In April 2005, The Simpsons featured an episode where Marge, embarrassed by her hometown’s reputation for being uneducated and uncultured, invites a world-famous architect to design a new concert hall for the city.

The episode cuts to the architect, Frank Gehry (playing himself), outside his house in Santa Monica, receiving Marge’s letter. He is frustrated by the request and crumples the letter, throwing it to the ground. Looking down, the creased and ragged paper inspires him, and the episode cuts to a model of his concert hall for Springfield, which copies the shape of the crumpled letter.

By building Gehry’s design, the people of Springfield hoped to send a signal to the world that a new era of culture had arrived. As it often did, this episode of The Simpsons references a real-life phenomenon, which Gehry was credited with triggering, the “Bilbao effect”.

In 1991, the city of Bilbao in northern Spain sought to enhance its economic and cultural standing by establishing a major arts centre. Gehry was commissioned to design the Bilbao Guggenheim, proposing a 57-metre-high building, a spiralling vortex of titanium and glass, along the banks of the Nervión River.

Using software developed for aerospace industries, Gehry designed a striking, photogenic building, sharply contrasting with the city’s traditional stone and masonry streetscapes.

Finished in 1997, the response to Gehry’s building was overwhelming. Bilbao was transformed into an international tourist destination, revitalising the city and boosting its cultural credentials and economic prospects. As a result, many cities tried to reproduce the so-called “Bilbao effect” by combining iconic architecture and the arts to encourage a cultural renaissance.

Gehry, who has died at 96, leaves a powerful legacy, visible in many major cities, in the media, in galleries and in popular culture.

An architect’s life

Gehry was born Frank Owen Goldberg in Toronto, Canada, in 1929 and emigrated to Los Angeles in the late 1940s, where he changed his surname to Gehry. He studied architecture and urban planning and established a successful commercial practice in 1962.

It wasn’t until the late 1970s, when he began experimenting with alterations and additions to his own house, that he began to develop his signature approach to architecture. An approach that was both visionary and confronting.

In 1977, Gehry purchased a colonial bungalow on a typical suburban street in Santa Monica. Soon after, he began peeling back its cladding and exposing its structural frame. He added a jumble of plywood panels, corrugated metal walls, and chain-link fencing, giving the impression of a house in a perpetual state of demolition or reconstruction.

Its fragmented, unfinished expression offended the neighbours but also led to his being exhibited in the landmark 1988 Museum of Modern Art’s Deconstructivist Architecture show.

At this event, Gehry’s house was featured alongside a range of subversive, anti-establishment works, catapulting him to international fame.

Unlike other architects featured in the exhibition – such as Coop Himmelblau, Rem Koolhaas and Daniel Libeskind – Gehry was not driven by a political or philosophical stance. Instead, he was interested in how people would react to the experience of architecture.

It was only after the Bilbao Guggenheim was completed that the world could see this vision.

Throughout the 2000s, Gehry completed a range of significant buildings, led by the Walt Disney Concert Hall (2003) in Los Angeles, which has a similar style to the Bilbao Guggenheim.

Gehry’s Museum of Pop Culture (2000) in Seattle is a composition of anodised purple, gold, silver and sky-blue forms, resembling the remnants of a smashed electric guitar.

The Marqués de Riscal Vineyard Hotel (2006) in Elciego, Spain, features steel ribbons in Burgundy-pink and Verdelho-gold. The Louis Vuitton Foundation (2014) in Paris has 12 large glass sails, swirling around an “iceberg” of concrete panels.

Gehry only completed one building in Australia, the Dr Chau Chak Wing Building (2014) in Sydney. Its design, an undulating form clad in custom-made bricks, was inspired by a crumpled brown paper bag. Marge Simpson would have approved.

Recognition and reflection

The highest global honour an architect can receive is the Pritzker Prize, often called the “Nobel prize for architecture”. Gehry was awarded this prize in 1989, with the jury praising his “controversial, but always arresting body of work” which was “iconoclastic, rambunctious and impermanent”.

While the Pritzker Prize is often regarded as a capstone for a career, most of Gehry’s major works were completed after the award.

Gehry revelled in experimentation, taking artistic inspiration from complex natural forms and constructing them using advanced technology. Over the last three decades, his firm continued to produce architecture that was both strikingly sculptural and playfully whimsical.

He ultimately regretted appearing on The Simpsons, feeling it devalued the complex process he followed. His architecture was not random; an artist’s eye guided it, and a sculptor’s hand created it. It was not just any crumpled form, but the perfect one for each site and client.

He sometimes joked about completing his home in Santa Monica, even humorously ending his acceptance speech for the Pritzker Prize by saying he might use his prize money to do this. Today, on the corner of 22nd Street and Washington Avenue, partly shielded by trees, Gehry’s house remains forever a work in progress. Its uncompromising yet joyful presence has endured for almost 50 years.

Michael J. Ostwald, Professor of Architectural Analytics, UNSW Sydney

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

“We must have a drink before the end of the year!”

December is a perfect storm for anyone trying to cut back on drinking. Between end-of-year deadlines, work parties, family gatherings and school events, alcohol is suddenly everywhere.

It can make drinking feel not just normal, but expected.

But if you want to drink less (or not at all) this silly season, you don’t have to rely on willpower alone. Having a plan can help.

Some evidence suggests when goals are focused on how you’ll approach something – such as a not-drinking strategy – rather than what you’ll avoid (alcohol), it’s easier to follow through.

So here are some simple strategies, backed by evidence.

1. Make a plan

When making decisions, our brains tend to prioritise immediate goals over long-term ones. Scientists call this “present bias”. This means it’s harder to keep your long-term goal (cutting back on alcohol) in mind when confronted by the chance for immediate gratification (having a drink).

But if you plan when you will and won’t drink in advance, you reduce the need to make this decision in real time – when alcohol is in front of you and your willpower may be lower and you’re more driven by emotion.

Look ahead at your calendar and choose your drinking and non-drinking days deliberately. Committing to the plan ahead of time reduces the chances of opportunistic drinking when social pressure is high.

2. Track your drinks

Tracking when and how much you drink is one of the most effective and well-supported strategies for reducing alcohol use and staying motivated.

You may be surprised how much tracking alone can change your drinking, simply by being more mindful and helping you understand your patterns.

It doesn’t matter how you do it – in an app, a notebook or even on your phone calendar. Writing it down is better than trying to remember. And doing it consistently works best. Aim to record drinks in real time if you can.

There are lots of free, evidence based apps, such Drink Tracker, that can help you track your drinking and drink-free days.

3. Try zero alcohol drinks

For many people, the rise of alcohol-free beer, wine and spirits has made it much easier to enjoy the ritual of drinking at social events, without the intoxication.

But they’re not for everyone – particularly those who find the look, smell and taste of alcohol triggering. Know yourself, see what works, and don’t force it if it’s not helping reach your goals.

4. Slow the pace

If your aim is to cut back, try alternating each alcoholic drink with something non-alcoholic.

Water is best, but zero, low or non-alcoholic drinks can still reduce how much you drink overall – and as a bonus they can also help you stay hydrated, which may reduce the chance of a hangover.

Eating something healthy and filling before and during drinking is also a good idea. It prevents rapid spikes in blood alcohol levels, as well as slowing the absorption of alcohol into your system. This means your body has a better chance of metabolising the alcohol.

Eating well can also help calm the cravings for sugary, fried and salty foods that are often triggered by alcohol.

5. Beware of an all-or-nothing approach

Don’t fall into the “goal violation” trap (sometimes called the abstinence violation effect). That’s the when slipping up makes you abandon your plan altogether.

Maybe someone talks you into “just a splash” – or one drink somehow becomes five – and you tell yourself: “Oh well, I’ve blown it now.”

But a slip is just a slip – it doesn’t mean you have to give up on your goals. You can reset straight away, at the next drink or the next day.

6. Set up accountability

Letting a friend or partner know that you are trying to drink less helps you stay accountable and provides support – even better if they join you.

7. Have responses ready

People may notice you’re not drinking or are drinking less. They may offer you a drink. Try a simple “I’m good” or “I’m pacing myself tonight”. Work out what feels OK to you – you don’t need to give long explanations.

8. Be kind to yourself

When you’re making a big change, it won’t always go smoothly. What matters is how you respond if you slip up. Shame and guilt often lead to more drinking, while self-compassion supports longer-term behaviour change.

Instead of seeing a slip as failure, treat it as information: What made it hard to stick to your goals? What could help next time?

December doesn’t have to derail your goals

Change comes from consistent small steps, even during the busiest month of the year. Focus on developing a relationship with alcohol that you are in control of, not the other way around.

If you are trying to make changes to your drinking, talk to your GP or check out free evidence-based resources such as Hello Sunday Morning, SMART Recovery and the Alcohol and Other Drug Hotline.

Katinka van de Ven, Alcohol and other drug specialist, UNSW Sydney and Nicole Lee, Adjunct Professor at the National Drug Research Institute (Melbourne based), Curtin University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Jane Austen’s Paper Trail is a podcast from The Conversation celebrating 250 years since the author’s birth. In each episode, we’ll be investigating a different aspect of Austen’s personality by interrogating one of her novels with leading researchers. Along the way, we’ll visit locations important to Austen to uncover a particular aspect of her life and the times she lived in. In episode 5, we look what kind of author Austen was, and what we can learn about her view of her profession through the pages of Northanger Abbey.

From a young age Jane Austen harboured lofty writerly ambitions. Her early works, known as juvenilia, are diverse in subject matter, reflecting her wide reading taste. As well as stories that parody some of her favourite novels, such as The History of Sir Charles Grandison by Samuel Richardson (1753), there are also witty takes on the essays of British politician Joseph Addison and writer Samuel Johnson, the author of the first English dictionary.

She even tried writing her own history of England. In this short text, 15-year-old Austen proudly declares herself a “partial, prejudiced and ignorant Historian”, eschewing dates and presenting information from historical fiction, such as Shakespeare’s plays, as fact.

Though she was always a writer, she wasn’t a published one until Sense and Sensibility appeared in 1811. By her death in 1817, Austen had published four of her six novels and earned nearly £700 – a modest fortune, but enough to grant a measure of independence to an unmarried woman otherwise reliant on her brothers.

Yet Austen’s grave in Winchester Cathedral, makes no mention that she was a writer. Publishing anonymously and disliking literary celebrity, she remained largely unknown as a writer in her lifetime despite occasional, reluctant contact with London’s literary circles.

Her fifth novel, Northanger Abbey – written in 1799 but published posthumously – clearly reveals her views on writing and reading books. It follows Catherine Morland, whose love of gothic fiction warps her sense of reality. It brims with Austen’s defence of the novel, dismissed at the time as frivolous women’s entertainment. It also reflects her juvenilia in its parody of gothic fiction – a genre Austen loved deeply, which is reflected in the bookshelves at her home in Chawton.

In the fifth episode of Jane Austen’s Paper Trail, Naomi Joseph visits Jane Austen’s House in Hampshire with Louise Curran, lecturer in 18th-century and Romantic literature. Curran is an expert in letter writing, the development of the novel and literary celebrity.

In the lovely red brick cottage where Austen wrote and revised all six of her novels, Curran explains why Austen shied away from the limelight: “You can sort of see it in the kind of writer she is, I guess. I think there is that tension for her really writing the kinds of novels that she wanted to write, that took, as she famously put it, those three and four families in a country village, and are involved with those sort of little matters.”

Later on, Anna Walker sits down with two more Austen experts – Kathryn Sutherland, emeritus professor of English at the University of Oxford, and Anthony Mandal, a lecturer in English literature at Cardiff University – to discover what Northanger Abbey reveals of Austen’s professional life.

As Mandal explains: “The decade [Austen] was publishing in was a heyday for women’s fiction. It was a period when women outnumbered men as novelists … but the reputation of the novel was really low. It was seen as this kind of distracting form of writing, and particularly of reading. It was a waste of time. It stopped you from being a dutiful daughter or wife or mother.”

Austen wasn’t convinced. Sutherland explains that the writer was “hugely ambitious for her own talent and she saw the novel as a moral force as well as a form of entertainment. And that’s essentially what Northanger Abbey is about … the power of the novel both to lead you into misinterpretation, but ultimately, if you become a good reader, to lead you into a wise judgement of the world around you.”

Listen to episode five of Jane Austen’s Paper Trail wherever you get your podcasts. And if you’re craving more Austen, check out our Jane Austen 250 page for more expert articles celebrating the anniversary.

Disclosure statement Kathryn Sutherland, Louise Curran and Anthony Mandal do not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

Jane Austen’s Paper Trail is hosted by Anna Walker with reporting from Jane Wright and Naomi Joseph. Senior producer and sound designer is Eloise Stevens and the executive producer is Gemma Ware. Artwork by Alice Mason and Naomi Joseph.

Listen to The Conversation Weekly via any of the apps listed above, download it directly via our RSS feed or find out how else to listen here.

Anna Walker, Senior Arts + Culture Editor, The Conversation and Naomi Joseph, Arts + Culture Editor, The Conversation

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

In ancient Athens, the agora was a public forum where citizens could gather to deliberate, disagree and decide together. It was governed by deep-rooted social principles that ensured lively, inclusive, healthy debate.

Today, our public squares have moved online to the digital feeds and forums of social media. These spaces mostly lack communal rules and codes – instead, algorithms decide which voices rise above the clamour, and which are buried beneath it.

The optimistic idea of the internet being a radically democratic space feels like a distant memory. Our conversations are now shaped by opaque systems designed to maximise engagement, not understanding. Algorithmic popularity, not accuracy or fairness, determines reach.

This has created a paradox. We enjoy unprecedented freedom to speak, yet our speech is constrained by forces beyond our control. Loud voices dominate. Nuanced voices fade. Outrage travels faster than reflection. In this landscape, equal participation is all but unattainable, and honest speech can carry a very genuine risk.

Somewhere between the stone steps of Athens and the screens of today, we have lost something essential to our democratic life and dialogue: the balance between equality of voice and the courage to speak the truth, even when it is dangerous. Two ancient Athenian ideals of free speech, isegoria and parrhesia, can help us find it again.

Ancient ideas that still guide us

In Athens, isegoria referred to the right to speak, but it did not stop at mere entitlement or access. It signalled a shared responsibility, a commitment to fairness, and the idea that public life should not be governed by the powerful alone.

The term parrhesia can be defined as boldness or freedom in speaking. Again, there is nuance; parrhesia is not reckless candour, but ethical courage. It referred to the duty to speak truthfully, even when that truth provoked discomfort or danger.

These ideals were not abstract principles. They were civic practices, learned and reinforced through participation. Athenians understood that democratic speech was both a right and a responsibility, and that the quality of public life depended on the character of its citizens.

The digital sphere has changed the context but not the importance of these virtues. Access alone is insufficient. Without norms that support equality of voice and encourage truth-telling, free speech becomes vulnerable to distortion, intimidation and manipulation.

The emergence of AI-generated content intensifies these pressures. Citizens must now navigate not only human voices, but also machine-produced ones that blur the boundaries of credibility and intent.

When being heard becomes a privilege

On contemporary platforms, visibility is distributed unequally and often unpredictably. Algorithms tend to amplify ideas that trigger strong emotions, regardless of their value. Communities that already face marginalisation can find themselves unheard, while those who thrive on provocation can dominate the conversation.

On the internet, isegoria is challenged in a new way. Few people are formally excluded from it, but many are structurally invisible. The right to speak remains, but the opportunity to be heard is uneven.

At the same time, parrhesia becomes more precarious. Speaking with honesty, especially about contested issues, may expose individuals to harassment, misrepresentation or reputational harm. The cost of courage has increased, while the incentives to remain silent, or to retreat into echo chambers, have grown.

Building citizens, not audiences

The Athenians understood that democratic virtues do not emerge on their own. Isegoria and parrhesia were sustained through habits learned over time: listening as a civic duty, speaking as a shared responsibility, and recognising that public life depended on the character of its participants. In our era, the closest equivalent is civic education, the space where citizens practise the dispositions that democratic speech requires.

By making classrooms into small-scale agoras, students can learn to inhabit the ethical tension between equality of voice and integrity in speech. Activities that invite shared dialogue, equitable turn-taking and attention to quieter voices help them experience isegoria, not as an abstract right but as a lived practice of fairness.

In practice, this means holding discussions and debates where students have to verify information, articulate and justify arguments, revise their views publicly, or engage respectfully with opposing arguments. These skills all cultivate the intellectual courage associated with parrhesia.

Importantly, these experiences do not prescribe what students should believe. Instead, they rehearse the habits that make belief accountable to others: the discipline of listening, the willingness to offer reasons, and the readiness to refine a position in light of new understanding. Such practices restore a sense that democratic participation is not merely expressive, but relational and built through shared effort.

What civic education ultimately offers is practice. It creates miniature agoras where students rehearse the skills they need as citizens: speaking clearly, listening generously, questioning assumptions and engaging with those who think differently.

