We have 27 wooden cubes. The first is marked A on every face, the second B, and so on through the alphabet to Z. The 27th cube is blank. Is it possible to assemble these cubes into a 3×3×3 cube with the blank cube at the center, arranging them so that cube A adjoins cube B, cube B adjoins cube C, and so on, forming a connected orthogonal path through the alphabet?
propreantepenultimate
adj. last but four
(Thanks, Aleksejs.)
Letter to the Times, April 27, 1910:
Sir,
Motor-cars are bad enough, but they do not come into one’s house or garden. With aeroplanes total strangers may drop in, through the roof, for a little chat at any time. I fear the law cannot protect one against such intrusion. If aviation becomes popular I shall have spikes, with long strong prongs, fixed on the chimneys of my house, and the word ‘Danger’ painted in large red letters on a flat part of the roof. If any flying machines come down in my garden I shall send for the police to remove the occupants, whom I shall sue afterwards for any damage to my trees or shrubs.
I am, Sir, your obedient servant,
H.B. Devey
Confederate officer Tod Carter had been away from home for three years when he found himself crossing into his beloved Tennessee in late 1864 with Lt. Gen. John Bell Hood. As they approached his hometown of Franklin, Carter received permission to pass ahead and visit his family, but he found that Federal forces had commandeered the house to serve as headquarters in the coming battle. Miserably he returned to camp.
On Nov. 30, while Carter’s family and friends cowered in the house’s stone basement, Hood’s forces collided with those of Union general John Schofield. The battle produced 10,000 casualties in five hours; around the house men fought viciously with bayonets, rifle butts, axes, and picks. Carter’s older brother Moscow later wrote, “While the terrible din of the battle lasted it seemed to the adults that they must die of terror if it did not cease, but when there was a lull the suspense of fearful expectation seemed worse than the sound of battle.”
As a quartermaster, Tod might have been spared the danger; his duties did not involve combat. But, wrote Ralph Neal in a company history, “It was on the first charge and when nearest the enemy’s works that Capt. Todd Carter dashed through our lines on his horse with drawn sword, made straight for his father’s house, and met his death as it were, on the very threshold of his parental home. He was perhaps not more than fifty feet from us when he fell; his horse was seen to plunge and we knew he was struck. Captain Carter was thrown straight over the horse’s head, his sword reached as far as his arm would allow toward the enemy, and when he struck the ground he laid still, and his brave young life went out almost at the door of his home.”
“The sight of home and all that makes home dear, and that home in possession of the enemy caused him to forget himself, and under the impulse of the moment he rushed to certain death.”
Said Watson to Holmes, “Is it wise —
Such false whiskers when hunting for spies?”
Said the sleuth, “I’m afraid
You’re as dense as Lestrade:
I’m disguised as myself in disguise.”
— R.J.P. Hewison, Punch, Nov. 21, 1951
Dick and Jane are playing a game. Each holds up one or two fingers. If the total number of fingers is odd, then Dick pays Jane that number of dollars. If it’s even, then Jane pays Dick:
At first blush this looks fair, but in fact it’s distinctly favorable for Jane. Let p be the proportion of times that Jane holds up one finger. Her average winnings when Dick holds up one finger are -2p + 3(1 – p), and her average winnings when he holds up two fingers are 3p – 4(1 – p). If she sets those equal to one another she gets p = 7/12. This means that if she raises one finger with probability 7/12, then on average she’ll win -2(7/12) + 3(5/12) = 1/12 dollar every round, no matter what Dick does. Dick’s best strategy is also to raise one finger 7/12 of the time, but the best this can do is to restrict his loss to 1/12 dollar on average. It’s not a fair game.
David Kendrick’s “life expectancy timepiece,” patented in 1991, offers a running countdown of your remaining time on earth.
Using actuarial data, enter the years, days, hours, minutes, and seconds that you expect to live, and adjust this total according to the health factors in Table II.
Then set it going. It’s not quite as bad as it looks: You can press the RUN/STOP button to pause the countdown while you’re engaged in a healthful activity (“e.g. taking a walk, breathing fresh air, etc.”). And life expectancy improves with age, so you can add a few years on certain birthdays.
But still, it’s pretty sobering. An alternate version actually includes a speaker that provides “an audible signal, as a reminder that time is passing.” “This audible signal may be adapted to operate automatically at a particular time each day or may be suppressed by the user.”
“A gentleman never looks out of the window.” — Oscar Wilde
“Gentlemen do not take soup at luncheon.” — Lord Curzon
“Gentlemen are never busy — insects and city people are busy.” — Beau Brummel
“A gentleman never encircles the lady’s waist in the waltz until the dance begins, and drops his arm as soon as it ends. He studies to hold the lady lightly and firmly without embracing her.” — The Manners That Win, 1880
“A gentleman never sits in the house with his hat on in the presence of ladies for a single moment. Indeed, so strong is the force of habit, that a gentleman will quite unconsciously remove his hat on entering a parlor, or drawing-room, even if there is no one present but himself. People who sit in the house with their hats on are to be suspected of having spent the most of their time in barrooms, and similar places. A gentleman never sits with his hat on in the theater. Gentlemen do not generally sit even in an eating-room with their hats on, if there is any convenient place to put them.” — Arthur Martine, Martine’s Perfect Letter Writer and American Manual of Etiquette, 1866
Suppose I write these phrases on a blackboard:
π
6
the sum of the numbers denoted by expressions on the board in Room 213
And suppose I’m in Room 213. It’s clear what the first two phrases denote, but what of the third? If it denotes the quantity k, then k = π + 6 + k, which is absurd. So the third phrase is pathological — it appears to denote a number but it doesn’t.
But if the third phrase doesn’t denote a number, then the sum of the numbers denoted by expressions on the board in Room 213 is π + 6 — and the third phrase has a clear meaning. Asks University of North Carolina professor Keith Simmons, “How can the same phrase be pathological and yet successfully refer?”
(Keith Simmons, “Reference and Paradox,” in JC Beall, ed., Liars and Heaps, 2003)
