Shoot, that’s not it.

Benjamin Franklin never told a lie …

No, no, that’s not it either.

So who was Benjamin Franklin? Today, I set out to discover exactly that.

I hop and skip over to the Franklin courtyard and find him right where I expect to, as tarnished and brassy as ever. There he is: the man, the myth, the legend of Benjamin Franklin, carved out in bench form.

“Hello, uh, Mr. Franklin.” There is no reply. I clear my throat — perhaps this will draw his attention …

“Hello … um … Hello, Mr. —”

“Please, call me Benjamin,” Mr. Benjamin interjects.

“Oh, alright,” I reply suddenly, hoping he didn’t catch my glimmer of hesitancy when I first arrived or sense my sudden intense fear that someone would see me talking to a bench. 

“Why don’t you have a seat,” he says in an inviting tone. “Who, me?” I think to myself. “Where?” 

“Right here, to my right.” Mr. Benjamin concludes, as if reading my mind. I furrow my brow with confused suspicion and slowly sit down, joining Mr. Benjamin on the bench.

I inform Mr. Benjamin that I’m looking to learn more about him and ask if he’d be interested in a short interview. He humbly obliges, though I almost see a subtle smile playing on his steel lips.

I begin by asking Mr. Ben about his hobbies, outside of laying the foundation for the American ethos.

I’m taken aback when Mr. Ben starts telling me about his secret career as a rapper. He went by Ben Frank. “It was marvelous,” he recounts. Naturally, I asked him to drop me some beats, but Ben Frank politely declined. “On that note, though,” he continued, “I did spend some time beating eggs as a part-time chef.” It was at that moment that Chef Frank revealed to me that he was actually the mastermind behind the renowned “Frankfurter.”

“Wow …” I mutter under my breath. “Mr. Chef Ben Frankfurter, I have to say I’m sort of speechless. I never knew this side of you.”

“Yeah,” Ben Frank sighs, looking downcast. “Everyone always thinks ‘Mr. Founder this’, ‘Mr. America that’, but what ever happened to ‘Mr. Heart and Soul’? I know what you’re thinking, ‘Benjamin, you’re looking an awful lot like the Tin Man these days, and you know what they said about his heart and soul …’ Well, that I veto! I may present differently now, but I was once a man of emotion, of love, of fervor.” 

“Mmm” I reply, nodding my head ever so subtly, eyebrows slightly raised.

“If you don’t believe me,” he continues “you can ask my wife — she can attest to the passion I —”

“Right, right” I hurriedly cut him off in a sudden state of rushed panic. I’m not interested in hearing about Bench Benjamin’s sex life.

“Please, allow me to finish.” Mr. Benjamin continues in an ever-diplomatic tone.

Oh no.

“I spent some time as a dancer in my career, and my wife — always my No. 1 fan — could tell you about how hard I hit those boogies and whipped those Nae Naes.”

“What?” I think to myself.

“That’s right,” he counters my unspoken doubt. “But I had my academic side, too. I spent my summers doing research in New Haven. Discovering chemicals and such. Ever heard of benzene? All me.”

“In fact,” he continued, “they considered me a scientist so mad that I became Mary Shelley’s muse for ‘Frankenstein’

“Huh,” I reply, wondering how much of the world as I know it is Benjamin Franklin-coded.

“And lastly, in my free time, I enjoyed modeling cars. I was the first to envision the Bentley.”

“This is all extremely impressive. Is there anything else you want to share?”

“I’ll leave you with one piece of Frank advice. During the extended time I spent with my fellow Founding Fathers, I learned that the most important thing is to poke fun at each and every opportunity. Sometimes, that means opting for creativity and imagination over truth and reality.”

“Like … making things up?”

“Precisely — it makes for the greatest fun.” He finishes with a wink, or perhaps the sun simply flashed across his brazen eye at just the right moment to bring an illusion to life.

Great fun indeed … well played, Benjamin.

The post The Secrets & Sentiments of Benjamin Franklin appeared first on Yale Daily News.

February is finally finished. Fortunately?

Fact: February contains the fewest days of any month. 

Fiction: February contains the fewest days of fun of any month.

February often gets a bad rap for feeling like the longest month despite only having 28 days (or, in this year’s case, 29 days). For everyone, it just seems to drag on — we aren’t still riding the New Year’s energy and excitement, and spring hasn’t quite yet sprung. 

At the beginning of the semester, when I was mapping out my major assignments and assessments for each course, February was filled to the brim. The work just kept piling on. As soon as I would begin to feel relieved after finishing one assignment, I would quickly have to gear up and begin working on or preparing for the next one. I even had a midterm on the 29th! Is that allowed? 

Most people anxiously anticipate the end of this month, but is it worth the rush? Is February so brutal that we should excitedly march into March without soaking up all that February has to offer? I’ll admit, I was a member of the “Fast-Forward Through February Club.” I patiently waited for the month to end. However, I owe February an apology. If I had just spent a little extra time searching, I could have found that February is in fact filled with felicity.  