These habits counter the pressures of the digital world. They slow down conversation in spaces designed for speed. They introduce reflection into environments engineered for reaction. They remind us that democratic discourse is not a performance, but a shared responsibility.

Returning to the spirit of the agora

The challenge of our era is not only technological but educational. No algorithm can teach responsibility, courage or fairness. These are qualities formed through experience, reflection and practice. Athenians understood this intuitively, because their democracy relied on ordinary citizens learning how to speak as equals and with integrity.

We face the same challenge today. If we want digital public squares that support democratic life, we must prepare citizens who know how to inhabit them wisely. Civic education is not optional enrichment – it is the training ground for the habits that sustain freedom.

The agora may have changed form, but its purpose endures. To speak and listen as equals, with honesty, courage and care, is still the heart of democracy. And this is something we can teach.

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Sara Kells, Director of Program Management at IE Digital Learning and Adjunct Professor of Humanities, IE University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Geoffrey Chaucer’s Miller’s Tale is renowned for its salacious storyline of sexual misadventure. Set in 14th-century Oxford, it tells the tale of John the Carpenter, a husband so terrified that another “Noah’s flood” is coming to drown the world that he sleeps in a basket in the attic – freeing his wife to bed her lover downstairs.

Chaucer’s pilgrims all have a good laugh at John’s expense as they walk together from London towards Canterbury, echoing John’s neighbours who “gan laughen at his fantasye” of Noah’s flood and call John “wood” (mad). The pilgrims listen to this particular tale (one of 24 Canterbury Tales) as they walk along the south bank of the River Thames between Deptford and Greenwich.

That stretch of river was well-known to Chaucer. At the time of writing what remains one of English literature’s greatest works, he had been tasked, in March 1390, with repairing flood damage to the riverbank around Greenwich.

As a poet who swapped his pen for a spade to dig banks and defend the land around Greenwich from inundation, Chaucer knew from experience that flooding was no laughing matter. He – and later Shakespeare – lived through periods of weird weather not unlike what we are seeing today.

Their changing climate was triggered by falling rather than rising temperatures during what’s known as the little ice age. But the net effect was weather extremes like strong winds, storms and flooding – some of which were evoked in plays, prose and poems, offering valuable information on how communities were hit by, and responded to, these extreme events.

For the past two years, I have been scouring historical literature and performances for – now-often forgotten – experiences of living with water and flooding along the shorelines and estuaries of England’s coastlines. Whether in 15th-century “flood plays” in Hull or the “disaster pamphlets” (an early form of newsbook) that rose to popularity in Shakespeare’s lifetime, my research shows we do not only need to look to the future to understand the challenges posed by rising seas and more intense storms.

Hull’s medieval flood play

Early in the new year of 1473, a crowd gathered outside Kingston-upon-Hull’s main church to watch the annual flood play performed. The play itself is now lost, but surviving records cast tantalising light on how the play was staged between 1461 and 1531. We know, for example, it was snowing in 1473 because of a payment that year for “makyng playne the way where snawe was”.

We also know from financial records that the play was performed on an actual ship, hauled through Hull’s streets on wheels and hung on ropes for the rest of the year in Holy Trinity church (now Hull Minster). We know from payments to “Noye and his wyff”, “Noyes children” and “the god in the ship” that the play must have told a very similar story to that of two medieval pageants still performed today in the neighbouring east coast city of York.

What is not immediately clear from Hull’s records is why the town’s guild of master mariners chose the snow and ice of early January as the annual date for their flood play’s performance, when biblical plays in York and other northern towns and cities were staged during the warmer months of Easter and midsummer. A payment for Noah’s “new myttens” in 1486 speaks to the challenges of performing outdoor theatre in January, typically the coldest time of year.

In fact, Hull’s flood play was always staged on Plough Monday, the first Monday after the Christian celebration of Epiphany on January 6. This date marked the traditional start of the new agricultural year, and a close reading of Hull’s records shows themes of farming woven into the flood play. The benefits of flooding for haymaking, for example, were signalled on stage through the purchase of agrarian items like a “mawnd” (grain basket) in 1487, “hay to the shype” (ship) in 1530, and plough hales (handles) “to the chylder” (children) in 1531.

The advantages of flooding meadows had long been recognised in the Humber villages surrounding Hull – and reflected in the layout of its medieval land. Grass grew well on the well-drained meadows along the River Humber’s banks, and the hay harvested from these floodplains provided winter feed for farm animals including the oxen that pulled ploughs through arable fields in January, at the start of the new agricultural year.

Writing and water management were once familiar bedfellows – and the wisdom of building raised flood banks and making hay on floodplains is reflected throughout medieval and early modern literature.

Writing of Runnymede, an ancient meadow on the banks of the River Thames, in his 1642 poem Coopers Hill, John Denham casts an approving glance on the “wealth” that the seasonal flooding of the Thames brings to the meadows on its river banks: “O’re which he kindly spreads his spacious wing / And hatches plenty for th’ensuing Spring.”

But Denham distinguishes between two types of flood: the benevolent, seasonal kind that brings wealth to the meadows, and the “unexpected Inundations” that “spoile the Mowers hopes” and “mock the Plough-mans toyle”. Floods can bring disaster if they are unexpected (for example, if they occur during the growing season in spring and summer) or out of place (flooding arable fields rather than meadow ground). But literature reminds us they can also bring benefits – if communities learn to live with water and adapt their lives to the rising tide.

Unfortunately, despite renewed interest in nature-based solutions to flood alleviation, floodplain meadows declined sharply in the 20th century and few exist today. Downstream of Runnymede, at Egham Hythe, is Thorpe Hay Meadow. Once part of a thriving medieval economy of haymaking on floodplains, its website announces it is now the “last surviving example of unimproved grassland on Thames Gravel in Surrey”.

Gone too are Hull’s meadows and its flood play, which once celebrated the benefits of flooding for farming in this stretch of north-east English coastline. Some of the meadows in the village of Drypool, directly to the east of Hull, were built on as early as the 1540s for Henry VIII’s new defensive fortifications. Much of the remainder was absorbed into this industrial city’s urban sprawl from the 17th century onwards. Today, the Humber’s banks in urban Hull are heavily defended by a £42 million concrete frontage, protecting all the homes and businesses on the floodplain beyond.

Shakespeare’s storms

Shakespeare was born in 1564 into one of the coldest decades of the last millennium. Temperatures plunged across northern Europe in the 1560s, and the winter of 1564-5 was especially severe.

The little ice age brought shorter springs and longer winters to northern Europe. Reconstructed temperatures show the climate was on average between 1 and 1.5°C colder during Shakespeare’s lifetime than our own. But it was also an age of weather extremes, bringing heat and drought alongside snow and ice.

The weather diary of Shakespeare’s almost exact contemporary, Richard Shann (1561-1627), now housed in the British Library’s manuscripts department, is an invaluable witness to these fluctuating extremes. Writing from the village of Methley in West Yorkshire, Shann describes “a could and frostie winter” in 1607-8 “the like not seene of manie yeares before”. Indeed, the frost “was so extreame that the Rivers was in a manner dried up”.

At York, Shann writes, people “did playe at the bowles” on the river Ouse, and in London “did builde tentes upon the yse” (ice). Temperatures soared that summer, with July 1608 “so extreame hote that divers p[er]sonnes fainted in the feilde”. But the cold quickly returned. “A verie great froste” was reported as early as September 1608, with Shann reporting that the River Ouse “would have borne a swanne”.

The climate crisis has a communications problem. How do we tell stories that move people – not just to fear the future, but to imagine and build a better one? This article is part of Climate Storytelling, a series exploring how arts and science can join forces to spark understanding, hope and action.

As the weather became more variable, with hot and cold spells more extreme, so the late 16th and 17th centuries saw an increase in the frequency and intensity of storms – such that this era has been dubbed “an age of storms”.

On Christmas Eve 1601, Shann describes “such a monstrous great wynde” in Methley “that manie persons weare at theyr wittes ende for feare of blowinge downe theyre howses”. After the storm causes the River Aire at Methley to flood, he writes of his neighbours that the water “came into theyre howses so high, that it allmost did touch theyre chambers”.

In London, meanwhile, historian John Stow (1525-1605) records extremes of heat and cold leading to storms and floods throughout the 1590s. In his Annals of England to 1603, Stow reports “great lightning, thunder and haile” in March 1598, “raine and high waters the like of long time had not been seene” on Whitsunday 1599 – and in December 1599, “winde … boisterous and great” which blew down the tops of chimneys and roofs of churches. The following June, there were “frosts every morning”.

The storminess of this period also appears to seep into Shakespeare’s work. Several of his later plays use storms at sea as plot devices to shipwreck characters on islands (The Tempest) or distant shores (Twelfth Night). In Pericles, Prince of Tyre, Shakespeare (the co-author, with George Wilkins (died 1618)) tosses his hero relentlessly across the eastern Mediterranean in a play that features no fewer than three storms at sea.

While many of Shakespeare’s storms take place in distant locations and at sea, King Lear sets the storm which rages throughout its central scenes in Kent, on the English east coast. Lear describes “the roaring sea” and “curlèd waters” that threaten to inundate the land. It is a play shaped by the east coast’s long experience of living with the threat of flooding from the North Sea.

Disaster pamphlets

Surviving reports of coastal flooding caused by a series of North Sea surges in 1570-71 describe dramatic inundations in the coastal counties of Norfolk, where “people were constrained to get up to the highest partes of the house”, and Cambridgeshire, where several “townes and villages were ouerflowed”. Meanwhile, the Lincolnshire village of Bourne, on the edge of the Fens, “was ouerflowed to [the] midway of the height of the church”.

These colourful accounts of towns and churches under water were collected and printed in one of the first “disaster pamphlets” in London in 1571. It bore the lengthy title: A Declaration of Such Tempestious and Outragious Fluddes, as hath been in Diuers Places of England.

This pioneering form of news booklet rose to popularity in Shakespeare’s lifetime to cater for popular interest in the increasingly weird weather of those decades. Disaster pamphlets gathered nationwide news of floods, storms and lightning strikes into slim, pocket-sized booklets, printed in London under dramatic titles such as Feareful Newes of Thunder and Lightening (1606) and The Wonders of this Windie Winter (1613).

Of the London booksellers who sold these pamphlets and other “strange news” booklets, Shakespeare’s close contemporary, William Barley (1565-1614), was among the most prolific. Many pamphlets were accompanied by eye-catching illustrations of disaster scenes on their title pages and inside covers.

Natural disasters were by no means confined to the east coast. Two pamphlets – William Jones’s Gods Warning to his People of England, and the anonymous A True Report of Certaine Wonderfull Ouerflowings of Waters – reported on one of Britain’s worst natural disasters, the Bristol Channel flood of January 30 1607.

Their cover illustrations depicted scenes of suffering and survival, with submerged churches and steeples featuring prominently. Inside, writers knitted together statistics recording the number of miles of land flooded and cattle drowned with eyewitness accounts of local gentlemen and landowners, who described churches “hidden in the Waters”, the “tops of Churches and Steeples like to the tops of Rockes in the Sea”. Indeed, so high were the floodwaters, Jones wrote, that “some fled into the tops of Churches and Steeples to saue themselves”.

While newsbooks continued to grow in popularity, coming of age in the civil wars of the mid-1600s as a platform for reporting political news and views, disaster pamphlets focused specifically on storms and floods appear to have waned in popularity by the end of the 17th century. Their decline coincided with the rise in the later 1600s of the first local newspapers in England and Wales, which continued to feature news of floods and other weird weather events for centuries to come.

Nonetheless, references to disaster pamphlets lived on in poems such as Jean Ingelow’s High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire, 1571 – published in 1863 – which drew on the details of A Declaration to recreate the east coast floods of three centuries earlier from the point of view of a husband who loses his wife to the rising tide.

By focusing on the loss felt by one family, Ingelow draws attention to the human cost of these disasters which, then and now, can be buried beneath faceless figures of fatalities in news reports. The poem’s narrator notes that “manye more than mine and me” lost loved ones in that surge tide.

The concept of climate change was unknown to Shakespeare’s generation, yet the changing climate of the little ice age introduced anxieties into the reporting of weird weather in disaster pamphlets. Their authors would typically couch the causes of local floods as a national issue – as stirrings of divine anger at the sins of the English nation or of its Church.

Jones’s response to the Bristol Channel flood typified this approach. In Gods Warning, he describes the flood as a “watry punishment” – one of several “threatning Tokens of [God’s] heavy wrath extended towards us that had been experienced in recent years. How floods were represented in poems, pamphlets, newspapers and books have long reflected society’s wider anxieties over the question of what these weird, wild weather events might portend.

Lost communities

The English east coast possesses some of the fastest-eroding cliffs in Europe. In East Yorkshire, the Holderness cliffs from Bridlington to Spurn Point are eroding at an astonishing 1.8 metres per year. While erosion has been happening along this coastline since the end of the last (full) ice age approximately 11,700 years ago, it is today being accelerated by the rising seas and more frequent storms of climate change.

We can measure flooding or erosion in some very alarming numbers. According to the Flamborough Head to Gibraltar Point Shoreline Management Plan of 2010, the Holderness coast retreated by around two kilometres over the past thousand years. In the process, 26 villages named in the Domesday Book of 1086 disappeared under water.

But literature goes further – revealing the experiences of those who lived on the edge of those crumbling clifftops, preserving fast-vanishing communities and coastlines for future generations.

In the early 20th century, histories of the Holderness coast’s lost villages were painstakingly pieced together from old photos, maps and archival records by Thomas Sheppard, whose Lost Towns of the Yorkshire Coast (1912) includes a map preserving the names and former locations of these shipwrecked villages: Cleton, Monkwell, Monkwike, Out Newton and Old Kilnsea, to name five. What must it have been like to live in these villages? How does their loss haunt today’s coastal communities, who are themselves facing a slow but sure retreat from the advancing sea?

Literature can provide what nature writer Helen MacDonald, in her collection of essays Vesper Flights (2020), calls the "qualitative texture” to enrich the statistics. It can reveal the ways of life and habits of thought of people who lived in these communities, and who adapted to the risks and benefits of living “on the edge”.

Juliet Blaxland’s The Easternmost House (2019) describes a year living in a “windblown house” in coastal Suffolk, “on the edge of an eroding clifftop at the easternmost end of a track that leads only into the sea”. The house – now demolished – was once Blaxland’s home. She wrote the book as “a memorial to this house and the lost village it represents, and to our ephemeral life here, so that something of it will remain once it has all gone”.

But Blaxland conjures more than bricks and mortar. She speaks to the mindset of coast-dwellers who pace out the distance between their houses and the advancing cliff edge, and who find solace, as well as sadness, in the inevitability of coastal loss. “Everyone has a cliff coming towards them, in the sense of our time being finite,” Blaxland writes. “The difference is that we can see ours, pegged out in front of us.”

From Noah to now

Coastal communities have learnt over centuries to live with uncertainty, and to continue their ways of life despite the risks. This “living with water” mentality shapes east coast communities just as surely as banks, barriers and rock armour shape the east coast’s cliffs, river mouths and beaches. It is in literature that we see this inner life revealed, and hear the voices of the past singing out to the present.

Singing was how we engaged young people with the past on the Noah to Now project. Across six months in 2024-25, colleagues from the University of Hull’s Energy and Environment Institute worked with singers, musicians and more than 200 young people in Hull and north-east Lincolnshire to rehearse and perform Benjamin Britten’s mid-20th century children’s opera, Noye’s Fludde, at Hull and Grimsby minsters.

The opera tells the biblical story of Noah in song, using the text of one surviving medieval flood play from 15th-century Chester as its libretto. Our chorus of school children performed as the animals in the ark, and were joined by other young people who took on solo roles or played in the orchestra.

Rooted in the medieval past, the opera introduced participating schools to the lost flood play from medieval Hull, and to that play’s connections with the longstanding culture of living with water in the Humber region. One of our venues, Hull Minster, was the church in which Hull’s medieval mariners used to hang the ship (or ark) that they hauled through Hull’s streets every January, some 500 years ago.

Britten’s opera also resonates with more recent histories of east coast flooding. Noye’s Fludde was first performed in 1958 near the composer’s coastal home of Aldeburgh in Suffolk – a town devastated five years earlier by the disastrous North Sea flood of 1953.

Water swept into more than 300 houses in Aldeburgh shortly before midnight on January 31 1953 – forcing Britten to abandon 4 Crabbe Street, his seafront home. It was days before he could return to the house to write letters declaring that “we expect to feel less damp to-morrow”, and that “I think we’re going to try sleeping here to-night”. It was another week before Britten could report that “most of the mud’s gone now, thank God!”

The events of 1953 affected the whole Aldeburgh community, and the opportunity for the town to come together five years later to sing and perform an opera about flooding must have seemed especially poignant to all involved.

