Doer of random things, diver of weird rabbit holes,
sharer of fascinating things, writer of things nobody reads.
On writing, doing, and the momentum of small things.
Read the essay Written between filter coffees.I learned that the famous line “The heart wants what it wants” is from a famous letter by Emily Dickinson and not Woody Allen.
The full line:
Dear Mary -
When the Best is gone - I know that other things are not of consequence - The Heart wants what it wants - or else it does not care -
You wonder why I write - so - Because I cannot help - I like to have you know some care - so when your life gets faint for it’s other life - you can lean on us - We wont break, Mary. We look very small - but the Reed can carry weight.
I built Paper Trails to aggregate RSS feeds from some of the blogs and newsletters I enjoy reading. It’s become a wonderful place for me to find new rabbit holes 🐰 🕳️ and you may too. Check it out and let me know if you have any suggestions.
I add a possibly dumb yet genius new feature called “Random Digest.” Twice a week, the site automatically pulls 10 links randomly from different categories and creates a digest in case you want to randomly read something.
What do you think?
A beautiful digital collection of Stoic philosophy. All 124 moral letters to Lucilius, designed to be read the way Seneca intended — slowly, carefully, one at a time.
Using OCR and LLMs to digitize Indian public domain books — Kannada, Sanskrit, texts that exist in exactly one crumbling copy somewhere in a government archive.
A curated archive of historical letters, speeches, and essays from the public domain. Nehru writing to his daughter. Gandhi's midnight letters. Speeches that changed the course of history.
It is not that we have a short time to live, but that we waste a great deal of it.
I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library.
A classic is a book that has never finished saying what it has to say.
How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.
We are made of stories, not atoms.
We are all flukes — the product of an unfathomable number of unlikely events.