#yale press

[doodles-bi-tea]

claim your “I was a Lewis Pullman fan before Thunderbolts” ticket here! (in case he blows up in popularity any more than he might have after things like TGM and Lessons in Chemistry…)

[garadinervi]

Josef Albers, Interaction of Color, Yale University Press, New Haven, CT, 1963 [Walker Art Center, Minneapolis, MN. Art: © The Josef and Anni Albers Foundation / ARS, New York]

[meganwhalenturner]

While at Elliot Bay Books, my ears perked up at a casual mention of poetry by “some woman from ancient Sumer or Ur.”

Was it Enheduana???? Yes!

I’m still bummed I missed the exhibit on Enheduana at the Morgan Library.

So, even though I had *just* said that I wasn’t ever going to haul paper books around in my suitcase again, I bought this translation by Sophus Helle.

I’m so glad I did. It’s a great book. Great subject, great writing. I can’t comment on the accuracy of the translation, but the poetry is knockout and the essays are accessible and fascinating.

[thurstongrey]

[uwmspeccoll]

Wood Engraving Wednesday

PAUL NASH

British painter, war artist, designer, illustrator, and wood engraver Paul Nash (1889-1946) was influential in the development of modern English art and was a prominent member of the Society of Wood Engravers that was co-founded by his younger brother John Nash in 1920.

In the 1920s, he began to produce wood-engraved illustrations for works by noted English authors, including this collection of character studies, Cotswold Characters by English poet and playwright John Drinkwater (1882-1937), published in New Haven, Connecticut, by Yale University Press in 1921. These were Nash's first set of wood engravings to be published as book illustrations.

Besides publishing his first wood-engraved book illustrations, 1921 was a very significant year in Nash's short life. In that year, Nash's close friend, the artist and designer Claud Lovat Fraser, died; Nash displayed his textile designs at an exhibition at Heal's in London; and he began exhibiting a series of health issues related to war trauma that we would call PTSD today, which occasioned his move to Dymchurch in southeast England for his health, where he would produce an important series of seawall and seascape paintings.

Our copy of Cotswold Characters is another donation from the estate of our late friend Dennis Bayuzick.

View other posts related to Paul Nash.

View other books from the collection of Dennis Bayuzick.

View more posts with wood engravings!

[downthetubes]

Manga: A New History of Japanese Comics by Eike Exner announced for 2025

Yale University Press have announced they will be publishing Will Eisner Comic Industry Awards-winning author Eike Exner new history of Japanese comics next August

Yale University Press have announced they will be publishing Will Eisner Comic Industry Awards-winning author Eike Exner new 256-page history of Japanese comics next August. The publisher of Manga: A New History of Japanese Comics describes the book as “the groundbreaking story of Japanese comics from their nineteenth-century origins to the present day. “The immensely popular art form of manga,…

[expendablemudge]

This #MLKDay get yourself a first ever bio of JOHN LEWIS: In Search of the Beloved Community, a "Citty Upon a Hill" longed from since the time of Winthrop, via Yale University press

My 5* #BookReview:

[youhavereachedtheendofpie]

Hang on, Princeton is in New Jersey?????

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Sahar Tartak

Published: Aug 29, 2023

Like many campus clubs, the Yale Free Press (YFP) is a decades-old college paper that has risen and fallen with the times. During the pandemic, the YFP nearly died. Last year, an ambitious editor-in-chief brought it back, but unfortunately felt it was necessary to use the pseudonym “Gentleman Jack.” He wasn’t alone—many writers also went by pseudonyms. Why? The Yale Free Press is right-of-center. Journalists are not immune to fear of retaliation for wrongthink, even at (especially at?) the university level. To espouse an opinion deemed unacceptable by campus activists has a real potential to cause consequences for the writer. This year I’m counting on the maturity of my fellow classmates; I’m betting that by putting my real name on the masthead, I can encourage others to own their opinions, and to treat those with differing opinions with kindness and respect.

Yale has developed a reputation as a place where free thought is met with contempt. Undergraduates encircled, vilified, and yelled at a professor who told them they should not need administrators to create a sensitive environment for them. Law school administrators attempted to coerce a student into signing a pre-written apology for using the phrase “trap house” in a party invitation. Multiple federal judges boycotted clerkship applicants from Yale Law School because of its failure to uphold the value of free speech. The university should be a place for vigorous intellectual debate and conversation, but support for this seems to be dwindling as students increasingly demand safe spaces and trigger warnings. Many would gladly trade in their curiosity for conformity if given the chance. It appears some already have. 

Yet, as a Yale student and editor-in-chief of the Yale Free Press, I do not see my campus only in terms of horror stories. Nor should I. Last fall, I published an op-ed in the Wall Street Journal criticizing critical race theory in public schools, followed by interviews with Fox, Newsmax, Quillette, and more. I found a home in the William F. Buckley Institute, a bastion of viewpoint diversity on our campus, and the Yale Political Union, a confederation of primarily conservative debate societies. I wrote for both the Yale Free Press and the better-known Yale Daily News, espousing the benefits of conservative religious practices and even criticizing a free speech debacle at Stanford Law School. 

Fortunately, opportunities abound in the viewpoint-diversity network: internships, travel, and high-profile political meetings. On campus, life is good. Friends who disagree with my politics accept me and are too curious to be intolerant. If anything, they view heterodoxy as exotic, exciting, and even a tad rebellious. Professors and administrators are also kind; they have treated me with a sense of care that I can only call familial. 

At Yale, as is usually the case in life, the truth of free speech's status lies somewhere between the well-publicized horror stories and rainbow showers described above. It lies in a generation of students who are sympathetic to shouting down controversial speakers and installing cameras in bedrooms to prevent sexual assault, while others still self-censor for fear of becoming the main character in a cancellation story themselves. It lies in campus clubs quietly rejecting students because they are spooked by their political views. It lies in the politicization of every campus institution — tutoring centers, resident life, and religious groups. It lies in freshman orientation programs that refuse to address crime because to do so would be “racist” and to teach students preventative measures against sexual assault because that is “victim-blaming.”

Yale’s campus culture right now is mostly normal, and I am consistently impressed by those with whom I share a campus. I am insistent on the goodness of our students and faculty alike and the goodness of human beings in general. I am insistent on the insatiable appetite of my truth-seeking peers, who are more interested in facts than dogma. I am insistent on a shared common sense, which recognizes the absurdity of ignoring literal safety measures for the sake of political correctness. 

For these reasons and more, I am ramping up the Yale Free Press as its editor-in-chief. We are recruiting more writers, and we intend to write more this year. We are tapping into resources for student journalists and creating those resources as we go. For instance, we formed an online network of student journalists from campuses across the country to share tips, opportunities, and offer support. We will cover what other campus papers do not: the issues of speech that lie in between space—those that require nuance and complexity to understand. The “exotic” philosophies— conservatism, classical liberalism, religious traditionalism, and so on—that sharp students are fascinated by but shielded from. The common-sense questions that everyone seems afraid to ask. At the Yale Free Press, we are choosing to treat university students as the adults we are, adults who are capable of grappling with contentious topics with maturity and intellectual rigor. 

Yale is a renowned university and a one-way ticket to public influence. Its students must question the day-to-day happenings on campus, and they cannot ask questions if these happenings go unnoticed. Future leaders ought to be immersed in uncertainty if they hope to create something positive one day. That is the purpose of higher education. It is neither professional development nor social justice bootcamp. It is time to think. 

On our university's coat of arms, the words “light and truth” are written in Hebrew and Latin. The Yale Free Press has an ambitious goal of keeping readers out of the dark by relentlessly reporting the truth, and we intend to succeed.

==

You may remember Sahar from 2022 when she battled race essentialism, implemented under the misnomer "antiracism."

[theblackestofsuns]

Unpacking My Library: Architects And Their Books (2009)

Jo Steffens, ed.

Yale University Press

[roughghosts]

Looking back at a year of reading: 2024 edition

Each year when I review the list of books that I have read, I face the same challenge deciding what to include and what to leave out of a final accounting. As usual there are the books that I know, even as I am reading them, will be among my favourites for the year. Just as I know the ones I don’t like, the ones I won’t even mention or take the time to review. Basically, everything else that I…

[garadinervi]

Converging Lines: Eva Hesse and Sol LeWitt, Edited by Lucy R. Lippard, Blanton Museum of Art in association with Yale University Press, New Haven, MA, and London, 2014

Essays: Lucy R. Lippard, Veronica Roberts, and Kirsten Swenson

Exhibitions: Blanton Museum of Art, The University of Texas at Austin, Austin, TX, February 23, 2014 – May 18, 2014; Cleveland Museum of Art, Cleveland, OH, April 3 – July 31, 2016

