Marlene Dietrich stars in Josef von Sternberg's 'Shanghai Express' in Pasadena

Los Angeles Times

Josef von Sternberg was not only one of the great directors of the 1920s and '30s, he was also an art collector in the circle of the enterprising dealer Galka Scheyer. She's the subject of the current "The Maven of Modernism" exhibit at the Norton Simon in Pasadena, and that enterprising museum is showing some of Von Sternberg's films along with it. Closing the series is 1932's "Shanghai Express," a stunning black-and-white extravaganza starring Von Sternberg's muse Marlene Dietrich as the enigmatic Shanghai Lily. "It took more than one man," she states enigmatically, "to change my name to Shanghai Lily."


First evidence human love related to reproductive success

Daily Mail - Science & tech

Falling in love is one of life's great mysteries, but now scientists believe this strange feeling could be key to our evolutionary success.


MLB owners, players ratify labor deal through 2021

U.S. News

FILE- In this April 26, 2016, file photo, Tampa Bay Rays owner Stuart Sternberg talks to designated hitter Corey Dickerson before a baseball game against the Baltimore Orioles in St. Petersburg, Fla. A person with knowledge of the meeting says baseball owners have ratified the sport's new collective bargaining agreement by a 29-1 vote. Speaking on the condition of anonymity because no announcement was made, the person says Sternberg was the lone dissenting vote during the telephone meeting Tuesday, Dec. 13.


How A 75-Million-Year-Old Dinosaur Head Was Reunited With Its Body

Forbes - Tech

The original Corythosaurus skull collected by George Sternberg in 1920. There are a few reasons a dinosaur's head might get separated from its body. Fossils erode over the millions of years they spend in the ground, quietly weathering away. Finding an entire skeleton is rare and takes remarkable preservation circumstances. Sometimes, the skeleton becomes disarticulated naturally and the whole thing is never uncovered.


A Brief History of Death

The New Yorker

At night I used to pad up and down the dark hallways in our house and stop outside my parents' bedroom. Bending over to squint through the keyhole, I could see my mother's slight body huddled on the right side of the bed underneath heavy covers, her head disappearing among them. Ever since her body was consigned to the disease, my mother had been melancholy. She squabbled with fate, demanded an explanation (I've never harmed a soul, she insisted), and quoted the Psalm we always recited at the annual memorial service for her mother, my grandmother Sarah: "Princes have persecuted me without a cause." Every year we had to search for it.