the heartening stories of Ralph Waldo Emerson’s aunt, Charles Darwin’s colleague, Edgar Allan Poe’s foster father and more, is absolutely glorious in its entirety — enchanting, beautifully illustrated, and immensely ennobling in its essential generosity of spirit in celebrating creative history’s unsung heroes.

Complement it with the equally fantastic first installment, The Where, the Why, and the How: 75 Artists Illustrate Wondrous Mysteries of Science, one of the best science books of 2012.

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October 22, 1964: Jean-Paul Sartre Becomes the First Person to Decline the Nobel Prize

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“A writer who adopts political, social, or literary positions must act only with the means that are his own — that is, the written word.”

Despite its surprisingly dark origin, the Nobel Prize is regarded as the highest honor bestowed upon a human being. Among its diverse laureates are a number of meta-outliers — people exceptional not only for the work that merited the prize but also for their atypical position within the Nobel ecosystem itself: Marie Curie became not only the first woman awarded a Nobel Prize but also the first and, for decades, the only person to win a Nobel in two different sciences; Aung San Suu Kyi is the only laureate who received the prize while under house arrest; Ernest Hemingway accepted his with a short and piercing speech that is itself prize-worthy.

But the greatest outlier of all is French philosopher, writer, and political activist Jean-Paul Sartre.

In 1964, he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature and became the first person to decline it. (The only other one to date is Lê Ðúc Tho, awarded the 1973 Peace Prize for his role in the Paris Peace Accords seeking to establish peace in Vietnam; he turned it down on the grounds that there was no actual peace in Vietnam — an admirable stance that calls to mind Marie Curie’s famous assertion that “one never notices what has been done; one can only see what remains to be done.”)

In a statement to the Swedish press published on October 22, 1964, Sartre offered a defiant explanation second only to Adrienne Rich terrific letter of conviction, in which she became the only person to decline the National Medal of Arts.

Sartre wrote:

I was not aware at the time that the Nobel Prize is awarded without consulting the opinion of the recipient, and I believed there was time to prevent this from happening. But I now understand that when the Swedish Academy has made a decision it cannot subsequently revoke it.

My reasons for refusing the prize concern neither the Swedish Academy nor the Nobel Prize in itself, as I explained in my letter to the Academy. In it, I alluded to two kinds of reasons: personal and objective.

The personal reasons are these: my refusal is not an impulsive gesture, I have always declined official honors. In 1945, after the war, when I was offered the Legion of Honor, I refused it, although I was sympathetic to the government. Similarly, I have never sought to enter the Collège de France, as several of my friends suggested.

This attitude is based on my conception of the writer’s enterprise. A writer who adopts political, social, or literary positions must act only with the means that are his own — that is, the written word. All the honors he may receive expose his readers to a pressure I do not consider desirable. If I sign myself Jean-Paul Sartre it is not the same thing as if I sign myself Jean-Paul Sartre, Nobel Prizewinner.

But in this short excerpt from BBC’s philosophy documentary Human, All Too Human, Sartre offers a far less politically correct explanation:

Because I was politically involved, the bourgeois establishment wanted to cover up my “past errors.” Now, there’s an admission! And so they gave me the Nobel Prize. They “pardoned” me and said I deserved it. It was monstrous!

And yet one can’t help but wonder whether the publicity stunt was necessary. After all, physicist Richard Feynman — who won the Nobel Prize himself a year after Sartre — put it best in his eloquent denouncement of awards:

I don’t see that it makes any point that someone in the Swedish academy just decides that this work is noble enough to receive a prize — I’ve already gotten the prize. The prize is the pleasure of finding a thing out, the kick in the discovery, the observation that other people use it — those are the real things. The honors are unreal to me. I don’t believe in honors.

Making a fuss out of declining an award seems not much different from making a fuss over accepting it — both make the award more real than it need be if one were truly interested in breaking free from the system. Why can’t the private pleasure of finding things out be enough, award or no award? Then again, Sartre had a peculiar relationship with the real and the irreal — and that might be what makes his declination all the more interesting. Perhaps what he wrote in his passionate love letters to Simone de Beauvoir applies here as well: “Try to understand me: I love you while paying attention to external things.”

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You Have Never Seen the Sky: Georgia O’Keeffe on the Shimmering Beauty of the Southwest

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“There is something wonderful about the bigness and the lonelyness and the windyness of it all.”

When Georgia O’Keeffe (November 15, 1887–March 6, 1986) was a little girl, decades before she came to be regarded as America’s first great female artist and became the first woman honored with a retrospective at the Museum of Modern Art, her mother used to read history and travel stories to her every night before bed. The mesmerism of place never lost its grip on her. At the peak of her career, O’Keeffe left New York and moved to the exotic expanse of the Southwest to live a solitary life. She once wrote in a letter to her best friend, Anita Pollitzer, the woman who had selflessly taken it upon herself to make the New York art elite pay attention to O’Keeffe’s work: “I believe one can have as many rare experiences at the tail end of the earth as in civilization if one grabs at them — no — it isn’t a case of grabbing — it is — just that they are here — you can’t help getting them.” Pollitzer would later come to write in a major profile of O’Keeffe: “Fame still does not seem to be as meaningful or real to her as the mesas of New Mexico or the petals of a white rose.”

