Looking out on Union Bay amid the last dying light of the December sun, a creeping coldness limns my toes. This, I am reminded, is what it is to be alive. Not the beauty of the world, or some satisfaction on a day well spent, but just the fragile thisness of it all. This place, this light, these toes. This stillness resonating in me.

How can individuality have any meaning at all if not through shared language and culture? In short, we need each other in order to be ourselves

We typically think of translation as an imperfect medium for expressing ideas. We might think that the intangible but important human elemen