I've been checking in every day or so at the blog, Anecdotal Evidence and it has become one of my favorites. Here's a recent post, fairly typical in its wisdom and apt quotes from wise authors.
The obsession with the new and fashionable is puzzling. The present is a small, provincial, generally backward place as compared to the past, which is vast, generous and filled with the promise of adventure. Who would choose to read Douglas Brinkley or Howard Zinn if Plutarch and Henry Adams are sitting handily on the shelf? Who would choose John Ashbery over Fulke Greville? Foucault over Pascal? Lacan over Burton? My hands are full keeping up with the past. Why fret over the self-consuming present? C.S. Lewis diagnosed the ailment as “this mistaken preference for the modern books and this shyness of the old ones,” and offered this practical advice: