In this story for MIT Technology Review, Sara Harrison explores the field of social robotics and the growing use of robot companions as therapy for autistic and other neurodivergent kids. These playful machines show promise: Research suggests that they can help children practice social skills and offer something overworked therapists and exhausted parents can’t—a patient companion, available 24/7. But Harrison also reports on their limitations and risks. Does this approach truly work? What about all the data gathered on the child? And what happens when a robot friend suddenly stops working and “dies”? A fascinating and unsettling look at tech that has moved into the most intimate corners of a family’s home.
While Moxie found herself in more and more people’s homes, Embodied still struggled to make money. In 2024, the company announced it would cease operations. Its robots—which depended on external servers that the company could no longer pay for—would descend into a deep slumber.
Videos of bereft children who seemed to have become deeply attached to the blue bot began to circulate online. “I don’t want her to leave,” wailed one child in a TikTok video. Desperate parents posted on TikTok, Instagram, and Reddit looking for solutions. “My autistic child is devastated and I’m pissed,” wrote one parent. “Hope Embodied gives us a couple days to say goodbye,” wrote another.
Soixante-quatorze ans après Peau noire, masques blancs, un nouvel essai déplace la question de l’aliénation noire vers le terrain religieux. Dans Peau noire, Dieu blanc : Essai sur l’aliénation spirituelle des Noirs, le journaliste ivoirien Axel Illary critique l’adoration, par les populations noires, de divinités étrangères, sans lien culturel avec leurs sociétés, dont les cultes […]
When I was little I had a ritual with my parents where, as they tucked me into bed, they’d tell me a few reasons why they loved me (yes, I know how lucky I am to have been raised in an environment like this). As part of their list, I always asked them to say I was careful, and dutifully they’d repeat, “Yes, of course, we love you because you’re so careful.” I needed my parents’ words to ward against a recurring-day-mare-type vision I had in those years, in which I climbed onto our roof and then, while recklessly peering over the edge, toppled off the eave and cracked open my skull. I would never have put myself in that situation in waking life; I was so cautious that even an imagined scenario in which I endangered myself was enough to terrify me. But being reassured of my carefulness night after night made me feel safer.
My prudent youth did involve a handful of responsibly chaperoned birthday parties at Northern California climbing gyms, and a handful of climbing excursions in the Sierras with my grandfather, but ironically the flatland of Minnesota is where I got serious about the sport. During those unrelentingly brutal winters I seized upon climbing for exercise and entertainment—in the gym, since it was colder than the dark side of Mars outside—as a way to stave off cabin fever in the long months of permafrost. On a recent visit back to the Twin Cities at the close of one such winter, right after a session at the gym where I first cut my teeth, I posted up on the patio of an organic café to bask in the abrupt warmth of springtime. A guy sitting at the table next to me asked if I was a climber—our veiny forearms signal us to one another like Harley-Davidson jackets do for bikers—and I said yes. We started chatting.
This guy had just moved to town to save his own life. He was a paraglider, parachutist, kite-surfer, and wingsuiter, and he said that in the last year a dozen members of his inner circle “went in,” including his best friend and his brother, all in accidents related to their gravity-skirting pursuits. At first I couldn’t figure out what he meant by “went in,” but as I listened to him enumerate their various methods of “going in,” I eventually realized he was telling me they had all died. I could hardly comprehend the reality he described: being at the heart of a community where loved ones blink out in droves, like candles in a gale. He knew if he stayed in the game as a professional extreme athlete, pressured by peers and sponsors alike to remain at the cutting edge, he himself wouldn’t be around much longer. So, sight-unseen, he moved to the flattest and boringest place he’d ever heard of: Minnesota. He came specifically because there weren’t any cliffs for him to throw himself off. Only a few months into his new life as a Minnesotan, he was still in the jittery, cold turkey phase of his thrill detox.
“You done much free soloing?” he asked.
“Not really,” I said. A truer answer would have been HELL NO I’M A WIMP, MY PARENTS LOVE ME BECAUSE I’M CAREFUL.
“Amazing feeling,” he said. “Being certain if you fuck up you’ll die, and being equally certain you won’t fuck up.”
We listened to the birds, sipped our coffees. I picked at the remains of my huevos rancheros. The juncos twittering around us sounded gladder than usual to be alive. I asked, “Is it really that much less fun to have a rope on? Like, clip a few draws? Place some cams along the way?”
He shook his head. “Once you been hucking yourself off the high dive, it’s no fun jumping off the edge of the pool.”
This at least rang true. Even I find it boring to jump off the edge of the pool.
“Glad you got out when you did,” I said.
He nodded grimly, seeming less glad than I was. Then I asked what he was getting up to instead. Of course, it was the most extreme thing you can do on flat ground.
“Ultramarathons,” he said.
He didn’t seem interested in probing his own psychology or rationales. He unapologetically liked the feeling of being adrenalized, and he wanted to feel that feeling as much as possible without killing himself. Why turn it into some elaborate trolley problem? For those living on the outer edges of risk, I suspect confidence is the key to survival: the confidence in one’s ability to assess a risk and then the confidence to execute the necessary action once a risk is deemed acceptable. Extreme athletes don’t seem to think too hard, at least on an abstract philosophical level, about the dangers they face. Their engagement is logistical, methodical. Far more productive to test the snowpack, visualize the beta, read the weather report, double-check the way the parachute is folded, determine what direction the wind blows down the talus field.
Rather than focusing on what we stand to lose, what riches does risk put us in position to gain?
But risk has been on my mind of late, because, much to my own surprise, my relationship to it has been changing. Recently I was on a very tall boulder called the Kraken, and it felt like I spent a hundred years with the sand in its penultimate pocket rolling grittily under my fingertips while I searched the rounded top of the block for a hold I could trust. A part of me is there still, suspended in that epoch of hold hunting, gearing up for the final move. This is one of risk’s most obvious gifts, the chance to experience that rare, thin-slicing acuity where each separate millisecond stands out like an image etched in stone. The present dilates to activate the past and future, too, as though we’re living our whole life all at once. With a cognitive rapacity available only during a fight-or-flight response, we cast our gaze forward, asking what grim future will bloom if we fall. And simultaneously cast it back, asking what errors in our past have brought us to this crossroads. Have I survived a situation like this before? Will I get lucky and survive again?
In a film, that’s where the music would come up, dissonant strings, ringing ears, the drums increasing tempo. It’s odd that the times of our deepest dumbstruck not-knowingness should be called “moments of truth.” I found a shallow, sandy divot for my right hand, threw my left heel high over the lip, and rolled onto the top of the boulder. A friend took photos, but it makes me uncomfortable to look at them.
From the back seat of a lifted pickup, deep house oozing out of a handmade portable stereo that Owen built into an antique suitcase, I look over the truck bed at the contrail of dust we send into the Eastern Sierra evening. Our pilot expertly navigates a kaleidoscope of dirt roads to deliver us at the Crab Cooker. Tumbling out of the truck we grab towels, water bottles, and puffy jackets, and walk a raised wooden path to the area’s hottest hot spring. An eggy, algal cloud envelops us before the spring itself comes into view. Then we see the rock-rimmed pool, a steam plume ascending from a dark crater. The water here, when it first comes to the surface, hovers around 150 degrees Fahrenheit—hot enough to cook crabs, no exaggeration in the name—so people cut it with cold water from a surface stream until it comes down to around 110. The pool is still hotter than any man-made tub I’ve ever sunk myself into, and its scalding sting feels spectacular on the aches we’ve accrued from several consecutive climbing days at the Buttermilks and in Owens River Gorge. We keep our hands lifted above the surface of the water so our hard-earned calluses don’t melt off.
Parallel to us climbers, there runs an entire subculture of hot springs enthusiasts who travel the country to find the loveliest, toastiest, unlikeliest geothermal pools that tectonics has to offer. Connecting with this odd population of wanderers is one of the surprise pleasures of our annual Bishop trip. The Crab Cooker must rank high on their list. Wild sage and scrubby junipers riddle the sand, boulders punctuate the foothills and draws, and the impressive ridgelines of the Sierra Eastside tower over it all, seemingly close enough to splash with the flick of a finger. At sunset the land gets saturated with glory and import and impeccable desert light, and we in our good fortune get to gaze at this panorama while the guts of the planet warm us to temperatures well in excess of our own hearts’ heat.
