July 26, 2025 • 20 mins
Dive into the captivating final journal entries of British naturalist Bruce Frederick Cummings. This poignant narrative stretches from March 1918 to June 1919, a tumultuous period that saw the end of WWI. It’s a book that follows the successful publication of Cummings previous journal, The Journal of a Disappointed Man. In this more concise volume, Cummings offers his contemplative reflections on the end of the war, tinged with the realization that while the world celebrated peace, he was grappling with failing health. His body may have been succumbing to multiple sclerosis, but his emotional and intellectual clarity remained until the end. This journal is not only a vibrant historical document but also a profoundly moving and poetic piece of personal literature. - Summary by Adam Whybray
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Speaker 1 (00:01):
Section eight of a Last Diary by W. N. P. Barbellion.
This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in
the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please
visit LibriVox dot org. Beauty April twenty second, nineteen nineteen.
(00:31):
Under the lens of scientific a narsis, natural beauty disappears.
The emotion of beauty and the spirit of the narsis
and dissection cannot exist contemporaneously, the sunset becomes waves of
light impinging on atmospheric dust, the most beautiful pearl, the
(00:53):
insisted itch of a mollusc, and not natural beauty alone,
but all beauty, all the furnture of earth, and all
the choir of heaven. At the intellex beck must shed
their beautiful vestments, although their aureoles in the interim shall
remain safe in the keeping of man's soul. For just
(01:16):
as man's scientific narcist destroys beauty, so his synthetic art
creates it, and man creates beauty. Nature supplying the raw materials.
Nature is the clay man the potter. Everyone feeling the
emotion of beauty becomes a creative artist. If the world
(01:38):
were as ugly as sin, the artist would recreate it
beautiful in the image of his own beautiful spirit, just
as Frank Brangwyn and Joseph Pennell are actually now doing
with those industrial hideousnesses. But man's generous nature, because there
is beauty in his own heart, naively assumes its possession
(02:00):
by others, and so projects it into nature. But he
sees in her only the truth and goodness that are
in himself. Natural beauty is everyone's mirror. Similarly, as I
believe man creates the world itself after his own mind,
(02:22):
consult the humanists, in whose system of philosophy I have
a profound intuitive belief. Certainly, there are many times when nature,
by pure accident, having other aims than our delight, produces
the finished article Helen of Troy, I suppose, required no
emendation from the artist's hand, nor does the water smeat Linton.
(02:49):
Occasionally a human drama completes itself perfectly in five acts,
observing all the unities. It may be claimed by the
moralists that there must be some very definite inherent direction
in nature's processes towards the light of beauty. If, in
the ordinary course of producing, say a blue flower, to
(03:11):
attract insects a thing of rare beauty. At the same
time emerges therefrom But this is putting the cart before
the horse, For man's own ideas of beauty are necessarily
based on the forms and color he finds in nature,
the only world he knows. So that we may say
roughly that for our purposes we love blue flowers, for instance,
(03:35):
because bees first loved them. The bees were the original
artists who created and educated our taste. They and the
blue sky above us. That is, as a fact, it
is impossible to imagine the physical world as ugly as sin,
unless at the same time you imagine man's soul as
(03:57):
being as ugly as sin. You can imagine the world differently,
e g. With fewer forms and colors, say uniformly flat
and brown a desert. But that would mean that not
only art would be poorer, but man himself as such
(04:17):
would cease to exist. Instead, we should have evolved as
glorified sand. Art has to take its cue from nature,
though nature, whatever its transform in any sort of planet,
would always be amended by art, provided man were the same.
(04:38):
Because mind is above matter, art above nature. April twenty fifth,
nineteen nineteen my beloved's birthday, April twenty sixth, nineteen nineteen.
Here is the nucleus of a sl add A newspaper tragedy.
