Admiration

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

Page 76 of 288 · 20 per page

• From Books That Have Made History: Books That Can Change Your Life (2005)

  88 Lecture 16: Aeschylus, Prometheus Bound his gruesome task. Power represents a second type of character who assists tyrants. Power is convinced that Prometheus deserves his punishment and encourages Hephaestus to carry it out. Prometheus refuses to apologize to Zeus because he did nothing wrong. The chorus pities Prometheus and asks him to give in. Prometheus refuses because he knows that he is right and that tyranny is wrong. The cow Io is introduced, also a victim of Zeus’s tyranny. Io had been a maiden with whom Zeus enjoyed a dalliance. Zeus—like all tyrants—is a coward. He is afraid of his wife, Hera, who turned Io into a cow followed by stinging horsefl ies. Prometheus, with his foreknowledge, understands that the suffering of Io will last many years. Prometheus knows that Hercules will be born of the descendants of Io and will one day help Prometheus. Prometheus tells the chorus to weep not for him but for Zeus, who may not always be king. Prometheus says that he knows who will overthrow Zeus. Zeus hears about Prometheus’s claim and sends Hermes, the messenger god, to extract information from Prometheus. Hermes tells Prometheus that the person with power defi nes right. Hermes asks Prometheus to tell him who will overthrow Zeus. Even with the threat of more terrible tortures, Prometheus refuses to betray the name. The play ends with thunder and lightning offstage and with Prometheus shrieking his defi ance to Zeus. The play depicts the power of a tyrant able to in fl ict suffering on a colossal scale. In his book 1984, George Orwell de fi ned power as “the ability to infl ict pain and humiliation.” This de fi nition was as true in 5 th-century Athens as it was in Nazi Germany or under Stalin in Russia. Nothing is more terrible than simple unrelenting pain, and nothing is more devastating to the spirit than humiliation. Prometheus, who had been honored by Zeus, is crucifi ed and subject to constant pain because he insists on his belief in what is right. Prometheus Bound is a powerful statement of the right to resist Statue of Zeus in Greece. © Hemera Technologies/AbleStock.com/Thinkstock.

• From Books That Have Made History: Books That Can Change Your Life (2005)

  128 Lecture 24: Machiavelli, The Prince China. Machiavelli did not transform people’s thinking—he described people as they were. The lessons of Machiavelli are written throughout history. Machiavelli believed that power is what people want and that people will do anything to obtain it. Machiavelli would say that the teachings of Socrates, Jesus, and Confucius are fi ne intellectually, but people do not actually behave that way. He would rewrite the Golden Rule as: “Do others in before they do you in.” He believed that in the real world, an individual must live by the clear rules of power. Hitler said that The Prince was the most in fl uential work he had ever read and that he often turned to it for guidance. Machiavelli was born in Florence in 1469 and died in 1527. Machiavelli lived during the time of the Renaissance in Italy. Florence was a free republic that valued its autonomy, liberty, and democratic form of government. Machiavelli came from a family of some distinction. He received a good education, which focused on Latin classics. He came to believe that history could be used as a tool to understand the present. Machiavelli entered bureaucratic service and rose rapidly, becoming a trusted agent of the republic of Florence. He went on diplomatic missions and traveled widely. He was known for writing clear reports on his diplomatic activities, and in these reports, he mastered the Italian language. Although erudite books were commonly written in Latin in the 15 th century, Machiavelli understood that the Italian language was a powerful vehicle. Machiavelli sharpened his understanding of how politics works, how politicians operate, and what matters to them. In 1512, a sudden change occurred in the politics of Florence. The mercenary armies of Pope Julius II conquered Florence, the Florentine government was forced to give up its republican constitution, and the de’Medici family was reinstated in a dictatorship. Machiavelli was falsely accused of malfeasance, convicted of these trumped up charges, removed from political affairs, and banished to his small family farm, where he returned to studying. He began a “dialogue” with the men of the past and, from them, learned the truth about Machiavelli would say that the teachings of Socrates, Jesus, and Confucius are fi ne intellectually, but people do not actually behave that way.

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  When writing the first draft of the book, which scene/s were you most excited about writing? Which did you write first? I wrote this book over so many years, and there were so many dozens of drafts, that it’s hard to remember the process. I wrote the scene in the gym where they find out about Alaska very early on, probably in 2001. I also wrote a couple of the later scenes where the Colonel and Pudge are playing video games that year, and the scene where Pudge meets the Colonel survived in more or less its original form. I think Barn Night was also written in 2001, which was probably the most fun I had writing Alaska . But almost everything I wrote that first year ended up getting deleted or dramatically changed. Such is writing. Was there any section in particular that you had to rewrite way more than other sections? Why? The funeral. I wrote the funeral probably fifteen or twenty times, and I would send it to Julie, and she’d be like, “Yeah, you have to write the funeral again.” It was infuriating. Then one day my roommates and I had a huge fight. I don’t even remember what it was about, but I think it involved a vacuum cleaner. I really love my friend Shannon, and in many years of living together we almost never fought, and I couldn’t stop screaming and crying about this vacuum cleaner, and so I went downstairs sobbing and furious and wrote the funeral scene in about ten minutes. Do you have a favorite line in Looking for Alaska ? Yes, it’s the one I didn’t write. When Sarah Urist and I were on our first date, I said something about the future, and she said, “Imagining the future is a kind of nostalgia.” Later, after receiving permission from Sarah, I gave that line to Alaska. I still think all the time about how imagining the future is a kind of nostalgia, and also how strange and wonderful it is that my first date with Sarah led to another, and another, and now we’ve been married for almost fifteen years. Sarah and I are very lucky to like each other’s work and to be able to collaborate—we both read everything the other writes, and I am continually astonished by the clarity, rigor, and wit she brings to her work about art and art history. Is there significance to Miles’s last name, Halter? Halt Her Can you talk about the blow job scene? The oral sex scene in Looking for Alaska between Lara and Pudge takes place immediately before a far less sexually intimate but far more emotionally intimate encounter between Pudge and Alaska. The language in the oral sex scene is extremely clinical and distant and unsensual. The word “penis” is used rather than member or hot rod or whatever else you’ll find in romance novels. The adverbs and adjectives that appear in that scene include weird, nervous, and quizzically.

• From Books That Have Made History: Books That Can Change Your Life (2005)

  162 Lecture 31: Gibbon, Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire Sea to the Sahara and from Scotland to Iraq. The inhabitants were joined in common allegiance to Rome. Gibbon begins his story of the decline and fall of the Roman Empire in the 2nd century A.D., in the age of the Antonines. Gibbon was born in England to a family of wealth and standing. He went to Oxford for a short time but found it uninspiring. His conversion to Roman Catholicism while at Oxford led his father to send him to a private tutor, a minister, in Lausanne, Switzerland. There, Gibbon converted nominally to Protestantism, learned Greek and Latin, developed a love for history, and became fl uent in French. He returned to England and served brie fl y in the Hampshire Militia. He believed that this experience was not insignifi cant for a historian of the Roman Empire, because he learned about military tactics. Gibbon then traveled in Europe. He had decided that he wanted to make a name for himself by writing a history and began to search for a theme. He became engrossed by the concept of liberty and considered writing about the Florentine republic or the cantons of Switzerland. In Rome in October 1764, sitting on the Capitoline Hill looking out over the Forum, which had become a cow pasture, Gibbon pondered the downfall of Rome. He decided that his topic would be the decline of the Roman Empire: why the grandeur of the empire “collapsed before barbarism and superstition and why Christian monks and German barbarians came to rule Rome.” He had a broad vision that the culture of the Roman Empire was as important as its political history. His treatments of the Middle East and Muhammad are superb and fair-minded. His treatment of Christianity as a historical phenomenon got him into trouble. The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire shows broad vision, a superb knowledge of sources, and magni fi cent use of the English language. Gibbon’s work describes the death of the ancient world and the birth of modern Europe. The Franks, the Germanic tribes, and the Angles and Saxons had all taken the place of the Romans. After centuries, these new people “restored a manly spirit of freedom and laid the foundation for the progress of our own age.” Gibbon was convinced that history is a story of progress and that one of the greatest signs of progress was America. In Parliamentary debates about the American Revolution, Gibbon said nothing. Because Lord North offered Gibbon a sinecure to sit on the board of trade, Gibbon always voted on

• From Middlesex (2002)

  Her story followed the traditional lines better than mine. From an early age Carmen had felt that she had been born into the wrong body. In the dressing room one day, she told me in her South Bronx voice: "I was like, yo! Who put this dick on me? I never asked for no dick." It was still there, however, for the time being. It was what the men came to see. Zora, given to analytical thought, felt that Car- men's admirers were motivated by latent homosexuality. But Carmen resisted this notion. "My boyfriends are all straight. They want a woman? "Obviously not," said Zora. "Soon as I save my money I'm having my bottom done. Then we'll see. I'll be more of a woman than you, Z." "Fine with me," replied Zora. "I don't want to be anything in par- ticular." Zora had Androgen Insensitivity. Her body was immune to male hormones. Though XY like me, she had developed along female lines. But Zora had done it far better than I had. Aside from being blond, she was shapely and full-lipped. Her prominent cheekbones divided her face in Arctic planes. When Zora spoke you were aware of the skin stretching over these cheekbones and hollowing out be- tween her jaws, the tight mask it made, banshee-like, with her blue eyes piercing through above. And then there was her figure, the milk- maid breasts, the swim champ stomach, the legs of a sprinter or a Martha Graham dancer. Even unclothed, Zora appeared to be all woman. There was no visible sign that she possessed neither womb nor ovaries. Androgen Insensitivity Syndrome created the perfect woman, Zora told me. A number of top fashion models had it. "How many chicks are six two, skinny, but with big boobs? Not many. That's normal for someone like me." Beautiful or not, Zora didn't want to be a woman. She preferred 487 to identify herself as a hermaphrodite. She was the first one I met. The first person like me. Even back in 1974 she was using the term "intersexual," which was rare then. Stonewall was only five years in the past. The Gay Rights Movement was under way. It was paving a path for all the identity struggles that followed, including ours. The Intersex Society of North America wouldn't be founded until 1993, however. So I think of Zora Khyber as an early pioneer, a sort of

• From Books That Have Made History: Books That Can Change Your Life (2005)