When, to our surprise, two bodies coalesce out of the steam, we apologize for our loudness and promptly shut down the stereo. The strangers don’t mind, they say, they’ve been enjoying the ruckus. The new arrivals are a pair of Germans, a father and his grown son, who have been touring America together. Before long our separate conversations become enmeshed in the small pool. We learn that the younger soaker, the son, used to be an accomplished extreme athlete. He somberly explains that he found himself a lonelier and lonelier survivor as his BASE-jumping and wingsuiting friends went in. Hearing the phrase now for the second time, I’m struck by the gentleness of the euphemism, far softer than the verb to crater, as in “their parachute didn’t deploy and they cratered,” which I’d heard in gruffer conversations with BASE jumpers. I picture these lost friends “going in” to a collective reserve of matter and spirit, the heavenly welter where all unmade is remade. Although, with the image of a crater in mind, I suppose “going in” could refer not to the eternally cyclical return to one’s mysterious origin but rather to a body “going in” to the ground at terminal velocity. Needless to say, I don’t ask the German.
He explains to a rapt audience that last year, upon successfully landing a jump, his still-open parachute caught a fierce gust of wind that slammed him into a cliff and dragged him across a talus field. Multiple impacts against the rocks shattered innumerable bones, including several in his back. By coincidence, the guy’s best friend was flying the emergency helicopter that came to collect his ragdoll body. To those on board it looked like a hopeless case, a certain fatality, but in the end the guy survived. Hearing the story, I look to my own best friend soaking by my side. We make eye contact and discreetly drop our jaws a fraction of a centimeter, a silent exchange of Jesus fucking Christ.
“Jesus Christ,” I say aloud to the German.
“It’s no problem,” the guy says, gesturing grandly at the mountain-rimmed basin that surrounds us. “Happy I am living.”
He’s still in the middle of a years-long rehabilitation process, he explains. He points to a neck brace he’d removed before his soak, whose plastic struts I now see glowing in the moonlight, a safe distance back from the water where it won’t get splashed. “It’s no problem to wear that sometimes.”
“Just like when he was a baby,” the dad says cheerfully. “I help him eat, then I help him shit!”
We typically view risk in relation to death—inviting its possibility, skirting its tentacles—but I’ve lately been exploring a philosophy that views risk, instead, in relation to life. Rather than focusing on what we stand to lose, what riches does risk put us in position to gain? This question came by way of a book called Éloge du risque by French philosopher Anne Dufourmantelle. It hadn’t yet been translated into English, but with undergrad French memories and a Larousse dictionary in hand, I bought a copy and dove in. I worked on my translations of Éloge du risque while riding the Flatiron Flyer bus between Boulder and Denver. During this commute the Flatirons themselves rise to the west like a fleet of ships tacking in formation, their huge reddish triangular faces making a tidy row of sails afloat on a choppy sea of pine.
A route called Freeway ascends the Second Flatiron (they’re numbered sequentially from north to south), and locals tell me it’s a fun, dead-easy romp for the entire thousand feet of the eastern face. Nobody bothers to use the melodramatic phrase free solo; they just call it a scramble. The route has seen barefoot ascents, no-hands ascents, and, the clearest indicator of its difficulty, an ascent by a climber wearing roller skates. For some reason I never wonder whether I’m going to climb it, I just know, innately, that I’m going to. It’s an indicator that my relationship to risk is changing. Even still, as I prepare to solo—sorry, scramble—the Second, I approach it with a solemnity bordering on gloom. I warm up at home, stretch, fuel and hydrate, tidy the basement so that if I die I won’t leave an unsightly mess for my landlady to deal with. Ridiculous. The short drive across town feels haunted, with the Flatirons leering in the windshield as I pilot my way westward. I park and take a deep breath before exiting the vehicle. Walk up the trail, a well-beaten one that sees countless tourists and toddlers safely along the base of the range, taking every rock-hopping step with exaggerated care, testing the infallibility of my balance. And then I sit at the base of the Second for ages, meditative and serious, while a string of a half-dozen stoned teenagers fire the route, unroped, not even pausing their giggling conversation as they step off the trail and onto the rock.
Supposedly there’s a crux around fifty feet off the ground, but for me it turned out the crux was just deciding to do it. When I finally put on my climbing shoes, tuck my sneakers into my backpack, and lay my hands on the crystalline stone, hard moves are absolutely nowhere to be found. The climbing feels easier than walking, in fact, since I get to use my hands in addition to my feet. From a hundred feet up, and again at three hundred and again at five hundred, I glance down at the sandstone ramp the foot of the mountain makes, observe how the trail gets thinner and the trees get smaller as I rise, and experience a wave of giddiness. I sip that sensation like champagne, peering, bubbling, then I turn my face to the wall and continue the scramble. At the summit I sit a long time and look east at a flat expanse of town and plain that appears to extend all the way to the Atlantic. I’ve wagered my life, and have been repaid tenfold.
A week later, I take an incremental step up in difficulty and try the Third Flatiron. Locals, I notice, do tend to refer to this one as a solo, not a scramble. I’m exiting the kiddie pool. Again I follow the trail through Chautauqua Park with a measure of unease in my gut, hiking through grassy open fields up into the pine sea, and then across a stretch of loose talus to the base of the route. A thousand angling, rippling feet of sandstone thrust westward, the summit hidden from view. I bring my chalk bag this time and coat my palms with a layer of white dust to keep them from slickening with sweat. Unlike the Second, the Third is a legitimate, if moderate, climb. I make careful progress, never moving more than one limb at a time, testing each handhold for soundness, testing each surface for slipperiness, before entrusting my weight to it. Focus, rather than rhapsody, rules the experience. The crux comes at the top. Until that point I’d been hanging on bucket-like holds, generous craters, but the rock comprising the last twenty feet below the peak has been worn smooth by the elements. Though the terrain is low angle, it’s holdless as an asphalt road. This section, I knew from my research beforehand, would require a few moves of open-hand slab climbing. In the absence of tangible features on the cliff, you just paste your hands and feet onto the surface and rely on friction to hold you in place.
Slab is an unnerving, faith-based style of climbing, and those few moves—a thousand feet off the ground, knowing a fall would be fatal—demand a degree of meticulousness I’ve never before needed to summon. To summon it that afternoon is like flexing a new muscle for the very first time. I feel each grain of the gritty matrix as it deforms the skin of my fingertips, fitting the ridges of my fingerprint to match the ridges of the Flatiron’s surface. I attune to the gumminess of my shoe, the pressure of the ball of my foot compressing its rubber sole, filling completely the negative space of the rock’s surface. Death isn’t on my mind. It’s a million miles away. I know I will be perfect, and this perfection will make me invincible. If I fall, my last thought will be I never saw this coming. But I wager; I scurry. I summit. From the top I stare down at the backs of raptors, at the pine and the prairie, and again my spirit prospers.
The next morning from the bus I cast a lingering glance over the Flatirons. I look at the granulated ripples of the cliffs and superimpose my antlike image onto them, watching memories of myself crawl up the faces as if in footage captured by a drone. I’m still up there, forever taking those calm breaths, forever palming those grainy domes. Fellow commuters catch me wearing a moony smile. Now, pen gripped in my teeth, Éloge du risque open in my lap, my gaze drifts a click northward. My newfound muscle twitches. In the notebook for my scraps and outlines I write FOR RISK ESSAY: SOLO THE FIRST? After spending the day on campus I get back on the bus for my evening commute, and that scribbled notion digs into me uncomfortably. The wobble on the highway made my script look manic. It is manic. The idea stands squarely outside of what I consider to be an acceptable level of climbing risk. From the bus window the First dominates the ridgeline as the Flatirons fall into shadow. Morning and evening light seem to fashion two different ranges out of the same rock space. When I try on the idea of soloing the First, it feels like a too-small sweater pulled over my head, grabbing my skull. I know I should rip it off and discard it. But I could also push my way inside. I recall a strong, confident climber-friend whose trip report after soloing the First was simply, “I’m never going to do that again.” I wondered what had happened to turn his face so ashen, but he didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t pry.
