in other words,

So newspapers aren't dying; they're just undergoing an identity crisis. They don't know who they want to be.

Put even a fool in front of a window and you'll get a Spinoza.

After a couple of drinks in John Jay, my floormates shed their clothing, swaddled themselves in blankets, started crying, and watched Arrested Development. I'm not sure what lesson this taught me, other than that first-time drunks are both sweetly naïve ("Wow, I can't believe they didn't even search our bags when we came into John Jay!") and hilarious.

[This headline has been deleted.]

She seemed sometimes so sensitive that whole decades hurt her feelings, and the prose on the page suggested Valery's "shiverings of an effaced leaf," as if her next trick might be evaporation.