  74 Lecture 13: Plato, Phaedo that each person had a god inside himself—a daemon, that is, a “good spirit” or conscience. That conscience accompanies the soul to the underworld. The soul of a person who has lived in pursuit of truth goes with his conscience to the underworld. The daemon of a person who has lived an evil life must drag that person’s soul down. When a person reaches the underworld, his soul will be judged by God. Those who have done evil deeds are thrown into a deep, fi ery pit. Those who have done bad deeds in a moment of anger or desperation are thrown into a great lake, where they fl oat around until their victims, who stand on the banks, forgive them. Those who have not done anything evil but who have not purifi ed their souls will fl it around until they are reborn as other creatures. Those souls who have spent their lives purifying themselves in the pursuit of wisdom are free forever, and they go to heaven and are joined with God and know only happiness and bliss and purity. Thus, Socrates believes in consequences for good and bad actions and knows that God cares about good and evil. All people make their choices and will pay for them. The jailer makes his presence known, and Socrates says that the jailer has been good to him. The jailer then prepares the poison. After drinking the poison and beginning to feel its effects, Socrates says that Crito should offer a rooster to Aesculapius, the god of healing and health, for healing him of earthly cares and the desires of his body. Thus, with his last breath, Socrates indicts the Athenian democracy that put him to death and shows a more profound belief in the gods than those who had accused him. Socrates dies and Phaedo says, “That was the end of that man who of all the men of our day was the best, the most just, the fi nest man who ever lived.” ■ Plato, Phaedo. Plato, Euthyphro, Apology, and Crito. Essential Reading Supplementary Reading 75 1. What parallels do you see between the Bhagavad Gita and the Phaedo? 2. Do you believe that morality depends on a belief in absolute values or in an afterlife? Questions to Consider

• From Books That Have Made History: Books That Can Change Your Life (2005)

  171 Cicero, On Moral Duties (De Offi ciis) Lecture 33 We come now to the concluding four lectures in our course on great books ... and I want to examine in these next three lectures three great individuals, each of whom wrote a great book, each of whom made history and each of whom lived lives that I think can be patterns to each one of us. I n 44 B.C., on the Ides of March, Julius Caesar was assassinated. His assassins, Brutus and Cassius, as well as most of the conspirators, fl ed Rome. Rome was in the hands of Marc Antony, who was underestimated. Many considered him to be a drunkard and a gambler, but he had gathered all Caesar’s power. Much of the Roman senate was cowed by Antony’s ruthless exercise of power. One elderly man, who could have enjoyed a quiet retirement, spoke out for the free republic and for liberty, knowing that doing so might cost him his life. That man was Marcus Tullius Cicero. In a series of ringing orations, Cicero attacked the character, policy, and intentions of Marc Antony. These powerful orations are called the Philippics. Cicero’s attempt failed. Antony joined forces with Caesar’s nephew, who was later known as Augustus, and together, they eliminated all opposition. Cicero was included on the list of those proscribed and was struck dead in 43 B.C. In the last part of his life, beginning in 46 B.C., Cicero refused the high government position that Caesar offered him, opting for retirement. During his retirement, he embarked on a search for truth so that he could base his politics on what was morally good in his effort to preserve freedom in Rome. In searching for truth, Cicero wrote De Offi ciis, or On Moral Duties, which Frederick the Great of Prussia called the best book on morality and ethics ever written. Cicero wrote De Of fi ciis to educate his son, who was spending his “junior year Cicero wrote De Offi ciis in the form of a letter to his son to enable the young man to learn from Cicero’s experience.