(05:02):
I sleep on the ground floor in the front. Nurse
sleeps at the back up stairs. She is very deaf,
and I am helpless. Her father and mother both died
of heart failure. One sister has heart disease and another
heart weakness. Her heart too is weak, and my electric
(05:22):
bell won't ring if it did. She can only hear
it when awake. We live alone, and each morning I
endure suspense till I hear her coming down the stairs.
I overheard in the world outside in the road, Aunt
(05:46):
Massaunt a patrician's voice. I was staying at Lord Burham's
place over the weekend, very jolly second voice. I can
never understand why he They passed two countrymen meeting in
the road. I cannot see them, but quite well know
(06:09):
how they have drawn up like railway engines, standing on
their metals, one on the right side and the other
on the left of the road, converse a moment across
the intervening middle space. How is it, then, no, pretty Midland,
they haven't trot your dog yet? Then? I see rabies
(06:31):
reported in the district. I'll watch it, and they steam
slowly onward. April twenty eighth, nineteen nineteen. Yes, there are compensations.
Few can appreciate. A sunny morning and a blackbird's contralto
(06:52):
from the walnut tree. The happy and comfortable like to
hear about the compensations. They always thought things were never
so bad as they seem. You must pull your socks
up and make the best of things. You shouldn't have
the impudence to tell him so. Last night a blizzard
(07:15):
a gale. April twenty ninth, nineteen nineteen. Having cast my
bread upon the waters, it amuses me to find it
returning with the calculable exactitude of a tidal movement. Eg.
In my journal, I stroked public opinion and are now
(07:36):
pursed to the tune of two and a half pages
of review the Saturday Review I cursed with bell, book
and candle, and voila. They mangle me in their turn.
For the most part, the reviewers say what I have
told them to say in the book. One writes that
it is a remarkable book. I told him it was.
(07:59):
Another says I am a conceited prig. What I have
said as much more than once. A third hint at
the writer's inherent madness. I queried the same possibility. It
is amusing to see the flat contradictions. There is no
(08:19):
sort of unanimity of opinion about any part of my
complex character. One says a genius, another not a genius, witty, dull, vivacious, dismal,
intolerably sad, happy, lewde, finicky, quiet, humor, wild and vivacious
(08:40):
wit as a whole. I am surprised and delighted with
the extraordinary kindness and sympathy meted out to it, more
than I deserve or it deserves. While one or two
critics with power that amazes penetrate to the wretched Barbellian's core.
To mister Massingham, I feel I can only murmur too kind,
(09:06):
too kind, like the aged Florence Nightingale, and they came
to present her with the O M. But what sympathetic
understanding commare one man who said I was a social climber,
another that I was finicky on sexual matters. Ha ha,
pardon my homeric laughter. Another or was it the same
(09:31):
that I shrank from life? Yes, shrank? I give me
more life. The parwady girth. I have shouted thus for years.
Poor old reviewers, friends and relatives say I have not
drawn my real self. But that's because I've taken my
clothes off and they can't recognize me. Stark. The book
(09:54):
is a self portrait in the nude. May first, nineteen nineteen.
What a sad, intractable world? Will human love and goodness
ever overcome it? May second, nineteen nineteen. I long to
(10:18):
see my little daughter again, yet I fear it horribly.
I am ashamed to meet her gaze. She will be
frightened at me. Better, she should have no memory of
me at all to take through life. May fifteenth, nineteen nineteen.
(10:44):
On the fourteenth, at two p m, a well appointed
ambulance took me to a nursing home at Eastbourne, where
I arrived at seven p m. Exhausted but cheerful. It
was like being raised from the dead. We traveled by
Acton and Ealing and Shepherd's Bush. When we turned down
h Road past my old rooms, across Kensington Road and
(11:07):
down Warwick Gardens were one dark November night plighted our
troth beneath a lamp post. We passed the lamp post,
then to West Cromwell Road to Fulham, Wandsworth, Tooting to
Tunbridge Wells, where at four point thirty we drew up
(11:27):
at an inn and a servant maid put a tray
of tea and cakes on the bench beside me, and
I ate and smoked while the driver in the road
compared notes of the landlord on war adventures? Where were you? Then,
messines ah, and then't go so far north as that
it was so hot. I lay on my couch for
(11:48):
my rugs, et cetera. Off, but the street boys were
so curious over my pajama suit. I pulled the blinds.
