Showing posts with label writers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writers. Show all posts

Wednesday, August 5, 2020

Some links to useful articles about the coronavirus

For those of you who might want more in-depth information and reporting about the coronavirus pandemic, these links to articles in The Atlantic will prove useful. 


I've included the list of articles to give you an idea of what they are about. I've read a few of them already and they are well-written and informative. 

The Atlantic’s guide to understanding COVID-19

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Tuesday, August 13, 2019

The poem The Lake Isle of Innisfree by William Butler Yeats

This is a beautiful poem by William Butler Yeats, one of my favorite poets. Yeats spent his childhood summers in County Sligo in northwest Ireland, and Innisfree is an uninhabited island in Lough Gill in County Sligo. The poem gives me peace just upon reading it, especially the last line, where Yeats talks about his heart's core hearing the lake water lapping. I understand that intuitively.
The Lake Isle of Innisfree

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.


BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS


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Tuesday, January 22, 2019

A beautiful poem by Walt Whitman

Out of the rolling ocean the crowd
by Walt Whitman


Out of the rolling ocean the crowd came a drop gently to me,
Whispering, I love you, before long I die,
I have travel’d a long way merely to look on you to touch you,
For I could not die till I once look’d on you,
For I fear’d I might afterward lose you.

Now we have met, we have look’d, we are safe,
Return in peace to the ocean my love,
I too am part of that ocean, my love, we are not so much separated,
Behold the great rondure, the cohesion of all, how perfect!
But as for me, for you, the irresistible sea is to separate us,
As for an hour carrying us diverse, yet cannot carry us diverse forever;
Be not impatient – a little space – know you I salute the air, the ocean and the land,
Every day at sundown for your dear sake, my love.


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Wednesday, August 22, 2018

Some of my favorite spiritual writers

Faith and religion are two different things; the latter is an organized attempt to systematize and support the former, but it is my contention that a strong faith will outlast religion in the long run. My father had a strong faith in God, and fed it with spiritual literature, some of it by Catholic writers. He shared that interest with me, and I have read many of the books he recommended. Some of his favorite authors (and now mine) are Francois Mauriac, Georges Bernanos, Evelyn Waugh, C.S.Lewis, Thomas Hardy, Thomas Merton, and Willa Cather. He also was a fan of Graham Greene and G.K. Chesterton, but I have not read their books as of yet. All of the books I've read by these writers have left an indelible impression on me. They made me think and reflect on many of life's situations, problems and (often-tragic) outcomes. Not all of them are directly spiritual in tone (inspirational); some of them are heart-wrenching, others witty, still others poignant and spiritually-challenging. The books are all excellent in their own right, and worth reading.

Francois Mauriac's books:

  • The Viper's Tangle
  • The Desert of Love
  • Therese
  • A Woman of Pharisees

Georges Bernanos books:

  • The Diary of a Country Priest

Evelyn Waugh's books:

  • Brideshead Revisited
  • A Handful of Dust

C.S. Lewis' books:

  • The Screwtape Letters
  • Mere Christianity
  • A Grief Observed
  • Surprised by Joy
  • The Four Loves
  • The Problem of Pain

Thomas Hardy's books:

  • Jude the Obscure
  • Tess of the d'Urbervilles
  • Far from the Madding Crowd
  • The Mayor of Casterbridge
  • The Return of the Native
  • The Go-Between

Thomas Merton's books:

  • No Man is an Island
  • Thoughts in Solitude
  • Wisdom of the Desert

Willa Cather's books:

  • Death Comes for the Archbishop
  • My Antonia


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Saturday, November 12, 2016

Worth reading

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Friday, March 25, 2016

A beautiful poem for spring by Robert Frost

A Prayer in Spring

Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.

Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,
Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
And make us happy in the happy bees,
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.

And make us happy in the darting bird
That suddenly above the bees is heard,
The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,
And off a blossom in mid air stands still.

For this is love and nothing else is love,
The which it is reserved for God above
To sanctify to what far ends He will,
But which it only needs that we fulfil.