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  As they sat down, I crossed through the appropriate squares on the Colonel’s diagram and handed it to him. Just then, the Old Man shuffled in. He breathed slowly and with great labor through his wide-open mouth. He took tiny steps toward the lectern, his heels not moving much past his toes. The Colonel nudged me and pointed casually to his notebook, which read, The Old Man only has one lung , and I did not doubt it. His audible, almost desperate breaths reminded me of my grandfather when he was dying of lung cancer. Barrel-chested and ancient, the Old Man, it seemed to me, might die before he ever reached the podium. “My name,” he said, “is Dr. Hyde. I have a first name, of course. So far as you are concerned, it is Doctor. Your parents pay a great deal of money so that you can attend school here, and I expect that you will offer them some return on their investment by reading what I tell you to read when I tell you to read it and consistently attending this class. And when you are here, you will listen to what I say.” Clearly not an easy A. “This year, we’ll be studying three religious traditions: Islam, Christianity, and Buddhism. We’ll tackle three more traditions next year. And in my classes, I will talk most of the time, and you will listen most of the time. Because you may be smart, but I’ve been smart longer. I’m sure some of you do not like lecture classes, but as you have probably noted, I’m not as young as I used to be. I would love to spend my remaining breath chatting with you about the finer points of Islamic history, but our time together is short. I must talk, and you must listen, for we are engaged here in the most important pursuit in history: the search for meaning. What is the nature of being a person? What is the best way to go about being a person? How did we come to be, and what will become of us when we are no longer? In short: What are the rules of this game, and how might we best play it?” The nature of the labyrinth, I scribbled into my spiral notebook, and the way out of it . This teacher rocked. I hated discussion classes. I hated talking, and I hated listening to everyone else stumble on their words and try to phrase things in the vaguest possible way so they wouldn’t sound dumb, and I hated how it was all just a game of trying to figure out what the teacher wanted to hear and then saying it. I’m in class , so teach me . And teach me he did: In those fifty minutes, the Old Man made me take religion seriously.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  story. Hehad indeed contractedthe eye diseasefavusontheGiulia. But his medical licensehadsavedhimfrombeingsentbackto Greece; America neededphysicians.Dr.Philobosianhadstayed a monthinthe hospital at EllisIsland, afterwhich,withsponsorship from the Armenian ReliefAgency, hehadbeenadmittedintothe country. Forthe lastelevenmondishe'd been living inNewYork,on the LowerEastSide. "Grindinglensesforan optometrist."Recentiy he'd managedto retrievesome assets fromTurkey andhadcometo the Midwest. "I'mgoingtoopen a practicehere. New York hastoo manydoctors already." Hestayed fordinner.Thewomen'sdelicateconditions didn'tex- cuse them fromdomesticduties.Onswollenlegstheycarried out dishesof lambandrice,okraintomatosauce,Greeksalad,rice pudding. Afterward,DesdemonabrewedGreekcoffee,serving itin demitassecups withthebrownfoam,thelakia,ontop.Dr.Philo- bosianremarkedtotheseatedhusbands,"Hundred-to-oneodds. Are you sureithappenedonthesamenight?" "Yes,"Sourmelinareplied,smokingatthetable."Theremusthave been a fullmoon." "It usually takesa womanfiveorsixmonthstogetpregnant,"the doctorwenton."Tohaveyoutwodoitonthesamenight— a-hundred-to-one odds!" "Hundred-to-one?"Zizmolooked across thetableatSourmelina, wholookedaway. "Hundred-to-oneatleast," assuredthedoctor. "It'sall theMinotaur'sfault," Leftyjoked. "Don't talkaboutthat play,"Desdemonascolded. "Whyare youlookingat melikethat?"askedLina. "I can't look atyou?" asked herhusband. Sourmelina letoutan exasperatedsighandwipedhermouthwith her napkin. Therewasa strained silence.Dr.Philobosian,pouring himself another glass ofwine, rushedin. "Birth isafascinating subject.Take deformities,forinstance. Peo- ple usedto thinkthey werecausedby maternalimagination.During the conjugal act,whatever the motherhappenedtolookatorthink about wouldaffectthechild. There'sastoryin Damascene abouta woman who hada picture of John theBaptistoverherbed.Wearing the traditional hair shirt.Inthethroes ofpassion,thepoorwoman 115 happened toglanceupatthisportrait.Ninemonths later,her baby was born— furryas a bear!"Thedoctorlaughed, enjoyinghimself, sippingmorewine. "Thatcan't happen, canit?" Desdemona, suddenlyalarmed, wantedtoknow. But Dr.Philobosian was on a roll."There's anotherstoryabout a womanwhotouchedatoad whilemaking love.Herbabycameout withpopeyes andcoveredwithwarts." "This isinabookyouread?"Desdemona'svoicewastight. "Pare'sOnMonstersand Marvels hasmostofthis.TheChurch got intoit,too.Inhis EmbryologicalSacra,Cangiamillarecommended intra-uterinebaptisms.Supposeyouwereworriedthatyoumightbe carryingamonstrousbaby. Well,there was acureforthat.Yousim- ply filled a syringewithholywaterand baptized theinfantbeforeit wasborn." "Don'tworry,Desdemona,"Leftysaid, seeinghowanxious she looked."Doctorsdon't thinkthatanymore." "Ofcoursenot,"saidDr.Philobosian. "Allthisnonsensecomes fromtheDarkAges.Weknownow thatmostbirthdeformitiesresult fromthe consanguinityoftheparents." "Fromthewhat?"asked Desdemona. "Fromfamiliesintermarrying." Desdemonawent white. "Causes alllandsofproblems. Imbecility.Hemophilia.Lookat theRomanovs.Lookat anyroyalfamily.Mutants, allofthem." "Idon'tremember whatIwas thinkingthat night,"Desdemona said laterwhile washingthe dishes. "Ido,"saidLina."Thirdone fromtheright. Withtheredhair." "Ihadmy eyes closed." "Then don'tworry." Desdemona turnedonthe watertocover their voices."Andwhat abouttheotherthing?Thecon... thecon.. ." "Theconsanguinity?" "Yes.How do youknowifthebaby hasthat?" "Youdon't knowuntil it'sborn." "Mana!" "Whydo you think theChurchdoesn'tlet brothersandsisters get married? Even firstcousinshave toget permission froma bishop." 116 "I thought itwasbecause.. ." andshetrailedoff,having noan- swer. "Don't worry,"Linasaid."Thesedoctorsexaggerate.If families marrying eachotherwassobad,we'dallhavesixarmsandnolegs." But Desdemona didworry.She thoughtbackto Bithynios,trying to rememberhow manychildrenhadbeenbornwithsomething wrongwith them.MeliaSalakashad a daughterwith a piecemissing fromthe middleofherface.Herbrother,Yiorgos,hadbeeneight yearsold his wholelife. Werethereanybabieswithhairshirts?Any frog babies? Desdemonarecalled hermothertellingstoriesabout strangeinfantsborn in the village. Theycameeveryfewgenerations, babieswhowere sickinsome way,Desdemonacouldn'tremember howexactiy—her motherhadbeen vague.Everysooftentheseba- biesappeared, andtheyalways metwithtragicends:theykilled themselves, they ranoffandbecamecircusperformers,theywere seenyears laterinBursa,beggingorprostitutingthemselves.Lying alonein bed atnight,withLeftyoutworking,Desdemonatried to recallthedetailsofthesestories,butitwastoolongagoandnowEu- phrosyne Stephanideswasdeadandtherewasnoone to ask.She thoughtbacktothenightshe'dgottenpregnantandtriedtorecon- structevents. Sheturnedonherside.Shemadea pillow stand in for Lefty, pressingitagainstherback.She lookedaround theroom. Therewere nopicturesonthe walls.Shehadn'tbeentouchingany toads."Whatdid Isee?"sheasked herself."Onlythewall." Butshewasn't theonlyone tormentedbyanxieties.Recklessly now,and withanofficialdisclaimerastothe veracity of whatI'm abouttotell you—because,of alltheactorsinmymidwesternEpi- daurus, theone wearingthe biggestmaskis Jimmy Zizmo—I'lltryto give you aglimpse into hisemotions tiiat last trimester. Washeex- cited about becoming a father? Didhebringhomenutritiveroots andbrew homeopathic teas?No, hewasn't,hedidn't.AfterDr. Philobosian came to dinnerthat night, Jimmy Zizmobeganto change. Maybe itwaswhat thedoctorhadsaid regarding thesyn- chronous pregnancies.A-hundred-to-one odds.Maybeitwasthis stray bit ofinformation that wasresponsible forZizmo'sincreasing moodiness, his suspicious glancesathispregnant wife. Maybe he was doubting thelikelihoodthata singleactofintercourseinafive- month dry spellwouldresultina successfulpregnancy.WasZizmo examining his young wifeandfeeling old?Tricked? 117

• From Middlesex (2002)

  TRICKnOLOGV ffjjD hat was how mygrandmother cametoworkfor theNationof Islam.Like a cleaning ladyworkingin GrossePointe, shecame andwentbythe backdoor.Insteadof ahat,she wore a headscarf toconcealherirresistible ears.Shenever spoke above awhisper. Shenever asked questions orcomplained. Having grown upin acountryruled by others,shefound itallfamiliar. The fezzes, theprayer rugs,thecrescentmoons:it wasalittlelike going home. Forthe residentsofBlackBottomitwas liketraveling to another planet. The temple'sfrontdoors,in a sweetreversal ofmostAmeri- can entrances,let blacksinandkept whites out.Theformer paintings in thelobby— landscapes aglowwitiiManifest Destiny,scenesof In- dians being slaughtered— had beencarteddown to the basement.In their place were depictions ofAfricanhistory: aprinceandprincess strolling beside acrystalriver;a conclaveofblackscholarsdebating in anoutdoor forum. People came to TempleNo.1tohearFard'slectures.They also came to shop. Intheold cloakroom,SisterWandadisplayed thegar- ments that theProphetsaidwere"thesame kind thattheNegro peo- ple use intheir home intheEast."Sherippledtheiridescentfabrics under the lightsasconvertsstepped uptopay.Womenexchanged the maids' uniforms of subservienceforthe whitechadorsof emancipa- tion. Men replacedtheoverallsof oppressionwiththesilk suits of 149 dignity. Thetemple'scashregister overflowed.In leantimes, the mosquewas flush.Fordwasclosing factories but,at3408Hastings Street, Fardwasopenforbusiness. Desdemonasawlittleofallthisupon thethirdfloor. Shespent hermorningsteachingin the classroom andherafternoons inthe SilkRoom,wherethe uncut fabrics werestored. Onemorningshe broughtinhersilkwormboxforshow-and-tell. Shepassedthe box around,tellingthe story of its travels, howhergrandfather had carveditfrom olivewoodandhowithadsurvived afire,andshe managedtodoallthiswithoutsayinganything derogatoryabout the students'co-religionists.Infact,thegirlswereso sweetandfriendly thatDesdemonarememberedwhatithadbeen likeinthetimes whentheGreeks and Turks usedtogetalong. Nevertheless:blackpeoplewere stillnewtomyyiayia.Shewas shocked by various discoveries:"Insidethehands,"sheinformedher husband,"themavrosarewhitelikeus."Or:"Themavros don't have scars,onlybumps." Or: "Doyouknowhowthemavromenshave? With a powder!Isawitinthestorewindow."In the streetsofBlack Bottom,Desdemonawasappalledatthewaypeoplelived."Nobody sweeps up. Garbageontheporchesandnobodysweepsit.Terrible." Butatthetemplethingsweredifferent.The menworkedhard and didn'tdrink.Thegirlswerecleanandmodest. "This Mr.Fardisdoingsomething right," she said at Sundaydin- ner. "Please," Sourmelinadismissedthis,"weleft veilsbackinTurkey." ButDesdemonashookherhead."These Americangirlscould use a veilor two." TheProphethimselfremainedveiledto Desdemona.Fard waslikeagod:presenteverywhereandvisible nowhere.Hisglow lingeredin theeyesofpeople leaving a lecture.He expressedhim- self inthe dietarylaws,whichfavorednative Africanfoods—the yam, thecassava—andprohibitedthe consumptionof swine.Everyso oftenDesdemona sawFard's car— a brand-new Chrysler coupe— parked infront ofthetemple.Italways looked freshly washed and waxed,itschrome grillepolished.But she neversawFardat the wheel. "How doyou expecttosee himifhe'sGod?" Lefty askedwith amusementonenight asthey weregoingto bed. Desdemonalay 150 smiling, as thoughtickled byherfirst week'spayhiddenunderthe mattress. "I'llhavetohave avision,"shesaid. Herfirst projectatTemple No.1 wastoconverttheouthouse intoa cocoonery. CallingupontheFruit ofIslam, asthemilitarywingof the Nationwas known,she stood bywhilethe youngmenpulled out thewooden commodefrom therickety shack.They coveredthe cesspool withdirtandremoved oldpinup calendars fromthewalls, averting theireyesastheytiirew theoffending materialinthetrash. They installedshelvesandperforated theceilingfor ventilation.De- spitetheirefforts,abadsmelllingered. "Just wait," Desdemonatold them."Comparedto silkworms, thisis nothing." Upstairs, theMuslim GirlsTraining andGeneralCivilization Classwove feedingtrays. Desdemona triedtosavetheinitial batch ofsilkworms.She kept them warmunderelectric lightbulbsand sangGreeksongstothem, butdiesilkwormsweren'tfooled. Hatch- ingfromtheirblack eggs,theydetectedthedry,indoorair and thefalsesunofthelightbulbs,and begantoshrivelup."Gotmore ontheway,"SisterWandasaid,brushingoffthis setback."Behere direcdy." The dayspassed.Desdemonabecameaccustomedtothepale palmsofNegro hands.Shegotusedtousingthebackdoorandto not speakinguntilspoken to. Whenshewasn'tteachingthegirls, she waited upstairsin the SilkRoom. The SilkRoom: a descriptionis in order.(Somuchhappenedin thatfifteen-by-twenty-foot space: Godspoke;mygrandmotherre- nounced herrace;creation was explained;andthat'sjustforstarters.) Itwas asmall,low-ceilingedroom, with a cuttingtable at oneend. Bolts ofsilk leanedagainst thewalls.Theplushnessextended floor to ceiling, like theinsideofa jewelry box.Fabric was gettingharder to come by,butSisterWandahad stockpiledquiteabit. Sometimes thesilks seemedto bedancing.Stirredby aircurrents of a mysteriousorigin,the fabricsflappedup andfloatedaroundthe room. Desdemonawould have to catchthe clothandrollitback up. And one day, in the middle of a ghostlypasde deux— a greensilk leading asDesdemona backpedaled— sheheardavoice. "I WAS BORN INTHE HOLYCITY OFMECCA,ONFEB- RUARY 17, 1877." 151

