Welcome to Eureka Street
Looking for thought provoking articles?Subscribe to Eureka Street and join the conversation.
Passwords must be at least 8 characters, contain upper and lower case letters, and a numeric value.
Eureka Street uses the Stripe payment gateway to process payments. The terms and conditions upon which Stripe processes payments and their privacy policy are available here.
Please note: The 40-day free-trial subscription is a limited time offer and expires 31/3/24. Subscribers will have 40 days of free access to Eureka Street content from the date they subscribe. You can cancel your subscription within that 40-day period without charge. After the 40-day free trial subscription period is over, you will be debited the $90 annual subscription amount. Our terms and conditions of membership still apply.
There are more than 200 results, only the first 200 are displayed here.
The First Folio was published in November 1623. Shakespeare didn’t live to see his plays gathered together in the one place. His universe of words, his meteors of wit and description, his galaxy of human frailties and strengths, his shrouds of darkness and rays of light, were collected and bound by colleagues after his death in 1616, aged 52. The world owes them profound gratitude.
I don’t expect to find the leaves of a plant with your name formed by the veins. No god will have gifted you the future as a flower when flowers are losing their footholds.
This November 11, for many at ceremonies around the nation, the clocks will stop, the breath will pause for a minute to remember the dead and injured of war. And like the poppies in Flanders fields, the lists of names of men killed in action continues to grow: in Africa, in Europe and Asia. If history is our teacher, then we are very poor students.
In this latest mass shooting in the United States, horror does not issue automatically, it is weighed down by being too familiar. We feel for the victims, but in that feeling runs the dismal knowledge that it is just another in a long line, seemingly without end.
Most people of sympathy and empathy would believe there is an invisible thread that binds humanity. To think otherwise, to echo British jurist Lord Denning, is to consider a panorama too awful to contemplate, that is, what if a life is just mere object to another? When the massacre becomes the norm, does the world become numb to it?
It's hard for a guy to cry endlessly and helplessly. It is. Some remote part of you shouts Man, get it together, this is totally beyond the bounds. But I couldn't stop. (From 2018)
Some people pray in church, some pray alone, some share their prayer through song, and others use poems as prayer. Each carries its own line of faith that they believe unites them with something outside themselves. This union is reached through words written and words said.
In The Fickle Pendulum, Paul Scully deftly weaves centuries of human exploration — from the doubt of St Thomas to Galileo's scientific certainties. Journeying through epochs, blending faith with skepticism, Scully makes the arcane comes alive, offering readers a profound immersion into the expanse of human introspection.
I sense them in the air when it’s said there’s little or no chance of a storm — they are apostrophes to themselves, shaped like diacriticals. This is a mundane observation to offer up when the flash closes the light out —that loss of speech to pyrography.
Perhaps we were too directive / as we tried to guide while staying connected / with one so young, distracted. Yet there was response. Rules relaxed to laughter / as through best and worst we mucked / together; skills and knowledge grew / living side by side.
Amid shifting perceptions and the fluidity of names, our understanding of self dances on the edge of subjectivity. Traversing the landscape of literature, we're invited to confront our own reflections, to ask what truly defines us in a world that is ever-evolving, and to look beyond the obvious and into the heart of our shared human experience.
I have played Gandhi, King Tut, gangster, giant, elf, / but a lifetime of lifetimes destroyed my mental health: if you’re all things to all men, you’re no one to yourself.
13-24 out of 200 results.