Le Journal

Un importante refuerzo para el equipo de Georgios Bartzokas de cara a esta temporada The post Olympiacos firma a Cory Joseph appeared first on Eurohoops.

“If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot. There’s no way around these two things that I’m aware of, no shortcut. […] You have to read widely, constantly refining (and redefining) your own work as you do. […] If you don’t have the time to read, you don’t have the time (or the tools) to write. Simple as that.” For me, this is the single best piece of advice on offer in Stephen King’s On Writing (2000). Finding the time to read and reading widely are necessary not only for fiction writers but for anyone who wishes to express their ideas in writing.  It’s so fundamental to the craft that it’s not difficult to find other writers offering the same advice. William Faulkner probably gave it its most famous and quotable form: “Read, read, read everything — trash, classics, good and bad, and see how they do it. Just like a carpenter who works as an apprentice and studies the master. Read!” But my favorite rendition comes from Terry Pratchett: “Read with the mind-set of a carpenter looking at trees.” Of course, the benefits of reading — such as improved concentration, boosted empathy, and reduced stress — are well known. But these are not the reasons writers recommend a voracious reading habit. If we dig a bit deeper, we can see they have something else in mind. Consider, for instance, how Margaret Atwood phrased the advice in Second Words (1984): “It is my contention that the process of reading is part of the process of writing, the necessary completion without which writing can hardly be said to exist.” Annie Proulx gave the same guidance more succinctly when she noted, “Writing comes from reading, and reading is the finest teacher of how to write.” For these writers, reading isn’t just about expanding one’s vocabulary, mastering sentence structure, or learning to make a simile shine. They are making a more foundational case: Reading supplies writers with the raw materials for thinking on the page. Together, reading and writing form a single cognitive loop, and it’s only by engaging with both that we can transform the vague notions bouncing around in our minds into original ideas on the page. Writing to someone else’s tune? What’s perhaps odd here is that these authors felt the need to advise other writers to read in the first place. Maybe it’s just the circles I run in, but I don’t hear filmmakers advising other filmmakers over the need to watch movies or painters reminding their fellow brush jockeys to visit a gallery now and again. Somehow, the relationship between reading and writing has become, if not unknown, at least underappreciated, and I would wager the reason stems from several misconceptions in the popular imagination. For one, reading and writing are often seen as two distinct activities — one passive, the other active. We view reading (or listening) as simply an act of receiving, while writing (or speaking) is the act of giving. The written word acts like a kind of mental modem, moving communications from one head to another. I imagine this misconception stems from our school years — for many, the most writerly time of our lives. Here, reading and writing are treated as distinct processes: We read to take in information about a subject, and then we write to report what we have retained. Rather than a coordinated creative process, reading is the precursor to the test, and writing is a means of demonstrating what’s in our heads. Another misconception is that outside influences corrupt the purity of our ideas and voices. This is the view that original ideas are crafted out of whole cloth. Reading while writing is equivalent to cheating on the test. You aren’t presenting your own answers; you’re literally copying out of the book. Now, there’s no one way that any writer must pursue their craft, and some writers do feel the need to isolate themselves as much as possible to work. The novelist Zadie Smith compares them to solo violinists “who…

New Game Plus Life is Strange: Reunion nous fera vivre l’ultime rencontre de Max et Chloé Après 10 ans d’absence, Chloé retrouve Max dans Life is Strange: Reunion, suite directe de Double Exposure. Que nous réserve ce dernier chapitre de la licence, comment vont se passer les retrouvailles des deux compères ? Après une réception plus que mitigée pour Life is Strange: Double Exposure, on peut se demander si Deck Nine…

Here in the Universe, there’s a fascinating property that nearly every galaxy beyond our own Milky Way seems to possess: the light that we observe from it seems to be shifted toward redder, longer wavelengths than the light that’s emitted from within our own galaxy. Within the context of general relativity, there are a number of possible explanations for an observed redshift: it could be due to the relative motion of the source and the observer, it could be due to a difference in the curvature of space between the source and the observer, or it could be due to the fabric of space itself stretching and expanding as light travels through it. Yet, if it were the effects of gravitational masses (like galaxies) tugging on other masses (like other galaxies) that dominated the Universe, you’d expect that there would be equal numbers of galaxies that are redshifted as compared to blueshifted, and yet there are far fewer blueshifted galaxies, and almost none at all that are very far away from us. Why is that? What do those observations teach us, and are we interpreting them correctly? That’s what Bob Millar wants to know, writing in to ask: “We understand that the universe is expanding, and we see that galaxies are retreating from us at speeds related to their distance. But what is the geometry that makes it so that we don’t see objects moving toward us at blueshifted rates? […] I can’t envision the situation where everything moves away but nothing seems to come toward us.” This is a very deep question, and what we’ve learned over the past century — about as long as our notion of the expanding Universe has been around — has taught us so much about the Universe we inhabit. Here’s what it all means. We often visualize space as a 3D grid, even though this is a frame-dependent oversimplification when we consider the concept of spacetime. In reality, spacetime is curved by the presence of matter-and-energy, and distances are not fixed but rather can evolve as the Universe expands or contracts. Prior to Einstein, space and time were thought to be fixed and absolute for everyone; today we know this cannot be true. If you place a particle on this grid and allow the Universe to expand, the grid will expand, too, and hence the particle will appear to recede away from you. Credit: Reunmedia/Storyblocks A lot of people begin by trying to visualize how the Universe expands, and then attempt to add in and reconcile the idea of the redshifting of distant galaxies within it. But historically, of course, this is not how the idea developed at all. Back in the early 20th century, we didn’t know whether the Universe was expanding, contracting, or static, or whether anything other than the assumed “static” was even an option. We also didn’t know how big the Universe was and whether it extended beyond the Milky Way galaxy itself, or whether the galaxy that we inhabit was the entirety of the Universe itself. There was even a “great debate” about the latter issue held in 1920, leaving no clear winner: only a series of interpretations about inconclusive data. This began to change in 1923, however. Edwin Hubble, using the then-largest telescope in the world (at 100″ in diameter for its primary mirror), spent some of his nights observing the great nebula in Andromeda: now known as the Andromeda galaxy, but at the time it was thought by many to be a nebulous object within our own Milky Way. Hubble was looking for novae: outbursts where white dwarf stars accumulate enough matter on their surfaces to trigger a brief burst of nuclear activity within them, leading to an intense brightening. He saw one brightening event, marking it with an N, and then a second, and then a third. And then, less than 48 hours later, he saw a fourth event: one in the exact same location as the first event. Excited, he crossed out the N, and then in big red letters, wrote the most famous…