These accident reports save lives more directly, more demonstrably, than poetry or scripture.
Climbing culture has a storytelling idiom I call “Close Calls.” They’re an inversion of just-so stories; instead of tales of creation like “How the Zebra Got Its Stripes” or “How the Giraffe’s Neck Got So Long,” Close Calls focus on tales of destruction like “How Rebecca Lost Her Leg” or “How Johnny Lost His Partner.” Years ago at the base of the Incredible Hulk, a gorgeous granite outcrop in the Sierras, Owen and I were preparing to climb the classic Red Dihedral. We’d undertaken the steep approach hike in the evening, stove heated some expired and deeply disappointing beef stew, and established our bivvy beside a picturesque rivulet riffling through a boulder field. Two young women camped at another minimeadow a few hundred feet downstream, and when the stars came up, they invited us down for a sip of whiskey. We splashed a bit of warmish bourbon into our unwashed bowls, resulting in a cocktail like a hot Sazerac with a beef-grease rinse instead of an absinthe one. During that night’s edition of Close Calls, we hear of a time an inexperienced leader led a pitch and built an anchor, and one of the women (now sipping her whiskey between plot points) followed him up, arriving at a worthless nest of protection that, had she fallen, would have sputtered from the wall and killed them both. Next my buddy describes watching a climber follow an outdoor route on top-rope, unclipping each draw along the way, and then, at the top, unclipping the two draws that held the rope, and then, the height of outrageousness, untying his rope and dropping it to the ground, meaning he was now clinging to holds a hundred feet off the deck with nothing else to hold him in place. By some miracle a professional climber was on a route next door and, seeing the disaster unfold, climbed to the stranded kid in minutes with a spare rope to reattach him to the world.
As with any public storytelling genre, there’s a ritual to it. One teller shares the scariest climbing story they’ve heard or experienced, a story of someone’s closest call. The fireside audience takes in the punchline—a survival unscathed, a rescue, an injury, a fatality—in solemn contemplation. After a respectful interval and perhaps another sip of whiskey, the next teller narrates an even closer call. For listeners familiar enough with safety systems to fully appreciate the danger, miscommunication, unpreparedness or negligence in these stories, the tales provide riveting entertainment, in their own grim way. But they serve a deeper purpose, too, in that they circulate these scenarios as a risk-prevention measure. The same could be said of the more formal narratives published by the American Alpine Club. Their style is unadorned, a blow-by-blow sequence of errors that led up to an injury or death on the wall, but safety-oriented climbers read these annual accident reports with biblical devotion. Instead of re-living old traumas, these prudent folks pre-live them, learning to deal with such catastrophes should they arise or, better yet, learning to avoid such catastrophes altogether. These accident reports save lives more directly, more demonstrably, than poetry or scripture.
We could easily swap Close Calls all night, but both teams are planning to start our ascents of the Hulk at dawn, so we force ourselves to break up the party before it gets too late. I brush my teeth, taking a gamble on unfiltered river water, and tuck myself into bed. In the sleeping bag, staring up at the densest panorama of stars I’ve seen in months, I wonder what moment, in my life so far, was the moment I was nearest to death. My own closest call, in a statistical sense, when my odds of survival were lowest. At first I think it would land among the instances when I was most afraid. There was a hike to a ghost town called Lundy when I was dead certain I was being stalked by a mountain lion. Or a time at an outdoor concert in Denver when gunshots broke out and the whole crowd stampeded in panic away from the brutal sound. Then I wonder if my closest call fell among the times I sustained an injury: a spinout on the highway from a blown tire, a fainting spell in the Rockies brought on by dehydration and exhaustion, a split forehead from an ice cave collapse that let me see my own skull through the hole in my skin. But in all likelihood, I bet the moment passed by me altogether unnoticed. One of my countless midnights on a two-lane country road, maybe, when the approaching headlights belonged to a drunk driver, or a trucker on the cusp of sleep, or a heartsick teenager composing a text to an ex. So long as they keep their car on the proper side of the yellow line, I never know the peril I’m in.
This evening in Boulder the sky is not its usual bluebird. From the egress window of my cheap-ass basement rental I see bulbous clouds gathering overhead. A handful of months have passed and by now the Second Flatiron scramble has become my go-to after-work workout. I lap it a couple times a week, not bothering with climbing shoes anymore, just using the same busted sneakers I wear for the approach hike. But when it rains, the rock slickens, the lichen sucks up moisture and magically transforms from a crust to a lubricant. Given the inclement weather, it’s shaping up to be a work night. So instead of soloing—sorry, scrambling—at sunset, I’m at my desk with a mug of mint tea, bringing Dufourmantelle into English word by word. Risk, she writes and I translate, “inaugurates an other time, as though traumatic. But a positive trauma.”
“An other time” makes me think, to my discredit, of the movie Donnie Darko. The premise of that film, as I interpret it, is that one night in a freak accident an airplane engine fell through the roof of the protagonist Donnie’s house, and should have crushed him, except that he was somnambulantly chasing a giant nightmare rabbit onto a golf course at the time, and thereby avoided his fate. This sets in motion an alternate universe—the one where Donnie lives—that runs alongside the one in which he rightfully dies. I think this is what Dufourmantelle means: When we take a risk, knowing we’ll either experience a near-miss like the Donnie who lives or a direct hit like the Donnie who dies, we create a narrative fork in the road. I’ve long wondered what wingsuiters, free soloists, and skydivers gain through their constant navigation of risk, and tonight I start to sense it. When carefully and responsibly considered, these dangerous activities let adventurers inhabit innumerable parallel universes. We get to live infinite lives and die infinite deaths as, in preparation, we imagine the outcomes and contingencies of each climb, each jump, each flight. The potential plotlines proliferate and the density of our life experience increases. Time dilates to accommodate not only the life we’ve lived and the life we will lead, but also all the lives we might have lived, and might yet lead.
I turn my attention to trauma positif. It’s an uncomfortable phrase. The language carries a reminder that many people experience risk and precarity only under duress. As far as I’m concerned, the privilege inherent in elective risk is alpinism’s original sin, and a key reason that, despite the vast increase in diversity and gender parity in climbing in the last decade, the sport has been slow to shake its aura of patriarchy and whiteness. But Dufourmantelle’s claims sound right to me. Just as negative trauma has the power to reshape the stories that people tell themselves about themselves and about the worlds they inhabit, so too can a trauma positif rewrite a person’s history, even as it rewrites their future. As a result of the risks I’ve taken, and the trauma positif of surviving them, I’m phasing out the story that I’m a meek person. Now, with demonstrable evidence, I must tell myself I’m capable of being brave. Maybe every time you risk your life, you lose it: You lose the life you had before taking the risk, and supplant that life with a new one. A solo of the First Flatiron feels this way for me. Ever since moving to town I’ve told myself I couldn’t solo it. So if I solo it, the version of me too frightened to try it will die.
Days later I see the headline in the local paper: “17-Year-Old Falls to His Death While Climbing Boulder’s First Flatiron.” There’s a photograph of the formation I’ve spent my daily commute mulling over, and the article below:
Equipped with camping and outdoor survival gear—but no climbing-specific equipment—a 17-year-old died after climbing alone and falling up to 100 feet or more from Boulder’s First Flatiron on Sunday evening.
Climber rescues, and non-fatal falls, are common every summer across the iconic rock formations above Chautauqua Park. But this appears to be the first accidental climbing death on the Flatirons in nine years.
The teenager—whose identity has not yet been released, and who officials initially said was 18—was found by a hiker near the base of the First Flatiron, above the Blue Bell Shelter in Chautauqua Park, according to Boulder County sheriff’s officials.
Sheriff’s Cmdr. Mike Wagner said the teen was free-soloing—climbing alone, without the use of ropes or gear—on the First Flatiron when he fell possibly more than 100 feet and suffered “massive traumatic injuries.”
Sources report that the climber took a selfie and posted it to Instagram shortly before the fall. There follow, in the next few days, admonishments from the climbing community, the oft-repeated self-assurances that this kid was unprepared but we know better, and more than a few references to a phenomenon known as “Kodak Courage,” where the possibility of taking an impressive photograph pushes a climber past their typical margin of safety. The next time I walk up to the foot of the First Flatiron, a sober memorial sits at the base of a pine tree. Cards, flowers, offerings. A printout of the photo the climber snapped and posted minutes before his death.