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  “Although it isn’t due for more than two months, you’ll be receiving your paper topic for this semester today. Now, I’m quite sure that you’ve all read the syllabus for this class with such frequency and seriousness that by now you’ve committed it to memory.” He smirked. “But a reminder: This paper is fifty percent of your grade. I encourage you to take it seriously. Now, about this Jesus fellow.” Hyde talked about the Gospel of Mark, which I hadn’t read until the day before, although I was a Christian. I guess. I’d been to church, uh, like four times. Which is more frequently than I’d been to a mosque or a synagogue. He told us that in the first century, around the time of Jesus, some of the Roman coins had a picture of the Emperor Augustus on them, and that beneath his picture were inscribed the words Filius Dei. The Son of God. “We are speaking,” he said, “of a time in which gods had sons. It was not so unusual to be a son of God. The miracle, at least in that time and in that place, was that Jesus —a peasant, a Jew, a nobody in an empire ruled exclusively by somebodies—was the son of that God, the all-powerful God of Abraham and Moses. That God’s son was not an emperor. Not even a trained rabbi. A peasant and a Jew. A nobody like you. While the Buddha was special because he abandoned his wealth and noble birth to seek enlightenment, Jesus was special because he lacked wealth and noble birth, but inherited the ultimate nobility: King of Kings. Class over. You can pick up a copy of your final exam on the way out. Stay dry.” It wasn’t until I stood up to leave that I noticed Alaska had skipped class—how could she skip the only class worth attending? I grabbed a copy of the final for her. The final exam: What is the most important question human beings must answer? Choose your question wisely, and then examine how Islam, Buddhism, and Christianity attempt to answer it. “I hope that poor bastard lives the rest of the school year,” the Colonel said as we jogged home through the rain, “because I’m sure starting to enjoy that class. What’s your most important question?” After thirty seconds of running, I was already winded. “What happens…to us…when we die?” “Christ, Pudge, if you don’t stop running, you’re going to find out.” He slowed to a walk. “My question is: Why do good people get rotten lots in life? Holy shit, is that Alaska?” She was running at us at full speed, and she was screaming, but I couldn’t hear her over the pounding rain until she was so close to us that I could see her spit flying. “The fuckers flooded my room. They ruined like a hundred of my books! Goddamned pissant Weekday Warrior shit.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  mess. But herface continued togiveoffits autumnaldisplay. Thecat eyes above thesnub nosewerealert, blinkingand resettingtheirat- tentionto the growing noisebeyondtheflats. "There'smy mom anddad!"Maxine Grossingershouted. She turnedback tousand broke into a bigsmile.I'dneverseen Maxine smile before. Herteeth werejaggedandgappy,likethoseofa Sendak creature. She hadbraces, too.Her unconcealed joymademe under- standher.She hada wholeother lifeapartfrom school.Maxinewas happy inherhouse behindthe cypresses.Meanwhile,curlyhair gushed fromher fragile,musicalhead. "Oh, Jesus." Maxinewaspeeking outagain."They'resittingright inthefront row.They'regoingtobe staringrightatme." Weallpeeked out,eachin ourturn.OnlytheObscureObjectre- mained seated. Isawmyparents arrive.Miltonstoppedatthecrest oftheslopetolook downatthehockeyfield.Hisexpressionsug- gestedthatthe spectaclebeforehim,theemeraldgrass,thewhite woodenbleachers,the schoolinthedistancewithitsblueslateroof andivy,pleasedhim.InAmerica,Englandiswhereyougotowash yourselfofethnicity.Miltonhadon a blueblazerandcream-colored trousers.Helookedlikethecaptainof a cruiseship.Withonearmon herback,hewasgentlyleadingTessiedownthestepstogetagood seat. We heard theaudiencegrowquiet.Thenapanflutewasheard— Mr.daSilvaplaying hisrecorder. Iwentover totheObjectandsaid,"Don'tworry.You'llbefine." Shehadbeenrepeatingherlines silentlytoherselfbutnow stopped. "You're a really goodactress,"I continued. She turnedaway and lowered herhead,movingherlipsagain. "Youwon't forgetyourlines. Wewentoverthema billiontimes. Youhad themdown perfect yester— " "Will youstopbugging meforaminute?"theObject snapped. "I'm trying togetpsyched up."Sheglaredatme. Thensheturned andwalked off. Istood watching her,crestfallen, hating myself.Cool?Iwasany- thing but.I'd alreadymadethe ObscureObject sick ofme. Feeling as ifI might cry,Igrabbedone oftheblackcurtainsandwrappedmy- self upin it. Istoodinthedarkness,wishingIweredead. 337 I hadn'tjustbeen flatteringher. Shewasgood.Onstage, theOb- ject's fidgetiness stilled itself. Her postureimproved.Andof course therewas thesheerphysicalfactofher,theblood-tingedblade that she was, theriotofcolorthatcaughteveryone'sattention. Thepan flute stopped andthehockeyfieldgotsilent again.Peoplecoughed, gettingitoutof their systems. I peekedoutfromthecurtains and saw theObjectwaitingtogoon.Shewasstanding just inside the middle arch,nomorethantenfeetfrom me.Ihad never seenherso seriousbefore,soconcentrated. Talentis akindofintelligence.Asshe waitedtogoon,theObscureObjectwas coming intohers.Her lips movedas if she werespeakingSophocles' linestoSophocleshimself, as if,contrarytoallintellectualevidence,sheunderstoodtheliterary reasons fortheirendurance. So the Objectstood, waiting togoon. Farawayfromhercigarettesandhersnobbishness,hercliquish friends,heratrociousspelling.Thiswaswhatshewasgood at:ap- pearingbeforepeople.Steppingoutandstandingthereandspeak- ing.Shewasjust beginning to realizeitthen.WhatIwaswitnessing was a selfdiscoveringtheselfitcouldbe. Oncue, ourAntigonetook a deepbreathandwalkedonstage. Herwhiterobewascinchedaround her torso withsilverbraid.The robefluttered as shesteppedoutinthewarm breeze. "Wiltthouaidthishandtoliftthedead?" Maxine-Ismenereplied,"Thouwouldst buryhim,when'tisfor- biddentoThebes?" "Iwill domypart,andthouwiltnot,toa brother.Falseto him willInever befound." I wasn'tonfor awhile. Tiresiaswasn'tthat big a part.SoIclosed thecurtainaround meagainandwaited. Ihada staffin myhand. It wasmyonlyprop, aplasticstickpaintedto looklikewood. Itwasthen Iheard a small,chokingsound. AgaintheObject said, "Falseto him willInever befound." Followedby silence.Ipeeked outthe curtain. Through the centralarchIcouldsee them.TheOb- jecthad her backtome.FartherdownstageMaxine Grossingerstood witha blanklook onher face. Hermouthwas open,though no words werecoming out.Beyond, just abovethe lipofthestage, was MissFagles's florid face,whisperingMaxine'snext line. It wasn'tstage fright.Ananeurysmhad burstin MaxineGros- singer's brain.Atfirst, theaudiencetook herquick staggerand 338 shocked expressionto bepart oftheplay.Titters had begunat the way the girl playing Ismenewashamming it up. But Maxine's mother, knowing exactlywhatpainlooked likeonher child'sface, shot up out ofher seat."No," shecried."No!"Twentyfeetaway, ele- vated undera setting sun,Maxine Grossinger was still mute. Agurgle escaped from herthroat. Withthesuddennessof a lightingcueher face wentblue. Even inthe backrowspeoplecouldseetheoxygen leave her blood. Pinkness drainedaway,downherforehead,her cheeks, herneck. Later, theObscureObject would swearthatMaxine hadbeen looking ather withakindof appeal, thatshehadseenthe lightgo outof Maxine'seyes. Accordingtothedoctors,however, thiswas probablynot true.Wrappedin herdarkrobe, stillonher feet, MaxineGrossingerwas alreadydead. She toppledforwardsec- ondslater. Mrs.Grossinger scrambled up onstage.Shemadenosoundnow. No onedid. InsilenceshereachedMaxineandtoreopenherrobe. Insilencethe motherbegantogivethedaughtermouth-to-mouth.I froze. Ilet thecurtainsuntwistandIsteppedoutandgawked.Sud- denlya whiteblurfilledthearch.TheObscureObject was fleeingthe stage. For a secondIhadacrazyidea.IthoughtMr. da Silvahad beenholdingoutonus.Hewasdoingthingsthetraditional way af- terall.BecausetheObscureObject was wearing a mask.Themask fortragedy,hereyeslikeknifeslashes,hermouth a boomerangof woe. With this hideous faceshethrewherselfonme. "OhmyGod!" she sobbed. "Oh myGod,Callie,"andshewasshakingandneeding me. Which leadsmeto a terrible confession.Itisthis.WhileMrs. Grossingertried tobreathelife backinto Maxine's body,whilethe sunsetmelodramatically overadeaththat wasn'tinthe script, I felt a wave ofpurehappiness surgethroughmybody.Everynerve,every corpuscle,lit up.Ihadthe ObscureObjectinmyarms. 339

