As it happens, I got tired.

I cannot say, with a clear conscience, that I ever loved my workplace, or the craft I chose to ply. There were nonetheless times where I thought I had at least found some kind of contentment in where I was in life.

Maybe a week into this year, it became clear that there was no more solace to be had. By now, I’ve grown exhausted by how much grace and respect I’m expected to extend to people who do not generally regard me as a human being.

Consider this an initial FAQ for this little publication, which should prove easier to keep current than my other solo projects.

What are you going to write about?

Forsan et Haec takes its credo from Red Smith’s famous quote:

“Writing is easy. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein.”

While I consider myself neither a particularly original thinker nor an especially subtle writer, neither are most of the people who routinely share their thoughts with the Internet at large and get handsomely rewarded for it.

Meanwhile, the uncommon gifts I do have are simple:

• pattern recognition;

• unadulterated bile.

If you’re interested in seeing where that leads, whether it’s about politics, education, the Bullshit Machine, the state of classics, or any of our other current nightmares, you’ve come to the right place.

Who the hell are you?

I have spent the past fifteen years of my life teaching, molding, and cleaning up after the children of the middle and upper classes. In exchange I got fatter, sicker, angrier, and less sane.

My hatred is pure. You don’t really need to know any more than that.

What do I get for paying?

What, my undying gratitude isn’t good enough for you?

Let’s be for real: I’m at a point in my life where I don’t expect to ever make a living, or even close to it, through my writing. However, I’m planning on putting a good amount of effort into this thing, and I would like some recompense for that.

His dictis, I may keep some more whimsical stuff, the kind of thing that only real Noah-heads would appreciate, behind the wall. Who knows?

UPDATE 3/12/26: As with most things, I figured this out after sleeping on it. Any post that requires more extensive labor than the usual effort required to put together a good article—translating something, reading a bunch of academic articles, that sort of thing—will be restricted to paid subscribers, at least at first.

What does Forsan et Haec even mean?

It’s less than half of a line from the best of the classical epic poems: Vergil’s Aeneid.
(1.203, if you must know.)

After surviving a storm brought about through divine bribery, Aeneas says to his surviving men, bedraggled and hungry and now doubly traumatized:

Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit.
Perhaps, one day, it will be a pleasure to remember even these things.

There are dozens of ways to translate this line, all of which mutually excel each other. My hope is that one day, we can look back at these assorted vein-openings and find them a fitting account of a time we all wish had never come to pass.