I’m back in the UK. When other people traverse the Atlantic so much, I think I imagine it as a kind of stochastic process which must be all much of a muchness to them. But from the inside, each time I come to Oxford is its own thing—a distinctive chapter, if one composed of a very similar palette of temporary bicycles, meadows, existential reckonings, Alpro yogurts, flapjacks, intellectual ambitions, Thai restaurants, cobblestones, cemeteries, riverside walks, lunchtime talks, AI thoughts, Littlegate House, Cowley road. And each time each thing is different, collecting another layer of new light.
Oxford: circles and planes
Oxford: circles and planes
Oxford: circles and planes
I’m back in the UK. When other people traverse the Atlantic so much, I think I imagine it as a kind of stochastic process which must be all much of a muchness to them. But from the inside, each time I come to Oxford is its own thing—a distinctive chapter, if one composed of a very similar palette of temporary bicycles, meadows, existential reckonings, Alpro yogurts, flapjacks, intellectual ambitions, Thai restaurants, cobblestones, cemeteries, riverside walks, lunchtime talks, AI thoughts, Littlegate House, Cowley road. And each time each thing is different, collecting another layer of new light.