Toward the tail end of the same season the paper runs another headline: “Climber Dies After Falling from Boulder’s First Flatiron.” This time there’s a different stock photo of the mountain, now caked with snow. The article reads:
A man climbing on the First Flatiron on Thursday afternoon fell to his death, the second person to die following an accidental plummet off of the iconic Boulder landmark since August but only the second in nearly a decade.
Boulder County Sheriff’s Office Cmdr. Kevin Parker said that the man—who has not been publicly identified—did not appear to be using any kind of climbing gear, but rescuers were searching the area for any signs of a backpack or gear on Thursday afternoon.
By the time a Denver Post article comes out about the incident later that night, investigators have located and interviewed an eyewitness, so the article is able to provide a bit of additional detail: “The witness believed the climber fell about 1,000 feet from the top of the First Flatiron.”
With that, this essay gets shelved for a spell. It’s not just because the weather has shifted, although the snow on the Front Range makes the Flatirons unclimbable through the winter, intermittent warm days sending rivers of melt down the faces, cold storms stacking new layers of powder over the slush. But more acutely, I realize I’ve been lulled into thinking a solo of the First Flatiron would be a casual endeavor, one that wouldn’t really bring me into proximity of any grave risk. The two deaths, in rapid succession, on the route I’ve planned to climb in the same style abruptly extinguish this confidence, leave me not only shaken but also self-admonishing for having been so cocksure in the first place. I take winter walks through Chautauqua. The snow crunches under my feet, sifts from trailside pine boughs. The Flatirons stand above, their features outlined in icy white. Below, the town of Boulder enjoys its bubble of dreamy calm, a hush of distant traffic in the air, interrupted by an occasional siren belting down Baseline or Table Mesa. During these walking meditations my notebook starts to feel suspiciously similar to the luckless young climber’s selfie camera. Moleskine Courage.
What do we stand to win when our ante is ourselves? The chance to make our finite time feel infinite? The chance to make our finite self feel infinite?
The crux of the First comes in its first hundred feet, where the climbing is particularly thin, slabby and insecure. I stand in the snow at the base—where a second memorial is now tucked in the pines—and visualize the climb. My counterfactual imagination invents a worst-case scenario: I’m not far up the route, approaching the gnarled tree that marks the top of the first pitch where a roped party would typically belay. Immediately below this point there’s a delicate section of friction-dependent slab; the first time I climbed the pitch on rope, this stretch clarified for me that I’d never, ever attempt the route as a solo. There aren’t proper holds, just shallow dishes for the hands and feet. I imagine extending my left foot and placing it in one such divot. I reach farther left with my left hand, where a small diagonal rail supports my left fingertips, stacked in a row. My right hand is similarly stacked in a higher-up dish, and as I go to move my right foot toward my body’s centerline, the left foot slips off. My knees strike the rock first, my elbows a moment after. The angle is low, so I don’t go into full vertical freefall. I bounce down the face. After twenty feet a heel catches and I invert, delivering a rolling blow to my shoulder and an impact to the back of my skull. In my chest a depth charge, a low moan as I land in the talus beside the twin shrines. After my death, my writer-friends will wonder what I was working on in my last days. I’ve kept my preparations for the solo secret, but now they will look in my notebook and see I’ve been planning it for months, getting ready to sacrifice myself for no greater purpose than a literal thought exercise.
I shift my weight in the snow, shake the spectacle out of my head. I return to the trail, the car, the comforts of home.
The winter months pass, long nights, a bomb cyclone that buries my basement windows in snow and leaves me to lurk in the dark like a slumbering bear, and then spring arrives abrupt and clanging and golden. Overnight the Flatirons slough off their snowy coats. Still ambivalent about soloing the First, I go to Chautauqua with two friends, planning to rope up and climb with them as a party of three. This will give me a chance, I figure, to scope the route once more and make a final call. Reassess those dishes and divots, determine whether I can trust my life to them. We spend a long time at the base, not rushing, just racking up and rearranging our packs, sipping water and snacking, enjoying the gorgeous day. The sun dips behind the ridge and the temperature gets perfect, just on the cooler edge of pleasant. The rock won’t be greasy, there’ll be plenty of friction, but it won’t be so cold I’ll get chilly and misinterpret my shivers as fear. Plenty of daylight, light spirits, and for once in my life, I don’t overthink. I know deep in my soul that I don’t need the rope today. So I don’t tie in. I just climb alongside my friends. It’s easier than walking because I get to use my hands, and everything goes perfectly, which means in the end there’s no story at all.
I won’t solo the First again, but not because I hated it. I won’t solo it again because I loved it too much. Since then, I haven’t exactly become a soloist, but I’ve heard the bell-clear siren song from routes a number of times, Johnny Vegas in Red Rocks, the Capstan on Flagstaff Mountain, a few choice cracks in the Sierra, a handful of highballs like Airwolf and High Plains Drifter in various deserts of the West. I am measured and studious, with my books and dictionaries and writing routine and mint tea. I also, when called, enjoy something categorically deadly. Soloing puts me in touch with the multitudes I contain. On insomniac nights I relive the memories of these ropeless ascents, with every detail of every hold seared in my mind in everlasting high resolution, and the perfection of my movements lulls me to sleep. It must sound counterintuitive, but nothing in this world makes me calmer.
The phrase “to risk one’s life” conjures in my mind’s eye a kind of scale, like the one Anubis uses to weigh a heart against a feather. On one of its golden dishes sits your wager, your life; on the other there must be something of equal or greater value in order for the risk to seem worthwhile. What do we stand to win when our ante is ourselves? The chance to make our finite time feel infinite? The chance to make our finite self feel infinite? The satisfaction of saving our own life? Is that payoff enough?
I discovered Anne Dufourmantelle’s work on the university library search engine, under keywords “philosophy” and “risk.” At the time I didn’t look into her biography, just went straight to the primary text. But I’m curious to see what she’s working on now, so I check the regular internet instead of the university database. The first hit is an article from the New York Times, headlined “Philosopher Who Praised Risk Died Trying to Save Children from Drowning.” It reads:
PARIS—A French philosopher and psychoanalyst, known for her work that praised living a life that embraced risk, died last week as a result of following her own bold philosophy.
The philosopher, Anne Dufourmantelle, 53, drowned on Friday as she tried to save two children who were struggling to swim off the coast of Pampelonne beach, near St.-Tropez, France, according to a report from French public television.
Ms. Dufourmantelle was on the beach when the weather began to change and the previously safe swimming area became treacherous. She saw two children who were in danger and leapt into the sea to help, according to France 3, before being caught in the rough surf.
She was pulled unresponsive from the water by two other swimmers, and attempts to resuscitate her failed.
Both children survived.
I’m stunned by how recent the news is: Dufourmantelle died days before the first soloist fell from the First Flatiron. Another search result, an obituary, quotes an English-language lecture she’d once given: “Being completely alive is a task, it’s not at all a given thing. It’s not just about being present to the world, it’s being present to yourself, reaching an intensity that is in itself a way of being reborn.” Having only experienced her work, up until this point, through the veil of translation, there’s something uncannily intimate about reading her words in my own language for the first time. The clarity of it is painful, the poetry self-evident, breaking out of human time and into the mythic. She saw the children, the danger. She saw the swift water. She went in.
Brian Laidlaw is an author of the two collections of poetry, The Mirrormaker and The Stuntman. A songwriter and musician, he has released several albums, most recently This Aster. He writes for outdoor magazines including Outside, Climbing, Alpinist, and Orion. Based out of Moab, Utah, he moonlights—often by literal moonlight—as a rock climber.
di Cesare Sacchetti In principio fu Crimen Sollicitationis, il noto documento pubblicato da Giovanni XXIII, il cosiddetto “Papa buono”, secondo la vulgata di una certa stampa, da alcuni definito come la pietra dello scandalo. Crimen Sollicitationis nasce per affrontare la questione degli abusi pedofili all’interno della Chiesa già all’inizio degli anni’60, quando stava nascendo una […]
The dollar gives America huge power, but the international monetary system built around it is sliding into chaos, as recent US support for the yen shows. Yet replacing the dollar brings risks of its own.