It was in the spirit of that first Aldeburgh performance that we involved other east coast communities in Hull and north-east Lincolnshire – each with their own long histories of flooding – in the staging of an opera that folds medieval and mid-20th century stories of flooding to address themes rooted in the past that are still relevant today.

Teachers from the participating schools spoke of their children’s enthusiasm for learning through the medium of stories and songs about a serious topic like flooding.

“[They were] so enthralled and so wanting to pass the message on of what they’d learnt,” a teacher from north-east Lincolnshire recalled about the children’s enthusiasm on returning from one of the workshops. “They came back just full of it – and full of the stories they’d been told as well.”

This article features references to books that have been included for editorial reasons, and may contain links to bookshop.org. If you click on one of the links and go on to buy something from bookshop.org The Conversation UK may earn a commission.

For you: more from our Insights series:

• What do trees remember?

• Family farmers say their way of life is an impossible dream when ‘the bread of life is worth less than rusty metal’

• Wildlife wonders of Britain and Ireland before the industrial revolution – my research reveals all the biodiversity we’ve lost

• Climate change triggering global collapse in insect numbers: stressed farmland shows 63% decline – new research 

Stewart Mottram, Professor of Literature and Environment, University of Hull

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

The Beatles’ song Yesterday was written in what psychologists refer to as the “hypnagogic state”. This is the twilight zone between sleep and wakefulness, when we drowsily linger in a semi-conscious state, experiencing vivid mental images and sounds.

Waking up one morning in early 1965, Paul McCartney became aware of a long complex melody playing inside his head. He jumped straight out of bed, sat down at his piano and picked out the melody on the keys. He quickly found the chords to go with the melody and created some holding phrases (as songwriters call them, before they write proper lyrics) to fit the melody.

Finding it difficult to believe that such a beautiful melody could emerge spontaneously, McCartney suspected that he was subconsciously plagiarising another composition. As he recalled: “For about a month I went round to people in the music business and asked them whether they had ever heard it before … I thought if no one claimed after a few weeks, then I could have it.” But it turned out to be original.

Many great discoveries and inventions have emerged from the hypnagogic state. The physicist Niels Bohr effectively won the Noble prize while semi-conscious. Drifting off to sleep, he dreamt he saw the nucleus of the atom, with the electrons spinning around it, just like the solar system with the sun and planets – and in this way he “discovered” the structure of the atom.

The sweet spot

Research has shown that the hypnagogic state is a creative “sweet spot.” For example, in a 2021 study, participants in a hypnagogic state were three times more likely to discover the “hidden rule” that could solve a mathematical problem.

Psychologists associate creativity with qualities such as openness to experience and cognitive flexibility. Others have suggested that creativity arises from co-ordination between the cognitive control network of the brain (which deals with planning and problem solving) and the default mode network (which is associated with daydreaming and mind-wandering).

However, in my view, one of the most important theories of creativity is one of the oldest, put forward by the early British psychologist Frederic Myers in 1881. According to Myers, ideas and insights come as a sudden “uprush” from a subliminal mind.

As Myers saw it, our conscious mind is just a small segment of our overall mind, including not only what Sigmund Freud called the unconscious, but also wider and higher levels of consciousness. Ideas may gestate unconsciously for a long time before they emerge into conscious awareness.

This is why it often feels as if ideas come from beyond the mind, as if they are gifted to us. They can come from beyond our conscious mind.

The importance of relaxation

The hypnagogic state is so creative because, as we hover between sleep and wakefulness, the conscious mind is barely active. For a brief period, our mental boundaries are permeable, and there is a chance creative insights and ideas will flow through from the subliminal mind.

In a more general sense, this is why creativity is often associated with relaxation and idleness. When we relax, our conscious minds are usually less active. Often, when we are busy, our minds are full of chattering thoughts, so there is no space for creative insights to flow through.

This is also why meditation is strongly associated with creativity. Research shows that meditation promotes general creative qualities such as openness to experience and cognitive flexibility.

But perhaps even more importantly, meditation quietens and softens the conscious mind, so that we’re more liable to receive inspiration from beyond it. As I point out in my book The Leap, this is why there is a strong connection between spiritual awakening and creativity.

Nurturing the hypnogogic state

Research has found that around 80% of people have experienced the hypnagogic state, and that around a quarter of the population experience it regularly. It is slightly more common in women than men.

It is most likely to occur at the onset of sleep, but can also occur on waking up, or during the day if we become drowsy and zone out of normal consciousness.

Can we use the hypnagogic state to enhance our creativity? It’s certainly possible to linger in the hypnagogic state, as you probably know from Sunday morning lie-ins.

However, one of the difficulties is capturing the ideas that arise. In our drowsiness, we may not feel the impulse to record of our ideas. It’s tempting to tell ourselves before falling back to sleep, “This is such a good idea that it will definitely stick in my mind.” But when we wake up some time later, the idea is gone forever.

However, through mental training, there is no reason why we can’t build up a habit of recording our hypnagogic ideas. The best practice is to keep a pen and paper right on a bedside table. Or for a more contemporary variant, keep your phone beside the bed, with the recording app open.

In fact, this is a practice that Paul McCartney has always followed. He even trained himself to write in the dark for this purpose.

We can also use a technique of “conscious napping” to generate ideas. Whenever the great inventor Thomas Edison was stuck for a solution or new idea, he would allow himself to drift into unconsciousness, while holding a metal ball. As he fell asleep, the ball would clatter to the ground and wake him, when he would often find that a new insight had emerged.

More generally, we should use idleness as a way of cultivating creativity. Don’t think of napping or relaxing as a waste of time. Far from being unproductive, they may lead to the most inspired ideas and insights of our lives.

This article features references to books that have been included for editorial reasons, and may contain links to bookshop.org. If you click on one of the links and go on to buy something from bookshop.org The Conversation UK may earn a commission.

Steve Taylor, Senior Lecturer in Psychology, Leeds Beckett University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

When frost sparkles in the morning and our breath is visible as we venture outside, thoughts turn to winter warming treats like mulled wine – a drink full of ingredients that have become synonymous with Christmas.

Mulled wine is made by adding spices such as cinnamon, cloves, ginger, mace and nutmeg to sweetened red wine, which is then warmed gently. Across Europe and Scandinavia, it can be purchased in many pubs, bars and festive markets – while supermarket shelves groan with bottles of readymade mulled wines for you to heat at home.

There are many different English recipes out there, including some dating back to the 14th century – from a collection of manuscripts that later became known as The Forme of Cury. The beverage made by following this recipe would certainly have packed a punch, as it contains several spices from the ginger family including galangal, in addition to the more familiar ones.

And before wine was known as mulled, drinking wine flavoured with spices has a long history. There is a mention of drinking spiced wine in the biblical poem the Song of Solomon, which states: “I would give you spiced wine to drink.”

It is thought that spice-infused wine was introduced to Britain by the Romans. An older name for it was “hippocras”, although this was mainly taken as a health tonic – made from spice-infused red or white wine and taken hot or cold.

In The Merchant’s Tale from Geoffrey Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales (1392), the wealthy, elderly knight January takes “ypocras, clarre, and vernage / Of spices hote, to encrese his corrage” (hypocras, clary, and vernage / of spices hot to increase his courage). January sups these three types of spiced wine to boost his virility on his wedding night for his young bride, May.

Diarist and civil servant Samuel Pepys also mentions taking “half-a-pint of mulled sack” – a sweetened Spanish wine – in an almost medicinal way to comfort himself in the middle of a working morning in March 1668, when things had been going wrong for him.

The name mulled wine comes from the Old English mulse – an archaic name for any drink made of honey mixed with water or wine, derived from the Latin word for honey (mel) and still used in modern Welsh as mêl. From mulse we get “musled”, which was used to describe anything that has been “mingled with honey”.

Before the growth of the global sugar trade, honey was the main way that food and drink was sweetened. Vin chaud, the French equivalent of mulled wine, is traditionally sweetened with honey. England imported spiced wine from Montpellier in large quantities from the 13th century, but only those of social status, like Chaucer’s knight January, would have been able to indulge in those days.

Warm sweet and spiced wine continued to be drunk for health and enjoyment throughout the centuries. But in the 18th century, mulled wine evolved again, as reflected in a recipe in Elizabeth Raffald’s The Experienced English House-keeper (1769) for a warm drink thickened with egg yolks:

Grate half a nutmeg into a pint of wine and sweeten to your taste with loaf sugar. Set it over the fire. When it boils, take it off to cool.

Beat the yolks of four eggs exceeding well, add to them a little cold wine, then mix them carefully with your hot wine a little at a time. Pour this backwards and forwards several times till it looks fine and bright.

Set it on the fire and heat a little at a time till it is quite hot and pretty thick, and pour it backwards and forwards several times.

Send it in chocolate cups and serve it up with dry toast, cut in long narrow pieces.

The result of this method is a frothy, velvety smooth confection, enjoyed with dipping toast or biscuits.

Our ancestors didn’t associate mulled wines with Christmas, so it seems likely that the pairing was popularised by Charles Dicken’s 1843 novella A Christmas Carol – like so much of what we now regard as a traditional Christmas.

After Mr Scrooge has seen the error of his miserly ways, he says to Bob Cratchit: “We will discuss your affairs this very afternoon, over a Christmas bowl of Smoking Bishop, Bob!” Smoking Bishop is a recipe for mulled wine that combines port in the wine and uses dried oranges for an added flavour note. The smoke refers to the steam rising from this hot drink.

So this year, as you cup your hands around the warm mug and inhale the fragrant steam coming off your mulled wine, think of the long history you are a part of.

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Sara Read, Lecturer in English, Loughborough University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Sometimes you get a small electric shock from touching your car door handle on a dry summer’s day.

The source of these shocks is a spark discharge, occurring between your body and the body of the car. These sparks happen from accumulation of static electric charge – often arising from two different materials rubbing together. This process – named triboelectric charging – was discovered in ancient Greece, where it was observed that some materials are attracted by amber when rubbed.

Triboelectricity is commonly demonstrated in classroom experiments: by rubbing plastic sticks with cat fur, or by rubbing a balloon on your hair.

Now we know that, if you were returning to a parked car on Mars, you could experience a similar shock. A new study has, for the first time, directly demonstrated electrical discharges on the red planet.

The same triboelectric process operates in volcanic eruptions on Earth, where charge is accumulated by ash particles colliding. In volcanic plumes, the build up of charge can initiate very large lightning discharges – the big cousin of smaller spark discharges. Lightning discharges are even more common in thunderstorms, however, where interactions between soft hail (graupel) and ice crystals cause charge separation.

On Earth, dust storms and dust devils – a relatively short-lived whirlwind formed from rising columns of warm air – are known to substantially electrify, through collisions between dust particles. Typically, sufficient electrification to lead to spark or lightning discharges is not achieved, owing to the ~1 bar pressure at the surface. Conversely, on Mars, the lower pressure (about 1-10% of that on Earth) means that spark discharges are likely at lesser levels of electrification.

For several decades, it has been thought that dust devils on Mars may be able to produce spark discharges. Many lab experiments shaking sand around in a low-pressure carbon dioxide atmosphere, like that of Mars, have recorded highly charged dust and discharges.

However, until now, there have been no direct observations of Martian discharges. There have been several clues to the existence of charging in the Martian atmosphere, such as dust stuck to the wheels of a Nasa rover, for example.

The new – and genuinely serendipitous – observations published in Nature show that electrical discharges are present in the Martian atmosphere.

These results stemmed from a small loop in the wire connecting a microphone on the Perseverance rover to the on-board electronics. This wire, and the microphone system connected to it, proved to be an unexpectedly effective accidental lightning detector. The SuperCam microphone was intended to observe the acoustic environment of Mars, however, small electrical transients were also detected.

In investigating the source of these transient events, it was found that some of them were followed by sounds. The authors convincingly showed that the transients were caused by spark discharges, with electromagnetic signals picked up by the coil being followed by acoustic signals from the microphone. These observations are similar to seeing a flash of light and later hearing the subsequent thunder.

From investigating the time difference between the acoustic and electrical signals, the authors find that the spark discharges occur in the vicinity of the Martian lander – just a few metres away. Further, it was found that these occurrences were more common during dust storms, or when dust devils sweep over the rover.

Generally, two independent sources of corroborating information are considered necessary for unambiguous evidence of a new phenomenon. For example, lightning at Saturn is supported by separate observations from both spacecraft and Earth. When the discharges are weak, however, detection at a distance is much less achievable or even impossible. For these weak events on Mars, in-atmosphere detection is needed. Although the same signal system was used to detect them, the electrical and acoustic signals were conveyed in very different ways.

An analogous situation might be a radio broadcast made from near a thunderstorm. The effect of a lightning strike might cause a crackle of interference to be picked up by an analogue (not internet) radio, shortly before you heard thunder on the broadcast. The same radio provides these two signals, however they would seem to be observed independently.

The finding that electrical discharges occur on Mars has various implications. Atmospheric electricity can cause chemical reactions, such as the formation of complex molecules, perhaps linked to the origins of life. There are also practical applications for future space missions.

Dust was a significant problem during the Apollo missions landing on the lunar surface, as it easily penetrates any mechanical systems. Dust protection is an important part of planning for human travel to Mars. All these problems are exacerbated when the dust creates sparks, as it could result in electronic circuits malfunctioning.

Fortunately, you won’t have to worry much when a dust devil approaches during your next road trip on desert tracks; you can just drive through it, although the experience might remind you that on Mars you might see some sparks in the dust.

Martin Fullekrug, Reader, Department of Electronic & Electrical Engineering, University of Bath; Blair McGinness, Postdoctoral research assistant, meteorology, University of Reading, and Karen Aplin, Professor of Space Science and Technology

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

If you are fluent in any language other than English, you have probably noticed that some things are impossible to translate exactly.

A Japanese designer marvelling at an object’s shibui (a sort of simple yet timelessly elegant beauty) may feel stymied by English’s lack of a precisely equivalent term.

Danish hygge refers to such a unique flavour of coziness that entire books seem to have been needed to explain it.

Portuguese speakers may struggle to convey their saudade, a mixture of yearning, wistfulness and melancholy. Speakers of Welsh will have an even harder time translating their hiraeth, which can carry a further sense of longing after one’s specifically Celtic culture and traditions.

Imprisoned by language

The words of different languages can divide and package their speakers’ thoughts and experiences differently, and provide support for the theory of “linguistic relativity”.

Also known as the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis, this theory derives in part from the American linguist Edward Sapir’s 1929 claim that languages function to “index” their speakers’ “network of cultural patterns”: if Danish speakers experience hygge, then they should have a word to talk about it; if English speakers don’t, then we won’t.

Yet Sapir also went a step further, claiming language users “do not live in the objective world alone […] but are very much at the mercy” of their languages.

This stronger theory of “linguistic determinism” implies English speakers may be imprisoned by our language. In this, we actually cannot experience hygge – or at least, not in the same way that a Danish person might. The missing word implies a missing concept: an empty gap in our world of experience.

Competing theories

Few theories have proven as controversial. Sapir’s student Benjamin Lee Whorf famously claimed in 1940 that the Hopi language’s lack of verb tenses (past, present, future) indicated its speakers have a different “psychic experience” of time and the universe than Western physicists.

This was countered by a later study devoting nearly 400 pages to the language of time in Hopi, which included concepts such as “today”, “January” and – yes – discussions of actions happening in the present, past and future.

Even heard of “50 Inuit words for snow?” Whorf again.

Although the number he actually claimed was closer to seven, this was later said to be both too many and too few. (It depends on how you define a “word”.)

More recently, the anthropological linguist Dan Everett claimed the Amazonian Pirahã language lacks “recursion”, or the capacity to put one sentence inside another (“{I trust {you’ll come {to realise that {my theory is better.}}}}”).

If true, this would suggest that Pirahã differs in the exact property that Noam Chomsky has argued to be the principal defining property of any human language.

Once again, Everett’s claims have been argued both to go too far and not far enough. The cycle would appear to be endless, such that two excellent recent books on the topic have adopted almost diametrically opposite perspectives – even down to the opposite wording of their titles!

Language as a comfortable house

There is truth in both perspectives.

At least some aspects of human languages must be identical or nearly so, since they are all used by members of the same human species, with the same sorts of bodies, brains and patterns of communication.

Yet recent increases in understanding of the world’s Indigenous languages have taught us two important additional lessons. First, there is far more diversity among the world’s languages than previously believed. Second, differences are often related to the patterns of culture and environment in which languages are traditionally spoken.

For example, in many Himalayan languages, an expression like “that house” comes in three flavours: “that-house-upward”, “that-house-downward” and “that-house-on-the-same-level” – a reflection of the mountainous area these speakers live in.

When their speakers migrate to lower-elevation regions, the system may shift from “upward/downward” to “upriver/downriver”. If there is no large enough river present then the distinction may disappear.

