Plato Dialogues

The Housemaid by McFadden In the tacky old house, a smug man with a slow drawl leaned against the banister , eating a dollop of jam from a brioche . His biceps flexed as he clasped a cot , tossing it aside while he rummaged through a cleft in the mahogany wall. In the corner, a brat sat on the floor, her face ashen , nibbling on a slice of bologna , and eyeing the man with quiet exertion , as if solving an enigma . A canine barked loudly, causing her to wince and spill her molasses jar. Suddenly, the door swung open with an obscenely loud screech , and a cavalier woman in a flaky dress entered. “Don’t be so remiss , Ralph. That playbill is no good here,” she said, pointing to a dusty leaflet he held. Ralph clucked , brushing off her words. “This house is barren of anything useful.” He motioned toward the precipice outside the window, where the wind howled like a goner ’s last breath. The brat giggled, and the woman glinted a sharp look at Ralph. “Even a slob like you...

  How We Learn by Stanislas Dehaene.  In a hidden nook of the vast savanna , a cartographer worked meticulously to delineate the land's morphology , capturing every cranny in her map. Her hands, honed with a knack for precision, felt the tactile pull of the parchment as she carefully embossed its surface with marks of the region's tertiary trails. The task was grueling , but her innate love for exploration kept her focused. Her work embodied the quintessence of her craft, a reminder of the eons past when early primates first roamed these lands. Her tools were a panoply of modern and ancient—compasses beside digital maps—a testament to the epigenesis of cartography itself. As she paused, her eyes drifted to the horizon, her mind briefly entertained by a spark of whimsy , imagining a time when this vestibular balance of earth and sky was untouched by humanity. But the temporal demands of her work soon returned. Her map required more than landmarks; it demanded a ...

 The Mysterious affair at Styles by Agatha Christie In the quaintly quiet village of Styles, the atmosphere was pierced by the beastly news of a death. The bereaved family, shrouded in grief, acquiesced to an inquest led by Poirot, whose inscrutability was as profound as a sphinx . His physiognomy remained imperturbably calm as he began to expound on his observations, weaving through the mystery like a buoy in a stormy sea. Standing by the gorge near the manor, Poirot’s sharp eyes noted the hobnailed boots clumping through the dirt, their presence blotting the otherwise pristine path. He scribbled notes furiously, his frock coat billowing slightly in the breeze, the ruffles at his cuffs adding a peculiar elegance to his otherwise methodical demeanor. The inquest revealed a deranged mind at work, and the post-mortem hinted at foul play. Poirot, never one to waste words, began to recapitulate the sequence of events. “The pang of betrayal,” he said, “led to a moment of languor , and ...