I didn’t even have to look too far past the first day to find good news this month. On Groundhog’s Day (Feb. 2), Punxsutawney Phil did not see his shadow. What does that mean for us? Spring is on its way! I don’t know if it’s just placebo, but ever since then, I have already started to see early signs of spring: the sun has made an appearance after a long period of hibernation, the weather decided that we don’t have to wear our heaviest coats anymore and the birds are happily chirping and singing because they, too, know that spring is on its merry way. 

Despite this major development, which I thought could cheer me up for the rest of the month, an avalanche of work — and actual snow, for that matter — struck down during the second week: two midterms and a paper. Struggling through the storm of work, I managed to find some silver linings amidst the clouds. 

On Sunday, Feb. 11, after studying for most of the day and preparing for the hectic week that lay ahead, I found some snippets of fun. I enjoyed a super-special Super Bowl dinner in the Branford dining hall, complete with nachos, wings and the most delightful chocolate and peanut butter cupcakes. While I wasn’t able to watch the entire game, my friend was able to find a live stream just in time for the halftime show. Then, a few days later on the 14th, I enjoyed a delectable Galentine’s dinner, and finished off the night with a treat from Claire’s. The difficult week seemed to be taking a sweet turn. 

Near the end of the month, when midterms started lightening up for me, more events and celebrations appeared on the horizon. There were endless formals to attend, whether it was the annual first-year formal or formals for clubs and social groups. The end of the month brought multiple occasions to dress up and have fun, which for me, was a delight because I felt like I had been living in sweatpants for the entirety of February.

When looking back at this month, perhaps it was filled with more excitement than I gave it credit for. 

However, with that being said, I’m somewhat relieved that March is here.

The post FeBRUTALary or FUNuary? appeared first on Yale Daily News.

This Monday, Yale Course Search will open with the 2024-2025 course listings. If reading that sentence doesn’t already make you want to throw up –– congratulations, you don’t know how to read.

Personally, my only requirements for courses here are that I can either 1) fantasize about the professor while I stare blankly into space or 2) fantasize about my seminar crush while I stare blankly into space or 3) fantasize about the subject of study while I stare blankly into space. Unfortunately, this has meant I’ve spent most of my valuable Yale education picturing Julius Caesar going down on Calpurnia, and wondering whether Nietzsche’s mustache would tickle. 

I was able to get a sneak peek at the various courses that are being offered next year, and I’ve decided to dedicate this week’s SOTW to a noble, academically focused pursuit of making sure my readers have the best schedule possible. Find below some standouts from next year’s offerings (although beware, they might fill up quickly): 

ECON 156: How to Properly Bring Up Your Banking Summer Internship in Conversations Where No One Asks About Your Banking Summer Internship

Course Description: This course teaches students the various rhetorical techniques necessary to ensure they can talk about their JP Morgan internship in every human interaction they have, even when it’s completely unnecessary and/or inappropriate. Upon completion, students will be able to navigate funerals, anti-war protests and pillow talk knowing how to tastefully mention how they’ll be spending their summer in “the City.”

BIOL 334: The Human Body: Limiting Bowel Leakage After Dining Hall “Flounder” 

Course Description: Yale students are faced biweekly with questions like, does someone important in Yale administration have an uncle with a failing Flounder fishery? Am I the last person at this school with working tastebuds and a normal gastrointestinal tract? This course aims to answer those questions, and so much more. No necessary prerequisites, although students with a keen academic interest in aquatic bottom feeders –– or a personal interest in feeding on bottoms –– are particularly welcome. 

SOCY 123: The Difference Between Meaningful Friendships and People You Go Out With

Course Description: Enrollment limited to sophomores and juniors who are beginning to ask themselves, “If I only hang out with them when I’m drinking, are they really my friends?” Additional questions that’ll be covered include, “Are they really your best friends, or were they just the first people you met freshman year?” 

ANTH 269: Male Friendship I: Activities that Allow You and Your Bro to Make Eye Contact

Course Description: Let’s face it: you and Brad are best friends, but you’ve never had a good look at his face. When you hang out you play video games, watch football, degrade women and stand side-by-side while looking at various third objects. This course will teach you (and your bro) ways to sit opposite of each other and look directly into one another’s eyes. Prerequisite to  “ANTH 270: Male Friendship II: Am I in Love With My Bro?” 

PLSC 277: How to Identify Future Presidents, Collect Their Blackmail

Course Description: Brady (President of the Buckley Institute and the Involuntary Celibacy Club) has convinced your 84-year-old “there were good people on January 6” history professor it’s reasonable to abort himself, let alone fetuses. But Brady’s got charisma and is just average-looking enough that his face could be put on campaign posters without putting people off. 

So yes, in a few decades, the Brady who only brushes his teeth at night will probably be the leader of the Free World. But he also anonymously slut shames women on Fizz –– and there’s your window. 

