Sublime

of the eye, each augenblick, as a muskrat dives, a heron takes alarm, a leaf floats spinning away. There is death in the pot for the living’s food, fly-blown meat, muddy salt, and plucked herbs bitter as squill. If you can get it. How many people have prayed for their daily bread and famished? They die their daily death as utterly as did the frog,

bathos

The Diary of Anaïs Nin—five

specter.

“Die? Experience pain? Feel dissatisfaction? Of course they do. A mortal is mortal. But everyone is free to live however they want, even scrupes.”

“No, eat the carrot first. Please.” She leaned forward, knife and fork on each side of the plate, a paper towel tucked in her collar. “It’s important.” He finished the carrot, then picked another from the bowl and put the whole thing in his mouth. “They’re good for you, believe me.” She cut into her latke like it was a steak and ate. “For the eyes,

The work of Singer, who was born in Melbourne, Australia, and taught at Princeton for more than two decades, was attractive because it seemed to have solved the puzzle: well-being, whether of humans or sea otters, was all that mattered. But this approach provided cover for a generation to avoid more thorny questions about what constitutes a life