Cover Art: Eva Hesse, Untitled, (gouache, watercolor, silver paint, and pencil on paper), 1968. Cleveland Museum of Art, Cleveland, OH. Private collection. © The Estate of Eva Hesse. Courtesy Hauser & Wirth)

[archivist-dragonfly]

Book 531

Five hundred years of book design

Alan Bartram

Yale University Press 2001

For a book on book design, this has a very unusual trim size of 7” x 12”. Lovely to be sure, but I doubt I have another book of the same dimensions. It’s neither here nor there really, but you just know the book design involved a lot of conversations. And I find it interesting they landed on this. So, what ends up happening is that the text is confined to the tops of the pages with the examples below. And it works. It allows for full two-page layout examples while simultaneously allowing a continuation of text across two pages. If it were a more square book, you wouldn’t be able to do that. So, I get it, and I think it says a lot about the author/designer. Alan Bertram, a distinguished book designer and typographer, looks at questions of form and function through history, providing his personal takes on successes and failures, while also providing a brief summary of 500 years of book design and technology. It’s a good time.

[thegirlwiththelantern]

2024 Poetry & Novels-in-Verse

It’s wonderful to see so many poets whose work I love have releases this year. And I’m very hopeful that other collections and novels on this list become artists I love too. Ædnan: An Epic by Linnea Axelsson, trans. Saskia Vogel | 25 / 01 / 24 – Pushkin Press In Northern Sámi, the word Ædnan means the land, the ground, the earth. In this majestic verse novel, Linnea Axelsson chronicles the…

[punkshort]

Don't Give Up On Me

Pairing: Harry Castillo x f!reader (materialists)

Summary: Should you give up on the man you love when he disappoints you, or do you give him another chance?

Warnings: language, tons of angst, smut (18+ MDNI), unprotected piv sex, hurt/comfort, making men beg and cry

WC: idk I wrote it on my phone - maybe 2K?

A/N: sorry if this is premature. I can't help it. If we got his name wrong I'll just go back and fix it later okay byeeee

Tears that have been burning the backs of your eyes for the last two hours finally threaten to spill down your cheeks now that you're in the privacy of his town car.

Harry sits next to you, still talking on his phone like he has been all night while his driver takes you back to his penthouse. It's nestled in the heart of the city with a breathtaking view, but it's the very last place you want to be right now because you know what you'll have to do once you get there.

You're going to end things, once and for all.

It's been on your mind for a while, but you always talk yourself out of it. You make excuses for him, cover for him, and lie to him when you say it doesn't matter, but it does. It really fucking does.

You know he's a busy man. You've always known this. But foolishly, some part of you believed he would change. That after countless fights, he would eventually understand what's important to you, and it wasn't his money or his things — it was him.

All you ever want is for him to just be there when it counts, and he almost always lets you down. But tonight? Tonight was special. He knew it, too. You told him for weeks how excited you were to receive this award for all the hard work at your firm.

When it came time to accept it and give your speech in front of three hundred people, you excitedly climbed to the stage to take your prize. Your eyes swept around the room, searching for the only person you wanted to see, and your heart sunk when you realized he had stepped out of the room to take a work call.

Again.

It was in that moment you decided you wouldn't put up with it again.

The car stops in the usual spot outside his building. The driver opens your door and you slip out with a tight smile. Harry's right behind you, wrapping up his call, but you ignore him. You charge into the lobby and stab at the call button for the elevator. If he notices your anger, he doesn't let on. He laughs to whoever is on the other end while you adjust the strap of your dress with a huff.

Once the elevator arrives, he finally hangs up. You step inside and he presses in the code for the penthouse on the keypad, then the car smoothly lifts. You stare at the screen above the door while Harry scrolls on his phone, still completely unaware when he asks, "What's your boss's name again?"

You clench your jaw and fight back tears before you answer him. He grunts.

"Thought so. Went to Yale with him. Never liked the guy."

Your award feels so much heavier in your hand now. Like it's trying to pull you back down to the lobby and stop you from doing what you need to do. But you adjust it and lift your chin a little higher — you need to do this.

The doors slide open to Harry's massive, extravagant living room. You step out and walk right past it all — past the ornate kitchen, the priceless art, the expensive marble — through the long, perfectly decorated hallway to his bedroom.