In Indigenous Aslian languages of peninsular Malaysia, there are large vocabularies referring to finely-distinguished natural odours. This is an index of the richly diverse foraging environment of their speakers.

Studies of small, tightly-knit communities like the Milang of northeastern India have revealed how languages can require speakers to mark their information source: whether a statement is the general knowledge of one’s social group, or is arrived at through a different type of source – such as hearsay, or deduction from evidence.

Speakers of languages with such “evidentiality” systems can learn to speak languages – like English – without them. Yet native language habits turn out to be hard to break. One recent study showed speakers of some languages with evidentiality add words like “reportedly” or “seemingly” into their statements more often than native English speakers.

Human languages may not be a prison their speakers cannot escape from. They may be more like comfortable houses one finds it difficult to leave. Although a word from another language can always be borrowed, its unique cultural meanings may always remain just a little bit out of reach.

Mark W. Post, Senior Lecturer in Linguistics, University of Sydney

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

For a supposedly obsolete music format, audio cassette sales seem to be set on fast forward at the moment.

Cassettes are fragile, inconvenient and relatively low-quality in the sound they produce – yet we’re increasingly seeing them issued by major artists.

Is it simply a case of nostalgia?

Press play

The cassette format had its heyday during the mid-1980s, when tens of millions were sold each year.

However, the arrival of the compact disc (CDs) in the 1990s, and digital formats and streaming in the 2000s, consigned cassettes to museums, second-hand shops and landfill. The format was well and truly dead until the past decade, when it started to reenter the mainstream.

According to the British Phonographic Industry, in 2022 cassette sales in the United Kingdom reached their highest level since 2003. We’re seeing a similar trend in the United States, where cassette sales were up 204.7% in the first quarter of this year (a total of 63,288 units).

A number of major artists, including Taylor Swift, Billie Eilish, Lady Gaga, Charli XCX, the Weeknd and Royel Otis have all released material on cassette. Taylor Swift’s latest album, The Life of a Showgirl, is available in 18 versions across CDs, vinyl and cassettes.

Many news article will tell you a “cassette revival” is well underway. But is it?

I would argue what we’re seeing now is not a full-blown revival. After all, the unit sales still pale in comparison to the peak in the late 1990s, when some 83 million were reportedly sold in one year in the UK alone.

Instead, I see this as a form of rediscovery – or for young listeners, discovery.

Time to pause

Recorded music today is mostly heard through digital channels such as Spotify and social media.

Meanwhile, cassettes break and jam quite easily. Choosing a particular song might involve several minutes of fast forwarding, or rewinding, which clogs the playback head and weakens the tape over time. The audio quality is low, and comes with a background hiss.

Why resurrect this clunky old technology when everything you could want is a languid tap away on your phone?

Analogue formats such as cassettes and vinyl are not prized for their sound, but for the tactility and sense of connection they provide. For some listeners, cassettes and LPs allow for a tangible connection with their favourite artist.

There’s an old joke about vinyl records that people get into them for the expense and the inconvenience. The same could be said for cassette tapes: our renewed interest in them could be read as a questioning (if not rejection) of the blandly smooth, ubiquitous and inescapable digital world.

The joy of the cassette is its “thingness”, its “hereness” – as opposed to an intangible string of electrical impulses on a far-flung corporate-owned server.

The inconvenience and effort of using cassettes may even make for more focused listening – something the invisible, ethereal and “instantly there” flow of streaming doesn’t demand of us.

People may also choose to buy cassettes for the nostalgia, for their “retro” cool aesthetic, to be able to own music (instead of streaming it), and to make cheap and quick recordings.

Mix tape mania

Cassettes did (and still do) have the whiff of the rebel about them. As researcher Mike Glennon explains, they give consumers the power to customise and “reconfigure recorded sound, thus inserting themselves into the production process”.

From the 1970s, blank cassettes were a cheap way for anyone to record anything. They offered limitless combinations and juxtapositions of music and sounds.

The mix tape became an art form, with carefully selected track sequences and handmade covers. Albums could even be chopped up and rearranged according to preference.

Consumers could also happily copy commercial vinyl and cassettes, as well as music from radio, TV and live gigs. In fact, the first single ever released on cassette, Bow Wow Wow’s C30,C60,C90,Go! (1980), extolled the joys and righteousness of home taping as a way of sticking it to the man – or in this case the music industry.

Unsuprisingly, the recording industry saw cassettes and home taping as a threat to its copyright-based income and struck back.

In 1981, the British Phonographic Industry launched its infamous “home taping is killing music” campaign. But the campaign’s somewhat pompous tone led to it being mercilessly mocked and largely ignored by the public.

A chance to rewind

The idea of the blank cassette as both a symbol of self-expression and freedom from corporate control continues to persist. And today, it’s not only corporate control consumers have to dodge, but also the dominance of digital streaming platforms.

Far from being just a pleasant yearning sensation, nostalgia for older technology is layered, complex and often political.

Cassettes are cheap and easy to make, so many artists past and present have used them as merchandise to sell or give away at gigs and fan events. For hardcore fans, they are solid tokens of their dedication – and many fans will buy multiple formats as a form of collecting.

Cassettes won’t replace streaming services anytime soon, but that’s not the point. What they offer is a way of listening that goes against the grain of the digital hegemony we find ourselves in. That is, until the tape snaps.

Peter Hoar, Senior Lecturer, School of Communications Studies, Auckland University of Technology

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Prada will become the new owners of the Versace brand, under a €1.25 billion (A$2.2 billion) deal.

Versace has recently struggled both financially and in keeping up with the larger luxury fashion houses. Before the sale, Versace was owned by Capri Holdings, which also holds brands including Michael Kors and Jimmy Choo.

In March, Donatella Versace stepped down as the brand’s creative director and was replaced by Dario Vitale, who previously worked for the Prada Group. This marked the first time in 47 years that Versace was not led by a family member.

The Prada Group has made a move to save the Italian brand from possibly being consolidated into the larger French groups Louis Vuitton Moët Hennessy (LVMH) and Kering, which own considerable luxury fashion brands.

Will the luxury fashion house rivals be able to survive each other’s style?

The ‘sexy’ Versace

The iconic and sexy Versace brand was founded by Gianni Versace in 1978 in Milan, when he launched his first women’s wear collection.

Originally studying architecture like many of the great 1950s Italian fashion designers, his flamboyant and erotic style was soon embraced by many celebrities, such as Princess Diana and Elton John.

The establishment of the luxury fashion house was a family affair. Gianni’s brother Santo ran the commercial side of the business, and his younger sister Donatella also became a designer and creative director with the brand.

After Gianni was tragically murdered outside his Miami beach mansion by Andrew Cunanan in 1997, his sister Donatella continued the Versace legacy.

Under her creative leadership, the fashion house saw extravagant runways and advertising campaigns. But, over time, the fashion house struggled to maintain scale like its competitors.

The ‘luxury’ Prada

Mario Prada founded Prada in 1913 as a luxury leather-goods business.

The business didn’t find its luxury fashion house status until Miuccia Prada took over the business from her grandfather in 1978. Miuccia came to the brand with no prior design experience and with a PhD in political science.

Her background as an outsider to the fashion industry has been seen as her ultimate strength, affording her the ability to take risks and challenge every style under the Prada brand.

In 1978, Miuccia became the fashion designer for Prada and, in 1993, its sister brand Miu Miu. Both Prada and Miu Miu would come to be known for a clean and minimalist style of fashion, while also being shocking.

Miuccia invented the “ugly chic” style: taking unconventional items or materials that are considered ugly and adding high fashion value to them, such as the iconic Prada Vela bag made from nylon instead of leather. Introducing nylon fabric into luxury fashion was a shocking move in 1984.

Miuccia Prada has dressed many celebrities, including Miu Miu “it girl” Sabrina Carpenter and Nicole Kidman, who loves a Prada dress.

The Prada Group is now a public traded company valued at approximately US$15.27 billion (A$23.2 billion), with majority ownership in the hands of Miuccia and her husband Patrizio Bertelli.

The ultimate rivalry

As family-owned Italian fashion houses with markedly different styles, Prada and Versace have often been called “rivals” by Vogue journalists and business analysts. Prada is minimalist; Versace is loud and flashy. Prada is a northern Italian brand; Versace is a southern Italian brand.

While there may be a localised rivalry, the true competition is between the Italian and French luxury fashion houses.

Until the mid 20th century, Paris held a monopoly over women’s fashion. Italian fashion houses gradually grew after the second world war as the French struggled with material shortages. But the French brands continued to dominate the fashion hierarchy with the release of Dior’s “new look”.

The rise of Italian fashion provided a philosophical rivalry with French fashion houses, who focused on couture compared to Italy’s more ready-to-wear domestic luxury goods.

Prada owning Versace ends an era of rivalry between two of the most influential Italian fashion houses. But it does provide a united front of Italian fashion.

What of the future?

Prada has been known for its investment in other luxury fashion houses. It previously bought a stake in Fendi for US$245 million in 1999 before selling in 2001 for US$265 million, and bought a 9.5% stake in Gucci in 1998 before selling in 1999.

The Versace deal is just another complex acquisition within the fashion landscape.

In today’s competitive market, luxury fashion brands such as Prada are increasingly focusing on “selling to the 1%”, targeting ultra-wealthy customers. This stands in contrast to Versace’s historical focus on serving the middle market with more “accessible luxury” pricing.

The brand’s identities will remain separate, but Prada is likely to capitalise on the strengths of each brand, with Prada’s excellent craftsmanship and local manufacturing being utilised for the Versace brand. The Prada Group will have considerable work to do to relaunch the Versace brand and remain globally competitive, including deciding which market they wish to appeal to.

So, will Versace lose its sexiness? Will Prada mess with its ultra cool “ugly minimalist” style? It is unlikely fashion followers will see much change in either brand. But it remains to be seen if they can survive in partnership in the tough global fashion market.

Jye Marshall, Lecturer, Fashion Design, School of Design and Architecture, Swinburne University of Technology

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

The beach and foreshore near where Perth’s Swan River meets the sea was recently closed to swimming after a number of bull sharks were seen circling close to the surface.

In 2023, a young woman tragically died after being attacked by a bull shark nearby. In 2021 a man was seriously injured by a bull shark just upstream.

A project also began in 2021 to create new Noongar songs and dances in response to boodjar (Country) and its inhabitants. This included a song and dance for the potentially dangerous bull shark, or kworlak, which swims and lives alongside us in the river.

Bull shark have been travelling largely unseen up and down the river’s murky waters for aeons. Recognition of this informs the relationship between the river and Noongar, the Indigenous people of the region.

Together, we worked on a project to develop novel Noongar dances for bull shark and other entities which otherwise would have no recently known local performance repertoire.

Within many Indigenous cultures, singing and dancing is vital to maintaining reciprocal relationships with local ecosystems. Even watching Indigenous performance can stir vibrations in the body of the viewer. By coming to feel and listen to kworlak, we can come to respect its power and its almost miraculous ability to pass through the foamy waves into and out of the river mouth.

Through Noongar dance, everyone is invited to consider trans-species empathy as a way to restore connections between those who live in Perth, and the nonhuman species that inhabit the region.

The powerful kworlak

Walyalup is the name for Fremantle, Western Australia, resting at the mouth of the Derbal Yerrigan, otherwise known as the Swan River. Trevor Ryan grew up here where freshwater and saltwater mix. He has memories of swimming, fishing and playing with family and friends.

Kworlak travel against the current, past the waves, and up the river into the fresh water to breed in late kambarang (the season of birth, wildflowers and the last cool days before summer).

Heavy late kambarang rainfall, such as Perth saw this year, attracts sharks to feed and reproduce.

Bull shark adjust their osmoregulation, expelling excess water via kidneys and urinary tract. Senior Noongar collaborating on the project speak of kworlak waiting near yandjet, or bulrushes, seeking hidden prey such as crustaceans, tortoise and small fish. This sustains females during pregnancy and birth.

Creating Noongar songs

Across Australia, it is common for Indigenous songs to be attributed to non-human entities rather than being solely the creation of human composers.

Under Western Australia’s Aborigines Act (1905–63), speaking and singing in Noongar was vigorously discouraged, resulting in few old songs being remembered today. There are historically recorded Noongar songs about the sea, but none about sharks.

Given other sea creatures had songs, it is likely Noongar shark songs were once performed.

At Trevor’s suggestion, and after sharing song ideas with senior Noongar speakers, Clint Bracknell – who performs as Maatakitj – drew inspiration at the river to create a song of the kworlak in early 2021.

He began with a melody which he had dreamed before vocalising without words, attempting to figure out what Noongar terms the dreamed vocalisations evoked.

The song goes:

Wardangara kworlak waniny

Seafarer bull-shark sneaking

Ngadird ngadird ngadird wan

Again, again and again it sneaks

Wardangara kworlak waniny ngoornt

Seafarer bull-shark sneaking, lies

Bilya ngaril ngadird wan

Through the ribs of the river, again, it sneaks

Ngadird ngadird ngadird wan

Again, again and again it sneaks

Widi-widiny widi-widiny widi-widiny widi-widiny

Shaking everything up

The kworlak dance, choreographed by Trevor, began with the dancers treading on boodjar itself. It was important for the dancers to feel their vibrations connect to mother earth.

Stamping up and down to the beat of the clap sticks, dancers alluded to kworlak’s osmoregulation by moving their arms horizontally at the waist outwards, while turning to evoke the flow of salt and fresh water moving over, and through, the body.

The shark’s distinctive dorsal fin also featured. Dancers moved their clasped hands above their heads from the middle, left, right and back. The dance concluded with the dancers pushing their arms forward, fingers spread, each hand moving up and down over the other, to represent the biting and grinding motions of bull sharks feeding.

Trevor describes dancing on Country as being like a musician who tunes their guitar to play a song. Bodies are instruments that can be tuned to the landscape, finding the right frequency that vibrates with ancestors and Country.

Most humans today only notice sharks when a tragedy occurs. Regularly singing and dancing the kworlak reminds us of their enduring place in the ecosystem. It teaches us caution and respect.

Through embodying the stories and energy of boodjar, everyone may potentially feel through voice and physical response that they, like other entities, belong on, with, and to Country.

Trevor Ryan, Indigenous Cultural Advisor, Centre for People Place and Planet & School of Education, Edith Cowan University; Clint Bracknell, Professor of Music, The University of Western Australia, and Jonathan W. Marshall, Associate Professor & Postgraduate Research Coordinator, Western Australian Academy of Performing Arts, Edith Cowan University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Tom Stoppard, who has died at 88, was one of the most critically acclaimed and commercially successful playwrights of our age. He won his first Tony Award for Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead in 1968, and his last for Leopoldstadt in 2023.

His life was extraordinary. Born Tomáš Straussler in Zlín, Czechoslovakia, in 1937, his Jewish family fled Nazi occupation to India and then England. He chose to become a journalist rather than go to university, and became close friends with Nobel Prize winners, presidents – and Mick Jagger.

The wit and intellectual curiosity of Stoppard’s plays was so distinctive that “Stoppardian” entered the Oxford English Dictionary in 1978. Hermione Lee’s biography of him contains a cartoon with annoyed audience members hissing: “Look at the Jones’s pretending to get all the jokes in a Stoppard play.”

Stoppard just assumed his audience was as well read and inquisitive as he was.

Philosophy is the foundation

As Stoppard said to American theatre critic Mel Gussow in 1974,

most of the propositions I’m interested in have been kidnapped and dressed up by academic philosophy, but they are in fact the kind of proposition that would occur to any intelligent person in his bath.

Philosophy is the foundation of Stoppard’s plays. They cite Aquinas, Aristotle, Ayer, Bentham, Kant, Moore, Plato, Ramsey, Russell, Ryle and Zeno. One philosopher in Stoppard’s radio play Darkside (2013) is never sure if he is spelling Nietzsche correctly.

In 2003, the actor Simon Russell-Beale recalled to a National Theatre audience Stoppard introducing a cast to

2,000 years of philosophy in an hour – it was rather brilliant – just to explain what the debate was and why it was dramatically exciting.

Philosophy – but not before life

Stoppard’s interest in philosophy began in 1968. He wrote to a friend that he was

in a ridiculous philosophy\logic\math kick. I don’t know how I got into it, but you should see me […] following Wittgenstein through Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus.

The Austro-British philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein (1889–1951) had a philosophy of philosophy. He argued lots of academic philosophy was literal nonsense. Some things we think are important are beyond words.

Stoppard saw theatre similarly, saying in a lecture to Canadian students in 1988 that “theatre is a curious equation in which language is merely one of the components”.

Stoppard wrote philosophers who tie themselves into cerebral knots failing to prove what they want to believe about God, morals or consciousness in plays such as Jumpers (1972), Rock ‘n’ Roll (2006) and The Hard Problem (2015).