Then they moved round and looked in through the door.
Nurse they moved round to the other side, so nurse
drew those blinds too. Then they capered off. After that
(12:09):
across Crobough Forest, the car running at an even pace
up hill and down. I lay happy in triumphant and
watched the country speeding by. We passed picnic parties. Some
one should have given them a warning and exhortation. A
dreadful thing for them, thought I, if they are not
aware fully of their magnificent good fortune. The sky was cloudless.
(12:35):
It was an amusing thing to me to feel so happy.
Then I became displeased in my mood. On ease account,
I recollected the picture of her and baby the road
waving me good bye, May seventeenth, nineteen nineteen. This egotism
business the Journal is more egoism than egotism, especially the
(13:00):
latter part, And ought not Meredith to have called it
the egotist May eighteenth, nineteen nineteen. In the Journal, I
can see now that I made myself out worse than
I am or was. I even took a morbid pleasure
in intimating my depravity, self mortification. If I had spoken
(13:26):
out more plainly, I should have escaped all this censure.
The reviewers are only too ready to take me at
my word, which is but natural. I don't think on
the whole my portrait of myself does myself justice. A
beautiful morning at the bottom of my bed, two French
(13:47):
windows open out onto the garden, where a blackbird is
singing me something more than well. It is a magnificent flute,
obligato to the tune in my heart, going hupped up,
hupped up wildly, as if I were a youth again
in first love. He shouted out his song in the evening.
(14:08):
The very moment I arrived here. What fine spirits these
blackbirds are. I listened to him, and my withered carcass
soaks up his song with a sighing sound, like a
dry sponge taking up water. Pompa mortis, May twentieth, nineteen nineteen.
(14:37):
If I could please myself, I should have my coffin
made and kept under my bed. Then if I should die,
they could just pull the old box out and put
me in it. It is the orthodox pompa mortis that
makes death so ugly and terrible. I like the idea
of William Morris, who has taken to the cemetery in
an old farm cart. I often laughed loud at the
(15:01):
struggles of nurse of my perfectly ludicrous, impotent body. If
you saw us, you would certainly believe in a personal devil.
When you saw what a devil he is, you would
also see in him a most fantastic clown. My right
leg is almost completely anthetized. Curious experience this. You could
(15:23):
poke the fire with it, and I shouldn't feel anything.
Out of the way. I could easily emulate Cranmire's stoical behavior.
It is so dead that if you put my body
out in the sun, the flies in error would come
and lay their eggs on me. Yes, Satan was the
(15:44):
first and chiefest of pantaloons. Any One who desires to
possess a complete knowledge of the world should read Dumel,
Latsko Barboose and consult the illustrations in a text book
of tropical medicine. The ultimate detection of a few bad
(16:05):
faults and a good man most unfairly discounts as goodness
in the idealist's judgment, for the idealist can be a stern,
implacable taskmaster. So a few good points unexpectedly coming to
light in a bad man are enough to make the
ever sanguine idealists forget the fellow's general badness, for the
(16:26):
man of ideals must snatch at a straw. This is
not justice, but it's human nature. Those nurses again, Nurse
number one helping her colleague to put away her books,
examining a lapfull ah French novels, tomty Urn term Nurse
(16:53):
number two, scandalized French classics. Nurse number one, Oh, I
beg your pardon. I thought they were French novels. May
twenty second, nineteen nineteen. The reviewers say I am introspective.
