February 27 is John Steinbeck’s birthday. When I think of Steinbeck I think of The Grapes of Wrath, Of Mice and Men, and this affectionate letter to his oldest son Thom.

I came across this letter on the Brain Pickings website some time ago. The posting provides some context. Steinbeck’s teenage son wrote to his father about falling in love with a girl, Susan, at boarding school. Steinbeck’s reply will warm your heart.

New York
November 10, 1958

Dear Thom:

We had your letter this morning. I will answer it from my point of view and of course Elaine will from hers.

First — if you are in love — that’s a good thing — that’s about the best thing that can happen to anyone. Don’t let anyone make it small or light to you.

Second — There are several kinds of love. One is a selfish, mean, grasping, egotistical thing which uses love for self-importance. This is the ugly and crippling kind. The other is an outpouring of everything good in you — of kindness and consideration and respect — not only the social respect of manners but the greater respect which is recognition of another person as unique and valuable. The first kind can make you sick and small and weak but the second can release in you strength, and courage and goodness and even wisdom you didn’t know you had.

You say this is not puppy love. If you feel so deeply — of course it isn’t puppy love.

But I don’t think you were asking me what you feel. You know better than anyone. What you wanted me to help you with is what to do about it — and that I can tell you.

Glory in it for one thing and be very glad and grateful for it.

The object of love is the best and most beautiful. Try to live up to it.

If you love someone — there is no possible harm in saying so — only you must remember that some people are very shy and sometimes the saying must take that shyness into consideration.

Girls have a way of knowing or feeling what you feel, but they usually like to hear it also.

It sometimes happens that what you feel is not returned for one reason or another — but that does not make your feeling less valuable and good.

Lastly, I know your feeling because I have it and I’m glad you have it.

We will be glad to meet Susan. She will be very welcome. But Elaine will make all such arrangements because that is her province and she will be very glad to. She knows about love too and maybe she can give you more help than I can.

And don’t worry about losing. If it is right, it happens — The main thing is not to hurry. Nothing good gets away.

Love,

Fa

(originally published in Steinbeck: A Life in Letters)

I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed;
At first there blows a gentle breeze
And the leaves on the trees
Softly flutter or sway;
Out there, far away,
The bells of water carriers incessantly ring;
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.

I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed;
Then suddenly birds fly by,
Flocks of birds, high up, in a hue and cry
While nets are drawn in the fishing grounds
And a woman’s feet begin to dabble in the water.
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.

I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.
The Grand Bazaar is serene and cool,
A hubbub at the hub of the market,
Mosque yards are brimful of pigeons,
At the docks while hammers bang and clang
Spring winds bear the smell of sweat;
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.

I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed;
Still giddy since bygone bacchanals,
A seaside mansion with dingy boathouses is fast asleep,
Amid the din and drone of southern winds, reposed,
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.

I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.
Now a dainty girl walks by on the sidewalk:
Cusswords, tunes and songs, malapert remarks;
Something falls on the ground out of her hand,
It’s a rose I guess.
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.

I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed;
A bird flutters round your skirt;
I know your brow is moist with sweat
And your lips are wet.
A silver moon rises beyond the pine trees:
I can sense it all in your heart’s throbbing.
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.

Orhan Veli Kanık
Translated by Talat Sait Halman (1982)

Photo by famed Turkish photographer Ara Güler. Please see more of his amazing work on his website.

Yesterday, I noticed two bicycle-related updates in my Facebook feed. One was a photo of Dan wearing his ‘I (image of bike) T.O.’ t-shirt. The other from Anita: “So today, my 22 year-old-self learned to ride a bike for the first time. (successfully) Sore and proud that I did it thanks to a little help from the crew.“

Today, I read about the Fliz Bike on DVICE.
Watch the video. Would you get one?

Anna Haupt and Terese Alstin developed an invisible bicycle helmet for their master thesis in Industrial Design. They now sell it through their company Hövding. Absolutely brilliant. I want.

Watch the video link on our website.
(Thank you, Craig England, for bringing this to our attention).

The Invisible Bicycle Helmet | Fredrik Gertten from Focus Forward Films on Vimeo.