One of Stoppard’s philosophers dictates a lecture in Jumpers, saying “to begin at the beginning: is God? (To SECRETARY). Leave a space”.

Stoppard’s plays sympathise with this forlorn desire to know until it leads characters to ignore other people. Action in the world is more important than the search for knowledge if there is a marriage to be saved, a dying wife to be cared for, or an adopted child to be found. Wittgenstein’s Lecture on Ethics is complex – but Stoppard’s plays show it in effect.

What we know, and how

In his TV play Professional Foul (1977), Stoppard sent philosophers to a conference in Prague. Scholarly debate was contained by totalitarian censorship. The professor of ethics at Cambridge University makes his call for action by riffing on Wittgenstein’s Tractatus: “Whereof we cannot speak, thereof we are by no means silent.”

Stoppard also staged lines from Wittgenstein’s Philosophical Investigations in Dogg’s Hamlet, Cahoot’s Macbeth (1979). Some characters speak English, others use the same words but with different meanings. The audience observes and learns this new nonsense language, laughing at its jokes. They understand the philosophy of language as Wittgenstein did: social conventions between people, not words pinned on things.

What we can know, and how, is crucial to Stoppard’s plays even when the immediate subject matter isn’t philosophy.

It might be quantum physics in Hapgood (1988) or chaos theory in Arcadia (1993); European history in The Coast of Utopia (2002) or contemporary politics in Rock ‘n’ Roll; individual consciousness in The Hard Problem or even whatever we might mean by “love” in The Real Thing (1982). The characters really do want to know. They debate and interrogate but never find definite answers.

As Hannah suggests in Arcadia:

It’s all trivial […] Comparing what we’re looking for misses the point. It’s wanting to know that makes us matter. Otherwise we’re going out the way we came in.

But there are jokes too. Arcadia opens in 1809 with a precocious 13-year-old girl asking her dashing 22-year-old tutor: “Septimus, what is carnal embrace?” before the tutor (originally played by a smoldering Rufus Sewell) pauses, and cautiously replies “Carnal embrace is the practice of throwing one’s arms around a side of beef”.

The audience erupted in laughter. I was one of them.

And as the play draws to a close, a waltz in 1809 happens in the same room as a waltz in the present. As the two dancing couples circle each other, Stoppard’s play suggests that what one person can share with another is more meaningful than justified true belief.

It is a beautiful, theatrical moment. And it is beyond words.

Fergus Edwards, Lecturer in English, University of Tasmania

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

When you picture medieval warfare, you might think of epic battles and famous monarchs. But what about the everyday soldiers who actually filled the ranks? Until recently, their stories were scattered across handwritten manuscripts in Latin or French and difficult to decipher. Now, our online database makes it possible for anyone to discover who they were and how they lived, fought and travelled.

To shed light on the foundations of our armed services – one of England’s oldest professions – we launched the Medieval Soldier Database in 2009. Today, it’s the largest searchable online database of medieval nominal data in the world. It contains military service records giving names of soldiers paid by the English Crown. It covers the period from 1369 to 1453 and many different war zones.

We created the database to challenge assumptions about the lack of professionalism of soldiers during the hundred years war and to show what their careers were really like.

In response to the high interest from historians and the public (the database has 75,000 visitors per month), the resource has recently been updated. It is now sustainably hosted by GeoData, a University of Southampton research institute. We have recently added new records, taking the dataset back to the late 1350s, meaning it now contains almost 290,000 entries.

This data is mainly drawn from muster rolls (lists of names of soldiers comprising the military force) of men-at-arms (soldiers with full armour and a range of weapons) and archers. We can even see the little dots used by officials taking the muster to confirm the soldiers had turned up and had the right equipment. All these soldiers were paid and the Exchequer wanted to be assured it was receiving value for money.

We have also included protections and appointments of attorneys and legal mechanisms to protect local interests while serving overseas. Together, these records provide rich accounts of military activities, allowing for significant conclusions to be drawn. Careers of 20 years and more are revealed. We also see men moving upwards socially because of their good service. For many soldiers, especially archers, this information may be the only record we have of their existence.

The expanded data enables us to explore the garrison of Calais from 1357 to 1459. We can see the high manpower commitment needed to maintain this key English base in northern France. Calais was the gateway through which many great expeditions passed, including that of 1359 when Edward III set out to besiege Reims to be crowned King of France.

The database also allows comparisons with other emerging projects. For instance, we can establish the military experience of rebels in the peasants’ revolt of 1381, a widespread English uprising driven by economic hardship, high taxes and social tensions, ultimately suppressed violently by King Richard II and his government. The data allows many deep dives into the past. It allows historians to demonstrate that, unlike today where the armed forces specialise, the medieval soldier would have served repeatedly across different theatres of war.

We can see expeditionary armies sent to invade France as well as naval campaigns in the English Channel. We also find soldiers in garrisons in Scotland, Ireland and France. Our data has allowed family historians to push their genealogies back further than has been previously possible.

Standout stories

The resource is home to many insightful records of key events and figures. One well known person is Geoffrey Chaucer, author of The Canterbury Tales, which were written between 1387 and 1400. The database holds a number of service records for him. He was a man-at-arms in the garrison of Calais in 1387.

This was probably Chaucer’s last foray into military service, but he had considerable experience as a soldier and as a diplomat. He had been in France in 1372, 1377 and 1378. He testified to the Court of Chivalry – a court which settled disputes over coats of arms – in 1386. He told the court that he was then aged “40 and upwards” and “had been armed 27 years”. He gave more details about his service on the Reims campaign of 1359 where he was captured by the French and ransomed.

Records for a man named Thomas Crowe of Snodland in Kent shed some light on his rebellious past. During the peasants’ revolt of 1381, he was accused of “taking up position and throwing great stones” to demolish someone’s house. The database suggests he may have served in France in 1369. He was certainly in the garrison of Calais in 1385 and on a naval campaign in 1387. His military knowledge about trebuchets – a powerful type of counterbalanced medieval siege engine – or giant catapults may explain how he was able to wreak so much destruction in the revolt.

The muster roll for the garrison of Calais in 1357 shows not only the names of men-at-arms and archers but also the support roles needed: mason, locksmith, fletcher (a maker of arrows), bowyer (a maker of bows), plumber, blacksmith, wheelwright, cooper (maker of barrels), ditch digger, boatman, carter and carter’s boy. One record belongs to a tiler – Walter Tyler. Was this the future rebel leader of 1381, Wat Tyler?

We hope the database will continue to grow and go on providing answers to questions about our shared military heritage. We are sure that it will unlock many previously untold stories of soldier ancestors.

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Adrian R Bell, Chair in the History of Finance and Associate Pro-Vice-Chancellor Research, Prosperity and Resilience, Henley Business School, University of Reading; Anne Curry, Professor of Medieval History, University of Southampton, and Jason Sadler, Professorial Enterprise Fellow, GeoData Institute, Geography and Environmental Science, University of Southampton

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

If you ever find yourself on Macquarie Island – a narrow, wind-lashed ridge halfway between Tasmania and Antarctica – the first thing you’ll notice is the wildlife. Elephant seals sprawl across dark beaches. King penguins march up mossy slopes. Albatrosses circle over vast, treeless uplands.

But look more closely and the island is changing. Slopes are becoming boggier. Iconic megaherbs such as Pleurophyllum and Stilbocarpa are retreating.

For years, scientists suspected the culprit was increasing rainfall. Our new research, published in Weather and Climate Dynamics, confirms this – and shows the story goes far beyond one remote UNESCO World Heritage site.

A major – but little observed – climate player

The Southern Ocean plays an enormous role in the global climate system.

It absorbs much of the excess heat trapped by greenhouse gases and a large share of the carbon dioxide emitted by human activity.

Storms in the Southern Ocean also influence weather patterns across Australia, New Zealand and the globe.

Yet it is also one of the least observed places on Earth.

With almost no land masses, only a handful of weather stations, and ubiquitous cloud cover, satellites and simulations struggle to capture what is actually happening there.

That makes Macquarie Island’s climate record from the Bureau of Meteorology and the Australian Antarctic Division exceptionally valuable, providing one of the very few long-term “ground truth” records anywhere in the Southern Ocean.

These high-quality records of the observed daily rainfall and meteorology date back more than 75 years and are commonly used to validate satellite products and numerical simulations.

Rising rainfall

Earlier work has found rainfall at Macquarie Island had risen sharply over recent decades, and ecologists documented waterlogging that harms native vegetation.

But no one has explained how the island’s weather patterns are changing, or directly compared the field observations to our best reconstructions of past weather to assess Southern Ocean climate trends.

To fill this gap, we analysed 45 years (1979–2023) of daily rainfall observations and compared them to a widely used reconstruction of earlier weather, known as the ERA5 reanalysis.

We wanted to understand the meteorology behind the increase in rainfall – that is, whether it was caused by more storms or more intense rainfall during storms. To do this we placed each day in the dataset into one of five synoptic regimes based on pressure, humidity, winds and temperature.

These regimes included low pressure systems, cold-air outbreaks and warm-air advection (the warm air that moves poleward ahead of a cold front).

Storms are producing more rain

Our analysis showed that annual rainfall on Macquarie Island has increased 28% since 1979 – around 260 millimetres per year.

The ERA5 reanalysis, in contrast, shows only an 8% increase — missing most of this change.

The storm track’s gradual move toward Antarctica is well established, and our results show how this larger change is shaping Macquarie Island’s weather today.

Crucially, we found that these changes are not causing the increase in rainfall, as one wet regime (warm air advection) was largely replacing another (low pressure).

Instead, storms now produce more rain when they occur.

Why does this matter beyond one island?

If the rainfall intensification we see at Macquarie Island reflects conditions across the Southern Ocean storm belt – as multiple lines of evidence indicate — the consequences are profound.

A wetter storm track means more fresh water entering the upper ocean. This strengthens the different layers in the oceans and reduces the amount of mixing that occurs. In turn, this alters the strength of ocean currents.

Our estimate suggests that in 2023 this additional precipitation equates to roughly 2,300 gigatonnes of additional freshwater per year across the high-latitude Southern Ocean – an order of magnitude greater than recent Antarctic meltwater contributions. And this difference continues to grow.

More rainfall will also affect the salinity of water on the ocean’s surface, which influences the movement of nutrients and carbon. As a result, this could change the productivity and chemistry of the Southern Ocean – one of the world’s most important carbon sinks – in still-uncertain ways.

This increase in rainfall requires a matching increase in evaporation, which cools the ocean, just like our bodies cool when our sweat evaporates. Over the cloudy Southern Ocean, this evaporation is the primary means of cooling the ocean.

Our analysis indicates the Southern Ocean may be cooling itself by 10–15% more than it did in 1979 – simply through the energy cost of evaporation that fuels the extra rainfall. This evaporation is spread over the broader Southern Ocean.

In effect, the Southern Ocean may be “sweating” more in response to climate change.

The next challenge

Macquarie Island is just one tiny speck of land in Earth’s stormiest ocean.

But its long-term rainfall record suggests the Southern Ocean – the engine room of global heat and carbon uptake – is changing faster and more dramatically than we thought.

The next challenge is to determine how far this signal extends across the storm track, and what it means for the climate system we all depend on.

The authors would like the acknowledge Andrew Prata, Yi Huang, Ariaan Purish and Peter May for their contribution to the research and this article.

Steven Siems, Professor in Cloud Microphysics, Monash University and Zhaoyang Kong, PhD Candidate, School of Earth, Atmosphere and Environment, Monash University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Kimchi has been enjoyed for centuries in Korea. But the spicy fermented cabbage dish has recently gained popularity in other parts of the world not only because of its delicious taste, but because of its potential to positively influence the many thousands of important microbes living in our gut as well as our overall health.

A recent study suggests that kimchi may also help support the immune system.

The study looked at 13 overweight adults over a 12-week period. Participants were randomly assigned to three groups. One group received a placebo, while the other two groups received two different types of kimchi powder (kimchi that had been freeze dried and put into a capsule).

The first type of kimchi powder was naturally fermented using microbes already in the environment. The second type was fermented with a chosen bacterial culture instead of relying on natural microbes. The amount of kimchi powder participants were given daily was roughly equivalent to eating 30 grams of fresh kimchi.

Blood samples were taken before and after the study and analysed using a technique that shows what each immune cell is doing instead of giving an overall average. This gives a detailed view of how the immune system responded.

The study found that kimchi affected the immune system in a targeted way. It increased the activity of antigen-presenting cells (APCs). These are immune cells that ingest pathogens, process them and show pieces of those pathogens on their surface so the body’s helper T cells (which coordinate overall immune response) know to mount a response against those specific pathogens.

Kimchi also increased the activity of certain genes that act like switches, helping these immune cells send clearer signals to T cells.

There were also genetic changes in helper T cells that made them react more quickly to anything that triggers an immune response. Since helper T cells coordinate immune responses, these changes mean they’re better equipped to help other immune cells fight infections effectively.

Most other immune cells stayed the same, meaning kimchi targeted helper T cells rather than activating the entire immune system. Maintaining this balance is important because the immune system must be able to respond to infections effectively while avoiding excessive inflammation that can damage tissues.

Overall, the results suggest that kimchi helps the immune system respond to threats more effectively without causing too much inflammation. Both types of kimchi produced these effects – though starter-culture kimchi showed a slightly stronger effect. Those taking the placebo saw no immune changes.

These findings point to potential benefits for defence against viruses, responsiveness to vaccines and regulation of inflammation – although further research is needed.

Immune cell function

It’s worth mentioning that this study was small and focused on changes in immune cells, not actual health outcomes. So we don’t yet know if eating kimchi in this way would reduce infections or inflammation in daily life.

However, the study does provide a plausible molecular explanation for how fermented foods can influence immune function. This tells us more than we can learn from studies that only observe people’s habits. It links a common fermented food to measurable effects on immune cells – supporting the idea that fermented foods may be used strategically to enhance immune regulation and overall immune balance.

Kimchi isn’t the only fermented food that may have immune benefits. Other foods such as yogurt, kefir, sauerkraut, miso and kombucha contain live microbes and metabolites that have a positive effect on the microbiome and may influence immune function.

Some studies have also shown that fermented dairy products can increase beneficial gut bacteria and modulate immune responses, including T cell and antibody activity.

The exact effects of fermented foods will depend on many variables, including the microbes present, the fermentation method and an individual’s unique gut microbiome.

Different fermented foods may also have different effects due to the microbes they contain. This is why including a variety of fermented foods may be more beneficial than relying on a single type.

There’s no established recommendation for how much fermented food to eat. In this study, participants consumed the equivalent of 30 grams of kimchi per day, an amount that is feasible for most people.

While research is still unfolding, including a variety of fermented foods in your diet is an easy and enjoyable way to explore the potential benefits for your gut and immune system.

Try new options to discover what you like best, keep a few favourites ready in the fridge, and find simple ways to add them to everyday meals. Over time, these small, regular habits could help support your gut and immune health.

Rachel Woods, Senior Lecturer in Physiology, University of Lincoln

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

In April 2005, The Simpsons featured an episode where Marge, embarrassed by her hometown’s reputation for being uneducated and uncultured, invites a world-famous architect to design a new concert hall for the city.

The episode cuts to the architect, Frank Gehry (playing himself), outside his house in Santa Monica, receiving Marge’s letter. He is frustrated by the request and crumples the letter, throwing it to the ground. Looking down, the creased and ragged paper inspires him, and the episode cuts to a model of his concert hall for Springfield, which copies the shape of the crumpled letter.

By building Gehry’s design, the people of Springfield hoped to send a signal to the world that a new era of culture had arrived. As it often did, this episode of The Simpsons references a real-life phenomenon, which Gehry was credited with triggering, the “Bilbao effect”.

In 1991, the city of Bilbao in northern Spain sought to enhance its economic and cultural standing by establishing a major arts centre. Gehry was commissioned to design the Bilbao Guggenheim, proposing a 57-metre-high building, a spiralling vortex of titanium and glass, along the banks of the Nervión River.

Using software developed for aerospace industries, Gehry designed a striking, photogenic building, sharply contrasting with the city’s traditional stone and masonry streetscapes.

Finished in 1997, the response to Gehry’s building was overwhelming. Bilbao was transformed into an international tourist destination, revitalising the city and boosting its cultural credentials and economic prospects. As a result, many cities tried to reproduce the so-called “Bilbao effect” by combining iconic architecture and the arts to encourage a cultural renaissance.

Gehry, who has died at 96, leaves a powerful legacy, visible in many major cities, in the media, in galleries and in popular culture.

An architect’s life

Gehry was born Frank Owen Goldberg in Toronto, Canada, in 1929 and emigrated to Los Angeles in the late 1940s, where he changed his surname to Gehry. He studied architecture and urban planning and established a successful commercial practice in 1962.

It wasn’t until the late 1970s, when he began experimenting with alterations and additions to his own house, that he began to develop his signature approach to architecture. An approach that was both visionary and confronting.