Georgia O'Keeffe by Alfred Stieglitz, 1918

Indeed, O’Keeffe’s love for the landscape and energy of the Southwest shimmers with growing vibrancy across the lifetime of letters the two women exchanged collected in Lovingly, Georgia: The Complete Correspondence of Georgia O’Keeffe and Anita Pollitzer (public library) — the same wonderful volume that gave us O’Keeffe on art, life, and setting priorities. It was there, under the endless skies and fiery sunsets of the Southwest, that O’Keeffe developed not only the remarkable mastery of color and sensuality for which she is known but also the most essential tool of all art — the ability to pay attention, to look and actually see.

Georgia O'Keeffe, 'Black Mesa Landscape,' 1930 (Georgia O'Keeffe Museum)

In mid-January of 1916, returning to New York from Texas after a visit as she considered a new teaching job there, O’Keeffe writes to Pollitzer:

There is something wonderful about the bigness and the lonelyness and the windyness of it all — mirages people it with all sorts of things at times — sometimes Ive seen the most wonderful sunsets over what seemed to be the ocean — It is great — I would like to go today — Next to New York it is the finest thing I know — here I feel like Im in a shoe that doesn’t fit.

O’Keeffe would eventually trade the ill-fitting shoe for the bigness that would be her home for the last seven decades of her life — but not before her heart fully surrendered to the sunsets of the Southwest. In one particularly evocative letter from September of 1916, O’Keeffe channels the expansive awe of the Southwest sky:

Tonight I walked into the sunset — to mail some letters — the whole sky — and there is so much of it out here — was just blazing — and grey blue clouds were riding all through the holiness of it — and the ugly little buildings and windmills looked great against it…

The Eastern sky was all grey blue — bunches of clouds — different kinds of clouds — sticking around everywhere and the whole thing — lit up — first in one place — then in another with flashes of lightning — sometimes just sheet lightning — and some times sheet lightning with a sharp bright zigzag flashing across it –. I walked out past the last house — past the last locust tree — and sat on the fence for a long time — looking — just looking at — the lightning — you see there was nothing but sky and flat prairie land — land that seems more like the ocean than anything else I know — There was a wonderful moon.

Well I just sat there and had a great time all by myself — Not even many night noises — just the wind —

[...]

It is absurd the way I love this country… I am loving the plains more than ever it seems — and the SKY — Anita you have never seen SKY — it is wonderful –

Georgia O'Keeffe, 'Ram's Head White Hollyhock and Little Hills,' 1935 (Brooklyn Museum)

Despite declaring to Pollitzer that she always has “a hard time finding words for anything,” O’Keeffe blossoms as a spectacular writer in relaying the sensory awe of the landscape to her friend — a testament to Susan Sontag’s assertion that “a writer is a professional observer.” In another gorgeous letter a few days later, O’Keeffe writes:

Last night couldnt sleep till after four in the morning — I had been out to the canyon all afternoon — till late at night — wonderful color — I wish I could tell you how big — and with the night the colors deeper and darker — cattle on the pastures in the bottom looked like little pinheads — I can understand Pa Dow painting his pretty colored canyons — it must have been a great temptation — no wonder he fell

Then the moon rose right up out of the ground after we got out on the plains again — battered a little where he bumped his head but enormous — There was no wind — it was just big and still — so very big and still — long legged jack rabbits hopping across in front of the light as we passed — A great place to see the night time because there is nothing else.

[...]

Im so glad Im out here — I can’t tell you how much I like it. I like the plains — and I like the work — everything is so ridiculously new — and there is something about it that just makes you glad your living here — You understand — there is nothing here — so maybe there is something wrong with me that I am liking it so much.

Georgia O'Keeffe, 'Storm Cloud,' 1923 (Georgia O'Keeffe Museum)

There was, of course, nothing “wrong” with O’Keeffe — she was learning a whole new way of looking at the world, directing toward it what Oscar Wilde memorably called “temperament of receptivity,” inhabiting it with the very presence and aliveness from which great art springs. A few more days later, she captures this aliveness beautifully in another letter to Pollitzer:

Really — living is too fine — Last night we had a tremendous thunderstorm — and I’ve never seen such lightning in my life — it was wonderful… Stood out on the porch for a long time watching the whole sky alive.

Georgia O'Keeffe, 'Deer's Skull with Pedernal,' 1936 (Museum of Fine Arts, Boston)

All of Lovingly, Georgia is a gorgeous read and a rare glimpse into the inner world of one of the most extraordinary artists who ever lived. Complement this particular slice of it with young Sylvia Plath on the transcendence and reverie of nature and Rebecca Solnit on why the sky is blue.

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