Many German companies are shifting their production towards military manufacturing – creating a dilemma for unions and workers caught between securing their livelihoods and building weapons.
Reality doesn’t always line up with our wishes. For Pete Hegseth, this lesson has been learned the hard way. Six months into his war with Iran, top military officials are warning the Secretary of Defense that prolonged fighting would be “unsustainable,” according to new reporting from The Washington Post. These officials are echoing sentiments that […]
In the new print issue of Esses, a quarterly print magazine covering motorsports and the culture around it, Duncan Fyfe writes about the most bizarre Formula One video game ever made. Centered around Gerhard Berger, a former racing driver from Austria who competed in F1 from 1984 to 1997, Gerhard Berger’s Formula 1 Quiz is a quirky video game from 1993 that raises more questions than it asks. Fyfe digs into the mystery, investigating the quiz’s grammatically awkward questions and the game’s developer, Austria Soft, whose existence is questionable. (Esses subscription may be required—consider becoming a member.)
THE REAL QUIZ, it soon becomes clear, is not a test of one’s F1 knowledge, but figuring out what the game expects to hear. This only becomes more difficult, and even sinister. Question nine: FROM WHAT COUNTRY IS JEAN ALESI REALLY? The answer is not France, where Alesi was born and grew up, and under whose flag Alesi competed for over a decade. To progress in the quiz, the game forces one to submit that Alesi was born to Italian parents, and thus is “really” from Italy.
The game’s questions all have correct answers that cannot be submitted, and yet they are less difficult to answer than these ones: Who made this game? Why? And what was Gerhard Berger thinking?
When Israeli forces besieged Al-Shifa Hospital in November 2023, eight premature babies in incubators were evacuated to Egypt under fire. One of them was Joud. His mother, Fatima Dakkeh, spent the next two years and eight months searching for him and fighting to bring him home.
Fatima tells the story of giving birth just months before October 7, losing contact with her son during the first Israeli raid on Al-Shifa, learning a year later that he was alive in Egypt, and a bittersweet reunion with a child who no longer recognized her.
According to the International Rescue Committee, at least 17,000 children in Gaza are unaccompanied or separated from their parents. For many families, there will be no reunion.
Credits:
Producers: Belal Awad, Leo Erhardt Videographers: Ruwaida Amer, Mahmoud Al Mashharawi Video Editor: Leo Erhardt
Transcript
Narrator:
Al-Shifa hospital is the largest medical complex in Gaza. Since October 7, it’s been repeatedly raided, occupied and targeted by Israeli forces. Over the course of the Genocide, hundreds were killed in and around the building and the hospital itself was completely destroyed.
In November 2023, under Israeli fire, 8 premature babies in incubators were hurriedly evacuated to Egypt. Joud was one of those babies.
Fatima Dakkeh:
I gave birth to my son, Joud, in July. Joud needed neonatal care at Al-Shifa Hospital. We placed him in the neonatal unit, but then the war started and Joud was there in the hospital. We couldn’t get in touch with Joud because of the shelling and the war.
Narrator:
Fatima Dakkeh and her son Joud have been unable to have a regular mother-son relationship. Joud was born in Gaza just a few months before October 7th 2023 and so, their story has been shaped by war, displacement and separation. Shaped that is, by Israel’s war on Gaza.
Fatima Dakkeh:
When we tried to get to the hospital to get Joud, we weren’t able to get to him and take him out, because of the situation—things had gotten really bad. There was a lot of shelling and there were airstrikes and quadcopters. We planned to go back another day to get Joud, once the situation calms down. But the situation just kept getting worse. The Israelis entered Al-Shifa Hospital and occupied it— that was the first invasion of Al-Shifa Hospital, and my son was inside.
About a year later, I found out my son was in Egypt. I mean, I didn’t give up; I kept going to hospitals, I went to the Red Cross and places like that to search for news about my son, no one could help me. I went to a doctor I know. I told him my story, he said, “I’ll try to get in touch with your son and see where he is.” Thank God, he was the one who discovered my son was in Egypt. After a few days, they sent us pictures of my son, and we found out he was OK. Thank God. They knew he was our son through my name—they had my name on file. We started communicating with him more through my sister-in-law—my sister-in-law in Egypt. We told her the story, and of course she didn’t hesitate; she visited him in hospital, sent us pictures and reassured us about him, thank God.
Honestly, I was happy and upset at the same time because my son was in Egypt, if he would have been here in Gaza he would have suffered a lot. We were starved, even nappies were cut off. Most children were using scraps of cloth as nappies. And milk too, was cut off—we had no milk at all in northern Gaza. I said to myself thank God my son is in a better place than Gaza. But at the same time, I was upset that my son was far from me. I would see mothers playing with their kids, dressing them, carrying them—and I would feel these feelings. I would miss my son. I wished my son was with me. At the same time, I’d look at my situation—how we’re living, in tents, in all this difficulty. I’d say to myself, hopefully he will return to us in a better situation, there will be a ceasefire and we will make up for the days we lost.
I had lost hope that he would return. With the crossing closed and the Israelis were not letting people return. When they first told us he was returning, I was shocked. My husband and I both. We were surprised—how could he come back just like that, overnight? He’s just going to come back, all of a sudden, after we’d lost hope all these years. I was overjoyed with the news that I would see my son again, it was the best news. When we went to the hospital to collect him, it took a really long time for them to bring him to us—many hours. With each passing hour, I would get more and more excited: about seeing him and about how I would greet him. I mean it was really hard, but at the same time, the moment when I saw him was really beautiful.
Yeh, honestly, when I first saw my son, he wouldn’t come to me; he’d cry and avoid me. He would go to his dad before me. he didn’t want to come to me, so I was afraid that he’d stay that way uncomfortable around us And afraid of living with us, and afraid of the situation we’re in— that he wouldn’t accept us Thank God, little by little, he started to accept us.
Narrator:
According to estimates by the International Rescue Committee, 20,000 children are still living separated from their parents in Gaza. Fatima was reunited with Joud and though their separation which lasted 2 years and 8 months impacted both mother and child, they are now reunited. As for the thousands of other survivors in Gaza, for many there will be no reunion.
When Israeli forces raided Al-Shifa Hospital, Fatima Dakkeh’s newborn baby was evacuated to Egypt without her — one of thousands of Gaza's children separated from their families by Israel's war.
Nell’inverno del 1886-1887, in una tomba dell’Alto Egitto, gli archeologi francesi trovarono nove pagine del testo che oggi chiamiamo Vangelo di Pietro. Raccontavano una resurrezione che nessuno dei quattro Vangeli canonici aveva mai descritto: Gesù usciva dal sepolcro alto fino al cielo, seguito da una croce capace di camminare e parlare.
Il ritrovamento avvenne nell’antico cimitero di Akhmim, la Panopoli dei Greci. La sepoltura fu attribuita, forse troppo in fretta, a un monaco. Al suo interno c’era un piccolo codice di pergamena che raccoglieva testi ebraici e cristiani. Fra quelle pagine, alcune guardie assistevano a una scena impossibile da dimenticare.
Il cielo si apriva e due figure luminose scendevano accanto alla tomba di Gesù. La pietra posta davanti all’ingresso si spostava da sola. Poco dopo ne uscivano tre uomini dalle proporzioni gigantesche: le teste dei primi due raggiungevano il cielo, quella del terzo lo superava. Dietro di loro avanzava la croce.
Una voce proveniente dall’alto domandava se il messaggio fosse stato annunciato a coloro che dormivano. La croce rispondeva: «Sì».
Il manoscritto non aveva titolo. Il racconto cominciava quando il processo contro Gesù era già in corso e terminava mentre Pietro, Andrea e Levi prendevano le reti e si dirigevano verso il mare. Nelle ultime righe, però, il narratore si presentava come Simon Pietro. Fu questo particolare a permettere agli studiosi di dare un nome al frammento e di collegarlo a un’opera che gli autori cristiani dell’antichità conoscevano, discutevano e talvolta condannavano.