CHEM 499: Is my TF into me?

Course Description: Half-semester course (the answer is yes). 

BIOL 102: Ensuring Your Girlfriend Finishes

Course Description: Introductory biology lecture course with no prerequisites. NOTE: in the past students have taken this as a “gut,” but understand the intellectual and physical effort that this course demands. We typically recommend that students take this Credit/D/Fail, along with a lighter course load. If the course reaches capacity, priority will be given to economics majors.

Happy bluebooking!

<3 SOTW

The post Sex on the WKND: The Yale classes you should probably take next year appeared first on Yale Daily News.

Where does every good love story take place? Outside of a JCrew. 

What’s the epitome of a romantic love story? The tale of Campbell “Pookie” and Jett Puckett.

As fate would have it, these lovebirds found themselves outside the same JCrew on a particularly romantic Saturday night, during the most love-struck month: March. And where did this romantic encounter take place? None other than the most romantic city in America: Loganville, Georgia.

Campbell’s captivating blue eyes held an irresistible charm. Jett felt as if she could see right through him, and indeed she was, her gaze fixated on the zaffre cashmere turtleneck displayed behind him. But that didn’t deter Jett; Campbell embodied everything Jett admired in a woman— quintessential, amazing, and fire. He cleared his throat, straightened his back, and approached her.

“Hello. My name is Jett Puckett, and you are looking absolutely fire tonight. Good lord, you are looking absolutely fabulous. May I have your name?” He asked, with an accent that could easily double as the country voice of Siri. 

Campbell’s blue orbs shifted to the person standing before her. She glanced him up and down, appreciating how his jeans fit perfectly and his burgundy sweater complemented his skin. “Thank you! I’m Campbell,” she replied, as he softly held her hand, shaking it gently. Blushing, she moved her hair behind her ear.

“Has that zaffre cashmere turtleneck caught your eye?” he asked, noticing her gaze elsewhere. She shyly nodded, “it just looks so soft.” He agreed, “I don’t blame you. It is a beautiful sweater. I think it would complement your eyes so well,” he said, looking into her peepers. “Are they Old World Blue?” Her mouth dropped open as she gasped. She had never met someone who knew the exact shade of her eyes.

“Yes!” She exclaimed, “Everyone always says ‘Oh, I love your blue eyes,’ or ‘your eyes are such a pretty blue.’ But you get it, they’re not just blue. They’re Old World Blue, and you are so right. Zaffre would go great with my Old World Blue eyes.” 

They locked eyes. Campbell and Jet could see the rest of their lives in each other’s eyes. 

“I love a man who appreciates fashion and knows how to dress,” Campbell flirted. 

“I love a woman who looks good in clothes and knows how to dress,” Jett joked.

From there, the two met frequently for casual dates — dinners at Nobu winemaking in Bourges, or the Burj Khalifa — early relationship things. 

As their relationship flowered, so did their attire, blossoming into a kaleidoscope of styles and a wardrobe woven with the threads of their enduring love. Their love story wasn’t just about the external allure, like Campbell’s glooming blue orbs, but also the warmth that radiated from within, like one of Jett’s cozy cashmere sweaters on a chilly evening.

One day, as they strolled through Paris, Jett took Campbell’s hand and looked into her Old World Blue eyes.

“Do you think,” he began with a mischievous smile, “we should make our love official?”

Campbell’s mind began to race — was he going to propose? Was this the moment? Was this really happening? “Yes, Jett! I think that is a perfect idea!” 

Jet smiled happily, “I’ve been waiting to do this. I’ve never called anyone this before.” Campbell’s eyebrows briefly furrowed. ‘Called anyone this’? What is he calling her? Isn’t he supposed to be getting on a knee? Campbell could not predict what would happen next. 

“Pookie, I love you.” He said, smiling softly at her Old World Blue eyes. 

“Pookie?” Campbell repeated, in a mixture of confusion and amusement, coloring her expression.

“Yes, Pookie! Pookinator! Pooks! It’s our own special nickname. I thought it’s time we have something unique, just for us.”

Campbell couldn’t help but laugh, “Pookie it is, then.” They pulled each other in for a warm embrace. 

“Oh, one more thing, Pookie,” Jett said, reaching into his pocket. He held a small box in his hand, and Campbell’s heart skipped a beat. What could it be? As Jett got down on one knee, Campbell’s eyes widened in surprise and excitement. 

“Pookie, will you do me the honor of being my forever fashionista, my partner in crime, and the love of my life?” Jett opened the box to reveal a dazzling zaffre ring, the same hue as the first sweater Jett bought Pookie. 

Speechless and overwhelmed with joy, Campbell nodded vigorously, tears of happiness glistening in her eyes. “Yes, yes, a thousand times, yes!”

Pookie and Jett sashayed into the moonlit night, ready to strut through the next chapter of their haute-couture love tale.

