Display Photo Quotes

The largest wall in the living room is full of framed photos, depicting stories of war, peace, friendship, and love—everything in the last six decades displayed on a single wall.

Inside, I stop and stand motionless in the centre of the glass and chrome atrium of my manager’s building. As I stare at the photo on my display, I realize one thing. This wasn’t real. He wasn’t real. None of it was real – not until this moment.

We are not afraid of death,” the suicide bombers say to show their superiority to ordinary people. But they are afraid of life, constantly trampling on it, slandering it, destroying it, and training children still in their cradles for martyrdom. Observers have noted that the photos of terrorists taken a few hours before they made their attacks show people who are serene and at peace. They have eliminated doubt: they know. It is the paradox of open societies that they seem to be disordered, unjust, threatened by crime, loneliness, and drugs because they display their indignity before the whole world, never ceasing to admit their defects, whereas other, more oppressive societies seem harmonious because the press and the opposition are muzzled. “Where there are no visible conflicts, there is no freedom,” Montesquieu said.

By 2020, the flat panel displays will likely come in a variety of forms. They will be miniaturized to work as wristwatch screens and may be added to eyeglasses or key chains. Eventually, they will become so cheap they will be everywhere: on the backs of airplane seats, in photo albums, in elevators, on notepads, on billboards, on the sides of buses and trains. They may one day be as common as paper.

Ms. Bates had many photographs displayed around the room. In one, she hugged her two teenaged children. Another photo, from her days in Arkansas, showed her shaking hands with Governor Bill Clinton.

He opened the back of the Polaroid and slid in the roll of film while his family arranged themselves on the Argent sofa. The upholstery was the color of faded mint, a fine setting for their brown skin, but the camera only took black-and-white photos. John on Elizabeth’s lap, May beside them. May didn’t know how to smile yet—all instructions to do so summoned an unsettling, gum-heavy display that would not have been out of place on a Bowery bum sleeping it off in a vestibule. “Sit still,” Elizabeth said.

I was struck by how life moved so fast, almost cruelly, on Broadway. Fiorello! had fled the Broadhurst to make way for Sail Away, as if it had never existed. I studied each such metamorphosis with contradictory emotions of excitement and loss. With their new marquees and posters and glass-encased displays of fresh photos, the theaters promised a teeming bounty of surprises. But there remained not a shred of their previous tenants, who were gone forever and mourned by no one, perhaps, except me. When shows left the National, I knew they were going on to Broadway or at least to another town on the road. Where did the plays that left New York go?

Her Instagram feed filled up with gorgeous photos of her creations displayed alongside books, some of their links tenuous at best. Double chocolate cookies made with huge chunks of Valrhona chocolate found their American-Parisian mash-up reference in Alcott's Little Women. Currant cinnamon rolls as big as a baby's head were paired with The Secret Garden. Her lemon-blueberry muffins posed alongside a favorite childhood picture book, Blueberries For Sal.

Time magazine tried to cover up the Founding Fathers’ crime of non-diversity by making them look less WASPy.7 A photo display of eleven descendants of the Founders included Yukiko Irwin, born and raised in Japan,8 and an African American probation officer, Elmer Roberts, allegedly descended from Thomas Jefferson’s nonexistent sexual relationship with slave Sally Hemings. Time wanted to make absolutely clear that the United States was not the product of a bunch of Protestant, Anglo-Saxon men, if that’s what you were thinking. Except, the problem is, it was. And the country remained overwhelmingly Anglo-Saxon and Protestant right up until Teddy Kennedy decided to change it.

The problem, Augustine came to believe, is that if you think you can organize your own salvation you are magnifying the very sin that keeps you from it. To believe that you can be captain of your own life is to suffer the sin of pride. What is pride? These days the word “pride” has positive connotations. It means feeling good about yourself and the things associated with you. When we use it negatively, we think of the arrogant person, someone who is puffed up and egotistical, boasting and strutting about. But that is not really the core of pride. That is just one way the disease of pride presents itself. By another definition, pride is building your happiness around your accomplishments, using your work as the measure of your worth. It is believing that you can arrive at fulfillment on your own, driven by your own individual efforts. Pride can come in bloated form. This is the puffed-up Donald Trump style of pride. This person wants people to see visible proof of his superiority. He wants to be on the VIP list. In conversation, he boasts, he brags. He needs to see his superiority reflected in other people’s eyes. He believes that this feeling of superiority will eventually bring him peace. That version is familiar. But there are other proud people who have low self-esteem. They feel they haven’t lived up to their potential. They feel unworthy. They want to hide and disappear, to fade into the background and nurse their own hurts. We don’t associate them with pride, but they are still, at root, suffering from the same disease. They are still yoking happiness to accomplishment; it’s just that they are giving themselves a D– rather than an A+. They tend to be just as solipsistic, and in their own way as self-centered, only in a self-pitying and isolating way rather than in an assertive and bragging way. One key paradox of pride is that it often combines extreme self-confidence with extreme anxiety. The proud person often appears self-sufficient and egotistical but is really touchy and unstable. The proud person tries to establish self-worth by winning a great reputation, but of course this makes him utterly dependent on the gossipy and unstable crowd for his own identity. The proud person is competitive. But there are always other people who might do better. The most ruthlessly competitive person in the contest sets the standard that all else must meet or get left behind. Everybody else has to be just as monomaniacally driven to success. One can never be secure. As Dante put it, the “ardor to outshine / Burned in my bosom with a kind of rage.” Hungry for exaltation, the proud person has a tendency to make himself ridiculous. Proud people have an amazing tendency to turn themselves into buffoons, with a comb-over that fools nobody, with golden bathroom fixtures that impress nobody, with name-dropping stories that inspire nobody. Every proud man, Augustine writes, “heeds himself, and he who pleases himself seems great to himself. But he who pleases himself pleases a fool, for he himself is a fool when he is pleasing himself.”16 Pride, the minister and writer Tim Keller has observed, is unstable because other people are absentmindedly or intentionally treating the proud man’s ego with less reverence than he thinks it deserves. He continually finds that his feelings are hurt. He is perpetually putting up a front. The self-cultivator spends more energy trying to display the fact that he is happy—posting highlight reel Facebook photos and all the rest—than he does actually being happy. Augustine suddenly came to realize that the solution to his problem would come only after a transformation more fundamental than any he had previously entertained, a renunciation of the very idea that he could be the source of his own solution.