You go right to the closet and grab an empty gym bag, tossing your award inside. You hear him somewhere in the room removing his watch, cufflinks and ring while you stuff your bag with whatever clothes you can think of. It's only when you exit the closet and storm into the bathroom that he notices something is wrong.

"What are you doing?"

You sniffle and sweep your toiletries off the counter, tossing them directly into your bag.

"I'm leaving."

Your voice is a little shaky but it sounds better than you expect. He watches you from the doorway as you move erratically around the room collecting your belongings.

"Wh— why?" he finally asks. You're grabbing your things from the shower when you hear it. He sounds sad, and maybe if it were any other day, you would have felt bad. But that day? That day, it just pisses you off.

You whirl back around and drop your bag on the floor to pin him with a glare. He's in the doorway still wearing the clothes from tonight: pressed black pants and a crisp white shirt, although now the collar is undone and his tie is abandoned somewhere in his bedroom.

"Why?" you repeat. Your tone is so icy, you hardly recognize it. "You — weren't — fucking — there!"

On the last word, you step forward and shove him. He stumbles backwards a bit, but only from shock.

"Baby—"

You shake your head and lean down grab your bag.

"Don't," is all you say when you brush past him. You throw the bag on your bed, half the contents spilling out, but you don't care. You're shaking like a leaf when you round the bed to your side and begin to grab your things from the nightstand.

"I'm sorry," he says softly from the other side of the room. You ignore him and keep working. "It was important. I told you—"

"And this was important to me!"

You snap your head up to yell at him with tears streaming down your face. His expression falls and he reaches out, but you take a step back.

"You're right. I'm — I'm sorry. I'll do better, I prom—"

"No! I'm done! I'm tired of having the same fights with you. I was so fucking stupid to think you'd ever choose me over... over all this."

You gesture broadly around his room but you mean his penthouse in general. He gets it. It's not the first time you've fought over this.

He watches you quietly while you continue to pack with shaky hands. When you're nearly done, he speaks again.

"I do want you," he says, "more than all this. I just — I want to make sure we're comfortable. I want to make sure we have enough so you never have to work again—"

"But I like working! I love what I do! I've never wanted to quit, I've never wanted anything from you... not your money or your cars or your clothes. I just..."

You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose.

"I only ever wanted you," you mumble.

You bury your face in your hands as he crosses the room. You feel him standing in front of you and you know deep down, you're done for.

But still, you try.

"You have me," he says. His hands gently slide up and down your arms, but you keep your face hidden in your palms. "It won't always be like this. It's the busy season, that's all. It's... it's temporary. And then we can do whatever you want. We can go to Paris or Italy or Bora Bora... anywhere. It's up to you."

He takes another step closer and carefully plants a kiss to the top of your head. And you fucking let him.

"I'm so sorry, baby," he breathes. Your hands drop to your sides. "I should've been there, you're absolutely right. I'll never do something like that again, you have my word."

You sigh and finally tip your chin up to look him in the eye. It's kind of not fair how handsome he is on top of everything else: a thick head of wavy dark hair, gorgeous brown eyes, a greying beard he's self-conscious about but you find absolutely endearing. If there was one man on the planet who had it all, it's Harry Castillo.

He gives you a small smile and pinches your chin between his fingers when he sees your resolve crumbling.

"Can I make it up to you?" he asks.

You take a deep breath and try to scrape together what dignity you have left.

"No," you reply. His smile falters but otherwise he doesn't move. You take a step back but it's not far enough.

"I told you. I'm done."

Right when you go to turn and pick up your bag, he drops to his knees and wraps his arms around your waist.

"Please," he begs, gazing up at you from the floor. Your eyes widen with shock at this man who is quite literally worth billions falling to his knees, pleading with you to stay. "Don't go. I'll do anything. Please, I-I can't — I won't be —"

"Harry—"

"Please," he says again, urgently. You see his throat bob and his eyes fill with tears. "I'll do whatever you want. I-I just— I don't think I can do this—"

He swallows and presses his face against your stomach. His eyes slide closed and he breathes in deep while you're still struggling to catch up.

"I'll do anything," he whispers, but this time, his hands tighten around your waist. His jaw falls open and he mouths at your middle while a tear sneaks down his cheek.

It shouldn't affect you. You should push him away, take your bag, and go. Instead, you find yourself leaning forward into his hold.

"Harry..."