(17:14):
They mean self introspective. I am really both. May twenty fourth,
nineteen nineteen. My legs have to be tied down to
the bed with a rope. The little girl staying here
lends me her skipping rope. The peace Treaty, after those
(17:39):
bright hopes of last autumn, justice will be done only
when all power is vested in the people. Every liberal
minded man must feel the shame of it. This is
the end. I'm not going to keep a diary anymore.
The brightest thing in the world June one, nineteen nineteen,
(18:05):
Rupert Brooke said, the brightest thing in the world was
a leaf with the sun shining on it. God pity
his ignorance. The brightest thing in the world is a
tenophore in a glass jar standing in the sun. This
is a bit of a secret, for no one knows
(18:26):
about it, save only the naturalist. I had a new
sponge the other day, and a smell to the sea
till I had soaked it. But what a vista that
smell opened up. Rock poems, Gobi's, Blennies, Annemies, Crassicon, Dahlia,
(18:49):
Oh I forget And at the end of my little
excursion into memory. I came upon the morning when I
put some sanded, opaque bit of jelly lying on the
riarm of the sea into a glass collecting jar, and
to my amazement and delight, they turned into tenophors, alive,
(19:14):
swimming and iridescent. You must imagine a tiny soap bubble
about the size of a filbert, with four series of
plates or combs arranged regularly on the soap bubble from
its north to its south pole, and flashing spasmodically in
unison as they beat the water. June third, nineteen nineteen.
(19:44):
Tomorrow I go to another nursing home. The rest is silence.
The end of section eight, the end of a last
story by W. N. P. Barbellion
Section eight of a Last Diary by W. N. P. Barbellion.
This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in
the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please
visit LibriVox dot org. Beauty April twenty second, nineteen nineteen.
(00:31):
Under the lens of scientific a narsis, natural beauty disappears.
The emotion of beauty and the spirit of the narsis
and dissection cannot exist contemporaneously, the sunset becomes waves of
light impinging on atmospheric dust, the most beautiful pearl, the
(00:53):
insisted itch of a mollusc, and not natural beauty alone,
but all beauty, all the furnture of earth, and all
the choir of heaven. At the intellex beck must shed
their beautiful vestments, although their aureoles in the interim shall
remain safe in the keeping of man's soul. For just
(01:16):
as man's scientific narcist destroys beauty, so his synthetic art
creates it, and man creates beauty. Nature supplying the raw materials.
Nature is the clay man the potter. Everyone feeling the
emotion of beauty becomes a creative artist. If the world
(01:38):
were as ugly as sin, the artist would recreate it
beautiful in the image of his own beautiful spirit, just
as Frank Brangwyn and Joseph Pennell are actually now doing
with those industrial hideousnesses. But man's generous nature, because there
is beauty in his own heart, naively assumes its possession
(02:00):
by others, and so projects it into nature. But he
sees in her only the truth and goodness that are
in himself. Natural beauty is everyone's mirror. Similarly, as I
believe man creates the world itself after his own mind,
(02:22):
consult the humanists, in whose system of philosophy I have
a profound intuitive belief. Certainly, there are many times when nature,
by pure accident, having other aims than our delight, produces
the finished article Helen of Troy, I suppose, required no
emendation from the artist's hand, nor does the water smeat Linton.
(02:49):
Occasionally a human drama completes itself perfectly in five acts,
observing all the unities. It may be claimed by the
moralists that there must be some very definite inherent direction
in nature's processes towards the light of beauty. If, in
the ordinary course of producing, say a blue flower, to
(03:11):
attract insects a thing of rare beauty. At the same
time emerges therefrom But this is putting the cart before
the horse, For man's own ideas of beauty are necessarily
based on the forms and color he finds in nature,
the only world he knows. So that we may say
roughly that for our purposes we love blue flowers, for instance,
(03:35):
because bees first loved them. The bees were the original
artists who created and educated our taste. They and the
blue sky above us. That is, as a fact, it
is impossible to imagine the physical world as ugly as sin,
unless at the same time you imagine man's soul as
(03:57):
being as ugly as sin. You can imagine the world differently,
e g. With fewer forms and colors, say uniformly flat
and brown a desert. But that would mean that not
only art would be poorer, but man himself as such
(04:17):
would cease to exist. Instead, we should have evolved as
glorified sand. Art has to take its cue from nature,
though nature, whatever its transform in any sort of planet,
would always be amended by art, provided man were the same.