The post The Wattpad Love Story of the Pookie Pucketts appeared first on Yale Daily News.

Ever since I transferred to Yale last semester, I’ve been excited to nourish my brain with knowledge, experiences and especially with new people. Yale is the perfect place. Dog trainers with perfect GPAs. Frat boys who intern at the White House in the Summer. Polyglots who think about taking a shit in more than one language. You want to find a niche talented person? You find it at Yale. It is the same all around. In classes, residential colleges, Good Nature Market (G Heav) late at night after having gone out partying, the Yale Running Club. Everywhere, but there is a place where all these people congregate. There is a place where all this talent goes to the trash and it’s reduced to raw instincts.

Dining halls.

Back in Miami Dade College in the Padrón Campus, people shared funny stories after class.  Almost always, the conversation would move to OTG (our version of the dining hall). Friendship made. At Yale? There’s a protocol involved. Let’s break it down. Okay, well, it’s followed by two questions.

1. “Would you like to grab a meal sometime?” which translates to “could I use your name to finish filling up my G-Cal this week?”
2. “When are you free?” which translates to “tell me you’re free so I can tell you all the ways in which I’m not free.”

After getting used to my system, which helped nurture some of the best friendships I’ve ever met, this protocol felt like my fifth course. Now? Well, I’m already in level two.

Back when I arrived at Yale, I loved this system. Everyone is so busy, but they are nice enough to open their brains to you … I know, right?! Kindness overflows here! Community service? Bah! I already opened up my time to five people in need this week.

With that out of the way, let’s explain the brain idea. I’ve always loved to read. I went through a dystopian era, to a thriller era, to a literary fiction era. This obsession for appreciating literature turned into my obsession for writing about crazy characters in fiction and immortalizing my emotions in poetry. My brain thrives off of writing and reading. However, it took me a long time to realize that it’s extremely difficult to maintain both activities in check. When I wasn’t writing, I was reading a lot. And vice versa.

I never realized the same could happen with people. I’ve shared meals with a bunch of people at Yale, and again, I used to find it fascinating. I would call my mom after every meal ended and exclaim, “you won’t believe whom I just had lunch with! This person wants to work for NASA! They have created an app! They are also Venezuelan!” But the most hilarious one is the following: “I think I finally made a friend.” Week after week, I went through these interactions. Serotonin rising. Illusions about staying up late gossiping. Sometimes, I eat with people I find cute. I find myself idealizing the “afterwards” of eating with a cute girl. I call my friend back in Cornell, tell her everything.

Spring semester of 2024 comes. I realize how much I have been appreciating cool people, longing for being closer with some of them, imagining these interactions leaving the dining hall. But, I also realize something in my dorm stinks. So, I spent weeks looking for it. What is it? What is this smell that’s not letting me sleep? What is this smell that makes me not want to be in my dorm? Or not to be with myself … ? Damn, it’s me. My brain is rotten. It lost all its color, all its shiny appearance, all its original knowledge. I fried my brain.

How many of those cool people are my friends today? Well, conversations with my mom got shorter. “What happened to that girl who invited you to that party?” Oh yeah, it was all part of the community service package she was offering that week. “What happened to that girl who loves writing as much as you do?” Oh yeah, she looks the other way when I try to smile at her on the sidewalk. 

That’s when I realized I’ve done the equivalent of reading a lot and not writing. I’ve been appreciating the grandeur in other people and not appreciating and further nurturing my own. Don’t get me wrong. It’s still fun to get to know new people while struggling not to get my sweater stained with the meat from the arepa in Commons (and spending the next 30 minutes cleaning the stain in the bathroom to not lose that precious sweater). But, I gotta be careful. It’s the same as with writing, a good writer can’t get consumed and discouraged by all the good writing there is out there. They can consume a lot of it for inspiration, but there comes a stopping point when you just gotta do a lot of writing and not put anything else into your brain.

As someone who thrives off of knowledge, I have to keep a balance between obtaining it by exchanging information with other people and obtaining it by creating and retrospecting. On another note, I’ve learned that not all conversations at Yale will get you to find people you can trust your murder history with. They might inspire you to add more people to that (fictional) record, though. Too many of these, however, can fry your brain as they did mine.

The post Let’s Grab a Meal appeared first on Yale Daily News.

Hi! My name is Eliza, and I’m a sophomore in Pierson College studying comparative literature. I’m one of many Yale students with puzzling backgrounds. I’m trained as a butcher, and I love tofu. I’m Jewish, and my mom’s last name is Church. I’m American, and I went to an international school for 10 years. I quote Proust just as much as I quote Season 8 of Love Island. 

I know all too well that there’s a lot more to people, places and things than meets the eye. And that’s why I love Yale. You can never fully understand everything going on here, but you can try! And that’s what Enigma, this column, is all about — digging deeper into these pressing questions and providing much needed answers.

