Buying a television has never required more vocabulary. OLED, QD-OLED, Mini-LED, QLED, HDR10, HDR10+, Dolby Vision, nits, zones, refresh rate - the spec sheet reads like a chemistry exam crossed with a marketing brochure, and somehow the picture quality has never been better while the shopping experience has never been more confusing. Here is the good news: almost none of it requires an engineering degree to understand, and once you know what each term is actually protecting you from - or selling you - the whole decision collapses into something much simpler than the box implies. There is also a twist near the end that has nothing to do with panels or pixels, and it changes how you should think about that suspiciously good price tag.

The central question in education is no longer whether students should be allowed to use artificial intelligence. That stage has, in practice, already passed. The question is now far more serious: how do we preserve the human habit of thinking independently when a machine increasingly offers fast, polished and convincing answers? The real danger of AI is not that it can help someone write a text. The danger is that it can quietly replace the very process through which thought is formed.

Not long ago, the internet was built in a simple and almost honest way: people wrote for people. Someone shared experience, someone argued, someone sold, someone explained, someone made mistakes, someone searched for truth, and someone simply wanted to be heard. The web was noisy, imperfect and overloaded, but at its core there was still a human logic: pages, authors, sources, opinions, personal experience, forums, blogs, company websites, media, comments, a search bar and a long journey from question to answer. Now that model is quickly becoming part of the past.

Every word has a biography. Some come from ancient languages, some are born from mistakes, some change meaning so dramatically that their original sense is almost impossible to guess. Behind an ordinary word, one may find theatre, war, religion, medicine, trade or a domestic detail that has survived for centuries. That is what makes etymology so fascinating: it shows that language is not a museum, but a living memory of culture.

Nikolai Nosov novel Dunno on the Moon written in 1964 is a mirror of modern reality. It is a story about a world ruled by the hunger for money, profit, and entertainment - a world that turns people into sheep.

It was one of those scientific stories that seems almost impossible. A Soviet researcher who had never set foot in Mexico managed to do what the world’s leading Mayanists had failed to achieve for decades: he proved the phonetic character of Maya writing and opened the way to reading it. Not through a jungle expedition, not through a sensational archaeological discovery, not through a new bilingual inscription like the Rosetta Stone, but through work at a desk, with books, tables, manuscripts and iron logic. Later, Yuri Valentinovich Knorozov would say, almost defiantly: “I am an armchair scholar. To work with texts, there is no need to climb pyramids.” In that sentence there was defence, irony and the pain of a man who for too long was not allowed to visit the cultural world of his greatest discovery.