Un vangelo riemerso da una tomba
Urbain Bouriant pubblicò il frammento nel 1892. Era il primo vangelo non canonico riscoperto in epoca moderna in una forma abbastanza estesa da permettere di seguirne la narrazione. Fino a quel momento il Vangelo di Pietro era poco più di un titolo citato da scrittori antichi: un libro perduto del quale sopravvivevano giudizi, sospetti e qualche informazione indiretta.
Lo stesso codice conservava brani del Libro di Enoch, dell’Apocalisse di Pietro e del martirio di Giuliano di Anazarbo. Oggi è custodito presso la Bibliotheca Alexandrina con la sigla BAAM 0522, dopo essere stato conosciuto a lungo come P. Cairo 10759 o, più semplicemente, frammento di Akhmim. La sua collocazione è stata ricostruita da H. A. G. Houghton e Mina Monier in uno studio pubblicato dal Journal of Theological Studies.
Il codice viene datato generalmente al VI o al VII secolo. Il testo copiato sulle sue pagine è molto più antico: un vangelo attribuito a Pietro circolava già verso la fine del II secolo. L’identificazione con il frammento egiziano è largamente accettata, anche se le pagine di Akhmim non riportano alcun titolo e potrebbero appartenere a un’opera più ampia. La scheda della North American Society for the Study of Christian Apocryphal Literature lo indica per questo come il principale manoscritto del Vangelo di Pietro, lasciando aperto il problema della sua estensione originaria.
L’autore non era l’apostolo morto nel I secolo. Qualcuno, diverse generazioni più tardi, scelse la sua voce per conferire autorità al racconto. Non si limitò ad apporre un nome famoso: trasformò Pietro nel testimone che parlava dall’interno della storia e affidava al lettore la propria versione degli ultimi giorni di Gesù.
La Passione secondo un altro Pietro
La prima pagina superstite entra nella vicenda senza preamboli. Ponzio Pilato ha già compiuto il gesto ricordato dal Vangelo di Matteo e si è lavato le mani per dichiararsi estraneo alla condanna. Nel racconto di Akhmim, Erode e i giudici ebrei rifiutano di fare altrettanto. Pilato si alza; Erode impartisce gli ordini per l’esecuzione.
La responsabilità della morte di Gesù viene così spostata dalle autorità romane su Erode e sui capi del popolo. Il testo, tuttavia, distingue fra i dirigenti e la popolazione: dopo la crocifissione, molti comprendono la gravità di quanto è accaduto e manifestano pentimento. Joel Marcus ha letto questa differenza come un possibile indizio di una comunità formata da cristiani di origine ebraica vissuti nella Siria del II secolo. È una proposta affascinante, ma la provenienza del vangelo resta sconosciuta.
Anche Giuseppe d’Arimatea riceve una parte più ampia. Chiede a Pilato il corpo di Gesù prima ancora della crocifissione, ma il governatore deve ottenere il consenso di Erode. Il condannato viene poi rivestito di porpora, fatto sedere su un seggio e circondato da aguzzini che fingono di rendergli omaggio.
Sulla croce Gesù rimane in silenzio e l’autore lo descrive come se non provasse dolore. Uno dei criminali crocifissi al suo fianco protesta contro l’ingiustizia della condanna. Gli esecutori, irritati, decidono di non spezzargli le gambe e ne prolungano l’agonia.
A mezzogiorno l’oscurità avvolge la Giudea. Gli abitanti escono con le lampade, convinti che sia già notte. Le ultime parole di Gesù non coincidono con quelle riportate da Marco e Matteo. Nel testo di Akhmim esclama:
«Potenza mia, potenza, mi hai abbandonato».
Dopo il grido viene «elevato». Il corpo è deposto dalla croce e, quando tocca il terreno, la terra trema. Giuseppe lo lava, lo avvolge in un lenzuolo e lo colloca nel proprio sepolcro.
L’autore sembra ricordare liberamente i quattro Vangeli conosciuti. Pilato proviene soprattutto da Matteo, la cronologia avvicina il testo a Giovanni, altri episodi richiamano Marco e Luca. Molti studiosi vedono in questa mescolanza il lavoro di uno scrittore del II secolo che riorganizzò tradizioni già diffuse. Altri gli attribuiscono materiali indipendenti, forse più antichi. Il rapporto con i Vangeli canonici rimane uno dei problemi centrali della ricerca sul testo.
La notte in cui il sepolcro si aprì
Matteo, Marco, Luca e Giovanni raccontano il ritrovamento della tomba vuota e le apparizioni del risorto. Nessuno di loro mostra il momento esatto in cui Gesù torna in vita. L’autore del Vangelo di Pietro decise di riempire quel silenzio.
Dopo la sepoltura, i capi ebrei chiedono a Pilato di sorvegliare la tomba. Temono che i discepoli possano sottrarre il corpo e annunciare la resurrezione. Il centurione Petronio arriva con alcuni soldati; una grande pietra viene fatta rotolare davanti all’ingresso e sigillata sette volte. Le guardie montano una tenda e iniziano la sorveglianza.
Nella notte fra il sabato e la domenica si ode un grande rumore. I cieli si aprono e due uomini avvolti dalla luce scendono accanto al sepolcro. La pietra si sposta, i due entrano e i soldati svegliano il centurione e gli anziani presenti. Tutti si avvicinano per vedere.
Tre uomini escono dalla tomba. Due sostengono il terzo e sono seguiti da una croce. Le teste dei primi raggiungono il cielo, mentre quella dell’uomo sorretto lo oltrepassa. Il corpo deposto da Giuseppe è diventato una figura cosmica, tanto grande da unire la terra al mondo divino.
Anche la croce ha cambiato natura. Lo strumento dell’esecuzione cammina dietro al risorto e conferma di aver predicato a coloro che dormivano. Non è più un oggetto: diventa testimone e messaggera della vittoria sulla morte.
La scena sembra nascere da una fantasia senza freni. Potrebbe invece essere il risultato di una lettura molto concreta delle Scritture. Deane Galbraith ha collegato il gigante e la croce parlante a un’interpretazione cristologica del Salmo 18 nella versione greca. In quel salmo il sole esce dalla propria dimora come uno sposo e attraversa il cielo simile a un gigante; la voce dei cieli si diffonde su tutta la terra.
Lo scrittore potrebbe aver trasformato quelle immagini poetiche in azioni. Il risorto diventa il gigante che attraversa il firmamento, mentre la voce cosmica viene affidata alla croce. Le parole delle Scritture assumono un corpo, escono dalla tomba e cominciano a muoversi.
Dopo la visione, i soldati corrono da Pilato e dichiarano che Gesù era davvero il figlio di Dio. Il governatore ordina loro di tacere. Soltanto in seguito Maria Maddalena e le altre donne raggiungono il sepolcro, dove incontrano un giovane vestito di luce. Come nel finale originario del Vangelo di Marco, fuggono impaurite. Le autorità hanno visto il prodigio e hanno già deciso di nasconderlo.
Il vescovo che cambiò idea
Verso la fine del II secolo Serapione, vescovo di Antiochia, visitò la comunità cristiana di Rhossus, una città della costa siriana. Qui era scoppiata una controversia intorno a un vangelo attribuito a Pietro. Serapione non conosceva il libro, ma si fidava dei fedeli e ne permise la lettura.
Qualche tempo dopo seppe che l’opera era apprezzata da cristiani vicini al docetismo. Si procurò una copia, la lesse e cambiò giudizio. La sua lettera è sopravvissuta grazie alla Storia ecclesiastica di Eusebio di Cesarea. Il vescovo riconosceva nel libro molti insegnamenti conformi alla fede della Chiesa, insieme ad aggiunte che considerava inaccettabili. Contestava soprattutto l’attribuzione apostolica: Pietro rimaneva un’autorità, ma il suo nome non poteva rendere autentica un’opera successiva. Eusebio conserva anche il racconto dell’iniziale autorizzazione, concessa prima che Serapione avesse esaminato il testo.
Il docetismo, dal verbo greco che significa «sembrare», comprendeva dottrine secondo le quali l’umanità o la sofferenza fisica di Cristo non erano pienamente reali. La descrizione di Gesù silenzioso, come se non provasse dolore, sembrò offrire una conferma. Anche il grido rivolto alla propria «potenza» e l’affermazione che Cristo venne elevato alimentarono il sospetto che la componente divina lo avesse abbandonato prima della morte.