—

These columns usually begin with some kind of jaunty joke about life at Yale, but today, I’m leaving the lede a little bare. This is a serious matter! I’m going to take you behind the scenes of ENIGMA, and tell you the origin story of the column, the step-by-step writing process and the ideas that got scrapped.

So much brews underneath our university, unseen by the casual observer. As a student, you can only look beneath and beyond so many mysteries yourself — everyone has tasted the secrecy, whether at a wild club initiation or in a highly competitive seminar. I was inspired to pitch ENIGMA so I could make a wide array of hidden truths more clear, colorful, and accessible to any reader.

In this spirit, I whipped up a Google Slides presentation for my editors, complete with five potential stories to explore. The first three articles I wrote came directly from the slides: “Who the hell is on aux in Commons?” “Will the Beinecke really suffocate you?” and “Do ‘Woads Scholars’ actually exist?” 

Those two garnered lots of clicks and praise. This is because they fit into the initial ENIGMA formula perfectly. Here’s how I go about investigating:

Step 1: Come up with an idea and ask around (off the record) to see if people are interested in learning more. If people are enthusiastic about it and say some variation of “I’ve always wondered about that!” or “I would definitely read that article” then you’re on the right track.

Step 2: Search the internet and the YDN archives, gathering all public knowledge about this enigma. This will help you describe the concept and its context to an unfamiliar party. For instance, it would help a Yale professor or parent to know the layered etymology of the term “Woads Scholar” before diving deeper into their potential existence. Are there any questions you can’t answer online? Those are the ones you’ll be asking, and the gaps you’ll be filling later.

Step 3: Ask around, on the record this time. Talk to students and get the most casual quotes possible. Email experts if you need something factual, and then put your own humorous spin on what they say. If you’re looking into the history of a place, go there! Run straight to the source, and don’t look back.

Step 4: Accept that Step 3, the experience, will take up the bulk of your time and comprise most of the article. I’ve found that the answers to the questions I pose are usually straightforward and simple. The journey I take to find those answers — if I find any at all — is where the fun lies. 

Step 5: Reflect on what you’ve learned, and what it says about Yale as a place. What have you uncovered that you didn’t know before? How will you continue to interact with these findings? What wisdom do you have for the reader? Organize your thoughts, and wrap them all up into 1000 words to present to your editors. 

Okay, let’s take a breath. That was a lot! But I hope it gives you some insight into what goes on in these pieces.

Now, you may say, “Eliza! If you have a step-by-step manual, what’s stopping you from publishing ENIGMA biweekly like you planned?” First, let me say, I hear you. I see you. But what if I told you that the majority of my investigations proved unsolvable? 

Let’s flash back to winter break. I whipped up a color-coded spreadsheet chalk full of ideas. So many ideas, in fact, that there was an “Idea Overflow” tab of back-up options in case I needed a Plan B, all in the hopes of establishing a consistent, biweekly column. 

Yet, my presence in your inbox has lessened. What happened? Two things: one, some of my ideas fell flat, and two, I embarked on some overly ambitious investigations that are still in progress.

I’ve learned that a recipe for success must contain every ingredient. And certain ideas, unfortunately, didn’t fully rise in the oven. Here are two examples of those half-baked enigmas: 

1. “Who the hell is a campus celebrity?” didn’t work because this title is subjective. Who you and your friend group consider famous — and/or infamous — really depends on what interests you, and most pertinently, where you live. The Franklin celebs exist in a totally different sphere than the Morse ones. The science hill baddies rarely interact with the HQ hotties.
2. “Were famous Yalies really just like us?” would be nearly impossible to get quotes on. Sure, it’s interesting that Anderson Cooper was a coxswain on the lightweight crew team. It’s even more interesting that former president George W. Bush was the president of DKE. But I had difficulty getting alumni to go on the record, and of course, the famous Yalies didn’t respond.

And any investigation that I’m not bringing up to you right now? Either it’s not interesting enough to warrant mentioning, or it’s currently in progress. And top secret. Completely classified. 

Be on the lookout! I’m doing all I can to gather information about some of Yale’s most puzzling enigmas, just for you. It’s all for you, dear reader. Couldn’t you tell?

If you have any ideas for the next enigma I should investigate, shoot me an email at eliza.josephson@yale.edu. I’m always looking for more mysteries to explore.

The post ENIGMA: Are some mysteries just unsolvable? appeared first on Yale Daily News.

Then She Was Gone

In Then She Was Gone, 15-year-old Ellie vanishes without a trace, leaving her mother Laurel haunted by her disappearance for a decade. A silver lining finally appears when Laurel serendipitously meets Floyd, a charming man who seamlessly fills Laurel’s life after her divorce and the loss of her daughter. However, Floyd’s young daughter, Poppy, bears an undeniable and uncanny resemblance to Ellie. The book leads readers on an enthralling journey to unravel the truth behind Ellie’s disappearance, weaving together the unexpected connections between all of the characters. 