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  In Amy’s fourth year on hormones, a series of subtle changes meshed in a way that they hadn’t quite previously: The fat moved up high on her cheeks, padding out her already delicate and symmetrical bone structure, the lingering muscles and sinew melted and thinned, and her body took on a light, graceful affect. A blond ponytail followed her around, worn high and hanging back respectfully, so as not to steal attention from her slimmed neck and collarbones. The plumpness of her lips was just unfair. Pulling it all together: her nose job. She’d had it the year before. When the swelling had finally gone down, the nose traced a straight line down the center of her face. The line settled the planes of her face elegantly—the keystone that locked the arch of her features into place. Reese would never have said Amy’s face lacked harmony before. But after the nose job—Amy got so sheepishly gorgeous, the beauty of someone who came to it late, hadn’t internalized it, and so carried herself a step behind her own elegance. Health insurance had covered the nose job. Reese had talked Amy into getting the surgery, even though Reese could have never afforded any facial work for herself, and her own jealousy drove her to curt imperatives on the subject. You will get it. Stop delaying. Amy’s dithering vigil in front of the mirror, accompanied with her selection of celebrity nose photos (her favorite: Natalie Portman! Such definition in those perfect nostrils!), fermented a nauseating envy in Reese’s belly. But Reese continued to encourage Amy to go through with it on both principle and self-interest. Amy’s dysphoria centered on the ridge of her nose, which at certain pre-rhinoplasty angles, had given her a hawkish look. Reese didn’t recognize the hawkishness as particularly masculine, but Amy could spend hours staring at pictures of herself, focusing on the supposed maleness of her nose while all of the other physical changes of transition melted away in its proximity. In fact, Amy’s hatred of her nose was extreme enough to merit her the necessary letters from therapists to have it altered under the international standards for clinical gender dysphoria.