The Sixers killed my brother last night,” he said, almost whispering. At first, I was too stunned to reply. “You mean they killed his avatar?” I asked, even though I could already tell that wasn’t what he meant. Shoto shook his head. “No. They broke into his apartment, pulled him out of his haptic chair, and threw him off his balcony. He lived on the forty-third floor.” Shoto opened a browser window in the air beside us. It displayed a Japanese newsfeed article. I tapped it with my index finger, and the Mandarax software translated the text to English. The headline was ANOTHER OTAKU SUICIDE. The brief article below said that a young man, Toshiro Yoshiaki, age twenty-two, had jumped to his death from his apartment, located on the forty-third floor of a converted hotel in Shinjuku, Tokyo, where he lived alone. I saw a school photo of Toshiro beside the article. He was a young Japanese man with long, unkempt hair and bad skin. He didn’t look anything like his OASIS avatar. When Shoto saw that I’d finished reading, he closed the window. I hesitated a moment before asking, “Are you sure he didn’t really commit suicide? Because his avatar had been killed?” “No,

The 50-inch TCL Roku TV balances picture quality and value for money. And this is also what happens when America’s top TV brand and the world’s most popular streaming services content instantly and from one single place. You have everything on the Roku from live TV to game console or if you wish choose from over 1500 streaming channels. This is also the widest selection any smart TV has ever had. Find that perfect movie or TV show easily across top streaming channels by title, actor or director with the acclaimed Roku ‘Search’ feature. On the Roku, you will find more than 200,000 streaming movies and shows that you can choose from. The Remote is simple and puts control into the users’ hands and lets you instantly choose your preferred content from anywhere. Use the Roku Mobile app on your smartphone or tablet to control your Roku TV. Cast your personal media, videos and photos and even music to the big screen. With a 120 Hz refresh rate, the TV displays images at 1080p. It has a built-in wireless and not one, but three HDMI ports that provide a high definition multimedia interface. Wired calls the TCL Roku TV ‘The First Smart TV worth using’. The TCL TV has a Roku box built into it. It is a smart TV that includes the Roku operating system, which is also the favorite OS for most users. The OS is considered as one of the best compared to all the other products and definitely better than any other smart TVs. Recently, the Roku TV was displayed at the prestigious CES 2018 with a brand new OS. We all know a lot about Roku and there are lots of Roku fans across the United States. The recently released series of Roku OS 8 comes with some new and improved features. All Roku TVs have a ‘Tuner’ input that enables you to plug into an antenna and look for channels. In the new Roku TV, the ‘Tuner’ input is available on the Home screen itself; which makes it very easy to navigate to it without fumbling Once you select the ‘Tuner’ input it takes you to the last tuned channel You will also get a preview of what is playing right now The Roku OS 8 also comes with a Smart Guide where you will get a 14-day preview of what is available on all the channels that the Roku TV has scanned for Scroll through the Smart Guide to find out your next programming on the list The experience is fluid with no judder or lag; users will be able to scan through the Smart Guide very easily All you have to do is use the HD antenna and the Roku TV will pop up all the entertainment information In addition to the Smart Guide, there is also a new feature called ‘More Ways to Watch’ Anytime Roku identifies a content that is on the Smart Guide, which is also available on other Roku channels it is marked with a ‘*’. This indicates that there are more ways to watch a single programming content You also don’t have to wait to watch your favorite programming Wherever you see the ‘*’at any time on the Smart Guide, hit the ‘Ok’ button on your remote and watch it on another Roku channel instantly The pricing for the channel or programming is also displayed If you have a Roku set top box that is connected to a different TV (other than the Roku), there is a new feature in the ‘Search’ where Roku will tell you the channel on which a particular programming is available with the precise timing. The Roku OS 8 has already been pushed out to all the players and TVs. The same OS 8 version is available for Roku Set top boxes as well. If any problem in Roku setup, please call us @+1-877-302-5260

Why the most people and especially the girls prefer film actors and actresses photos to display their affection, is it the weakness or phobia, why do they not choose academic and prominent literary figures to show their soberness?