(04:38):
Because mind is above matter, art above nature. April twenty fifth,
nineteen nineteen my beloved's birthday, April twenty sixth, nineteen nineteen.
Here is the nucleus of a sl add A newspaper tragedy.
(05:02):
I sleep on the ground floor in the front. Nurse
sleeps at the back up stairs. She is very deaf,
and I am helpless. Her father and mother both died
of heart failure. One sister has heart disease and another
heart weakness. Her heart too is weak, and my electric
(05:22):
bell won't ring if it did. She can only hear
it when awake. We live alone, and each morning I
endure suspense till I hear her coming down the stairs.
I overheard in the world outside in the road, Aunt
(05:46):
Massaunt a patrician's voice. I was staying at Lord Burham's
place over the weekend, very jolly second voice. I can
never understand why he They passed two countrymen meeting in
the road. I cannot see them, but quite well know
(06:09):
how they have drawn up like railway engines, standing on
their metals, one on the right side and the other
on the left of the road, converse a moment across
the intervening middle space. How is it, then, no, pretty Midland,
they haven't trot your dog yet? Then? I see rabies
(06:31):
reported in the district. I'll watch it, and they steam
slowly onward. April twenty eighth, nineteen nineteen. Yes, there are compensations.
Few can appreciate. A sunny morning and a blackbird's contralto
(06:52):
from the walnut tree. The happy and comfortable like to
hear about the compensations. They always thought things were never
so bad as they seem. You must pull your socks
up and make the best of things. You shouldn't have
the impudence to tell him so. Last night a blizzard
(07:15):
a gale. April twenty ninth, nineteen nineteen. Having cast my
bread upon the waters, it amuses me to find it
returning with the calculable exactitude of a tidal movement. Eg.
In my journal, I stroked public opinion and are now
(07:36):
pursed to the tune of two and a half pages
of review the Saturday Review I cursed with bell, book
and candle, and voila. They mangle me in their turn.
For the most part, the reviewers say what I have
told them to say in the book. One writes that
it is a remarkable book. I told him it was.
(07:59):
Another says I am a conceited prig. What I have
said as much more than once. A third hint at
the writer's inherent madness. I queried the same possibility. It
is amusing to see the flat contradictions. There is no
(08:19):
sort of unanimity of opinion about any part of my
complex character. One says a genius, another not a genius, witty, dull, vivacious, dismal,
intolerably sad, happy, lewde, finicky, quiet, humor, wild and vivacious
(08:40):
wit as a whole. I am surprised and delighted with
the extraordinary kindness and sympathy meted out to it, more
than I deserve or it deserves. While one or two
critics with power that amazes penetrate to the wretched Barbellian's core.
To mister Massingham, I feel I can only murmur too kind,
(09:06):
too kind, like the aged Florence Nightingale, and they came
to present her with the O M. But what sympathetic
understanding commare one man who said I was a social climber,
another that I was finicky on sexual matters. Ha ha,
pardon my homeric laughter. Another or was it the same
(09:31):
that I shrank from life? Yes, shrank? I give me
more life. The parwady girth. I have shouted thus for years.
Poor old reviewers, friends and relatives say I have not
drawn my real self. But that's because I've taken my
clothes off and they can't recognize me. Stark. The book
(09:54):
is a self portrait in the nude. May first, nineteen nineteen.
What a sad, intractable world? Will human love and goodness
ever overcome it? May second, nineteen nineteen. I long to
(10:18):
see my little daughter again, yet I fear it horribly.