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Saturday, August 1, 2015

Sometimes it takes a lifetime to find your voice

The first thought I had after finishing Sue Monk Kidd’s latest novel, The Invention of Wings, was that it can often take a lifetime to find your voice and the courage to use it. Sarah Grimké would no doubt agree; Kidd’s fictionalized account of the lives of the first American women abolitionists Sarah Grimké and her sister Angelina (Nina) is by turns touching, disturbing, and enlightening, pointing out the almost insurmountable difficulties and painful consequences involved in taking a stand in life and fighting for what you believe in. It is impossible not to be moved by this novel; the writing evokes both questions and the desire to make (some) sense of what must have been a horrific existence for the slaves in Charleston South Carolina in the 19th century (1803-1838). Despite being ‘protected’ by the wealthy families who owned them, the slaves’ lives and daily treatment depended upon the whims and moods of their owners. Their psychological well-being and physical comfort did not matter at all. Punishment was meted out rather arbitrarily for minor infractions, e.g. the Missus was having a bad day and one of her slaves ’disobeyed’ her orders, wasn’t listening properly, or was too slow in responding. The actual punishments were little more than exercises in the public torture of other human beings, and inflicted permanent damage on many of the slaves who suffered these tortures. It is established very early on in the novel that Sarah wishes to have no part in the ownership of another human being—in her case, 10-year old Handful (Hetty) who becomes Sarah’s slave against her wishes, forced upon her by her family on her 11th birthday. Sarah does not want to be like her family at all, but she is trapped within it. One might think that the desire to treat another human being the way one would wish to be treated, would be simple enough to achieve within one’s own family. One might expect that one’s family (churchgoers and law-abiding citizens) would support you in your quest to treat other human beings, who happen to be non-white, fairly and kindly. But that is not the case in Sarah’s family (or in society at large). Their cruelty knows no bounds, toward slaves who endure the physical cruelties, and toward their enlightened daughters Sarah and Nina who must endure the psychological abuses meted out to them for wishing to abolish slavery. In Sarah’s case, her independent and outspoken voice becomes muffled after she is dressed down by her father in front of the family—told that her dreams and aspirations of becoming a lawyer are simply out of the question. She is then forbidden to use her father’s library to read her beloved books in an attempt to educate herself. She suffers ridicule in front of her family for her aspirations to make something of herself; her father and brothers essentially tell her, rather cruelly, that she is a fool to have had such aspirations, even though her father appeared to encourage them only when he assumed that she did not take his words seriously. It is after this humiliation, and really the only time in the novel, that her mother shows her any compassion whatsoever and lets down her guard as far as describing to Sarah what women can and cannot aspire to within the framework of their society. You get the sense that her mother does not like that women’s lives had limitations put upon them, but she retreats again behind her mask of upholding the society she finds herself in, for all it is worth, because it is that society of wealth and political correctness that gives her status and keeps her materially-comfortable. Her mother’s role in life was to bear her husband many children, which she did. Sarah’s dressing-down by her father and brothers is followed by the societal humiliation she has to endure when her fiancé is exposed as a serial user of young women for sexual gains; he proposes to them and then tells them that they can now become intimate because they are engaged. After these incidents, Sarah is completely browbeaten and unable to find the voice she once had. She struggles along, as does Handful, each of them trying to find the wings they need to escape their stifling existences. When her sister Nina is born, Sarah becomes almost like a mother to her, and Nina grows quite close to her. Eventually she comes to share her sister’s abolitionist (and feminist) views, which puts both of them at odds with their family and with Charleston society. Sarah moves to the North and becomes a Quaker; Nina eventually follows her and the two of them embark on their mission to abolish slavery. Sarah finds her voice again after many years, but struggles with self-confidence, in contrast to Nina who is a born orator and who does not seem to lack confidence at all. The bulk of the novel is really Sarah and Handful’s stories, and how Sarah steps up to the plate to keep her promise to Handful’s mother Charlotte to free Handful.

Sometimes a person is born with a voice that he or she has no problems using as he or she grows up. One takes a vocal stand against injustice and bullying, against the immoral ideas and situations in society. And then something happens to stifle that voice, at least for a while. Bullying, cruel slander, psychological abuse, physical abuse, a bad marriage, divorce, loss of a job, financial ruin—all of these can destroy a woman’s voice as well as a man’s. Self-confidence wanes; self-doubt rules. No matter what others say to you, the fact remains that regaining confidence and finding your voice again are your own roads, and you must walk them alone. The novel makes it clear that heroes and heroines are never superhuman; they are ordinary human beings like you and me, with the familiar everyday problems with which we all must deal and tackle. They struggle with self-doubt and misery, with depression, with anxiety, with confusion. They struggle with finding their voices and using them to rail against the injustices in the world. They hold onto their beliefs in the hope that better days will come along; and better days do come along, but at quite a cost, for Sarah, Nina, and Handful. Along the way, you will come to really like these characters and to want to understand them. You will come to appreciate how difficult their lives were because they lived according to their principles, as well as how difficult it was to change the obstinate and unenlightened world around them, at that time, and at any time. Our own civilized society still has much to learn about how to treat the poor, immigrants, the mentally ill, the elderly, or those who just do not fit in no matter how hard they try. Those who support them and fight for them deserve our help and praise, not our criticism and ridicule.
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Wednesday, July 22, 2015

