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It’s daytime, Oct. 18, 2016, and almost every news station is counting down to the next day’s presidential debate. Now, it’s nighttime, and the post-debate news coverage blares on into the morning light. This was the U.S. media reality a mere year ago; so many of us were enthralled by the political vortex of the campaign season. Why, then, did so many of us leave the vortex when the objective of this campaigning was finally realized on Election Day? Merely tweeting our political perspectives from home but failing to participate in politics at the polls on the day it counts leaves the activist job unfinished. The time is near for yet another chance: The New Jersey gubernatorial elections on Nov. 7 are quickly approaching.
“A man who bleeds from his genitals every month has a medical problem,” my philosophy professor once quipped while discussing Plato’s “Meno,” “yet a woman who bleeds every month is healthy.” While there is a unified concept of health, Plato argued, how it manifests itself in a particular entity will depend on the entity’s biological nature.
As a host for the Princeton Humanities Symposium, I found myself over-glamorizing the University to two high-strung, visiting high schoolers who thought the admissions committee was basically the CIA tracking their every breath. Outwardly, I know it’s my duty to project a positive representation of the University. I wanted to make the high schoolers' next three days live up to their expectations of the No. 1 university in the United States, replete with all the trappings that the guidebooks and the internet boast about. But internally, I knew that there was an unavoidable disingenuousness to my words.
Dear commenters on The Daily Princetonian website,
Hoards of blazer-clad students shuffling nervously through upperclassmen dorms marks the beginning of job-application season. It’s often a time of disappointment, frustration, and hits to students’ self confidence as peers compete for specific and limited positions.
Last weekend, a mysterious procession of people weaved its way through north campus. From a distance, they emitted a collective murmur, like a moan of mourning. But if you got close enough, you could catch snippets of individual sentences. In their sudden intelligibility and idiosyncracy, the reader’s emergent voice blending with the voices of others, they sounded more like joy. A cacophony of words, embodied and reverberating and alive.
I used to cry for hours because I thought I didn’t know how to make friends.
"Shall the undergraduates direct the USG Senate to establish a standing committee that works with the Interclub Council to annually collect and release demographic information, such as race, gender, and academic major, about the members of each Eating Club, and additionally, for each selective (‘bicker’) Club, its applicants (‘bickerees’)?
With the opening of the new Lewis Center for the Arts, the University bristles with opportunities for engagement and exchange in the creative arts. Combining the disciplines of music, theater, creative writing, painting, and much more, the new center furthers the University's efforts to promote the creative humanities as a fundamental element of a liberal arts education. But, as has been the case for a long time now - even amidst such apparent flourishing in the arts, real progression is seldom made. There is great drive to move forward, but because no one wants to look back, we are left with art, but no heritage - nothing to relate to. Traditions, and thus culture, lie outside the picture.
“Their membership is so exclusive, it makes Soho House look like a halfway house.”
I’ve never heard Catalonia being discussed so much here as I have in the past few weeks. My parents are from Barcelona, and I lived there for a bit, so I’d like to offer my view on the Catalan procés so far. As a disclaimer, I am pro-independence; however, I will not be arguing for independence. Instead, I want to discuss how the process has been carried out so far, and why President Rajoy and government in Madrid are currently in the wrong.
I looked down at the shiny metal serving platters in front of me, one which had a piece of paper that read “Filet Mignon” and another one that said “Ratatouille." Considering that I had to look up how to spell these words to write this article, it was obvious to me that I was far, far away from home – in every sense of the word.
On an ordinary, unassuming Thursday in East Pyne, 35 students attended a lecture that defied history — not for necessarily for its radicalism or ingenuity, but rather, for its existence.