You agree that a business may pay Instagram to display your photos in connection with paid or sponsored content or promotions without any compensation to you. It certainly sounded like Instagram was going to try to profit off the budding prominence of its photographers and artists. But Krieger and Systrom were just as shocked as the users were.

Long ago, I realized that some dreams require...bending." She glanced into her camera display, and then, clearly satisfied with the photos she'd taken, stood upright to look straight at him. "Do they?" "Well, of course." "Or could other aspects of our lives bend to our dreams?

English and half Nigerian, Stacey had never set foot outside the United Kingdom. Her tight black hair was cut short and close to her head following the removal of her last weave. The smooth caramel skin suited the haircut well. Stacey’s work area was organised and clear. Anything not in the labelled trays was stacked in meticulous piles along the top edge of her desk. Not far behind was Detective Sergeant Bryant who mumbled a ‘Morning, Guv,’ as he glanced into The Bowl. His six foot frame looked immaculate, as though he had been dressed for Sunday school by his mother. Immediately the suit jacket landed on the back of his chair. By the end of the day his tie would have dropped a couple of floors, the top button of his shirt would be open and his shirt sleeves would be rolled up just below his elbows. She saw him glance at her desk, seeking evidence of a coffee mug. When he saw that she already had coffee he filled the mug labelled ‘World’s Best Taxi Driver’, a present from his nineteen-year-old daughter. His filing was not a system that anyone else understood but Kim had yet to request any piece of paper that was not in her hands within a few seconds. At the top of his desk was a framed picture of himself and his wife taken at their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. A picture of his daughter snuggled in his wallet. DS Kevin Dawson, the third member of her team, didn’t keep a photo of anyone special on his desk. Had he wanted to display a picture of the person for whom he felt most affection he would have been greeted by his own likeness throughout his working day. ‘Sorry I’m late, Guv,’ Dawson called as he slid into his seat opposite Wood and completed her team. He wasn’t officially late. The shift didn’t start until eight a.m. but she liked them all in early for a briefing, especially at the beginning of a new case. Kim didn’t like to stick to a roster and people who did lasted a very short time on her team. ‘Hey, Stacey, you gonna get me a coffee or what?’ Dawson asked, checking his mobile phone. ‘Of course, Kev, how’d yer like it: milk, two sugars and in yer lap?’ she asked sweetly, in her strong Black Country accent.

How do companies, producing little more than bits of code displayed on a screen, seemingly control users’ minds?” Nir Eyal, a prominent Valley product consultant, asked in his 2014 book, Hooked: How to Build Habit-Forming Products. “Our actions have been engineered,” he explained. Services like Twitter and YouTube “habitually alter our everyday behavior, just as their designers intended.” One of Eyal’s favorite models is the slot machine. It is designed to answer your every action with visual, auditory, and tactile feedback. A ping when you insert a coin. A ka-chunk when you pull the lever. A flash of colored light when you release it. This is known as Pavlovian conditioning, named after the Russian physiologist Ivan Pavlov, who rang a bell each time he fed his dog, until, eventually, the bell alone sent his dog’s stomach churning and saliva glands pulsing, as if it could no longer differentiate the chiming of a bell from the physical sensation of eating. Slot machines work the same way, training your mind to conflate the thrill of winning with its mechanical clangs and buzzes. The act of pulling the lever, once meaningless, becomes pleasurable in itself. The reason is a neurological chemical called dopamine, the same one Parker had referenced at the media conference. Your brain releases small amounts of it when you fulfill some basic need, whether biological (hunger, sex) or social (affection, validation). Dopamine creates a positive association with whatever behaviors prompted its release, training you to repeat them. But when that dopamine reward system gets hijacked, it can compel you to repeat self-destructive behaviors. To place one more bet, binge on alcohol—or spend hours on apps even when they make you unhappy. Dopamine is social media’s accomplice inside your brain. It’s why your smartphone looks and feels like a slot machine, pulsing with colorful notification badges, whoosh sounds, and gentle vibrations. Those stimuli are neurologically meaningless on their own. But your phone pairs them with activities, like texting a friend or looking at photos, that are naturally rewarding. Social apps hijack a compulsion—a need to connect—that can be even more powerful than hunger or greed. Eyal describes a hypothetical woman, Barbra, who logs on to Facebook to see a photo uploaded by a family member. As she clicks through more photos or comments in response, her brain conflates feeling connected to people she loves with the bleeps and flashes of Facebook’s interface. “Over time,” Eyal writes, “Barbra begins to associate Facebook with her need for social connection.” She learns to serve that need with a behavior—using Facebook—that in fact will rarely fulfill it.