Il frammento consente però una lettura meno netta. Il silenzio può rappresentare la fermezza del martire, mentre l’espressione «come se» non cancella la realtà del dolore. Jerry McCant ha sostenuto che le pagine di Akhmim non bastano a dimostrare una teologia docetista. Serapione potrebbe aver conosciuto sezioni perdute, oppure aver giudicato il modo in cui il libro veniva usato. Potrebbe persino aver letto una versione diversa.
La vicenda racconta qualcosa di più ampio del destino di un singolo vangelo. Alla fine del II secolo, un testo poteva essere letto in una comunità e ignorato in un’altra. Un vescovo poteva autorizzarlo senza conoscerlo, procurarsene una copia e poi intervenire. I confini fra racconto utile, opera sospetta e Scrittura riconosciuta si stavano formando nella pratica, una lettura dopo l’altra.
Perché rimase fuori dal Nuovo Testamento
Quando i vescovi si riunirono a Nicea nel 325, Matteo, Marco, Luca e Giovanni godevano già da oltre un secolo di un riconoscimento molto più ampio rispetto agli altri racconti sulla vita di Gesù. Il concilio discusse soprattutto la natura di Cristo e il rapporto fra il Figlio e il Padre. La scelta dei quattro Vangeli non fu sottoposta a votazione.
La formazione del Nuovo Testamento avvenne gradualmente. Le comunità confrontarono opere diverse e privilegiarono quelle ritenute legate agli apostoli, lette in territori lontani fra loro e compatibili con la fede professata nelle Chiese. Alla fine del II secolo la raccolta dei quattro Vangeli era sostanzialmente stabilita; la discussione su altri libri continuò ancora a lungo. La complessità di questo processo emerge dalla ricostruzione pubblicata nella New Cambridge History of the Bible.
Il Vangelo di Pietro rimase ai margini. Circolava in ambienti limitati, portava il nome di un apostolo che non lo aveva scritto e aveva suscitato dubbi teologici già nel II secolo. Gli mancavano la diffusione e l’autorità raggiunte dai quattro racconti canonici. Più che espulso da una Bibbia ormai definita, non riuscì mai a entrarvi.
La parola «apocrifo» indica qui un’opera rimasta fuori dal canone. Non implica necessariamente un libro segreto, perseguitato o distrutto. Alcuni apocrifi furono combattuti; altri continuarono a essere letti, copiati e utilizzati nella predicazione o nella devozione popolare.
Il codice deposto nella tomba di Akhmim ne offre una prova. Qualcuno, diversi secoli dopo il giudizio di Serapione, considerava ancora quelle pagine abbastanza importanti da conservarle insieme ad altri scritti religiosi.
Che cosa conserva davvero il Vangelo di Pietro
Il frammento di Akhmim non è la cronaca alternativa di un testimone della resurrezione. Il suo valore storico riguarda il mondo cristiano che lo produsse.
Quelle nove pagine mostrano come una comunità del II secolo potesse riprendere una storia ormai conosciuta e darle una forma nuova. L’autore distribuì diversamente le responsabilità della condanna, accentuò i prodigi, trasformò il sepolcro in un luogo osservato dalle autorità e rese visibile ciò che i Vangeli canonici avevano lasciato fuori dalla narrazione.
Il silenzio sul momento esatto della resurrezione non gli bastava. Volle mostrare il cielo aperto, gli angeli discesi sulla terra e un Cristo tanto grande da oltrepassare il firmamento. Perfino la croce dovette uscire dalla tomba e confermare che il messaggio aveva raggiunto il regno dei morti.
Ignoriamo il nome dell’autore, il luogo preciso della composizione e l’ampiezza della sua diffusione. Conosciamo invece l’identità che egli scelse: Pietro, l’apostolo che nei Vangeli aveva rinnegato Gesù e che ora diventava narratore della sua vittoria sulla morte.
Il testo non racconta come avvenne la resurrezione. Racconta come, nel II secolo, alcuni cristiani sentirono il bisogno di vederla accadere.
A war that was supposed to last weeks and end Iran's Islamic regime has now been underway for six months. People inside Iran who were initially hopeful have grown increasingly disillusioned.
di Cesare Sacchetti A Mosca, lo scorso mercoledì, i commentatori Occidentali sono rimasti a dir poco a bocca aperta, se non presi da una vera e propria rabbia. Appena il mastodontico aereo militare C-17 ha iniziato a sorvolare i cieli della capitale moscovita, sono proliferate ipotesi di vario tipo, depistaggi in larga parte secondo i […]
When Donald Trump launched the Iran War on February 28, the usual suspects were in full support. From the moment the conflict ignited, many couldn’t help but immediately express admiration for the president, saying that only a brave, noble, and strong leader would’ve had the courage to do what Trump did here. For weeks, we […]
“Most people don’t get to buy their old homes back, or ever step foot in them again, and that’s okay. But we sure can spend a lifetime trying to re-create them.” In this poignant essay for Dwell, Emilia Petrarca celebrates the work of her late father, the New York City architect John Petrarca, and explores how his influence has shaped her own relationship to home and interior design. Petrarca reflects on the process of finding her own aesthetic while carrying her father’s with her, considering the ways belongings and spaces can hold our memories, legacies, and grief.
When I moved out of my mom’s house and into my first apartment with a roommate at 23, I brought with me a black rug my dad bought in Morocco. After graduating from Carnegie Mellon, he joined the Peace Corps and spent time in Ouarzazate designing government buildings. In a room full of cheap Ikea furniture, it was the only thing that truly felt like a reflection of me. Well, that and a rigid, plastic, yellow outdoor chair I for some reason bought to go with my desk. Looking back at photos now, I see that the choice makes more sense: The chair my dad got me for my room in the Big House was almost the exact same hue.
Northwest Arkansas has been changing. Walmart, which has been rooted in Bentonville for more than 75 years, has reshaped the small town, and now that growth is spreading into the surrounding countryside. With that change, writes Jordan P. Hickey in this poignant essay, come wealthy newcomers looking for a country lifestyle and gravel cyclists riding thousands of unpaved rural roads. And then there are the dogs—who have been here longer than any of these transplants—caught in the midst of it all. Hickey calls them “yarddogs,” finding in them a metaphor for a region in the process of transformation. (Subscription required.)
Downtown Bentonville, so carefully planned, feels surreal today—”Disneyfied,” “Pleasantville,” “gentrification” are the apt words of the critics.And not that it needs to be said, but there are no yarddogs in Bentonville. Not anymore. Here, there are only good dogs. Dogs on leashes, dogs that have been to school, dogs that listen, obey, behave, and will not lunge at every passing jogger.
But, of course, this is not really about dogs at all.
Scientists are growing miniature human brains in labs around the world. (Yep, you read that right.) For Wired, Claire L. Evans reports on the latest research in the field of organoid intelligence, or OI, where scientists are artificially growing brain organoids from tiny human samples, whether skin, blood, teeth, or even hair. As these seed-sized globs mature, they are able to send and receive electrical signals, and even learn to remember and anticipate them. In other words, this living matter is programmable. “And this is where things get truly weird,” writes Evans.
For now, these neural computers are mostly of interest to researchers who want to work with neurons without taking on the tedious wet-lab husbandry themselves. Eventually, however, the company hopes that neurons will prove themselves to be an energy-efficient, resilient substrate for more general computing applications—including some tasks currently handled by AI, like image recognition and classification.
“When you think about what you want from AI, it’s biology,” said Brett Kagan, Cortical Labs’ chief operating officer, when I reached him over Zoom. “You want it to be self-repairing as much as possible. You want it to be adaptable. You want it to be long-lived. You want it to be energy-efficient. These are all features you get for free in biology.”
Começo a coluna aproveitando o gancho do meu colega Gustavo Faleiros, que gentilmente me trouxe para conversa ao falar sobre a inflação de alimentos, em sua coluna da semana passada. (Para quem ainda não leu, Gustavo traz uma excelente explicação sobre o impacto das mudanças climáticas no preço dos alimentos.)
