This photograph could have been taken by anyone. Close enough and with a camera in hand, it was only a matter of waiting for the moment. Does that mean, then, that with a decent camera we can walk out into the street, start shooting, and challenge the legacy of a Cartier‑Bresson, to name an example? Possible, yes—yet improbable. Cartier‑Bresson defined what we now understand as the capture of the decisive moment. His immortality rests on hundreds of photographs—almost all of them flawless—where the magic of that instant manifested before his eyes, camera poised. Far too many times for it to be mere chance.

Don’t bother. There was neither a penultimate nor a last. That story was a lyrical invention by James Fenimore Cooper to captivate the eager readers of the early nineteenth century. The tribe, much diminished—now part of the Stockbridge‑Munsee—lives today in Wisconsin, to the west of the Great Lakes, enduring the heavy snowfalls the region bestows for much of the year. And what do they do? They run casinos, persistently demand the restitution of their lands, and in their spare time, pass on their culture to the new generations.

Here we see a Victorian couple upon a tandem bicycle. These nineteenth‑century contraptions were designed for two or more riders. Both were expected to pedal in unison, though the one seated at the front—promptly styled the “captain”—was entrusted not only with steering the machine but also with directing household finances and, by extension, what was eaten, when sleep was taken, and at what hour the day was to begin. The rider behind—known as the stoker—supplied power to the pedals. In other words, the one who truly set the contraption in motion, despite its ostensible purpose of shared effort.

Today, October 15, marks the International Day of Rural Women. Those who devote attention to this often vulnerable group should also consider the images chosen to speak for them. In our time, a message rarely gains traction unless it comes with a winsome figure, a touch of naiveté, something informal and easy to like, or a striking black‑and‑white photograph—or, at best, a graceful image in color. Without such devices, few will look twice.

I have the impression that most people who used to read regularly and are now in their fifties or sixties once had a symbolic affair with Ernest Hemingway. In 1980s Cuba, profitability was never a serious consideration. Publishing houses flooded the streets with thousands of volumes sold for next to nothing—often cheaper than a plain cheese pizza. Even so, the books gathered dust in the shops. Among them, Hemingway’s complete works could be found without effort.