Hungry for exaltation, the proud person has a tendency to make himself ridiculous. Proud people have an amazing tendency to turn themselves into buffoons, with a comb-over that fools nobody, with golden bathroom fixtures that impress nobody, with name-dropping stories that inspire nobody. Every proud man, Augustine writes, “heeds himself, and he who pleases himself seems great to himself. But he who pleases himself pleases a fool, for he himself is a fool when he is pleasing himself.”16 Pride, the minister and writer Tim Keller has observed, is unstable because other people are absentmindedly or intentionally treating the proud man’s ego with less reverence than he thinks it deserves. He continually finds that his feelings are hurt. He is perpetually putting up a front. The self-cultivator spends more energy trying to display the fact that he is happy—posting highlight reel Facebook photos and all the rest—than he does actually being happy.

What’s the first thing you do now before you visit a new restaurant for the first time or book a hotel room online? You probably ask a friend for a recommendation or you check out the reviews online. Now more than ever, the story your customers tell about you is a big part of your story. Word of mouth is accelerated and amplified. Trust is built digitally beyond the village. Reputations are built and lost in a moment. Opinions are no longer only shared one to one; they are broadcasted one to many, through digital channels. Those opinions live on as clues to your story. The cleanliness of your hotel bathrooms is no longer a secret. Guests’ unedited photos are displayed alongside a hotel brochure’s digital glossies. TripAdvisor ratings are proudly displayed by hotels and often say more about the standards guests can expect than do other, more established star ratings systems, such as the Forbes Travel Guide‘s ratings. Once-invisible brands and family-run hotels have had their businesses turned around by the stories their customers tell about them. “With 50 million reviews and counting, [TripAdvisor] is shaking the travel industry to its core.” —Nathan Labenz It turns out that people are more likely to trust the stories other people tell about you than to trust the well-lit Photoshopped images in your brochure. Reputation is how your idea and brand story are spread. A survey conducted by Chadwick Martin Bailey found that six in ten cruise customers said “they were less likely to book a cruise that received only one star.” There is no marketing more powerful than what one person says to another to recommend your brand. “Don’t waste money on expensive razors.” “Nice hotel; shame about the customer service.” In a world where online reputation can increase a hotel’s occupancy and revenue, trust has become a marketing metric. “[R]eputation has a real-world value.” —Rachel Botsman When we were looking to book a quiet, off-the-beaten-track hotel in Bali, the first place we looked wasn’t with the travel agents or booking.com. I jumped online and found that one of the area’s best-rated hotels on tripadvisor.com wasn’t a five-star resort but a modest family-run, three-star hotel that was punching well above its weight. This little fifteen-room hotel had more than 400 very positive reviews and had won a TripAdvisor Travellers Choice award. The reviews from the previous guests sealed the deal. The little hotel in Ubud was perfect. The reviews didn’t lie, and of course the place was fully booked with a steady stream of guests who knew where to look before taking a chance on a hotel room. Just a few years before, this $50-a-night hotel would have been buried amongst a slew of well-marketed five-star resorts. Today, thanks to a currency of trust, even tiny brands can thrive by doing the right thing and giving their customers a great story to tell.

Photos of the interior displayed a warren of rooms as worn and welcoming as a fairy-tale grandmother’s lap, and as rumpled.

The self-cultivator spends more energy trying to display the fact that he is happy—posting highlight reel Facebook photos and all the rest—than he does actually being happy.

Pride, the minister and writer Tim Keller has observed, is unstable because other people are absentmindedly or intentionally treating the proud man’s ego with less reverence than he thinks it deserves. He continually finds that his feelings are hurt. He is perpetually putting up a front. The self-cultivator spends more energy trying to display the fact that he is happy—posting highlight reel Facebook photos and all the rest—than he does actually being happy.

in the Internet age we form families so we can produce, distribute, and display digital photos of ourselves.

ave you thought of your family photos as a collection? One of my tables held photos of many generations of women in our family. I displayed them in a variety of frames, and the mother-daughter-granddaughter theme pulled the collection together. No one could resist stopping and taking a peek. Group as black-and-white photos or formal or informal in groups. Another idea is to keep the same frames but change the photos for the seasons. If you have a ton of photos, rotate them so you can enjoy your entire collection. And for a designer touch, add a surprise to your grouping-something that doesn't "match," such as that silly picture of your Aunt Lily. The idea is to share yourself with others in a way that is interesting. ant to change your room? Put two lamps of different sizes on a side table with books, a small clock, a pot of flowers, or a ceramic creation. These change the look and provide better lighting. Your coffee table is an ideal spot for a plant or a terracotta pot with candles. For a softer look, add a throw rug made of mohair or wool-something warm and inviting. And I don't know about you, but I like bookshelves in the living room-complete with books, family pictures, and a mixture of the things I collect. I also love to frame favorite scriptures to welcome me as I go from room to room.