The chapters alternate between past and present, allowing readers to delve into both Laurel’s current experiences and the events leading up to Ellie’s disappearance, engaging the audience by asking them to make connections about the timeline for themselves. Additionally, the incorporation of first-person narration in select chapters provided valuable insight into the characters’ motivations and personalities.

Despite my initial captivation, I found myself wishing for more unexpected twists and deeper connections between the characters’ journeys. As the narrative unfolded, certain plot developments felt somewhat predictable, diminishing the impact of the final reveal, but I still found the ending to fit the rest of the story. Nonetheless, the book’s compelling narration kept me eagerly turning pages, unable to tear myself away. For readers who appreciate intricate family-centered mysteries, Then She Was Gone remains a worthwhile recommendation, even if it falls slightly short of delivering a truly unforgettable conclusion.

Rating: 4.5 / 5 

The Night She Disappeared 

The Night She Disappeared details a young couple, Tallulah and Zach, two 19-year-olds with a newborn son, who never return home after a party at the enigmatic mansion known as the Dark Place. Their infant child is left behind under the care of Tallulah’s mother, Kim, who is determined to uncover the truth behind their abrupt and unexplained disappearance. About two years later, Sophie and her husband move into a nearby house. When Sophie discovers a peculiar “Dig here” sign, she begins to unravel the secrets of the mansion and the fate of the missing couple.

The narrative employs a back-and-forth timeline, alternating between Sophie’s present-day perspective and Tallulah’s past experiences. This structural choice builds anticipation as readers await the revelation of the connection between these seemingly disparate characters. Additionally, the allure of the historic family mansion serves as an intriguing backdrop, cleverly woven into the plot by Jewell.

Despite the compelling premise and setting, I found it challenging to connect with the characters on a meaningful level. The lack of emotional attachment meant that my engagement stemmed primarily from the unfolding plot rather than any investment in the characters’ relationships. While relationships play a significant role in this story, I felt they were underdeveloped and failed to evoke a genuine connection.

Nevertheless, the strength of the ending salvaged the reading experience for me. The culmination of the plot was satisfying with meticulously crafted details converging to deliver a compelling conclusion. Particularly noteworthy was the final chapter, which left me pondering the broader implications of the story. Although some parts of the book felt prolonged — and it wasn’t my favorite among the three I read — I ultimately enjoyed its resolution.

Rating: 4 / 5 

None of This is True 

This book quickly became my favorite among the three. None of This is True kicks off with Josie and Alex — independently celebrating their 45th birthday at a restaurant —  who stumble into each other and dub themselves “Birthday Twins.” After coincidentally running into each other again, Josie wants to appear on Alex’s podcast to share her story, coaxing her way into Alex’s life. Alex’s podcast unravels the complexities of Josie’s life and family, which somehow ultimately culminates in tragedy for both women.

The fast-paced nature of the story creates a looming sense of impending tragedy, telling the reader that something dire will occur. Despite this anticipation, the dynamic between the mismatched characters of Josie and Alex keeps the outcome uncertain. My favorite part was the clever interspersion of clippings from the podcast and Nextlifx documentary, “Hi! I’m Your Birthday Twin!” This formatting cleverly foreshadows future events while leaving crucial details unrevealed.

The book, in classic Jewell style, starts with a gripping prologue that adds to the suspense, providing a tantalizing glimpse into what lies ahead. As the story progresses, these initial snippets gradually gain significance, enhancing the overall intrigue. The thought-provoking epilogue further adds to the narrative depth, prompting readers to question their interpretations of the truth. In conclusion, I wholeheartedly recommend this book, particularly for its unique storytelling approach and gripping narrative.

Rating: 5 / 5 

Jewell’s mysteries, centered around family, crime, murder, and relationships, are thought-provoking thrillers that kept me thoroughly entertained and flipping pages. I found myself devouring each of Jewell’s books in a single sitting. Her style makes her books successful; by alternating between past and present, she creates suspense and anticipation for the collision of timelines. My main drawback is that my interest was primarily in the plot itself, rather than in the depth of the characters. Overall, for those looking to delve into psychological thrillers, I highly recommend exploring Jewell’s works.

The post A gem: Lisa Jewell’s thrillers rock appeared first on Yale Daily News.

Naturally, I must address the elephant in the room: NYC is unequivocally the best trip to take from New Haven, no matter how unoriginal. I am, in fact, writing this article from the MNR (my train stopped in Rye and Fordham so I had the time to pull out the computer and do this). Maybe it’s because I’m from a small town, but the charms of the city seem endless. My favorite way to spend a day is with a museum in the morning (I frequent the MoMA), then treat yourself to lunch before finally hitting up some shopping. Century21 (as featured in Sex and the City) is one of the best places to satisfy your taste for luxury on a budget. Also, if you know where to look, you may just stumble upon a sample sale. In the summer months, sometimes it’s just a nice escape to take a book and a blanket and sprawl out in the sunshine in Central Park. 

