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“To encounter a poet has become so rare — it is like catching sight of a unicorn.” Jorge Luis Borges, at Ernst Jünger’s home in Wilflingen, 1982.

Doctor: "Your LDL is still high. I'm adding a second statin." Patient: "I'm already on one. My legs ache." Doctor: "That's a known side effect. I'll add CoQ10." Patient: "And I'm tired all the time." Doctor: "Fatigue is common. I'll add modafinil." Patient: "My memory is foggy." Doctor: "Cognitive effects can occur. Donepezil should help." Patient: "I have a cough now." Doctor: "That'll be the ACE inhibitor I prescribed last visit. We'll swap it for an ARB." Patient: "I'm not sleeping." Doctor: "Zopiclone." Patient: "Heard that's addictive." Doctor: "We'll taper you with mirtazapine when the time comes." Patient: "My blood sugar has gone up." Doctor: "Statins can do that. Metformin." Patient: "I get diarrhoea on metformin." Doctor: "Loperamide." Patient: "I've gained weight." Doctor: "Ozempic." Patient: "I feel nauseous." Doctor: "Ondansetron." Patient: "I don't want to be on twelve medications." Doctor: "Anxiety is common at this stage. I'll add sertraline." Patient: "What if I just stopped the statin?" Doctor: "Absolutely not."

Among Catholics of any race, here's the share who voted for Trump by age and level of Mass attendance. The only squares where Harris had a lead: Young adult Catholics who didn't go to Mass that much. Trump won 2/3 (or more) of older Mass attenders.

The full list: •Archbishop Carlos Castillo Mattasoglio of Lima, Peru •Archbishop Filippo Iannone, O Carm, prefect of the Dicastery for Legislative Texts •Msgr. Piero Coda, secretary general of the International Theological Commission •Father Maurizio Chiodi of the John Paul II Institute in Rome •Father Carlo Casalone, SJ, of the Pontifical Academy for Life •Sister Josée Ngalula, RSA, of the Catholic University of the Congo in Kinshasa •Professor Stella Morra of the Pontifical Gregorian University

245 years ago today, a 35-year-old Spanish nobleman fired a single artillery shell that redrew the map of North America, broke British power in the Gulf of Mexico, and arguably saved the American Revolution. His name was Bernardo de Gálvez. He's not in your textbook. He should be. When Spain entered the war against Britain in June 1779, the American cause was bleeding out. Washington's army was unpaid and shrinking. The Continental dollar was worth pennies. The British had taken Savannah and were preparing to take Charleston. France was helping, but France alone couldn't bankrupt the British Empire. Spain could. And in New Orleans sat the man who would prove it. Bernardo de Gálvez y Madrid was 33 years old, the governor of Spanish Louisiana, a battle-scarred career officer who had been wounded fighting Apaches in northern Mexico and Algerians in North Africa. The day he learned Spain had declared war, he didn't wait for orders from Madrid. He raised an army of Spanish regulars, Louisiana Creoles, free Black militia from New Orleans, Acadian refugees, German settlers, and Choctaw scouts, and he went on the attack. In three months he took Manchac, Baton Rouge, and Natchez. The next year he took Mobile. The British presence on the Gulf shrank to one last fortress. Pensacola, the capital of British West Florida, defended by Major General John Campbell with 1,500 redcoats, the 3rd Waldeck Regiment of German mercenaries, loyalist battalions from Maryland and Pennsylvania, and a powerful alliance of Creek and Choctaw warriors led by the brilliant mixed-race chief Alexander McGillivray. Gálvez arrived off Pensacola in March 1781 with 7,000 men and a fleet. The Spanish naval commander, Admiral Calbo de Irazábal, refused to enter Pensacola Bay. The entrance was narrow, raked by British guns at Fort Barrancas Coloradas, and treacherous with sandbars. So Gálvez did something insane. He boarded his own little brig, the Galveztown, hoisted his personal pennant, and sailed her into the bay alone, in full view of the British batteries, daring the Royal Navy to sink him. The British fired and missed. The Spanish fleet, shamed, followed him in. For this he was awarded the right to put the words "Yo Solo," meaning "I alone," on his coat of arms by the King of Spain. The siege ground on for two months. Gálvez was shot in the abdomen and the finger directing artillery and refused to leave the field. The British defenses at the Queen's Redoubt, also called the Crescent, held against everything thrown at them. And then, on the morning of May 8, 1781, a Spanish howitzer crew lofted a shell over the parapet. It dropped, by pure luck or perfect skill, directly into the open powder magazine. The explosion killed roughly 100 defenders in a single instant. Waldeck grenadiers, British regulars, loyalists, all gone. The blast tore the redoubt's wall open like paper. Spanish grenadiers and Louisiana militia poured through the breach within minutes and turned the captured British guns on the inner works. Campbell knew it was over. The next morning, May 9, white flags went up. By May 10 the entire province of West Florida belonged to Spain. Over 1,100 British troops marched out as prisoners of war. The strategic consequences were catastrophic for Britain. The Gulf Coast was lost. The Mississippi was a Spanish river from source to sea. Britain could no longer reinforce its southern armies by sea from the Caribbean, and the Royal Navy's Caribbean squadron had to be redeployed. Five months later, Cornwallis surrendered at Yorktown, in a siege funded in part by 500,000 silver pesos that Gálvez and the people of Havana raised in a matter of days to pay French Admiral de Grasse's fleet to come north. Without that money, no French fleet. Without the French fleet, no Yorktown. Without Yorktown, no independence on those terms. Gálvez was made Count of Gálvez and Viscount of Galveztown. The bay he charted in Texas still bears his name, Galveston. His portrait hangs in the United States Capitol by act of Congress. In 2014, he was made an honorary citizen of the United States, an honor given to only eight people in American history, including Lafayette, Churchill, and Mother Teresa. He died of yellow fever in Mexico City at 40 years old, three years after the war ended. Most Americans have never heard his name.