And then there’s that thing I do with photo frames. I buy them. I display them around my home. The thing I never seem to get around to doing is filling them with photos of real-life people I know and love. In fact, if you come to my house, glance at a sofa table, and see a framed photo of an attractive person with cover-girl looks on par with Christie Brinkley’s, then turn to me and say, “Who’s this?” there’s a chance that I will answer, “Oh, that’s my mom” or “that’s my daughter.” There’s also a good chance I’ll shrug my shoulders and confess I have absolutely no earthly idea. That’s because you’ll be looking at a photo of some anonymous model hired by the company that sells the frames.

ay cheese!" If you're like most women I know, you have at least one family and friends photo area in your home. My entire home is practically a photo gallery! Walls, tabletops, and my refrigerator door are all crowded with the faces of people I love. My husband, Bob, my children, grandchildren, new friends, old friends you name 'em and I've displayed 'em. How precious are these gatherings of faces to us. And it's so fitting, isn't it? Because our family and friends' pictures tell the story of their lives.. .and ours! Cherish your family and friends and those priceless moments. Hold them close. Seek out your friends and enjoy their company more often. Treasure their faces, their characteristics, their uniqueness. But also make room for new people.. .and add them to the gallery in your heart. ant to hold a spring garden party? It can be a birthday, a graduation, or just a celebration. For invitations, glue inexpensive packets of seeds to index cards and write in your party information. Pass them out or stick them in envelopes and mail them. Decorate a picnic table with an umbrella and bright floral sheets or vinyl cloths. Why not decorate the awnings and porch posts to make it even more festive? Flowers, flowers, and flowers everywhere create a bright, aromatic space. If you're limber and energetic or you're inviting kids, spread sheets on the ground for an authentic, old-fashioned picnic. A little red wagon or painted tub with a potted plant makes a fun off-to-the-side "centerpiece." Use a clean watering can for your lemonade pitcher. Engage your imagination and have fun entertaining.

I saw myself as I’d just been captured for posterity. Little old lady with possum-gray hair falling across her face. Baja T-shirt scrunched up to expose little-old-lady midriff. Toothy shark slipper raised in elderly menace. How soon would the photo show up on the internet? Like a California-road version of those strange “Walmart People” pictures that are always popping up on Facebook. Would I be displayed between a droopy-jeans man bent over to expose a crack the size of the San Andreas fault and an oversized woman bulging out of a thong as she licked a carton of strawberry ice cream?

WERE YOU SILENT WHEN WE DIED? Did you see photos in sixty-eight Of children with their hair becoming rust: Sickly patches nestled on those small heads, Then falling off like rotten leaves on dust? Imagine children with arms like toothpicks. With footballs for bellies and skin stretched thin. It was kwashiorkor--difficult word, A word that was not quite ugly enough, a sin. You needn't imagine. There were photos Displayed in gloss-filled pages of your Life. Did you see? Did you feel sorry briefly, Then turn round to hold your lover or wife? Their skin had turned the tawny of weak tea And showed cobwebs of vein and brittle bone; Naked children laughing, as if the man Would not take photos and then leave, alone.

TRAIL DESCRIPTION The Colorado Trail begins across the road from the parking lot on Waterton Canyon Road at mile 0.0 (5,522 feet) Continue past the interpretive display and through another parking area that is closed to the public. Bear right at a fork in the road at mile 0.4 (5,522), staying on the main dirt road for the next 6.2 miles. There is no camping permitted along this stretch of trail and dogs are not allowed. At mile 6.2 (5,786), there is a turnoff on the right for Strontia Springs Dam, worthy of a photo, plus vault toilet and water. The CT bears to the left. Go straight at the intersection with a side road on the left that is also Roxborough Trail at mile 6.4 (5,889). Dogs can join the CT at this point. At mile 6.6 (5,931), where the main road curves sharply to the right, leave the main road and go left onto a smaller road. At mile 6.7 (6,024), there is an intersection. Bear to the left and follow the single-track trail. The trail begins to climb more steeply from here.

I suspect it’s the only photo ever taken of Charlie, the one where he’s braced up dead and on display. They used to prop fellows like that in store windows for a week or two, something the Chamber of Commerce thought up to bring customers downtown,

étaler /etale/ I. vtr 1. (déployer) to spread out [carte, document, drap]; to lay [nappe, moquette]; to spread [tapis]; (Culin) to roll [sth] out [pâte]; (Jeux) to lay down [cartes] 2. (éparpiller) to scatter [papiers, affaires, livres] 3. (répandre) to spread [beurre, pâté, colle]; to apply [peinture, maquillage, pommade] 4. (échelonner) to spread [travaux, réformes, remboursements] (sur "over"); to stagger [départs, horaires, vacances] (sur "over") 5. (exhiber) to flaunt [richesse, pouvoir, succès]; to show off [savoir, charmes]; to parade [misère] • ~ au grand jour | to bring [sth] out into the open [divergences, vie privée] 6. (montrer) to display [articles, marchandise] 7. ○(faire tomber) to lay [sb] out (familier) [personne] II. vpr 1. (se répandre) [beurre, peinture] to spread • peinture qui s'étale difficilement | paint which does not spread very well 2. (s'échelonner) [programme, paiement, embouteillage] to be spread (sur "over"); [horaires, départs] to be staggered (sur "over") 3. (s'exhiber) [richesse] to be flaunted • s'~ (au grand jour) | [corruption, lâcheté] to be plain for all to see • une photo/un titre qui s'étale en première page d'un journal | a photo/a headline that is splashed all over the front page of a newspaper • une affiche qui s'étale sur tous les murs de la ville | a poster that is splashed all over the walls in town 4. (s'étendre) [paysage] to spread out; [ville] to spread out, to sprawl • s'~ jusqu'à la mer | to spread out as far as the sea 5. (se vautrer) [personne] to sprawl; (prendre de la place) [personne] to spread out • s'~ sur le divan | to sprawl on the couch 6. ○(tomber) to go sprawling (familier) • s'~ de tout son long | to fall flat on one's face 7. ○(échouer) to fail • s'~ or se faire ~ à un examen | to fail ou flunk (familier) an exam