My father’s reading list prior to 1936

As promised, I will continue to post the lists of books my father read during his life. He was a prolific reader already during his childhood and teenage years. In 1936, when he was eighteen years old, he started to annotate his reading list according to the specific year that he read a particular book. My post today will include some of the books he read prior to 1936. The first one on his list was Quo Vadis by Henryk Sienkiewicz. Here are the first fifty books he recorded as read, so many of them typical of a young boy’s life…….

Quo Vadis—Henryk Sienkiewicz
Fortitude—Hugh Walpole
Robinson Crusoe—Daniel Defoe
Tom Brown’s Schooldays—Thomas Hughes
The Black Arrow—Robert Louis Stevenson
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer—Mark Twain
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn—Mark Twain
Call of the Wild—Jack London
The Man without a Country—Edward Everett Hale
Men of Iron—Howard Pyle
Daddy Long Legs—Jean Webster
The Riflemen of the Ohio—Joseph A. Altsheler (also author of the next thirteen books)
The Young Trailers
The Forest Runners
The Free Rangers
The Scouts of the Valley
The Border Watch
The Sun of Saratoga
The Horsemen of the Plains
The Last of the Chiefs
Shadow of the North
Sun of Quebec
The Guns of Shiloh
The Tree of Appomattox
Apache Gold
The Arkansas Bear—Albert Bigelow Paine
Just So Stories—Rudyard Kipling
Story of a Bad Boy—Thomas Bailey Aldrich
Story of Roland—James Baldwin
Robin Hood and His Merry Men—John Finnemore
The Sky Pilot—Ralph Connor
Boy’s Life of Edison—William H. Meadowcraft
The Tragedy of the Italia—Davide Guidici
Uncle Tom’s Cabin—Harriet Beecher Stowe
Scouting with Daniel Boone—Everett T. Tomlinson
The Palm of the Hot Hand—King Phillips
Pinocchio—Carlo Collodi
Jim Davis—John Masefield
The Black Buccaneer—Stephen W. Meader
Boots and Saddles—E.B. Custer
The Perfect Tribute—M.R.S. Andrews
Twice Told Tales—Nathaniel Hawthorne
The Spy—James Fenimore Cooper
The Black Glove—Geraldine Gordon Salmon
The Gold Bug—Edgar Allan Poe
The Pit and the Pendulum—Edgar Allan Poe
The Other Wise Man—Henry Van Dyke
The Crisis—Winston Churchill
Richard Carvel—Winston Churchill
The Mansion—Henry Van Dyke

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Monday, April 20, 2015

My father's reading list from 1938

As promised, a list of some of the many books that my father read in his lifetime. His book choices continue to inspire me; I know they will do so for many years to come. In 1938, when he was twenty years old, he started to note the specific year in which he read the books he listed. These are the books he read during that year.

  • The Wind from the Mountains                                   Trygve Gulbranssen
  • The Deserted Village and Other Poems                    Oliver Goldsmith
  • And So—Victoria                                                       Vaughan Wilkins
  • American Dream                                                         Michael Foster
  • The Outward Room                                                     Miller Brand
  • Anna Karenina                                                             Lev Nikolayevich Tolstoy
  • War and Peace                                                             Lev Nikolayevich Tolstoy
  • The Turning Wheels                                                    Stuart Cloete
  • Invasion                                                                       Maxence Van der Meersch
  • Northwest Passage                                                       Kenneth Roberts
  • Rogue Herries                                                              Hugh Walpole
  • The Stars Look Down                                                  Albert Joseph Cronin
  • The Thing: Why I Am a Catholic                                Gilbert Keith Chesterton
  • Inheritance                                                                    Phyllis Bentley
  • Why Rome                                                                   Selden Peabody Delany
  • The Sisters                                                                    Myron Brinig
  • Judith Paris                                                                   Hugh Walpole
  • The Fortress                                                                  Hugh Walpole
  • Vanessa                                                                         Hugh Walpole
  • The Ordinary Difficulties of Everyday People            John Rathbone Oliver
  • D’Annunzio                                                                  Tommaso Antongini
  • Parnassus On Wheels                                                   Christopher Morley
  • The Haunted Bookshop                                                Christopher Morley
  • The Wall                                                                       Mary Roberts Rinehart
  • The Citadel                                                                   Albert Joseph Cronin
  • Jamaica Inn                                                                   Daphne du Maurier
  • The Rains Came                                                            Louis Bromfield
  • Opera, Front and Back                                                  H. Howard Taubman
  • Wolf Solent                                                                   John Cowper Powys
  • Dawn In Lyonesse                                                         Mary Ellen Chase
  • Appreciation                                                                  William Lyon Phelps
  • Tess of the D’Urbervilles                                              Thomas Hardy
  • To Have and Have Not                                                  Ernest Hemingway
  • More of My Life                                                            Andrea Majocchi, MD   
  • For the Honor of the School                                          Ralph Henry Barbour
  • Murders in the Rue Morgue                                          Edgar Allan Poe
  • The Telltale Heart                                                         Edgar Allan Poe
  • Doctor Bradley Remembers                                          Francis Brett Young
  • Green Mansions                                                            William Henry Hudson
  • Wuthering Heights                                                        Emily Bronte     

