I’d been told to “swim” in the intellectual environment, to identify with the author and his sources, rather than scoop out what I wanted with my usual external and surgical precision.
With campus social culture having reached the all-time low of referenda colonizing Pusey Library, it seems time to venture out of the Harvard bubble, to get out with a few friends, and rearrange the sensible.
FM compiles a brief abridged lexicon for easy midnight-hour use.
Take a breath, relax, and relive the humanists at their linguistic bests.
I landed in Cancun ready to embrace a cliché. There were no plans except to set aside the haughty, critical coldness of Cambridge and indulge in that undergraduate tropical escape narrative that is Mexico for Spring Break.
Chances are if you’re reading The Harvard Crimson, you’ve never heard of Peace Love Unity Respect. The acronym is a silly combination of sounds—a feline’s pleasure with an extra letter snuck in—and the cliché it stands for wouldn't last a minute in college classrooms. But since the ’90s, PLUR’s been a credo and a life philosophy for rave subculture. This summer it became my personal mantra. This fall I’ve decided it was Friedrich Nietzsche and Martin Heidegger’s as well.
Maya Angelou once said, “you can tell a lot about a person by the way s(he) handles these three things: a rainy day, lost luggage, and tangled Christmas tree lights.” Frankly, FM thinks a playlist gives you more information. So turn on Spotify, and transport yourself across the coast as you read this week’s scrutiny.
Though I’m red-green color blind and will never understand the obsession with chromatic foliage, I hear Walden Pond is beautiful in the autumn. If you catch it on the later end of October, the drying air heightens the borders of faces or the edges of each watery ripple; everything has the sharp sense of coming into focus. Unfortunately, I went in July.
Always keenly attuned to the spiritual needs of our readers, Fifteen Minutes gazed skyward this week to assess the future. The best way to consult the oracles, we have learned, is by lounging on divans with sweet Ganymede, Zeus’s cupbearer, at our elbows.
It’s always refreshing to pick up a Crimson editorial and instead find yourself reading a brochure for Harvard; it reminds you what an idyllic place you thought your house would be. You believed you’d sit down with strangers and jump straight into metaphysics or social justice.
It was March 11, and by 2 p.m. the temperature had reached a scorching 55. The ice on the ground had turned to puddles, the birds were chirping, and the flowers were practically bursting into bloom. We suspected that Cambridge runners would be emerging from their own basement-gym hibernations and migrating back to their natural habitat: the six mile loop around the Charles.
It’s a snowstorm Saturday in Cambridge, and I’ve been hit by an unusual wave of both ennui and energy. Either the weather or some suppressed self-loathing has made me hungry to rip something to shreds. The critic rears its ugly head. My target today: Harvard’s art.
Today, it is said that there are three things every Harvard student must do before graduating: pee on the John Harvard statue, run in Primal Scream, and have sex in the Widener stacks. Yet the lore of Harvard's "Three Things" only developed recently, with nude primal scream being unheard of just 20 years ago.
Three years later, it’s hard to recognize those freshmen who'd never played rugby in the women who played on a National Championship-winning squad in 2011, guided their team to varsity status over the past two years, and recently won their first Ivy League Championship.