I Am a Tinder Guy Holding a Fish and I Will Provide for You Photo No. 1 Behold my mackerel. I have caught it for you and it is for you to eat. Love me, for I shall fill your dinner table with many fish such as this one in the days to come. During our time together, you will never go hungry or fear famine. You will never want for trout, salmon, or otherwise. I will sustain you with my love and with my fish. Photo No. 2 As you may have suspected, my talents do not end at fishing. I excel in many areas. Working out, for instance. In this picture I display for you my abdomen. Abdomens are important for fishing excursions and mirror selfies, such as this one. I flex for you. What do you think? Photo No. 3 To get a better idea of me, here is a closeup selfie of my face with a high-contrast filter. In it, I make an expression like that young boy star Justin Bieber, but, rest assured, I am a man. I crease my forehead and raise my eyebrows, like a man. In my gaze, you can see the soul of a man. My mouth is as straight as the line I will walk for you. Peer into the depths of my heart, a small ocean of the meatiest haddock. Photo No. 4 Feast your eyes upon my Mitsubishi. In it, we will traverse the continent running your errands. Tell me about an appointment and I will offer you a ride faster than anyone has ever offered before. This and many other adventures await us. Name an ocean and I will drive to it and fish for you there. The farthest reaches of the shoreline are within our grasp. Photo No. 5 Worry not about the woman with the face scribbled out in this picture of me in formal wear. She is no one. Cast your eyes upon me as I might cast a fishing line into a bountiful river. Look unto my face, for it is chiseled. This is the face of a man who would never scribble out your face and upload the picture onto a dating app. This is the face of a man with an abdomen rock-hard and fishing rods numerous. Photo No. 6 Now I am spreading my arms wide in front of a landscape. Behold my mountain, my sky, my clouds, my wingspan. These are the arms with which I will hold you during long, dark nights. I will claim you as I have claimed this landscape, as I have claimed myriad salmon. I will fight for you as I have fought for the right to so many weight machines already in use by someone else at the Y.M.C.A. My arms ache for you, and I have nothing left but to stretch them out and fly home to your heart. For mine are the wings of an albatross that shall descend upon the water’s surface, pluck out the ripest flounder, and place it at your feet as a small offering of my love, if you swipe right.

It was just as easy to ignore the magic of modern technology. There was nothing like a three-week sojourn in the ancient world to help one appreciate human progress. People rarely gave a thought to the miracle of toilet paper, indoor plumbing, food and water on demand, air-conditioning, and a thousand other conveniences that now seemed mundane. Few even took much time to truly ponder and appreciate the latest wonders, spectacular as they might be. Pocket-sized devices that could retrieve trillions of pages of information across the world, enable video chats with others thousands of miles away, take and display videos and photos, and perform countless other tasks.

wasted the first hour driving around aimlessly until I ended up at the mall. Why were stores full of such worthless shit? I poked through a display of calendars, and grabbed one full of photos of puppies. As soon as I got out of the store, I tore the calendar up and threw it in the trash. How would a calendar make him happy? How would any of this crap make him happy?

Let's do an experiment. Half a meter away from the screen, observe a lady's hand and a photo of the lady's hand through a mobile phone screen with 2K and 4K resolution respectively. We can feel a huge difference in the visualization of the three scenes, not only between 4K and the eye, but also between 2K and 4K. That is because in the microcosm (we imagine the lady's hand as a display), the smallest unit of the lady's hand is the skin cells, compared with the smallest unit of the screen display pixels, which differ by several orders of magnitude. This leads to the composition of the macrocosm being like a two-way street. That is to say, under the condition of not being affected by vision and distance factors, when the ppi is continuously increased to infinitely close to the smallest constituent unit of the surface of the object, its visual effect will continue to converge to the real object, but there will always be a certain difference from the real object.

Rockwell’s work at the Oscars underscores the fact that the most important ingredients in any celebration are the people. Emotions are naturally contagious, and joy especially so. We “catch” it from one another through facial expressions, tone of voice, and gestures. (I think this helps explain why a photo booth is such a joyful addition to a party, especially if you display the photos as they’re printed: it calls attention to the joyful faces of the group.)

The Streisand effect applies to an even more specific situation: when you unintentionally draw more attention to something when you try to hide it. It’s named for entertainer Barbra Streisand, who sued a photographer and website in 2003 for displaying an aerial photo of her mansion,

Old baseball photos hold a special fascination too.  One of them showing the roof top stands on 20th Street is on display in the Baseball Hall of Fame.  If you get to Cooperstown, take a good look at it. Our house is near the middle of the block.  The one with the lamppost in front, two doors down from the enclosed porch.  Two little kids (Gerry and I) are perched on the steps in front of it.  I like to think that Dad is up there on the roof.  Look for a tall lean guy standing alongside the stands, counting the house.