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Sunday, April 12, 2015

Reading lists and a love of books

My father was an avid reader from the time he was a young child. He kept a list of the books that he had read, and they were not few. The first book on his list was Quo Vadis: A Narrative of the Time of Nero by the Polish author Henryk Sienkiewicz; it was first published in 1895 in Poland as a serialized novel in several Polish newspapers. In 1896, it came out in book form and was subsequently translated into more than fifty languages (according to Wikipedia). My father would have read it in English since he did not speak Polish (he did however speak Italian, and studied Latin and Greek as well). He did not annotate his book lists, so I don’t know why he started with Quo Vadis; perhaps his father suggested this book to him. This was followed by Fortitude: Being a True and Faithful Account of the Education of an Adventurer by Hugh Walpole, published in 1913. And so on, until the last book that he read shortly before his death in 1985, which was Cal by Bernard MacLaverty, which came out in 1983. By the time he died, he had read close to a thousand books. It was not clear from his book lists when he started to keep them, but I’m guessing he started when he was around twelve years old. Since he was sixty-seven years old when he died, that means that in the space of fifty-five years of reading, he read about seventeen books per year on average. Many of the books were loaned from the Warner Public Library in Tarrytown; both my parents were frequent users of the library.

It struck me while going through my father’s book lists that he was already interested in organizing and systematizing books as a child, in preparation for his career as a librarian. He did not know that he was to become a librarian when he was twelve years old, but the signs were already there when you take a look at his lists.

Both he and my mother loved to read, and they instilled their love of books in us children. My mother did not keep extensive lists of the books she read like my father did, but both of them encouraged us to do so. So I have done so, all these years. I started keeping a list when I was around twelve years old, like my father. The first book on my list is The Hundred and One Dalmations by Dodie Smith, which was first published in 1956.

My father read widely—fiction, non-fiction, biographies, history, Catholic literature, and children’s literature. He shared what he read with me especially, since I would often sit at the dinner table with him in the evenings after dinner and discuss what he and I were reading. As I got older, we would often read the same book, sometimes at the same time, more often right after the other person had read it. We suggested books for each other; my father would cut out book reviews from the newspaper to share with me, or we would find a few books of interest in the weekly supplement The NY Times Book Review. As I get older, it strikes me that growing up in my family was a special experience. I learned to love books and to love discussing them. Nothing makes me happier than when I can sit and discuss the book I’m reading or have read with someone (I feel the same about movies). Some people would call it doing ‘post-mortems’ and don’t like to do this. In fact, most people I know don’t discuss the books they read. I respect that. We all have our own reasons for why we read and for reading the books we read. As long as the world continues to read, we’ll keep evolving and growing as human beings. That’s what is most important. But I’m glad I have my father’s reading lists, because as I peruse them, I see that we have a lot of the same tastes in literature. And that makes me feel close to him. In a future post, I will list some of the books he read as a teenager and young adult, and will include some of my own.  
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Friday, December 26, 2014

A Christmas poem by Clement Clarke Moore

I should have posted this on Christmas eve, but no matter, I'm posting it now--a Christmas poem my father used to enjoy reading to us as children, and one we enjoyed listening to. I appreciate the vivid imagery and the rhythm in the poem.
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Twas the Night before Christmas      by Clement Clarke Moore  

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.
And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

"Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! on Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.