Next on my list is less over-done: Montreal. Granted, this trip might be best suited for those with the luxury of an on campus car as it is expensive to fly, but a destination as incredible as this is worth the recommendation. If you lack a Friday class or are searching for something to do over a long weekend, visit Montreal to feel like you are in France, except cheaper, prettier and with nicer people (maybe I just hate the French). I recommend staying in Old Montreal and heading to Pub Saint Pierre for drinks. As for food, I had an excellent meal at Brasserie 701, but if you’re on a budget, McDonald’s Canada does have a better menu than its counterpart in the United States. Quebec City, which is aesthetically much prettier, is also only a couple hours away by train. There, you can visit massive waterfalls, have drinks overlooking the St. Lawrence in the historic Chateau Frontenac. 

I wouldn’t be a good political science major without pointing out the obvious weekend destination, Washington, D.C. Common for conferences and career trips among Yalies and less so for fun, I have surprisingly discovered I could (and have) spend many weekends in D.C. and still not see it all. There are so many museums that are completely free, you could never see them all in one weekend. There’s also plenty of embassy events with free food and music if you know when you are going far enough in advance. 

Hopefully, this has helped you nail down your post-midterm getaway plans and if you ever need restaurant or Airbnb recommendations in any of these 3 incredible cities, you know who to ask.

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…Is what I thought the first time I saw snow as a weeny, impressionable first-year hailing from the balls-hot south. I remember leaving church that November morning — my first Catholic mass — to find flurries of snow wisping through the air. I guess you could call it divine intervention.

Now, though, I tend to feel more like a naked mole rat in the cold than a witness to God’s miracles on earth. During the first feeble months of spring semester, I feel my mind, body, and soul deteriorating under the pressure of rapidly approaching midterms, merciless wind chills, and 4:00 p.m. sunsets. But when Friday eve draws close to the midnight hour—the chilliest, rattiest baddie-est hour of all — I find myself in a predicament. To quote Hamlet, to roll Sig Chi or to not roll Sig Chi? 

On the one hand, “la que no es puta no disfruta” — my mom’s sound advice that “if you’re not being a hoe, you’re not having fun” — and I only have to convince myself that I’m not actually cold for 10 minutes until the alcohol warms my body to bearable temperatures. Plus, I’ll continue raising my body heat by getting down to Pitbull — that’s a given.

Buuuttttttt… hypothetically, I could also just stay home. I know I haven’t gone out in three weeks, but the puzzle on the common room table is starting to look pretty enticing again, and hypothetically, it would only take me another hour and a half to finish. Somehow, the familiar sewage smell in the hallway wisely wafts away, and the atmosphere of the common room becomes warmer and cozier than ever. I could change into my blanket hoodie and have a night in, hypothetically of course.

When the wind gets too chilly and walking to Fence is starting to sound like the first of the labors of Hercules, I’ve got Pinterest boards filled with vibes and ingredients for the perfect night in. And hypothetically, you could follow along.

I like to think I’m a simple woman: give me a blanket, some snacks, and a silly movie or a couple of cat compilations on YouTube, and I’m all yours. It’s all the fun of going out to a party, except without the drinking or intense socializing or somehow ending up on top of the Leo steps and wondering how I got there in the first place. I can microwave a hot chocolate concoction of goodness and warmth, and I can invite friends over for wholesome debriefs on our adored bean bag, “Mickey Mouse,” or I can invite my boyfriend for a different kind of snuggles. 

I can turn on “Titanic” or restart the “Twilight” saga again — or just repeat the baseball scene from the first movie—or if I’m feeling weird and anguished, Bojack Horseman will always be waiting. If you want to get into some special fun with your significant other, though, I highly recommend watching “Moana.” Sure, sure, it may not be anything close to sexy — except maybe for Dwayne “the Rock” Johnson’s voice — but for some reason that I still have yet to comprehend, boyfriends have a special affinity toward this movie. Last weekend, my suitemate’s partner recited the entirety of the movie’s soundtrack alongside its dialogue. Yes, even “Shiny.” Especially “Shiny.”

On other occasions where I’ve felt more unhinged, I’ve also invited (coerced) my suitemates to play “Just Dance” with me! It just takes three syllables to get your limbs moving: “Ras-pu-tin.” For the low price of free-ninety-nine, you get stellar cardio, swanky bops, and a riveting Slavic dance. Ignore the fact that you may not be able to walk for the next few days if you manage to hit all the moves.

And if you’re really feeling productive — ahem, ahem, deranged — you could update your LinkedIn! I can’t say I’ve done this one, but I’ll leave that to you. Conversely, you can stalk people from your high school on LinkedIn, but make sure you turn off your public visibility first before your ex-best friend sees you were stalking his MechE program. Moving on.

I can draw and doodle and call my mom and rant to her about insignificant details in my day-to-day life, or I can get started on a painting that I’m never actually going to finish. And I can eat leftovers from the fridge and let my eyes droop into sleep, so long as I make sure I submit my Daily Theme first.