This period of the internet has been labeled Web 1.0—a name that works backward from the term Web 2.0, which was coined by the writer and user-experience designer Darcy DiNucci in an article called “Fragmented Future,” published in 1999. “The Web we know now,” she wrote, “which loads into a browser window in essentially static screenfuls, is only an embryo of the Web to come. The first glimmerings of Web 2.0 are beginning to appear….The Web will be understood not as screenfuls of texts and graphics but as a transport mechanism, the ether through which interactivity happens.” On Web 2.0, the structures would be dynamic, she predicted: instead of houses, websites would be portals, through which an ever-changing stream of activity—status updates, photos—could be displayed. What you did on the internet would become intertwined with what everyone else did, and the things other people liked would become the things that you would see. Web 2.0 platforms like Blogger and Myspace made it possible for people who had merely been taking in the sights to start generating their own personalized and constantly changing scenery. As more people began to register their existence digitally, a pastime turned into an imperative: you had to register yourself digitally to exist.

When you copy someone else's content it's like displaying a picture frame with the photo that came with it when you bought it. It looks good but it's not you, and everyone knows it.

The photo of Quang Duc’s self-immolation triggered something primal and universal in people. It goes beyond politics or religion. It taps into a far more fundamental component of our lived experience: the ability to endure extraordinary amounts of pain. I can’t even sit up straight at dinner for more than a few minutes. Meanwhile, this guy was fucking burning alive and he didn’t even move. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t scream. He didn’t smile or wince or grimace or even open his eyes to take one last look at the world he had chosen to leave behind. There was a purity to his act, not to mention an absolutely stunning display of resolve. It is the ultimate example of mind over matter, of will over instinct. And despite the horror of it all, it somehow remains . . . inspiring.

I worked my way around the Tidal Basin to a Starbucks, intending to grab a quick bite, but as I was about to enter, I spotted my face on the TV mounted above the counter. I was on the morning news. The crawl at the bottom of the screen read: HUNT CONTINUES FOR TWEEN SUSPECT IN WHITE HOUSE BOMBING. Even worse, they were displaying the lousy photo from my fake St. Smithen’s student ID. So not only had I been outed as the assassin, but it had been done with the least attractive picture of me possible.

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I felt the weight of that responsibility even more now that I had seen firsthand what life here had been like. I took the donuts and juice to a little table we had set up in the Blue Room. I opened the box and set out some paper cups. Matthews was the first to arrive at the table. “Thank you, Carrie Jo.” “My pleasure. Have you heard anything from C. M. Lowell on those mantelpieces? I know it’s only been a few weeks, but TD is going to need to install them before they cut the molding for the rest of the room.” “Right. I’ll put a call in to them this morning. I’d forgotten about that. I’ve got some leads on paintings for the two main parlors. One is pretty incredible; I emailed you photos of both of them. Don’t forget, we’ve got boxes of paintings in the attic. And good news—we have air up there now, too. If you can’t find what you want, there is plenty of room in the budget, but many of the local families are willing to allow us to use their pieces. With all credits, of course.” I couldn’t figure Hollis Matthews out: one minute he was cold and distant, and the next he was kind and friendly. One thing I knew for sure—he was always a man with a plan. “Great. I’ll check out those pictures and let you know. I’ve got some plans ready for the ladies’ parlor, including a significant display of Augusta Evans books. I’ll have those to you by the end of next week.” With a nod of his salt-and-pepper head, he walked away, probably off to call about those mantelpieces. I invited the interns to have a donut and took a few minutes to get to know them. There were two Rachels, Rachel Kowalski and Rachel McGhee, and James Pittman. All of them were excellent archaeological students who had earned their spots on our team. I’d Skyped with them individually before I came to Mobile, but this was the first time we’d met in person. “Well, guys, are you ready for the grand tour? It’s the same one visitors will take once the museum is open.” We started in the ladies’ parlor, continued on to the men’s parlor and the Blue Room, and then went up the opposite side of the hall to the servants’ waiting area, the music room and the ballroom. There were of course a myriad of