I am ashamed to meet her gaze. She will be
frightened at me. Better, she should have no memory of
me at all to take through life. May fifteenth, nineteen nineteen.
(10:44):
On the fourteenth, at two p m, a well appointed
ambulance took me to a nursing home at Eastbourne, where
I arrived at seven p m. Exhausted but cheerful. It
was like being raised from the dead. We traveled by
Acton and Ealing and Shepherd's Bush. When we turned down
h Road past my old rooms, across Kensington Road and
(11:07):
down Warwick Gardens were one dark November night plighted our
troth beneath a lamp post. We passed the lamp post,
then to West Cromwell Road to Fulham, Wandsworth, Tooting to
Tunbridge Wells, where at four point thirty we drew up
(11:27):
at an inn and a servant maid put a tray
of tea and cakes on the bench beside me, and
I ate and smoked while the driver in the road
compared notes of the landlord on war adventures? Where were you? Then,
messines ah, and then't go so far north as that
it was so hot. I lay on my couch for
(11:48):
my rugs, et cetera. Off, but the street boys were
so curious over my pajama suit. I pulled the blinds.
Then they moved round and looked in through the door.
Nurse they moved round to the other side, so nurse
drew those blinds too. Then they capered off. After that
(12:09):
across Crobough Forest, the car running at an even pace
up hill and down. I lay happy in triumphant and
watched the country speeding by. We passed picnic parties. Some
one should have given them a warning and exhortation. A
dreadful thing for them, thought I, if they are not
aware fully of their magnificent good fortune. The sky was cloudless.
(12:35):
It was an amusing thing to me to feel so happy.
Then I became displeased in my mood. On ease account,
I recollected the picture of her and baby the road
waving me good bye, May seventeenth, nineteen nineteen. This egotism
business the Journal is more egoism than egotism, especially the
(13:00):
latter part, And ought not Meredith to have called it
the egotist May eighteenth, nineteen nineteen. In the Journal, I
can see now that I made myself out worse than
I am or was. I even took a morbid pleasure
in intimating my depravity, self mortification. If I had spoken
(13:26):
out more plainly, I should have escaped all this censure.
The reviewers are only too ready to take me at
my word, which is but natural. I don't think on
the whole my portrait of myself does myself justice. A
beautiful morning at the bottom of my bed, two French
(13:47):
windows open out onto the garden, where a blackbird is
singing me something more than well. It is a magnificent flute,
obligato to the tune in my heart, going hupped up,
hupped up wildly, as if I were a youth again
in first love. He shouted out his song in the evening.
(14:08):
The very moment I arrived here. What fine spirits these
blackbirds are. I listened to him, and my withered carcass
soaks up his song with a sighing sound, like a
dry sponge taking up water. Pompa mortis, May twentieth, nineteen nineteen.
(14:37):
If I could please myself, I should have my coffin
made and kept under my bed. Then if I should die,
they could just pull the old box out and put
me in it. It is the orthodox pompa mortis that
makes death so ugly and terrible. I like the idea
of William Morris, who has taken to the cemetery in
an old farm cart. I often laughed loud at the
(15:01):
struggles of nurse of my perfectly ludicrous, impotent body. If
you saw us, you would certainly believe in a personal devil.
When you saw what a devil he is, you would
also see in him a most fantastic clown. My right
leg is almost completely anthetized. Curious experience this. You could
(15:23):
poke the fire with it, and I shouldn't feel anything.
Out of the way. I could easily emulate Cranmire's stoical behavior.