In 1977, Gehry purchased a colonial bungalow on a typical suburban street in Santa Monica. Soon after, he began peeling back its cladding and exposing its structural frame. He added a jumble of plywood panels, corrugated metal walls, and chain-link fencing, giving the impression of a house in a perpetual state of demolition or reconstruction.

Its fragmented, unfinished expression offended the neighbours but also led to his being exhibited in the landmark 1988 Museum of Modern Art’s Deconstructivist Architecture show.

At this event, Gehry’s house was featured alongside a range of subversive, anti-establishment works, catapulting him to international fame.

Unlike other architects featured in the exhibition – such as Coop Himmelblau, Rem Koolhaas and Daniel Libeskind – Gehry was not driven by a political or philosophical stance. Instead, he was interested in how people would react to the experience of architecture.

It was only after the Bilbao Guggenheim was completed that the world could see this vision.

Throughout the 2000s, Gehry completed a range of significant buildings, led by the Walt Disney Concert Hall (2003) in Los Angeles, which has a similar style to the Bilbao Guggenheim.

Gehry’s Museum of Pop Culture (2000) in Seattle is a composition of anodised purple, gold, silver and sky-blue forms, resembling the remnants of a smashed electric guitar.

The Marqués de Riscal Vineyard Hotel (2006) in Elciego, Spain, features steel ribbons in Burgundy-pink and Verdelho-gold. The Louis Vuitton Foundation (2014) in Paris has 12 large glass sails, swirling around an “iceberg” of concrete panels.

Gehry only completed one building in Australia, the Dr Chau Chak Wing Building (2014) in Sydney. Its design, an undulating form clad in custom-made bricks, was inspired by a crumpled brown paper bag. Marge Simpson would have approved.

Recognition and reflection

The highest global honour an architect can receive is the Pritzker Prize, often called the “Nobel prize for architecture”. Gehry was awarded this prize in 1989, with the jury praising his “controversial, but always arresting body of work” which was “iconoclastic, rambunctious and impermanent”.

While the Pritzker Prize is often regarded as a capstone for a career, most of Gehry’s major works were completed after the award.

Gehry revelled in experimentation, taking artistic inspiration from complex natural forms and constructing them using advanced technology. Over the last three decades, his firm continued to produce architecture that was both strikingly sculptural and playfully whimsical.

He ultimately regretted appearing on The Simpsons, feeling it devalued the complex process he followed. His architecture was not random; an artist’s eye guided it, and a sculptor’s hand created it. It was not just any crumpled form, but the perfect one for each site and client.

He sometimes joked about completing his home in Santa Monica, even humorously ending his acceptance speech for the Pritzker Prize by saying he might use his prize money to do this. Today, on the corner of 22nd Street and Washington Avenue, partly shielded by trees, Gehry’s house remains forever a work in progress. Its uncompromising yet joyful presence has endured for almost 50 years.

Michael J. Ostwald, Professor of Architectural Analytics, UNSW Sydney

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Most of us know sunscreen is a key way to protect areas of our skin not easily covered by clothes from excessive ultraviolet (UV) radiation.

But it’s been a rough year for sunscreens.

In June, testing by Choice identified 16 products on Australian shelves that don’t provide the SPF protection they claimed.

In July, the Therapeutic Goods Administration (TGA) released a review recommending the amount of certain chemical ingredients allowed in sunscreens should be lowered.

Since then, several other sunscreens have been recalled or are under review, either due to manufacturing defects or concerns about poor SPF cover.

All this has left many of us feeling confused about which sunscreens are safe, effective and do what they say on the label.

Here’s what you need to know so you can stay safe this summer.

The good news first

There’s very little evidence sunscreens cause cancer and plenty of evidence they prevent skin cancer.

This is vital in Australia, where two in three people will get skin cancer at some point in their lives.

One randomised controlled trial in Queensland, run over four and a half years between 1992 and 1996, asked 1,621 people to either use sunscreen every day or continue their usual use (usually one or two days a week or not at all).

It found using sunscreen every day reduced the numbers of squamous cell carcinomas by 40%, compared to the group that didn’t change their habits. Ten years after the study, the number of invasive melanomas was reduced by 73% in the daily sunscreen group.

Significantly, this study was conducted in the 90s using SPF 16 sunscreen. Modern sunscreens are expected to routinely provide SPF 30+ or 50+ protection.

Companies should provide the SPF levels they’re advertising. But this research shows even sub-par sunscreen (by modern standards) provides significant protection with daily use.

Making sure SPF claims stack up

In Australia, the TGA regulates how SPF is assessed in sunscreens, but doesn’t do the testing itself. Instead, companies perform or outsource the testing, which must be done on human skin, and provide the TGA with their results.

But when Choice independently tested 20 Australian sunscreens, it found 16 did not meet the SPF factor on the label.

An ABC investigation pinpointed two potential sources of the problems: a poor quality base ingredient manufactured by Wild Child Laboratories, and suspicious SPF testing data from Princeton Consumer Research, which many of the brands relied on.

The TGA has since recommended that people stop using 21 products that contain the Wild Child base, listed here.

What about the chemical ingredients?

The TGA regularly reviews scientific research to make sure Australian sunscreens keep up with advances in safety and effectiveness. To be sold in Australia, sunscreens must use active ingredients from a specific list, limited at maximum concentrations.

July’s safety review found evidence that two permitted ingredients – homosalate and oxybenzone – can cause hormone disruptions in some animals exposed to high doses for a long time. These doses were far higher than someone would be exposed to from sunscreen – even at the maximum usage – thanks to the TGA’s ingredient limits.

Still, chemical risks are managed strictly. The amount absorbed during consistent, high-dose sunscreen use, year-round, must be less than 1% of the dose known to cause problems in animals.

The new results suggest that absorption could go over this “margin of safety”. So the TGA has recommended the amount allowed be reduced.

Homosalate and oxybenzone are not being banned, and you don’t need to throw out sunscreens containing these ingredients.

But if the idea of using them makes you nervous, you can check ingredient lists and buy sunscreens without them.

What should I look for in a sunscreen?

When buying a sunscreen there are four non-negotiables. It must have:

• 30+ or 50+ SPF
• broad spectrum UV protection (filters both UVB and UVA rays)
• water-resistant (for staying power in Australia’s sweaty climate)
• TGA approval mark on the packaging (“AUST L” followed by a number).

Sunscreen only works if you use it, so choose a sunscreen you like enough to actually wear.

There are milks, gels and creams, unscented, matte, tinted and many other varieties. Since faces are often the most sensitive, many people use a specialty sunscreen for the face and a cheaper, general one for the rest of the body.

Spray-on sunscreen is not recommended, however, because it’s too hard to apply enough.

You need to apply more than you think

Sunscreen works best when you apply it 20 minutes before you go into the sun, and reapply every two hours and after swimming, sport or towel drying.

How you apply it affects how well it works. You need about one teaspoon each for:

• your face and neck
• back
• chest and abdomen
• each arm and leg.

It’s also common to miss your ears, hands, feet and back of the neck – don’t forget these either.

Sunscreen usually lasts two to three years stored below 30°C, so keep an eye on the use-by date and follow any instructions about shaking before use.

If the sunscreen seems to have separated into thinner and thicker layers even after shaking, the ingredients providing SPF may not be mixed evenly throughout and might not work properly.

But remember – sunscreen isn’t a suit of armour

If you’re planning to be out in the sun for more than a few minutes at a time, slip on sun-protective clothing and slap on a hat. Use sunscreen to protect the areas you can’t easily cover.

Slide on sunnies and seek shade where possible to complete your sun-protection practice for a burn-free summer.

Katie Lee, Postdoctoral Researcher, Dermatology Research Centre, The University of Queensland

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

It often seems like a great idea at the time. There’s a streaming service, paywalled news site or premium version of an app you want to try, offering a “no strings attached” free trial.

You sign up – with a few easy clicks and your credit card. The trial period passes, and for whatever reason, you decide this product isn’t for you.

But when you try to cancel, you’re forced to navigate confusing web pages, asked whether you’re “really sure about this” an unreasonable number of times, or even told to call a generic customer hotline.

Sound familiar? According to the Consumer Policy Research Centre, three in four Australians with subscriptions have had a negative experience when trying to cancel them.

Making it hard to cancel – commonly called a “subscription trap” – isn’t currently illegal. But now the federal government has announced a plan to ban subscription traps and other hidden fees.

Easy to sign up, tricky to leave

Subscription traps are sometimes referred to as the “Hotel California” problem, referencing the famous 1977 song by US rock band The Eagles.

Echoing that song’s lyrics, while it is often easy to sign up – it can be really hard to leave.

The traps can take many different forms. One example is when consumers sign up for a service quickly and easily online, but can only cancel on the phone (sometimes needing to ring another country).

Delay, delay, delay

Announcing the proposed new laws at a press conference, Assistant Minister for Competition Andrew Leigh also singled out cases where the cancellation takes 28 days to come into effect. Leigh said:

A simple rule for businesses: if you can’t cancel a subscription through the same process that you started the subscription, then perhaps there’s a subscription trap going on.

Another example, known as “confirm shaming”, involves requiring consumers to click through multiple screens before they can cancel.

Typically, each of those screens has a message asking consumers to reconsider, often reiterating the service’s purported benefits and even offering new discounts on the price not previously available.

Why it’s a problem

Individually, all these difficulties may seem trivial. But cumulatively they are problematic.

Consumers are spending time trying to cancel subscriptions for services they don’t use and businesses are making money from services consumers don’t want.

Consumers are also being locked into those services by artificially created friction and techniques that rely on triggering uncertainty or doubt – “do you really want to cancel?”

The proposed new laws will ask the process of cancelling to be straightforward.

What new laws are proposed in Australia?

The proposed ban on subscription traps is part of a broader package of federal law reforms targeting unfair trading.

Consultation on a draft of the new law is set to take place in 2026 (following an earlier consultation in 2024).

The federal government has indicated the law will include a general ban on unfair practices that manipulate consumer decision making, while also targeting specific deceptive practices, such as certain kinds of subscription traps.

It should not apply to the kinds of subscription where there are legitimate reasons for slowing down the cancellation process, for example, where pushing the wrong button might delete all your photos or digital content.

What do other countries do?

Several other jurisdictions already have responses to subscription traps.

Californian law now includes a suite of protections for consumers, including requiring notice:

• of automatic renewal
• at the end of a free charge period before a fee is incurred.

California’s “click to cancel” rules also mean consumers must be able to cancel using the same method of communication they used to subscribe. And businesses must offer consumers information on how to cancel.

In the European Union, rules on unfair commercial practices have led to changes in the previously complicated process required to unsubscribe from Amazon Prime – reducing cancelling a subscription to just two clicks.

In the meantime what should Australians do to manage subscriptions?

Until Australia gets its own unfair business practices law, Australians can protect themselves from being trapped by subscriptions.

But it takes some work, including recording important information at the time you subscribe:

• if there is a free trial, make a note of when that expires and remember to cancel before being charged a fee
• take a screen shot of what you were promised and the price – if what is delivered is different from what was promised you should be able to cancel at any time for a refund
• record contact details for the service provider at the time you sign up.

Above all, persevere in cancelling subscriptions you don’t want. Remember, those pleading messages such as “why cancel?” or “don’t leave us” are designed to manipulate your emotions. So try to ignore them.

Jeannie Marie Paterson, Professor of Law (consumer protections and credit law), The University of Melbourne

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Tom Stoppard, who has died at 88, was one of the most critically acclaimed and commercially successful playwrights of our age. He won his first Tony Award for Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead in 1968, and his last for Leopoldstadt in 2023.

His life was extraordinary. Born Tomáš Straussler in Zlín, Czechoslovakia, in 1937, his Jewish family fled Nazi occupation to India and then England. He chose to become a journalist rather than go to university, and became close friends with Nobel Prize winners, presidents – and Mick Jagger.

The wit and intellectual curiosity of Stoppard’s plays was so distinctive that “Stoppardian” entered the Oxford English Dictionary in 1978. Hermione Lee’s biography of him contains a cartoon with annoyed audience members hissing: “Look at the Jones’s pretending to get all the jokes in a Stoppard play.”

Stoppard just assumed his audience was as well read and inquisitive as he was.

Philosophy is the foundation

As Stoppard said to American theatre critic Mel Gussow in 1974,

most of the propositions I’m interested in have been kidnapped and dressed up by academic philosophy, but they are in fact the kind of proposition that would occur to any intelligent person in his bath.

Philosophy is the foundation of Stoppard’s plays. They cite Aquinas, Aristotle, Ayer, Bentham, Kant, Moore, Plato, Ramsey, Russell, Ryle and Zeno. One philosopher in Stoppard’s radio play Darkside (2013) is never sure if he is spelling Nietzsche correctly.

In 2003, the actor Simon Russell-Beale recalled to a National Theatre audience Stoppard introducing a cast to

2,000 years of philosophy in an hour – it was rather brilliant – just to explain what the debate was and why it was dramatically exciting.

Philosophy – but not before life

Stoppard’s interest in philosophy began in 1968. He wrote to a friend that he was

in a ridiculous philosophy\logic\math kick. I don’t know how I got into it, but you should see me […] following Wittgenstein through Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus.

The Austro-British philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein (1889–1951) had a philosophy of philosophy. He argued lots of academic philosophy was literal nonsense. Some things we think are important are beyond words.

Stoppard saw theatre similarly, saying in a lecture to Canadian students in 1988 that “theatre is a curious equation in which language is merely one of the components”.

Stoppard wrote philosophers who tie themselves into cerebral knots failing to prove what they want to believe about God, morals or consciousness in plays such as Jumpers (1972), Rock ‘n’ Roll (2006) and The Hard Problem (2015).

One of Stoppard’s philosophers dictates a lecture in Jumpers, saying “to begin at the beginning: is God? (To SECRETARY). Leave a space”.

Stoppard’s plays sympathise with this forlorn desire to know until it leads characters to ignore other people. Action in the world is more important than the search for knowledge if there is a marriage to be saved, a dying wife to be cared for, or an adopted child to be found. Wittgenstein’s Lecture on Ethics is complex – but Stoppard’s plays show it in effect.

What we know, and how

In his TV play Professional Foul (1977), Stoppard sent philosophers to a conference in Prague. Scholarly debate was contained by totalitarian censorship. The professor of ethics at Cambridge University makes his call for action by riffing on Wittgenstein’s Tractatus: “Whereof we cannot speak, thereof we are by no means silent.”

Stoppard also staged lines from Wittgenstein’s Philosophical Investigations in Dogg’s Hamlet, Cahoot’s Macbeth (1979). Some characters speak English, others use the same words but with different meanings. The audience observes and learns this new nonsense language, laughing at its jokes. They understand the philosophy of language as Wittgenstein did: social conventions between people, not words pinned on things.

What we can know, and how, is crucial to Stoppard’s plays even when the immediate subject matter isn’t philosophy.

It might be quantum physics in Hapgood (1988) or chaos theory in Arcadia (1993); European history in The Coast of Utopia (2002) or contemporary politics in Rock ‘n’ Roll; individual consciousness in The Hard Problem or even whatever we might mean by “love” in The Real Thing (1982). The characters really do want to know. They debate and interrogate but never find definite answers.

As Hannah suggests in Arcadia:

It’s all trivial […] Comparing what we’re looking for misses the point. It’s wanting to know that makes us matter. Otherwise we’re going out the way we came in.

But there are jokes too. Arcadia opens in 1809 with a precocious 13-year-old girl asking her dashing 22-year-old tutor: “Septimus, what is carnal embrace?” before the tutor (originally played by a smoldering Rufus Sewell) pauses, and cautiously replies “Carnal embrace is the practice of throwing one’s arms around a side of beef”.

The audience erupted in laughter. I was one of them.

And as the play draws to a close, a waltz in 1809 happens in the same room as a waltz in the present. As the two dancing couples circle each other, Stoppard’s play suggests that what one person can share with another is more meaningful than justified true belief.

It is a beautiful, theatrical moment. And it is beyond words.

Fergus Edwards, Lecturer in English, University of Tasmania

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

In the flurry of action in Parliament House in the final moments of the sitting year, the government passed a bill that escaped the attention of most.

New changes to social security law mean a person’s income support can now be cancelled because they are subject to an outstanding arrest warrant for a serious offence.

These are people merely accused of crimes, not found guilty of them.

The change raises fundamental questions about justice, human rights and the role of social security. It transforms welfare from a crucial safety net to a tool of law enforcement, with serious implications.

Flying under the radar

The changes were quietly added to Social Security and Other Legislation Amendment Bill in late October. The government did this without consultation or announcement, and bypassing parliamentary committee scrutiny on the grounds of urgency.

Less than a month later, the amended bill was passed into law. The change was effective immediately.

