No! Come on! He doesn’t even have his eyes open and his skin looks like it’s made of bubble gum and ham.
No! Come on! He doesn’t even have his eyes open and his skin looks like it’s made of bubble gum and ham.
Comrade Airship. Poster by the Stenberg brothers.
It’s as if in the middle of The Dark Knight, Batman suddenly turns out to be able to melt people with his brain.
The Central Problem With Steven Moffat’s Doctor Who *knotesy
The woman was Alice Kober, an overworked, underpaid classics professor at Brooklyn College. In the mid-20th century, though hardly anyone knew it, Dr. Kober, working quietly and methodically at her dining table in Flatbush, helped solve one of the most tantalizing mysteries of the modern age.
Alice E. Kober, 43 - Lost to History No More - NYTimes.com *knotesy
Ra is angry. Build more pyramids.
My Internet is not only the Mark Zuckerberg Internet, or the Kleiner Perkins Internet; it’s the Internet of Michael Hart and Brewster Kahle, Aaron Swartz and the Electronic Frontier Foundation, the Public Library of Science and the new Digital Public Library of America, JSTOR and countless public archives and library and museum sites all over the world. It’s the Internet of preservationists and digital humanitarians, of scholars and intellectuals of all kinds.
Evgeny Morozov, The Internet, And The Failure Of Invective | The Awl *knotesy
The orbiting silence became unbearable. Occasionally, when a certain number of cycles had been performed it sensed a brushing, a closeness, of another, a similarity. There was no explainable reason for this ability since lines of communication were disabled. But there it was. A tangle of pattern, perhaps, minute changes to the hardware, parasitic structures, solder flux, anodic filaments. It started to make small orbital adjustments, tiny, testing the sense of distance to the similarity, nudging closer.
….from Silent Running (1972), dystopian sci-fi film set on a bioreserve forest aboard a spaceship.
This circular pool table has an off centred hole which makes the the game way more difficult. Incidentally, the mathematical version of this problem is known to be very complicated. In the…
Her travel methods devolved from dirigible (passenger class), to horseback. The horse seemed to barely tolerate her. Or maybe that’s just the way horses were, she wasn’t familiar with the beasts. Her guide was the stereotypical broken down bitter shell of a man, who, like the horse, wanted nothing more than for the whole thing to be done. Jakob’s cabin was farther out than she’d visualized. Her family were city people, so her exposure to the traditional wilds was minimal. She’d seen books, she’d heard stories. However, the amazement, and displacement, that she wanted to indulge in feeling was throttled almost completely by the banal disgruntlement of her companions.
And I don’t believe that the NSA could save every domestic phone call, not at this time. Possibly after the Utah data center is finished, but not now. They could be saving the all the metadata now, but I’m skeptical about that too.
Schneier on Security: Is the U.S. Government Recording and Saving All Domestic Telephone Calls? *knotesy
Because of its simplicity, the ABC Conjecture is well-known by all mathematicians. CUNY professor Lucien Szpiro says that “every professional has tried at least one night” to theorize about a proof. Yet few people have seriously attempted to crack it.
The Paradox of the Proof | Project Wordsworth *knotesy
Wetting surfaces to wipe it off only made the dust stick more firmly. It’s like the silicate minerals all over Mars’ surface — if they mix with water in human lungs, they will become more damaging, combining to create dangerous chemicals.
We need to tackle Mars dust before launching manned mission (Wired UK) *knotesy
Disunion - The guillotine simulator for Oculus Rift. (by André Berlemont)
19 emotions for which English has no words, in an infographic by design studen Pei-Ying Lin.
Among the most beautiful is toska.
The Mechanism began, warily, metal teeth fitting into place, an initial click here and there, the sound of water filling a container. Soon, the air was ionized, that thunderstorm smell. There was no exaltation from a control room by a team of intensely focused engineers, just one man, who calmly coiled up the rope he pulled down, which had separated the parts of the Mechanism from their own combination. He placed the rope neatly into a canvas bag. The coordinates had been set, at the front, if there was a front, in a series of punch cards, stacked up and set on a tray. In a few moments he expected to hear that tray tilt, and the cards slide down into a bin with a papery kerthunk.
unpublished gif from March
“Thinking for a living is a luxury few have, and asking the big questions is rare once we leave college.” Marina Petrova reviews Jim Holt’s existential detective story, Why Does the World Exist?
Jim Holt is an expert at nothing. He has gone on a world tour of modern philosophers, physicists, theologians, and writers, and asked them a question that is, he writes, “so profound it would occur only to a metaphysician, yet so simple it would occur only to a child.” Why is there something rather than nothing? Holt visited esteemed thinkers — Richard Swinburne, Steven Weinberg, Adolf Grünbaum, and John Updike — in their natural habitats, places like Oxford or Café de Flore in Paris. Holt presents their theories in Why Does the World Exist?: An Existential Detective Story in a manner a layperson could grasp, and with wit and dry humor a cynic can appreciate. A philosopher, author, and essayist, Holt gives these great minds physical bodies, allowing his readers a glimpse into the lives of our own endangered species — humans that think for a living.
The secret technology of Arctris was used, once, during the final days of the war. It was intended as a desperate measure, a Legendist faith, a bit of strategic abasement. Also, there was nothing left to try. A clattering thing, clunky with wheels and gears, some ancient pendulum, a series of levels and water clocks was struck together by old craftsmen who worked with a meticulousness reserved for those masters whose boundaries with their work was translucent, whose realities were perfectly fitted, solid, lasting. The Mechanism took shape over the years inside the bunker, gigantic, rising two stories. Each part was hidden from the previous craftsmen, the ultimate mechanic and connection unknown to all but two men. While a craftsman may have suspected a fellow craftsman of working on it, the specific knowledge was useless, and indeed, many evenings were wasted by craftsmen, drinking, describing in great detail the part they worked on to one another.