His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"



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Sunday, August 3, 2014

A summer poem by Robert Louis Stevenson

Summer Sun 

Great is the sun, and wide he goes 
Through empty heaven with repose;
And in the blue and glowing days
More thick than rain he showers his rays.

Though closer still the blinds we pull
To keep the shady parlour cool,
Yet he will find a chink or two
To slip his golden fingers through.

The dusty attic spider-clad
He, through the keyhole, maketh glad;
And through the broken edge of tiles
Into the laddered hay-loft smiles.

Meantime his golden face around
He bares to all the garden ground,
And sheds a warm and glittering look
Among the ivy's inmost nook.

Above the hills, along the blue,
Round the bright air with footing true,
To please the child, to paint the rose,
The gardener of the World, he goes.

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Saturday, July 12, 2014

What Georges Bernanos said

Faith is not a thing which one 'loses,' we merely cease to shape our lives by it.

Hope is a risk that must be run.

It's a fine thing to rise above pride, but you must have pride in order to do so.

No one ever discovers the depths of his own loneliness.

The wish to pray is a prayer in itself. God can ask no more than that of us.

Hell, madam, is to love no longer.

It is the perpetual dread of fear, the fear of fear, that shapes the face of a brave man.

Truth is meant to save you first, and the comfort comes afterward.

Little things seem nothing, but they give peace, like those meadow flowers which individually seem odorless but all together perfume the air.

The first sign of corruption in a society that is still alive is that the end justifies the means.
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Georges Bernanos wrote a wonderful book, Diary of a Country Priest, that I read many years ago, but stumbled upon again recently. First published in 1937, it is the story of an unassuming parish priest, who tries his best to serve his people. His trials and tribulations, his poor health and his feelings of inferiority are really what the novel is about—how he tries to be a good and humble priest, a good man and a good Catholic. Well worth reading. 

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Monday, June 30, 2014

Learning by living

Eleanor Roosevelt was married to Franklin D. Roosevelt, the 32nd President of the United States, and served as First Lady during his three terms--from 1933 until 1945. Her husband died in 1945. When she married him, she found herself thrust into the limelight of politics and political society, which at first made her uncomfortable, but which she learned to master with time and experience. I recently finished her amazing book You Learn by Living: Eleven Keys for a More Fulfilling Life, first published in 1960 when she was seventy-six years old. She writes from the heart, in an candid and straightforward way, about the following: • Learning to Learn • Fear—the Great Enemy • The Uses of Time • The Difficult Art of Maturity • Readjustment is Endless • Learning to Be Useful• The Right to Be an Individual • How to Get the Best Out of People •Facing Responsibility • How Everyone Can Take Part in Politics • Learning to Be a Public Servant.

The first thing that struck me was that her wisdom and advice are every bit as good as, if not better than, most of the advice proffered by self-help books authored by psychologists or psychiatrists with years in their respective fields. Why? Because she not only talks about the fears and lack of self-confidence that she had to overcome in order to become a public person, she says flat-out that we must do that which we think we cannot do. We must face our fears if we are to grow and evolve as human beings, if we are to live an honest life. She also talks about the importance of being useful and embracing politics and public life. She stresses that we must take an interest in politics as the citizens of a democratic nation; that is our responsibility as free people. We must not stoop to cynicism and negativity when we talk about politics and politicians; they are important for the future of a free country.  She is a wonderful role model for a successful and honest life, for both women and men. Her advice is relevant for both genders. But I would absolutely encourage young women to read her book, especially in this age that defines a person’s worth mostly by whether they are good-looking or not. Eleanor Roosevelt said about herself that she knew that she was not the most attractive woman in her family already when she was a child; it never stopped her. Young women especially need to hear this, because there is too much emphasis in today’s world on having the perfect face and figure, often at the expense of cultivating one’s intelligence, wit, and talents.    

Eleanor Roosevelt was an honest, intelligent, introspective, persevering, patient and empathetic woman, who made a real success of her life in spite of the many difficulties she faced. I found her advice quite straightforward, no-nonsense, honest and helpful. She really did 'learn by living', and that is the message her book imparts. It's possible to grow and change with experience, if you tackle the challenges that life tosses you rather than evade them. She was way ahead of her time in terms of how she lived her life and how she looked at her life as a woman. I recommend this book if you want wisdom that will actually help you as you make your way in this life.

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Queen Bee

I play The New York Times Spelling Bee  game each day. There are a set number of words that one must find (spell) each day given the letters...