The legislation grants the minister for home affairs the power to authorise “Benefit Restriction Notices”. These cancel social security, family assistance and parental leave payments for anyone with an outstanding arrest warrant for serious, violent or sexual offences (within the meaning of the criminal code).

No conviction or even court appearance is required.

According to the bill’s explanatory memorandum:

the objective […] is to ensure people who are subject to an outstanding arrest warrant for a serious offence can no longer be supported through the social security and family payments systems.

But an arrest warrant is not proof of guilt. It is merely an allegation that someone may have committed an offence.

Yet curbing social security is a punishment, and not just for the suspect, but often also their family.

6 serious problems

1. Violation of the presumption of innocence

These laws would enable punishment before any judicial determination of guilt. A person could have their support payments cancelled even if they haven’t been charged, convicted or appeared before any court.

The parliament’s own human rights experts warn this may punish people who are legally innocent, directly contradicting the presumption of innocence.

This presumption is expressly protected under the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights, to which Australia is a party. Its erosion under the measure sets a dangerous precedent.

It also cuts across the fundamental protection against double jeopardy: the principle that people will not be tried or punished twice for the same offence. This is because cancelling welfare is a form of punishment, after which a second punishment might also be enforced for those subsequently found guilty.

2. Ministerial power with few safeguards

The laws bypass normal checks and balances in Australia’s social security system. The minister can cancel payments based on police requests, with no independent review.

Ordinarily, decisions by Services Australia can be appealed to the Administrative Review Tribunal. But under this measure, only limited judicial review is available. Courts can check procedural issues, but not whether the decision was fair.

Payments may be cancelled without the person knowing a warrant exists and there is no obligation to reinstate benefits if the warrant is cleared or charges dropped. Back pay isn’t provided if the person is found innocent.

This concentration of power removes safeguards against error and abuse, creating a two-tier system that denies basic procedural protections.

Constitutionally, it blurs the separation of powers designed to ensure courts, not politicians, decide guilt and punishment.

3. First Nations peoples will be hardest hit

First Nations peoples make up 3.8% of the population, but 36% of all prisoners, with this overrepresentation continuing to grow. This measure will hit First Nations communities hardest.

The experience of similar powers in Aotearoa/New Zealand since 2013 has shown Māori peoples have their social security payments cancelled at twice the rate of others.

As a result, the nation’s Welfare Expert Advisory Group recommended removing the powers in 2019.

By 2019-2020, 71% of warrant to arrest sanction recipients were Māori.

And while the Australian police say its use of this power will be rare, the similar laws in NZ were used around 700 times in 2019, according to the latest available data.

4. Harmful impacts for domestic violence victims

Domestic violence victims are also at significant risk from the measure. Victims fleeing abuse – especially First Nations victims – are increasingly wrongly identified as perpetrators.

If an arrest warrant is issued while they are in hiding, their support payments could be cancelled, cutting off their income at the most dangerous moment in their lives with no chance to explain or present evidence.

This potentially forces them back into violent situations, with the alternative “choice” being dire poverty.

5. Serious doubt about proportionality and effectiveness

These laws could only comply with international law if the measure is proportionate, and actually effective in its objective of stopping payments to people with outstanding arrest warrants “which might be assisting them in evading the authorities”.

The government has provided no evidence that cutting off payments would prevent people from evading the law or encourage their surrender.

That the measure cancels, rather than suspends, payments is also arguably in contradiction with international law, given this less restrictive alternative is available.

6. Another legal problem in the making?

Australia should have learned from its Robodebt Royal Commission. Welfare cancellations without proper safeguards can be found unlawful and cause devastating harm.

Yet, the Benefit Restrictions Notice regime risks creating conditions for another scandal.

When the United States introduced similar “fugitive felon” provisions in 1996, they proved disastrous, with many elderly and vulnerable people losing benefits without knowing warrants existed.

By 2002, around 110,000 people had their benefits removed under these provisions.

Following legal challenges and a class action settlement, the US severely restricted these measures and compensated millions of dollars to people whose benefits were wrongly cancelled.

What needs to happen

While these laws are now active, their real-world consequences will take time to unfold.

It remains to be seen whether they will facilitate arrests. In the meantime, there must be rigorous public reporting, independent scrutiny, and formal review of how these powers are used, to ensure the serious risks outlined here do not materialise unchecked.

Zoe Staines, Senior Lecturer in Law and Social Policy, The University of Queensland; Francis Markham, ARC DECRA Fellow, Australian National University; Hannah McGlade, Associate Professor in Law, Curtin University, and Thalia Anthony, Professor of Law, University of Technology Sydney

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

The question of when people first arrived in the land mass that now comprises much of Australasia has long been a source of scientific debate.

Many Aboriginal people believe they have lived on the land since time immemorial. But until the advent of radiocarbon dating techniques, many western scholars thought they had arrived not long before European contact 250 years ago.

Now a new study by an international collaboration of geneticists and archaeologists, including myself, suggests that humans first arrived in Sahul – the “super-continent” that encompassed New Guinea and Australia during the last ice age – by two different routes around 60,000 years ago.

The research, led by archaeologist Helen Farr at the University of Southampton, also points to the earliest uncontested example of travel by boat – probably simple watercraft such as paddled bamboo rafts or canoes. The first people to arrive would have migrated into the region following a rapid dispersal from Africa around 10,000 years earlier.

The key to the work of our genetics team, based at the University of Huddersfield, is mitochondrial DNA (mtDNA). People only inherit mtDNA from their mothers, so we were able to track an unbroken maternal line of descent down many generations, during which the mtDNA gradually accumulates small mutations.

We sequenced mtDNA genomes in almost 1,000 samples, mainly from New Guineans and Aboriginal people – collected by colleagues at La Trobe University in Melbourne and the University of Oxford, in close collaboration with the communities.

The samples were all collected with the help of Aboriginal elders. The principal elder, Lesley Williams from Brisbane, arranged invitations for the researchers to address Aboriginal groups to explain the purpose of the study and answer any questions before signed consent was given. The results of the analysis of each sample were returned in person whenever possible.

These genealogical trees were then combined with another 1,500 sequences that were already available. By counting the number of mutations from ancestors in these trees, we could use a “molecular clock” to date lineages that were unique to New Guineans, Aboriginal people or both.

After correcting for natural selection (which makes the mutation rate non-linear) and checking the results against well-known colonisation events in the Pacific, we concluded that the deepest lineages were 60,000 years old. Reanalysing previously published male-lineage and genome-wide data found that this also fitted with our results.

Clashing chronologies

The debate about when and how people first arrived in modern-day Australasia was transformed during the 20th century, especially by the introduction and gradual refinement of radiocarbon dating techniques.

This pushed the time of people’s first arrival back to around 45,000 years – ironically, now known as the “short chronology”. However, some archaeologists argued they may have arrived even earlier.

In 2017, newer scientific dating methods – such as optical luminescence dating, which estimates the time quartz grains in the sediments embedding human remains were last exposed to sunlight – supported the so-called “long chronology” of people first arriving in northern Australia at least 60,000 years ago. But this view remained contentious.

The pendulum swung again in 2024, as geneticists weighed in with a genetic clock based on the recombination that takes place between pairs of chromosomes with every generation. New results using this clock suggested that interbreeding between early modern humans and Neanderthals, shortly after modern humans left their African homeland, took place less than 50,000 years ago – more recently than had previously been proposed.

All present-day non-Africans carry around 2% Neanderthal DNA, suggesting they must all be descended from that small group. This research therefore supported the short chronology view.

The genetic and archaeological evidence could apparently only be squared if there had been a first wave of early arrivals in Sahul at least 60,000 years ago, that was entirely replaced by a second wave of modern humans around 40,000 years ago. For some experts this seemed implausible, since people were already widespread in Sahul by that time.

Our genetic dates suggest a simpler solution. There was only one wave 60,000 years ago, and these earliest arrivals were the ancestors of today’s New Guineans and Aboriginal people in Australia.

The earliest seafarers

Our results suggest there were two distinct migrations into Sahul – both around the same time about 60,000 years ago. This is because the most ancient lineages fell into two groups.

The major set, with ancestry in the Philippines, was distributed throughout New Guineans and Aboriginal people in Australia. But we also identified another minor set, with ancestry in South Asia or Indochina, only in Aboriginal people. The simplest explanation for these patterns is that there were two dispersals into Sahul: a major northern pathway and a minor southern route.

Both groups of migrating people met more archaic species of human along the way. As well as the 2% Neanderthal DNA that all non-Africans carry, the genomes of modern New Guineans and Aboriginal people in Australia carry a further 5% of archaic human DNA with more local origins – the results of interbreeding in Southeast Asia and perhaps even in Sahul itself.

Even with the lower sea levels 60,000 years ago, that second group must have crossed at least 60 miles (100km) of open sea to reach Sahul – some of the earliest evidence we have for human seafaring. An increasing amount of research suggests maritime technology played a role in early humans’ rapid dispersal from Africa some 10,000 years earlier, taking a coastal route via Arabia to Southeast Asia and beyond.

But the debate about precise timings of these earliest journeys doesn’t end here. We are now analysing whole human genome sequences – each consisting of 3 billion base units, compared with 16,500 for mtDNA – to further test our results. But both kinds of genetic clock – the mutation clock we use, and the recombination clock advocated by others – are indirect evidence. If ancient DNA can eventually be recovered from key remains, we can test these models more directly.

It may happen. Recovering ancient DNA from the tropics is challenging, but in the rapidly evolving world of archaeogenetics, almost anything now seems possible.

Martin B. Richards, Research Professor in Archaeogenetics, Department of Physical and Life Sciences, University of Huddersfield

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Defence Minister Richard Marles has confirmed Australia is monitoring a flotilla of Chinese Navy ships currently in the Philippine Sea but with its destination unknown.

Marles volunteered the information while announcing a shakeup that will establish a new Defence Delivery Agency designed to improve military acquisition and sustainment operations.

The agency will be headed by a national armaments director, who will advise the government on strategies for acquisitions and the delivery of projects after they have been approved. The government says it is the biggest reform in defence organisation in half a century.

Marles, who is acting prime minister while Anthony Albanese is on his honeymoon this week, went out of his way to say the Chinese ships were being tracked, after a report about them in the Australian Financial Review last week.

He told a news conference the government did not yet have a sense of where the task group was going. “But we continue to monitor it as we monitor all movements until we know that the task groups are not coming to Australia.”

Earlier this year, the government was caught out when Chinese ships conducted a live-fire exercise in the Tasman Sea. A Virgin pilot sounded the alarm.

According to some sources, the Defence Department had alerted the government to that flotilla, but the government had decided not to say anything publicly, only to be thrown onto the back foot when the issue blew up. The flotilla later sailed around Australia.

Marles said on Monday:

We’re not about to give a running commentary on the movements of all Chinese Navy vessels, but in light of the report that was made on Thursday, we thought that it was important to make these statements and to make them in the proper context. So that Australians can be assured that we are monitoring our areas of interest and we are monitoring the movements of the Chinese Navy.

The change to acquisition advice and oversight is a reflection of discontent over a long period with the Defence Department. Defence projects have been notoriously behind time and over budget.

Marles said the new agency would be independent. It will report directly to the ministers of defence and defence industry.

It will begin operations on July 1 when three existing groups will be merged – the Capability Acquisition and Sustainment Group, the Guided Weapons and Explosive Ordinance Group, and the Naval Shipbuilding and Sustainment Group. The new independent entity will then become the Defence Delivery Agency on July 1 2027.

Marles said the establishment of the new agency “will see a much bigger bang for buck for the defence spend. And that is at the heart of the decision that we have made. It puts a focus on delivery and will ensure that it is much more sharp in the way in which it is undertaken.

"It will mean advice comes to government much earlier in the process about the challenges that are facing any particular program, any particular project, so that we can ensure those projects are delivered on time and on budget.”

Opposition defence spokesman Angus Taylor said the announcement was a matter of moving bureaucrats around. There was no increase in funds, he said.

Michelle Grattan, Professorial Fellow, University of Canberra

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Today, the Albanese Labor government released the long-awaited National AI Plan, “a whole-of-government framework that ensures technology works for people, not the other way around”.

With this plan, the government promises an inclusive artificial intelligence (AI) economy that protects workers, fills service gaps, and supports local AI development.

In a major reversal, it also confirms Australia won’t implement mandatory guardrails for high-risk AI. Instead, it argues our existing legal regime is sufficient, and any minor changes for specific AI harms or risk can be managed with help from a new A$30 million AI Safety Institute within the Department of Industry.

Avoiding big changes to Australia’s legal system makes sense in light of the plan’s primary goal – making Australia an attractive location for international data centre investment.

The initial caution is gone

After the public release of ChatGPT in November 2022 ushered in a generative AI boom, initial responses focused on existential risks posed by AI.

Leading AI figures even called for a pause on all AI research. Governments outlined plans to regulate.

But as investment in AI has grown, governments around the world have now shifted from caution to an AI race: embracing the opportunities while managing risks.

In 2023, the European Union created the world’s leading AI plan promoting the uptake of human-centric and trustworthy artificial intelligence. The United States launched its own, more bullish action plan in July 2025.

The new Australian plan prioritises creating a local AI software industry, spreading the benefit of AI “productivity gains” to workers and public service users, capturing some of the relentless global investment in AI data centres, and promoting Australia’s regional leadership by becoming an infrastructure and computing hub in the Indo-Pacific.

Those goals are outlined in the plan’s three pillars: capturing the opportunities, spreading the benefits, and keeping us safe.

What opportunities are we capturing?

The jury is still out on whether AI will actually boost productivity for all organisations and businesses that adopt it.

Regardless, global investment in AI infrastructure has been immense, with some predictions on global data centre investments reaching A$8 trillion by 2030 (so long as the bubble doesn’t burst before then).

Through the new AI plan, Australia wants to get in on the boom and become a location for US and global tech industry capital investment.

In the AI plan, the selling point for increased Australian data centre investment is the boost this would provide for our renewable energy transition. States are already competing for that investment. New South Wales has streamlined data centre approval processes, and Victoria is creating incentives to “ruthlessly” chase data centre investment in greenfield sites.

Under the new federal environmental law reforms passed last week, new data centre approvals may be fast-tracked if they are co-located with new renewable power, meaning less time to consider biodiversity and other environmental impacts.

But data centres are also controversial. Concerns about the energy and water demands of large data centres in Australia are already growing.

The water use impacts of data centres are significant – and the plan is remarkably silent on this apart from promising “efficient liquid cooling”. So far, experience from Germany and the US shows data centres stretching energy grids beyond their limit.

It’s true data centre companies are likely to invest in renewable energy, but at the same time growth in data centre demands is currently justifying the continuation of fossil fuel use.

There’s some requirement for Australian agencies to consider the environmental sustainability of data centres hosting government services. But a robust plan for environmental assessment and reporting across public and private sectors is lacking.

Who will really benefit from AI?

The plan promises the economic and efficiency benefits of AI will be for everyone – workers, small and medium businesses, and those receiving government services.

Recent scandals suggest Australian businesses are keen to use AI to reduce labour costs without necessarily maintaining service quality. This has created anxiety around the impact of AI on labour markets and work conditions.

Australia’s AI plan tackles this through promoting worker development, training and re-skilling, rather than protecting existing conditions.

The Australian union movement will need to be active to make the “AI-ready workers” narrative a reality, and to protect workers from AI being used to reduce labour costs, increase surveillance, and speed up work.

The plan also mentions improving public service efficiency. Whether or not those efficiency gains are possible is hard to say. However, the plan does recognise we’ll need comprehensive investment to unlock the value of private data holdings and public public data holdings useful for AI.

Will we be safe enough?

With the release of the plan, the government has officially abandoned last year’s proposals for mandatory guardrails for high-risk AI systems. It claims Australia’s existing legal frameworks are already strong, and can be updated “case by case”.

As we’ve pointed out previously, this is out of step with public opinion. More than 75% of Australians want AI regulation.

It’s also out of step with other countries. The European Union already prohibits the most risky AI systems, and has updated product safety and platform regulations. It’s also currently refining a framework for regulating high-risk AI systems. Canadian federal government systems are regulated by a tiered risk management system. South Korea, Japan, Brazil and China all have rules that govern AI-specific risks.

Australia’s claim to have a strong, adequate and stable legal framework would be much more credible if the document included a plan for, or clarity about our significant law reform backlog. This backlog includes privacy rights, consumer protection, automated decision-making in government post-Robodebt, as well as copyright and digital duty of care.

Ultimately the National AI Plan says some good things about sustainability, sharing the benefits, and keeping Australians safe even as the government makes a pitch for data centre investment and becoming an AI hub for the region.

Compared with those of some other nations, the plan is short on specificity. The test will lie in whether the government gives substance to its goals and promises, instead of just chasing the short-term AI investment dollar.