filling the form in.  She held up the photo and matched it with the wall, a tired, thinlooking girl looking out at her. It was set to the right of Oliver’s. They could have had them taken at the same time. She’d ask Mary.  Grace had said she had only been with Oliver — or at least that’s what the answers suggested. She’d have to ask her to make sure. It wasn’t unknown for homeless people to get into disagreements over love. When you’ve got nothing much to lose, the law doesn’t come into play when you’re asking yourself if you’re prepared to kill for someone.  Grace also admitted to being a regular heroin user and agreed to have an examination. She also said she didn’t have any diseases as far as she knew. She was the same age, too. Eighteen. Had they known each other before they’d become homeless? She’d have to find Grace to know the truth.  She went back to Oliver’s file and checked the date next to his signature. It said the seventh of September. Just under two months ago.  Jamie leafed to the next and only other page in the file. It was another shabbily photocopied sheet. Mary must have been doing them on her printer-scanner at home, creating them on her computer. She really did care. The sheet displayed a pixelated outline of the human body — no doubt an image pulled off the web and then stretched out to fill a page. The resolution was too low to keep any sort of detail, but the shape still came through okay. It was a human with their arms out, feet apart. At the top of the page, in Comic Sans, ‘Examination Sheet’ was written as the title.  In appropriately illegible handwriting for a doctor, notes had been jotted around the body. Parts had been circled with lines being drawn to the corresponding note. She read words like ‘graze’ and ‘lesion’. ‘Rash’ cropped up a few times. But there didn’t look to be anything sinister going on. The crooks of the elbows, as well as the ankles, were all circled several times but nothing was written at the sides. Those areas didn’t need explaining, though underneath, as if encapsulating the entire exam were the words ‘No signs of infection’. So he’d been relatively careful, then. Clean needles, at least. Under that, there was a little paragraph recommending a general blood panel, but overall, Oliver seemed to be in decent health. Nothing had been prescribed, it seemed.  She checked Grace’s and found it to be much the same, complete with triple circles around the elbows and ankles. Though her genital area had also been circled and the word ‘Rash’ had been written. At the bottom, a prescription had been written for azithromycin.  Jamie clicked her teeth together, rummaging in her brain for the name. Was it a gonorrhoea medication or chlamydia? She knew it was for an STD, she just couldn’t remember which. But that meant that where she’d put down ‘1’ for number of

I did love being an uncle to their kids, eight-year-old Harrison, six-year-old Violet, and fourteen-month-old Ethan. Any day now they'd add that fourth to their brood, and my mother was constantly pestering me about catching up, as if we were in some kind of reproductive race. In fact, she kept one section on her mantel purposefully empty, and she claimed she was waiting for me to get married and have kids so she could put something there. Every so often when I'm at her place, she'll find a moment to stare at it and sigh longingly, or dust it off with a rag. Last Christmas, I gave her a framed photo of Renzo and me and told her that was as good as it was going to get. She harrumphed, but she kept the photo on proud display. She loved that dog almost as much as I did.

How long should it take for an app icon to animate up from its place on the home screen to fill the entire display? How far should you have to drag your finger on the screen for it to be possible to interpret the touch as a swipe gesture? How much should a two-finger pinch gesture allow you to zoom in on an image in the Photos app? The answers to all of these questions were numbers, and might be 0.35 seconds for the app animation, or 30 pixels for the swipe gesture, or 4x for photo zooming, but the number was never the point. The values themselves weren’t provably better in any engineering sense. Rather, the numbers represented sensible defaults, or pleasing effects, or a way to give people what they meant rather than what they did. It takes effort to find what these things are, which is appropriate, since the etymological root of “heuristic” is eureka, which (of course) comes from the Greek and means “to find.” This is where that word, “eureka,” actually figured into our development process, since good heuristics don’t come in brilliant flashes, but only after patient searches, and it wasn’t always clear to us that we had found the right heuristic even when we had. We arrived at our final decisions only with judgment and time. Heuristics are like this. They’re subjective.

There is a big problem that arises from keeping the company of those with limited perceptions. At first you'll think you're being kind, or doing people a favour, but the problem you'll eventually face, comes with the realization that we exist to other people not always as we are; but very often, we exist to people as THEY are. So, imagine taking photos with a primitive lens: the primitive lens will capture your view only within its own capacity to do so, and you end up having an image that does not display a true understanding of what it shot. The same thing happens when you allow yourself to be surrounded by primitive mindsets. And you must not do that to yourself; you must not allow all these images of you floating around, none of which do you any justice at all.

On Web 2.0, the structures would be dynamic, she predicted; instead of houses, websites would be portals, through which an ever-changing stream of activity—status updates, photos—could be displayed. What you did on the internet would become intertwined with what everyone else did, and the things other people liked would become the things that you would see. Web 2.0 platforms like Blogger and MySpace made it possible for people who had mearly been taking in the sights to start generating their own personalized and constantly changing scenery. As more people began to register their existence digitally, a pastime turned into an imperative: you had to register yourself digitally to exist.

Keynes said he had seen a newspaper contest that displayed a hundred photos, each of a pretty face. But the women in the photos were not the contestants in this unusual form of beauty contest; the readers of the newspaper were. They were asked to mail to the newspaper their list of the six prettiest faces. The person whose list most closely matched the most popular faces as revealed by all the lists together would win the contest prize.17 Keynes pointed out that the optimal strategy is not to pick the six prettiest faces based on one’s own opinion. Instead, it makes more sense to pick the six that one thinks other people would find prettiest. But this strategy is not optimal either, if we carry the model of mind to the next step in the chain. One should pick the faces that one thinks that others think that others find the prettiest. So, in a rational world, one might suppose that investors, trying to gauge what other investors think other investors are thinking, will try to determine the right thing to think about the speculative investments. However, investors do not necessarily follow this strategy, even if all investors are rational and know that all investors are rational.