If the bicycle helmet was conveniently foldable, would more people wear it?
Partrick Jouffret of Agence 360 thinks so and is looking to take his design, the overade, to production this year.
What do you think?

(This and more photos on designboom)

You probably see David Lynch as an enigma. He is.

The man’s a 66-year old multidisciplinary enfant terrible with an imagination that still rarely ceases to surprise and confound even his most devoted supporters. Few others so delightfully subvert the very Middle American seeds from which they are sown. But, for all his complexities, amidst all the beautifying and deconstructing of his surroundings and self, there’s a simple code to Lynch. His work must compel him. Whatever emotion or sensibility tantalizes him he will return to his audience concentrated tenfold. That principle informs his vision. It is part of his legacy.

His latest creation makes great use of this tendency. It is a nightclub. Across the Atlantic. Steps from the heart of Paris’ pub strip.

It is called Silencio. Yes, Silencio. A night spot conceived and designed by the colourful director down to its most intimate details. From the edging on the carpets and the saltiness of the nuts at the bar. It’s all covered. Silencio opened in October and boosted by its curator’s heightened profile and breathless coverage in the European press it has, thus far, managed to both honour and transcend real Parisian underground. And, yes, you really do have to descend six flights of stairs before you arrive at the coat check.

Woody made hanging with Hemingway and Fitzgerald magical this year. But if you’re putting me on the ground in Paris after dark, the man I want running the show is David Lynch.

I checked in just weeks after the opening. A chill Saturday night in November. Worth the long walk down rue du Montmartre, in the second arrondissement, to 142. Incredibly, there was no lineup. The 50-deep queue of channel-hopping chavs frozen in place outside the eurotrash lounge next door seemed hardly to know Silencio existed. Underground. The best place to build your next treehouse.

There are seven true rooms in the 2,100-square foot space, each designed to suit a specific purpose. The way we conceive of bathrooms. Lynch designed those (black-on-black) here, too. It is Paris Photo Week. The room is full of young things. They look look like the director cast for these parts from his “Mulholland Drive” auditions, all in their easy 20s and early 30s. The floor bustles but it’s not too hot. And certainly not cold. The dance floor is reflective. There’s soul and jazz on the spinner. There is a lot of dancing. Real dancing, done by people who know how. But it’s different than in America. Here, when you dance among them, you know how to dance, too.

You also know how to order a drink. You stand a bit taller. Try a little French and find it comes out clean, almost easy. The bartender meets your gesture with respect. You ask him to make you the best cocktail he can conceive of. You tell him that, from now on, you will call it the same name your girl goes by. It better measure up.

It does. It may be the most expensive drink you’ve ever bought. Worth every penny.

The smoking room recalls the foreboding woods beyond Twin Peaks. Lynch has spoken about coaxing the atmosphere and aesthetic from his films and characters into these walls. It’s a terrific success. No nightclub I’ve seen quite compares. The bigger idea, we’re told, is to create a space for concerts, film, visual media and performance art where patrons are not merely engaged but also encouraged to partake. You arrive because you are drawn. You experience because you are present.

The location comes with the expected allegorical accoutrements. There are murmurs that a 17^th-century playwright named Molière was buried here once. The socialist Jean Jaurès was apparently murdered across the street in 1914. Lynch started to work here two years ago after a spell in Paris painting in a Montparnasse studio once used by Picasso and Miró. Now, he blends the surreal with the incisive, carefully applying touches of the surreal and incisive. Silencio‘s arching walls are covered in gold leaf applied by the same technicians who touch up the dome over Napoleon’s tomb. The juxtaposition thrills. In nightclub terms, this is classic cool meets cutting edge.

It’s worth noting that this is Paris’ first private members’ club. Annual memberships cost between 420-1500€ and reward with amenities such as access to the luxury concierge and priority seating in the club’s 24-seat theatre. You will have to complete a written application to be considered. But Silencio is free after midnight for proles like you and I. Of course, details of nightly happenings won’t be found on the club’s suitably cryptic website. You have to come inside to discover. Tonight, away from the music, in the ergonomic cinema, Metropolis is playing.

Beneath the city, the music is right, the drinks are smooth and young hearts are beating a little harder. To be in the room this night is to know that, somewhere, a soul is dancing.