Trago aqui mais algumas camadas desse problema tão complexo, me baseando no relatório “A Inflação de Alimentos No Brasil: Um Fenômeno Estrutural, Específico E Sistêmico”, do economista Valter Palmieri Junior., e nas formulações dos que são, indiscutivelmente, os maiores especialistas no assunto: o Instituto Fome Zero (IFZ).
Como bem colocado pelo Gustavo, a inflação de alimentos se tornou uma preocupação em vários países, especialmente a partir da pandemia do COVID-19. Mas, aqui no Brasil, o fenômeno propriamente dito é mais antigo, e já é percebido há duas décadas.
A inflação de alimentos acontece quando os preços de alimentos e bebidas crescem mais do que a inflação como um todo. Ou seja, quando o Índice de Preços de Alimentos e Bebidas (IPAB) cresce mais do que o Índice de Preços ao Consumidor Amplo (IPCA) –pelo qual normalmente medimos a inflação no Brasil.
E isso acontece praticamente todo ano desde 2007. De lá para cá, o preço dos alimentos subiu 1,6 vez mais do que o restante dos preços. Por isso, especialistas vêm alertando para o problema da inflação dos alimentos há bastante tempo.
Mas, desde a pandemia, uma coisa mudou: o grupo que puxava o crescimento do IPAB até então era, sobretudo, o da alimentação fora do domicílio. Ou seja, preços de comida em bares, lanchonetes e restaurantes. Desde 2020 é o grupo de alimentos consumidos no domicílio quem cresce mais, acumulando uma alta de 65% em apenas seis anos!
Essa mudança tem efeitos perversos. A despesa com alimentação é incontornável: todos precisam comer. É claro que existem diferenças na alimentação de pessoas com mais e menos dinheiro, mas, no limite, todos gastam com isso. É uma conta que pesa mais para quem ganha menos e precisa destinar uma parcela maior de seu orçamento para a comida.
Dados do IBGE mostram que a alimentação representava, em 2018, 23,8% dos gastos das famílias que ganhavam até dois salários-mínimos. Já para as que ganhavam mais de 25 salários-mínimos, era apenas 11,5%. Com a escalada dos preços desde então, é bem provável que essa proporção tenha subido, com ainda mais intensidade para os mais pobres.
Comer fora muitas vezes é um luxo, a base da alimentação da maioria dos brasileiros é de refeições preparadas em casa. Essa opção segue sendo a mais barata, mas seu custo vem crescendo com maior rapidez.
Aqui, vale destacar: são os alimentos in natura e minimamente processados – aqueles colhidos diretos do pé ou compostos de poucos ingredientes – que recebem a maior alta de preços, o que também é grave do ponto de vista nutricional.
O preço das frutas cresceu 2,8 vezes mais do que a inflação geral nos últimos vinte anos, e o dos legumes, 1,9 vez mais.
Em resumo, o biscoito recheado é mais barato que a maçã. Assim, quem tem menos renda também está perdendo, aos poucos, o direito a uma alimentação saudável.
No relatório, Palmieri Junior. destaca cinco principais fatores que explicam a inflação de alimentos. Um deles, o Gustavo trouxe: as mudanças climáticas.
Escolho focar em outro: nosso modelo agroexportador. Em especial porque, curiosamente, defensores históricos do agronegócio decidiram ligar, neste período eleitoral, para o custo de vida dos brasileiros.
Flávio Bolsonaro (PL-RJ) mencionou, em seu discurso de lançamento da campanha, a preocupação das famílias brasileiras com os preços nas prateleiras.
Nikolas Ferreira (PL-MG) lançou um vídeo em que faz compras no mercado e, com preços mentirosamente inflacionados, reclama do custo das coisas.
No vídeo, o Nikolas acompanha uma mulher fazendo uma compra de cinco alimentos (café, ovo, feijão, leite e picanha), que soma R$255,96. Porém, o jornalista Guga Noblat foi a um supermercado de Brasília (DF) e comprou as mesmas coisas, a fim de fazer uma checagem de preços, e chegou a uma conta de R$137,36 – 86% a menos.
Acontece que é incoerente defender a expansão desenfreada do agronegócio e depois reclamar de uma de suas consequências mais imediatas, como fazem ambos os candidatos mencionados e muitos outros.
Explico.
A guinada agro do Brasil levou à redução expressiva dos hectares destinados ao cultivo de alimentos básicos, que foram perdendo espaço, principalmente, para a soja, o milho e a cana de açúcar, mais vendidos no mercado externo, como mostra o gráfica abaixo.
Fonte: Palmieri Junior (2026). A inflação de alimentos no Brasil: um fenômeno estrutural, específico e sistêmico
Isso mudou bastante a dinâmica e os custos de produção agrícola no Brasil, mesmo para alimentos que são mais consumidos internamente do que exportados. O feijão, por exemplo.
Como explica Palmieri Junior, ao privilegiar as culturas de exportação, recursos fundamentais, como terras, crédito e incentivos fiscais são deslocados para esses cultivos, o que acaba esvaziando a produção dos demais alimentos, que se tornam menos atrativos.
Também o preço da terra sobe, porque a agricultura se torna uma zona de investimento lucrativo, o que também encarece os alimentos à mesa.
Ainda que esse deslocamento produtivo não signifique uma escassez literal da comida no supermercado, certamente influencia sua dinâmica de preços, tanto pela falta de incentivos quanto pela redução da oferta.
O modelo agroexportador que prioriza o cultivo de commodities ao de alimentos não é o único fator para a elevação do preço da comida. Mas é um bem importante.
E em um mundo de instabilidades internacionais, guerra e mudanças climáticas, é um dos poucos sobre os quais a política interna ainda consegue decidir.
Talvez não possamos controlar totalmente o preço dos combustíveis e fertilizantes ou o tamanho do El-Niño – mesmo que a ação humana contribua para todos esses fatores.
Mas a forma como produzimos comida ainda é uma escolha política nossa.
Direcionar incentivos produtivos para alimentos – como feijão, arroz, mandioca e batata – em vez de commodities, como a soja, retomar os estoques reguladores da CONAB (Companhia Nacional de Abastecimento) e investir na logística de transporte e armazenagem para o mercado interno são políticas públicas importantes, eficazes e, sobretudo, muito possíveis. Mas requerem vontade política.
Por isso, fica o apelo para que a soberania alimentar seja uma bandeira – atenta, e não demagógica – também nestas eleições.
For Nautilus, Charles Digges recounts a massive undertaking begun in 1970 by the Soviet Union: As part of its science program, they decided to dig into Earth. Known as the Kola Superdeep Borehole, at 40,230 feet, it was—and is—the deepest human-made hole on the planet. While the hole didn’t go as deep as they planned, the project gave geologists a new understanding of the subterranean world and the earth’s deep continental crust—a place more alive and dynamic than they ever thought possible.
Other discoveries proved just as momentous. Nearly 22,000 feet beneath the surface, drill cores contained microscopic fossils from two dozen species of plankton that had drifted through an ancient sea more than 2 billion years ago. This showed that even after billions of years of burial deep within the continental crust, unmistakable evidence of some of Earth’s earliest life had survived. Between 16,000 and 23,000 feet, the borehole encountered saline water circulating through fractures in crystalline rocks that geologists had long considered essentially dry. Rather than groundwater that had somehow seeped miles underground, the fluids appear to have originated within the crust itself. As ancient minerals were transformed by heat and pressure, they released chemically bound water, while reactions between water and iron-rich rocks generated hydrogen gas, showing that the supposedly inert continental crust was still chemically active billions of years after it had formed.
In this essay at Panorama: The Journal of Travel, Place, and Nature, writer and professor Samuel Autman reflects on tourism and privilege, especially in a time of xenophobia; traveling as a Black queer American; and the idea of not fully belonging wherever he goes. The sections in Autman’s piece are organized as terms and conditions in a legal agreement, reminding us that when we cross borders, we navigate different cultural and social scenarios, written and unwritten rules, and people who view us as foreign—no matter how at home we might feel.
I found myself asking harder questions about the young men around him, about the relationships, the patronage and the blurred line between generosity and dependency. Mark had paid for many of them to study law, medicine or business. He had even helped one man living in the United States without legal status by paying for him to attend a Spanish-language school.
None of it suggested scandal or anything obviously illegal. But parts of it no longer sat comfortably with me.
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