Jake Goldenfein, Senior Lecturer, Law and Technology, The University of Melbourne; Christine Parker, Professor of Law, The University of Melbourne, and Kimberlee Weatherall, Professor of Law, University of Sydney

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Thrush is one of the most common infections in the world. It’s caused by the fungi Candida – specifically, the yeast Candida albicans. Although yeast infections are normally treated easily with antifungal drugs, a growing number of Candida species are developing resistance to these drugs – including the species that causes thrush.

According to the US Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, about 7% of all Candida blood samples tested are resistant to the antifungal drug fluconazole, the first-line drug used to treat most Candida infections.

This means there are fewer treatment options for even routine thrush infections – making them more difficult to treat. It also means that more severe Candida infections, which can occur in people who have a weakened immune system or are taking long courses of antibiotics, will become even harder to manage.

Antifungal resistance may also be contributing to the rise in recurrent thrush (thrush infections which continue to come back). This affects around 138 million women worldwide, but is expected to rise to 158 million people by 2030.

Why resistance is growing

The antifungal resistance landscape has changed dramatically over the past few decades.

In the early–to-mid 2000s, antifungal resistance was rare. Fluconazole worked well for most Candida albicans infections, less than 5% of which were resistant to it.

But Candida albicans is a highly adaptable microorganism, which can easily develop resistance to antifungals under the right conditions.

Research shows that resistance among Candida albicans has been trending upwards over the past eight years at least. A small study of patients in Egypt found that in 2024, nearly 26% of Candida albicans isolates from blood samples were resistant to fluconazole. However, more research is needed to understand whether this picture is the same worldwide.

Candida can develop resistance to antifungal drugs through genetic mutations which make them less susceptible to antifungals, or help them reduce the drug’s effectiveness.

Candida can also protect itself from antifungal drugs by forming tough biofilms. These slimy layers of fungal cells block drugs from getting in, help the fungus pump any drugs which have penetrated the barrier back out, and allow some cells to hide in a resting state until treatment is over. Candida can also alter the structure of molecules targeted by antifungals in order to prevent the drugs from binding effectively.

The key reason Candida infections are becoming harder to treat is because the fungi are adapting to survive antifungal drugs. But this resistance isn’t happening by chance. There are several factors that are contributing to the problem, including misuse and overuse of antifungal drugs (not just by people but in agriculture too) and the limited number of effective antifungal drugs that are available (which are difficult and expensive to develop).

Increasing environmental temperatures, ecological stress and fungicide use are also creating conditions that favour heat-tolerant and drug-resistant Candida strains – such as Candida auris, which is highly resistant to multiple classes of antifungal drugs, and can cause severe infection in people who have a weakened immune system.

Preventing antifungal resistance

Candida is primarily transmitted through person-to-person contact, sexual contact and contact with contaminated objects or surfaces. In healthcare settings, Candida can also spread through contaminated medical equipment and devices.

Airborne transmission is not common with Candida. However, an alarming recent study reported that species of Candida resistant to common antifungal drugs were detected in urban air samples in Hong Kong. This included Candida albicans.

The presence of Candida in air could increase the likelihood of community spread and elevate the risk of inhalation – particularly in hospitals, crowded areas or care homes with immunocompromised people. This represents a potential route of exposure that has previously been underestimated. More studies will be needed to investigate where urban Candida originates and how infectious it may be.

Candida generally doesn’t cause harm under normal conditions and if you have a healthy immune system. Maintaining a healthy micriobiome is key to protecting yourself: the beneficial bacteria in your body help keep Candida levels under control and prevent it from overgrowing and becoming problematic.

However, when the balance of your friendly bacteria is disrupted – for example, by antibiotics, poor diet, a weakened immune system or high stress – Candida can grow out of control, leading to illnesses.

Microbiome disruption can also create conditions where antifungal-resistant Candida can overgrow, form resistant biofilms and become harder to treat.

Looking after your microbiome can make a significant difference in reducing the risk of Candida and other infections. This involves eating a diverse, fibre-rich diet – including fermented foods – and limiting highly processed foods.

Only take antibiotics when prescribed. Probiotics and prebiotics may also help maintain your microbiome balance, especially after antibiotic use or recurrent infections.

While most Candida infections are treatable, drug-resistant strains and infections in vulnerable people can be serious. However, we can all do our part to prevent resistant strains from developing – including by only taking antifungal medicines exactly as prescribed, completing the full course, and maintaining good hygiene.

Manal Mohammed, Senior Lecturer, Medical Microbiology, University of Westminster

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

This year, a series of rallies organised by neo-Nazi groups in Australian cities sparked public outrage and concern about the extreme right.

Yet, some media coverage of the rallies downplayed the role neo-Nazis played in what they called “anti-immigration rallies”. Other commentators misrepresented statistics on net migration.

Politicians, meanwhile, traded barbs about who was to blame for far-right demonstrators on city streets.

In the United States, there was a similarly muddled response to a recent scandal involving genocidal, racist text messages among young Republican leaders.

The messages included racist slurs, praise for Adolf Hitler and jokes about gas chambers. Yet, Vice President JD Vance dismissed them as “edgy, offensive jokes” and called the backlash “pearl clutching”.

The scandal did have repercussions for the Young Republicans, and some senior Republican leaders did condemn the messages. But the fact Vance and others could even think to minimise such vile language speaks to the way far-right politics and sentiments have been normalised today – especially by some in the mainstream media.

As detailed in a book I recently edited, The Far Right and the Media: International Trends and Perspectives, mainstream journalism does not simply cover far-right politics from a critical distance, it also helps define what counts as politically acceptable.

And in many ways, the media is failing in this regard.

Euphemisms and evasion

The first problem has to deal with language itself. When describing the far right, some media outlets reach for softening descriptors such as “populist”, “controversial” or “anti-establishment”, avoiding more accurate terms like “racist” or “authoritarian”.

These linguistic choices are not merely stylistic; they also determine how audiences interpret events and understand what is politically at stake.

Studies of Spanish and Portuguese media have shown, for example, how journalists labelled far-right parties such as VOX and Chega as simply “conservative”, rarely acknowledging their ideological roots in racial nationalism.

In Germany, reporting on the misogynist incel movement has frequently reduced gendered violence to a matter of individual pathology instead of linking it to broader ideological networks of the far right.

In Australia, the mainstream media often treats racialised fears about demographic “threats” as legitimate national concerns.

For example, some commentary has suggested immigration will hurt “Australia’s way of life” or “provoke more internal hostility”. This is frequently framed as a neutral worry about the country’s future.

Yet, this framing overlooks how such claims draw on historical, settler-colonial logic that has cast both First Nations peoples and non-white migrants as populations to be controlled or contained.

When spectacle replaces substance

Sensationalist media coverage of far-right groups can also ensure their views are amplified. And far-right actors have long understood how to manipulate the media by provoking outrage, knowing such acts guarantee attention.

Under commercial pressure, news outlets often take the bait, producing stories that inflate the significance of far-right agitation while neglecting the deeper social and economic conditions that sustain discriminatory politics.

This, in turn, helps to normalise hateful rhetoric.

Research from Loughborough University illustrated this dynamic during the United Kingdom’s 2024 election campaign. Far-right Reform leader Nigel Farage was the third-most-covered political figure, despite his party’s limited electoral prospects. The volume of attention far outweighed his political relevance at the time.

Reform UK was also the only political party to feature in more “good” news than “bad”, the study found.

In this way, visibility achieved through sensationalism can function as a proxy for legitimacy.

False balance and the illusion of neutrality

This emphasis on spectacle over substance is compounded by another long-standing journalistic practice: the performance of balance.

Some media outlets feel compelled to bring balance to stories about those with far-right views by including their denials, justifications or attempts to distract.

In the US, this is the product of decades of industry restructuring. The Federal Communications Commission’s repeal of the Fairness Doctrine in 1987 was formative in this transformation. Not only did it create a path for explicitly partisan media outlets to emerge, it also encouraged mainstream organisations to perform neutrality through superficial “both-sides” reporting.

The coverage of the Young Republicans clearly illustrates this. Rather than examining how racism became embedded within party youth networks, some reporting drew parallels with violent text messages sent by a Democratic candidate for attorney-general in Virginia.

Other media outlets quoted White House officials seeking to divert attention to the Democrats in the same way – in the name of balance.

This reduced the Young Republicans scandal to just another partisan talking point, instead of a moment of reckoning.

Rethinking the media’s role

Through these ways of framing stories, media institutions have functioned as active, if often ambivalent, participants in shaping far-right visibility, rather than as passive conduits exploited by opportunistic actors.

What’s necessary – and entirely possible – is coverage that accurately describes far-right ideology for what it is, situates it within historical and social contexts, and resists the privileging of spectacle over substance.

Only by understanding these dynamics can news organisations begin to counter the forces they so often, however unintentionally, help to sustain.

Imogen Richards, Senior Lecturer in Criminology, Deakin University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

From next Wednesday, thousands of young Australians under 16 will lose access to their accounts across ten social media platforms, as the teen social media ban takes effect.

What do young people think about it? Our team of 14 leading researchers from around the country interviewed 86 young people from around Australia, aged between 12 and 15, to find out.

Young people’s voices matter

The social media ban, which was legislated 12 months ago, has attracted considerable media coverage and controversy.

But largely missing from these conversations has been the voices of young people themselves.

This is a problem, because research shows that including young people’s voices is best practice for developing policy that upholds their rights, and allows them to flourish in a digital world.

There’s also evidence that when it comes to public policy concerning young people and their use of technology, discussion often slips into a familiar pattern of moral panic. This view frames young people as vulnerable and in need of protection, which can lead to sweeping “fixes” without strong evidence of effectiveness.

‘My parents don’t really understand’

Our new research, published today, centres the voices of young people.

We asked 86 12–15-year-olds from around Australia what they think about the social media ban and the kinds of discussions they’ve had about it. We also asked them how they use social media, what they like and don’t like about it, and what they think can be done to make it better for them.

Some young people we spoke to didn’t use social media, some used it every now and then, and others were highly active users. But they felt conversations about the ban treated them all the same and failed to acknowledge the diverse ways they use social media.

Many also said they felt adults misunderstand their experiences. As one 13-year-old boy told us:

I think my parents don’t really understand, like they only understand the bad part not the good side to it.

Young people acknowledge that others may have different experiences to them, but they feel adults focus too much on risks, and not enough on the ways social media can be useful.

Many told us they use social media to learn, stay informed, and develop skills. As one 15-year-old girl said, it also helps with hobbies.

Even just how to like do something or like how to make something, I’ll turn to social media for it.

Social media also helps young people find communities and make connections. It is where they find their people.

For some, it offers the representation and understanding they don’t get offline. It is a space to explore their identity, feel affirmed, and experience a sense of belonging they cannot always access in their everyday lives.

One 12-year-old girl told us:

The ability to find new interests and find community with people. This is quite important to me. I don’t have that many queer or neurodivergent friends – some of my favourite creators are queer.

Their social media lives are complex and they feel like the ban is an overly simplistic response to the issues and challenges they face when using social media. As one 12-year-old boy put it:

Banning [social media] fully just straight up makes it a lot harder than finding a solution to the problem […] it’s like taking the easy solution.

So what do they think can be done to make social media a better place for them?

Nuanced restrictions and better education

Young people are not naive about risks. But most don’t think a one-size-fits-all age restriction is the solution. A 14-year-old boy captured the views of many who would rather see platforms crack down on inappropriate and low-quality content:

I think instead of doing like a kids’ version and adult version, there should just be a crackdown on the content, like tighter restrictions and stronger enforcement towards the restrictions.

They also want to see more nuanced restrictions that respond to their different ages, and believe platforms should be doing more to make social media better for young people. As one 13-year-old boy said:

Make the platforms safer because they’re like the person who can have the biggest impact.

Young people also want to see more – and crucially, better – education about using social media that takes a more holistic approach and considers the positives that using social media can have for young people. One 15-year-old boy said:

I’d rather [the government] just like implement more media literacy programs instead of just banning [social media] altogether, because it just makes things a lot more complicated in the long run.

As the teen social media ban edges closer and platforms start to implement the legislation, there are practical things children and teens can do to prepare for these changes.

Kim Osman, Senior Research Associate, Digital Media Research Centre, Queensland University of Technology; Lynrose Jane Genon, PhD Candidate, Digital Media Research Centre, Queensland University of Technology, and Michael Dezuanni, Professor, Digital Media Research Centre, Queensland University of Technology

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Microsoft just released its latest small language model that can operate directly on the user’s computer. If you haven’t followed the AI industry closely, you might be asking: what exactly is a small language model (SLM)?

As AI becomes increasingly central to how we work, learn and solve problems, understanding the different types of AI models has never been more important. Large language models (LLMs) such as ChatGPT, Claude, Gemini and others are in widespread use. But small ones are increasingly important, too.

Let’s explore what makes SLMs and LLMs different – and how to choose the right one for your situation.

Firstly, what is a language model?

You can think of language models as incredibly sophisticated pattern-recognition systems that have learned from vast amounts of text.

They can understand questions, generate responses, translate languages, write content, and perform countless other language-related tasks.

The key difference between small and large models lies in their scope, capability and resource requirements.

Small language models are like specialised tools in a toolbox, each designed to do specific jobs extremely well. They typically contain millions to tens of millions of parameters (these are the model’s learned knowledge points).

Large language models, on the other hand, are like having an entire workshop at your disposal – versatile and capable of handling almost any challenge you throw at them, with billions or even trillions of parameters.

What can LLMs do?

Large language models represent the current pinnacle of AI language capabilities. These are the models making headlines for their ability to “write” poetry, debug complex code, engage in conversation, and even help with scientific research.

When you interact with advanced AI assistants such as ChatGPT, Gemini, Copilot or Claude, you’re experiencing the power of LLMs.

The primary strength of LLMs is their versatility. They can handle open-ended conversations, switching seamlessly from discussing marketing strategies to explaining scientific concepts to creative writing. This makes them invaluable for businesses that need AI to handle diverse, unpredictable tasks.

A consulting firm, for instance, might use an LLM to analyse market trends, generate comprehensive reports, translate technical documents, and assist with strategic planning – all with the same model.

LLMs excel at tasks requiring nuanced understanding and complex reasoning. They can interpret context and subtle implications, and generate responses that consider multiple factors simultaneously.

If you need AI to review legal contracts, synthesise information from multiple sources, or engage in creative problem-solving, you need the sophisticated capabilities of an LLM.

These models are also excellent at generalising. Train them on diverse data, and they can extrapolate knowledge to handle scenarios they’ve never explicitly encountered.

However, LLMs require significant computational power and usually run in the cloud, rather than on your own device or computer. In turn, this translates to high operational costs. If you’re processing thousands of requests daily, these costs can add up quickly.

When less is more: SLMs

In contrast to LLMs, small language models excel at specific tasks. They’re fast, efficient and affordable.

Take a library’s book recommendation system. An SLM can learn the library’s catalogue. It “understands” genres, authors and reading levels so it can make great recommendations. Because it’s so small, it doesn’t need expensive computers to run.

SLMs are easy to fine-tune. A language learning app can teach an SLM about common grammar mistakes. A medical clinic can train one to understand appointment scheduling. The model becomes an expert in exactly what you need.

SLMs are faster than LLMs, too – they can deliver answers in milliseconds, rather than seconds. This difference may seem small, but it’s noticeable in applications such as grammar checkers or translation apps, which can’t keep users waiting.

Costs are much smaller, too. Small language models are like LED bulbs – efficient and affordable. Large language models are like stadium lights – powerful but expensive.

Schools, non-profits and small businesses can use SLMs for specific tasks without breaking the bank. For example, Microsoft’s Phi-3 small language models are helping power an agricultural information platform in India to provide services to farmers even in remote places with limited internet.

SLMs are also great for constrained systems such as self-driving cars or satellites that have limited processing power, minimal energy budgets, and no reliable cloud connection. LLMs simply can’t run in these environments. But an SLM, with its smaller footprint, can fit onboard.

Both types of models have their place

What’s better – a minivan or a sports car? A downtown studio apartment or a large house in the suburbs? The answer, of course, is that it depends on your needs and your resources.

The landscape of AI models is rapidly evolving, and the line between small and large models is becoming increasingly nuanced. We’re seeing hybrid approaches where businesses use SLMs for routine tasks and escalate to LLMs for complex queries. This approach optimises both cost and performance.

The choice between small and large language models isn’t about which is objectively better – it’s about which better serves your specific needs.

SLMs offer efficiency, speed and cost-effectiveness for focused applications, making them ideal for businesses with specific use cases and resource constraints.

LLMs provide unmatched versatility and sophistication for complex, varied tasks, justifying their higher resource requirements when a highly capable AI is needed.

Lin Tian, Research Fellow, Data Science Institute, University of Technology Sydney and Marian-Andrei Rizoiu, Associate Professor in Behavioral Data Science, University of Technology Sydney

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.