Your voice holds no conviction. His hands begin to move. They slide down your legs and push up the hem of your dress. He leaves feverish open mouthed kisses across your clothed stomach and over your hips. Your eyes fall shut and you gasp when his palms slide up your bare legs, pushing up the fabric of your dress until his fingers grab hold of your ass and he gives you a rough squeeze.

"Please," he's murmuring, over and over. Your jaw is slack and you give in. You just fucking give in when he pulls down on your panties until they drop to the floor. With shaky legs, you step out of them and crack open an eye when he tosses the lace over his shoulder.

You're weak. You know that. But you really thought this time was the last straw. Instead, he somehow has you underneath him once again. Your dress is in a sad little pile on the floor, along with his pants. His tongue is dancing hungrily with yours as you push his shirt over his shoulders.

You know you should have stood your ground, but you also know he's hurt. He's so broken and you want to fix him. You want to be the one who shows him what it's like — what it could be like. You want to prove that love can heal old wounds and can be beautiful, if you let it.

He groans when he first enters you. It's low and deep and it makes you gasp. His teeth graze your jaw and he whispers everything you want to hear: that he loves you, that he would do anything for you, that he's sorry. You let those words fill you up and mend the wounds he caused, just like all the other times before.

"Never again, okay?"

You nod and wrap your arms tightly around his shoulders. You say his name with a breathy moan and his hips flex faster, deeper.

"I can be good for you. I— I — fuck—"

He pushes your knees to your chest and you cry out. The angle is so much more intense. It has you clawing at the sheets and mumbling unintelligible curses under your breath as he splits you open, reminding you just how good it can be.

"I won't hurt you ever again," he babbles. Your chest aches. Your eyes water. He keeps fucking you so deep that it has you making noises you never heard yourself make before.

"I don't think — don't think I can d-do this without — you," he groans into your neck. Your nails scrape down his back. You throw your head backwards into the sheets and let him do what he does best: make you feel good and forget all the pain.

His mouth finds your jaw, then your cheek, and finally your lips. You moan and his tongue slips inside, licking past your teeth. He's so close. Your bodies practically melt together as one with each steady rock of his hips.

"Feels good, right?" he groans into your mouth. You nod and gasp when the muscles in your stomach begin to pull.

"Yes," you whine, all earlier anger forgotten.

"Yeah, I know," he coos. His hips snap faster, cock plunging deeper until the room is filled with your helpless moans and the sounds of your soaked pussy gushing all around him. He makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat when you clench tightly around his thick cock.

"Gonna come for me?" he asks. You whimper, cheeks blazing hot and body slick with sweat. He chuckles breathlessly and continues to drive himself into you, over and over. "Yeah, c'mon, it's alright. I wanna feel it — I need to feel it. C'mon, baby, just—"

Before he can finish his sentence, your muscles spasm and you scream out his name. A litany of curses falls from your lips as you pulse around his painfully hard length. He grinds his teeth and keeps fucking you through it until your body goes limp and you melt into the silk sheets.

His arms circle around you and he really begins to fuck you — hard. Each thrust is paired with a deep grunt until his cock swells and he comes inside you with a loud, strangled groan.

He collapses on top of you in relief. He occasionally jolts forward, giving you more of his release with each weak roll of his hips until he's spent. His head falls to your chest and he closes his eyes to catch his breath. Your fingers come up to gently rake through his hair and you lay just like that, silent and panting for air while his cock softens inside of you.

"I mean it," he rasps. You peel your eyes open and stare at the ceiling. He presses a soft kiss in the spot between your breasts when he says, "I'll be better. I won't fuck up again. Please, just — just don't give up on me."

Your arms coil around his neck and you hold him close as tears fill your eyes, now for an entirely different reason. You know he's been hurt before. Know what he went through and how badly she broke his heart.

But to his credit, he didn't give up. He kept searching for love, despite it all.

Nobody's perfect. You're far from it. But you know Harry has a good heart. He just needs a little extra care to heal it.

"Okay," you whisper.

You feel his grateful, hot tears pool silently against your chest and you hold him a little tighter.

Everyone makes mistakes, you think. Even the ones who love you the most.

It'll take time. It might hurt. But you'll keep trying. Because what happened wasn't his fault, and you both deserve to have a happy ending.

Some people just have to work a little harder for it.

[expendablemudge]

In honor of what would have been his birthday, get yourself a copy of the 1st ever bio of JOHN LEWIS: In Search of the Beloved Community, a "Citty Upon a Hill" longed from since the time of Winthrop, out today via Yale University press

My 5* #BookReview: