Colleagues remember physicist V. Paul Kenney not only for his scientific contributions but also for the leadership, determination and humanity he brought to his research program.
I have a friend who is much more comfortable with the thought of dying than I am. A few years older, he cares for the elderly, stands watch with them, then ushers them through that eerie portal. He told me recently that death will be a buoyant moment because “all your spiritual guides will be there to welcome you into their company.”
They entered the kitchen singly, arriving randomly, while I was getting some coffee at work. A writer, a photographer and a videographer. They had all been to Milk River, Montana, on assignment for this magazine.
The student writer was giving good advice. In his Observer column he was criticizing competitively cutthroat academic environments he had known. He liked that Notre Dame students choose community over competition.
Frederick Franck was an extraordinary man — an oral surgeon, sculptor, author of more than 30 books and an artist with work in the Museum of Modern Art and the Whitney. One fall day in 1962 he embarked on an extraordinary plan — but it wasn’t really a plan at all.
It was a nice day, I was tired of my office, the students were back, campus was calling. An exhibition at the Snite — One Hundred Years of Automobile Design — gave my excursion a sense of purpose and direction.
The landscape is bleak and grim, cold, gray, ashen, desolate. It is a post-apocalyptic world. Destitute. Barren. It is a world of the writer’s imagination. Although, given the forces, violence and powers of human destruction threatening the planet today, it is a world easy to conjure, to believe in, and to dread.
Norbert Krapf’s Catholic Boy Blues contains more than 10 dozen poems. The book is subtitled “A Poet’s Journal of Healing,” and that’s how it reads — shards of experience, signposts along a fitful journey. The poet took to writing the poems as a kind of therapy; he was sexually abused by a Catholic priest as a boy in small-town Indiana.
Emil T. Hofman was best known for his tough love, his demanding expectations, his hard-crusted warmth, and the individual care and attention he gave all his students.
When the marchers advanced on the courthouse in Selma, Alabama, in March 1965, they were confronted by police and state troopers. They knew that protesters in a previous march had been hammered by law enforcement authorities using billy clubs and tear gas. But this band of activists was intent on a peaceful protest but determined to help Southern blacks gain voting rights still deprived them despite the 1964 U.S. Civil Rights Act. At the head of line was a Holy Cross priest, Notre Dame’s 14th president, Father John J. Cavanaugh, CSC.
Once upon a time Georges-Ibrahim Cisse wanted to be an astronaut.
This cover story can trace its origins to an email that came to me in February 2013.
Life has its seasons. Summer was turning to fall; he would start first grade in a week. The time had come. He followed me to the garage then waited outside as I pulled out his shiny blue bike with the sleek silver handlebars. He watched solemnly as I wrenched off the training wheels and tossed them into the garbage. There was no going back.
So I’m talking to this other guy who writes. And we’re lamenting this and that, commiserating, comparing notes, talking the trade — group therapy for two. He asks if I’ve read The War of Art, and I must look puzzled because he says the title is a play on the classic, The Art of War.
What will tomorrow’s Notre Dame education look like?
With the coming of autumn my wife moved two big pots of outdoor plants into a south-facing, upstairs window. The pretty annuals didn’t last long. But each pot also contained asparagus ferns, spindly, lovely and green. They have flourished, despite being indoors, climbing the window panes, stretching up into sunlight, their fingery lacework now almost 4 feet tall.…
Human health and happiness, light, heat and life on Earth come from the sunlight cascading down from above. It also works like magic.
Notre Dame has a nettlesome past helping African Americans feel at home, and recent campus flare-ups played against a national backdrop of rekindled racial polarization.
When someone as great as Father Ted Hesburgh, CSC, lives deep into his 97th year, you begin to wonder if he might just live forever. So news of his death today has come as a sudden blow, a punch to the stomach, even though reports had him in severe decline over the past few weeks.
This is the 20th letter I’ve written asking for contributions to Notre Dame Magazine. That’s hard to believe.
The book is their story, too — a tale of the broken parts that remain when children miss out on affection and parental affirmation.
As a teacher of writing for 25 years, I have learned some lessons.
Because I said so
Even at semester’s end, after three months swimming in these rivers, I make my way — always against the current, up the down staircase, entering as others exit — feeling like a foreigner unschooled in the ways of flocks and herds.
Thanksgiving is a time to say thanks for kindnesses, favors and good deeds that have gone too long without expressions of gratitude
They have come in the night, in the dark, crunching through snow, faces strafed by the wind. And now they sit in a LaFortune meeting room, long tables arranged in a big square, to hear a panel of people speak and answer questions, give pep talks and offer advice.
When Wil Haygood, writer of The Butler, came to campus.
I learned the true value of Notre Dame football during the Davie, Willingham and Weis eras.
Deciding who gets in and who doesn’t attracts a passionate band of critics, gripers and second-guessers. Bishop and his staff know quite well their decisions break hearts, collapse dreams and vault young people into life-altering directions.
While many elements are indeed grim, this story rests on help and hope and the human spirit.