It is so dead that if you put my body
out in the sun, the flies in error would come
and lay their eggs on me. Yes, Satan was the
(15:44):
first and chiefest of pantaloons. Any One who desires to
possess a complete knowledge of the world should read Dumel,
Latsko Barboose and consult the illustrations in a text book
of tropical medicine. The ultimate detection of a few bad
(16:05):
faults and a good man most unfairly discounts as goodness
in the idealist's judgment, for the idealist can be a stern,
implacable taskmaster. So a few good points unexpectedly coming to
light in a bad man are enough to make the
ever sanguine idealists forget the fellow's general badness, for the
(16:26):
man of ideals must snatch at a straw. This is
not justice, but it's human nature. Those nurses again, Nurse
number one helping her colleague to put away her books,
examining a lapfull ah French novels, tomty Urn term Nurse
(16:53):
number two, scandalized French classics. Nurse number one, Oh, I
beg your pardon. I thought they were French novels. May
twenty second, nineteen nineteen. The reviewers say I am introspective.
(17:14):
They mean self introspective. I am really both. May twenty fourth,
nineteen nineteen. My legs have to be tied down to
the bed with a rope. The little girl staying here
lends me her skipping rope. The peace Treaty, after those
(17:39):
bright hopes of last autumn, justice will be done only
when all power is vested in the people. Every liberal
minded man must feel the shame of it. This is
the end. I'm not going to keep a diary anymore.
The brightest thing in the world June one, nineteen nineteen,
(18:05):
Rupert Brooke said, the brightest thing in the world was
a leaf with the sun shining on it. God pity
his ignorance. The brightest thing in the world is a
tenophore in a glass jar standing in the sun. This
is a bit of a secret, for no one knows
(18:26):
about it, save only the naturalist. I had a new
sponge the other day, and a smell to the sea
till I had soaked it. But what a vista that
smell opened up. Rock poems, Gobi's, Blennies, Annemies, Crassicon, Dahlia,
(18:49):
Oh I forget And at the end of my little
excursion into memory. I came upon the morning when I
put some sanded, opaque bit of jelly lying on the
riarm of the sea into a glass collecting jar, and
to my amazement and delight, they turned into tenophors, alive,
(19:14):
swimming and iridescent. You must imagine a tiny soap bubble
about the size of a filbert, with four series of
plates or combs arranged regularly on the soap bubble from
its north to its south pole, and flashing spasmodically in
unison as they beat the water. June third, nineteen nineteen.
(19:44):
Tomorrow I go to another nursing home. The rest is silence.
The end of section eight, the end of a last
story by W. N. P. Barbellion
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Football’s funniest family duo — Jason Kelce of the Philadelphia Eagles and Travis Kelce of the Kansas City Chiefs — team up to provide next-level access to life in the league as it unfolds. The two brothers and Super Bowl champions drop weekly insights about the weekly slate of games and share their INSIDE perspectives on trending NFL news and sports headlines. They also endlessly rag on each other as brothers do, chat the latest in pop culture and welcome some very popular and well-known friends to chat with them. Check out new episodes every Wednesday. Follow New Heights on the Wondery App, YouTube or wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to new episodes early and ad-free, and get exclusive content on Wondery+. Join Wondery+ in the Wondery App, Apple Podcasts or Spotify. And join our new membership for a unique fan experience by going to the New Heights YouTube channel now!
Dateline NBC
Current and classic episodes, featuring compelling true-crime mysteries, powerful documentaries and in-depth investigations. Follow now to get the latest episodes of Dateline NBC completely free, or subscribe to Dateline Premium for ad-free listening and exclusive bonus content: DatelinePremium.com
On Purpose with Jay Shetty
I’m Jay Shetty host of On Purpose the worlds #1 Mental Health podcast and I’m so grateful you found us. I started this podcast 5 years ago to invite you into conversations and workshops that are designed to help make you happier, healthier and more healed. I believe that when you (yes you) feel seen, heard and understood you’re able to deal with relationship struggles, work challenges and life’s ups and downs with more ease and grace. I interview experts, celebrities, thought leaders and athletes so that we can grow our mindset, build better habits and uncover a side of them we’ve never seen before. New episodes every Monday and Friday. Your support means the world to me and I don’t take it for granted — click the follow button and leave a review to help us spread the love with On Purpose. I can’t wait for you to listen to your first or 500th episode!