As much as I loathe the complete numbness of the cold, the calf cramps I get from trying to not fall on the ice, the appalling amount of Vaseline I have to apply before leaving the house, and not being able to smile during the winter because my teeth get too cold, I welcome chilling inside sometimes. Pun intended. 

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Ever since I was in first grade, I had a secret. Whenever my teacher read books out loud, I’d memorize every word, repeating them over and over in my head. Pretending my mind was a recorder, I’d replay each sentence to make sure it stuck. Every day I played this game. Not for fun. But for survival. 

Anything with small print was my absolute archnemisis. The chapter books along the back of our classroom were the death zone. My level was stuck on reading picture books, which already felt like a taxing quest. I struggled to string the sentences into words, therefore my only weapon was remembering. 

“Madison, will you read the next part out loud? Starting at ‘The blue ball.’” My teacher’s request felt like she was asking me if I wanted to embarrass myself forever.  As braced myself for battle, I began to recall all of the words from the book. Whenever it was my turn to read in class, I would simply recite the book out of memory. My secret was safe.

However, I forgot to calculate one important factor: my teacher changed all the books for the comprehension test. I could only outsmart the system for so long before accepting that I continuously mixed up the order of letters. The game had changed. And, I missed the software update.

At night when my parents thought I was asleep, I’d hear my parents, in hushed voices, weighing my learning difficulties and their permanence. “What are we going to do with her?” My mom whispered — her words laced with a fraught apprehension. Rolling my eyes, I wanted to burst into my parents’ room and shout, “Jeez, it’s just reading! You guys sound like I’m dying of cancer. What’s the big deal?” But my secret was no longer a secret. All of the lines on the page looked like modern art and I felt like a simpleton trying to decode some hidden meaning. And, when my teacher asked to meet my parents after school, I knew it was not for my stellar doodles in the margins of my worksheets. 

Thus, my boot camp began. The summer between second and third grade, my parents bought children’s books from Costco. I was drilled with reading every morning and evening. I remember reading about “Mad Dog.” Begrudgingly flipped through the pages, I thought to myself: “I bet he was a mad dog and not a happy dog because his parents were making him do summer school.” And, for some reason, the Costco starter pack had a plethora of short stories on baseball. “Seriously, who picks these books?” Sighing, I preferred “My Little Pony.” 

While I continued practicing to read, the letters felt like alphabet soup in my mind. As I tried to take in a spoonful of a sentence, the letters mixed around like noodles in tomato soup. That summer left me starving for anything fun. 

To lighten my spirits, my parents decided to rent out the first Harry Potter movie from the library. I was enchanted, fully convinced my Hogwarts letter would come any day. Soon, Harry Potter graced my imagination and young heart with a different kind of magic. The magic of whimsical wonderlands, the magic of faraway fantasies, the magic of stories.  

“If you really liked the movie, there are books”, my dad suggested. “However, I don’t think you can get through the books yet.” Because I still greatly struggled with reading, my dad and I went to the library to check out the audiobook. On the way out of the library, I stopped by the chapter book section, picking up the book edition as well. Every night, I’d slip a CD into my little Hello Kitty CD player. Listening to the audiobook, I’d follow along with the hardcover in my hand, tracing each little letter and word. The rewind button became my best friend. I replayed every word. I replayed every sentence. I replayed until the orderly black lines became distinguishable into comprehendible words.  

Thank God as a child, I was always quite stubborn and intense. I loved to compete. I refused to lose. And, I was most definitely not losing to little blobs of black squiggly lines on a page. No way. Black letters on the page formed an orderly infantry of soldiers marching into battle. And, it was war. To win was to read. To read was to win. 

After countless hours next to my little CD player, I finally made it through “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.” I began my routine. Every time I wanted to read a book, I’d go to the library to check out both the audiobook and the physical copy to follow along until I understood every single word. I learned each word — carefully repeating them out loud, pointing my finger to each corresponding letter. Although I didn’t know most of the words on the paper, the two words “giving up” were not in my vocabulary. The modern art of letters soon turned into masterpieces and works of meaning. Either I finally learned to read because I was headstrong. Or because I was just that obsessed with Harry Potter. 

By the fourth Harry Potter book, I didn’t need an audiobook, which felt like sorcery in itself. And, I was beaming with pride. Finally, I could open a book, flip to the first page, and read on my own. Although the fourth book was 752 pages long, I wasn’t afraid. The journey to get here and to read independently was longer. Perhaps it was no coincidence that the fourth book was both my favorite in the series and the first book I fully read myself. 

Graced with the newfound independence of reading, I discovered the freedom of imagining and enchantment of living a thousand lives. Following my determination to read, reading determined my future — a future full of woven words, knitting a blanket of warmth around my soul. To read was not just to win. To read was the just start of my own story. 

Until I was seven, I could not read. But until I die, I will continue to read. 

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