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  I’d just gotten my precalc test back, and I was awash with admiration for Alaska, since her tutoring had paved my way to a B-plus. She and I sat alone in the TV lounge watching MTV on a drearily cloudy Saturday. Furnished with couches left behind by previous generations of Culver Creek students, the TV room had the musty air of dust and mildew—and, perhaps for that reason, was almost perennially unoccupied. Alaska took a sip of Mountain Dew and grabbed my hand in hers. “Always comes up eventually. All right, so my mom was something of a hippie when I was a kid. You know, wore oversize sweaters she knitted herself, smoked a lot of pot, et cetera. And my dad was a real Republican type, and so when I was born, my mom wanted to name me Harmony Springs Young, and my dad wanted to name me Mary Frances Young.” As she talked, she bobbed her head back and forth to the MTV music, even though the song was the kind of manufactured pop ballad she professed to hate. “So instead of naming me Harmony or Mary, they agreed to let me decide. So when I was little, they called me Mary. I mean, they called me sweetie or whatever, but like on school forms and stuff, they wrote Mary Young . And then on my seventh birthday, my present was that I got to pick my name. Cool, huh? So I spent the whole day looking at my dad’s globe for a really cool name. And so my first choice was Chad, like the country in Africa. But then my dad said that was a boy’s name, so I picked Alaska.” I wish my parents had let me pick my name. But they went ahead and picked the only name firstborn male Halters have had for a century. “But why Alaska?” I asked her. She smiled with the right side of her mouth. “Well, later, I found out what it means. It’s from an Aleut word, Alyeska . It means ‘that which the sea breaks against,’ and I love that. But at the time, I just saw Alaska up there. And it was big, just like I wanted to be. And it was damn far away from Vine Station, Alabama, just like I wanted to be.” I laughed. “And now you’re all grown up and fairly far away from home,” I said, smiling. “So congratulations.” She stopped the head bobbing and let go of my (unfortunately sweaty) hand. “Getting out isn’t that easy,” she said seriously, her eyes on mine like I knew the way out and wouldn’t tell her. And then she seemed to switch conversational horses in midstream. “Like after college, know what I want to do? Teach disabled kids. I’m a good teacher, right? Shit, if I can teach you precalc, I can teach anybody.

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  “I suppose I missed my window of opportunity to shower,” he said as he put on a green CULVER CREEK BASKETBALL T-shirt and a pair of shorts. “Oh well. There’s always tomorrow. And it’s not cold. It’s probably eighty.” Grateful to have slept fully dressed, I just put on shoes, and the Colonel and I jogged to the classrooms. I slid into my seat with twenty seconds to spare. Halfway through class, Madame O’Malley turned around to write something in French on the blackboard, and Alaska passed me a note. Nice bedhead. Study at McDonald’s for lunch? Our first significant precalc test was only two days away, so Alaska grabbed the six precalc kids she did not consider Weekday Warriors and piled us into her tiny blue two-door. By happy coincidence, a cute sophomore named Lara ended up sitting on my lap. Lara’d been born in Russia or someplace, and she spoke with a slight accent. Since we were only four layers of clothes from doing it, I took the opportunity to introduce myself. “I know who you are.” She smiled. “You’re Alaska’s freend from FlowReeda.” “Yup. Get ready for a lot of dumb questions, ’cause I suck at precalc,” I said. She started to answer, but then she was thrown back against me as Alaska shot out of the parking lot. “Kids, meet Blue Citrus. So named because she is a lemon,” Alaska said. “Blue Citrus, meet the kids. If you can find them, you might want to fasten your seat belts. Pudge, you might want to serve as a seat belt for Lara.” What the car lacked in speed, Alaska made up for by refusing to move her foot from the accelerator, damn the consequences. Before we even got off campus, Lara was lurching helplessly whenever Alaska took hard turns, so I took Alaska’s advice and wrapped my arms around Lara’s waist. “Thanks,” she said, almost inaudibly. After a fast if reckless three miles to McDonald’s, we ordered seven large french fries to share and then went outside and sat on the lawn. We sat in a circle around the trays of fries, and Alaska taught class, smoking while she ate. Like any good teacher, she tolerated little dissension. She smoked and talked and ate for an hour without stopping, and I scribbled in my notebook as the muddy waters of tangents and cosines began to clarify. But not everyone was so fortunate. As Alaska zipped through something obvious about linear equations, stoner/baller Hank Walsten said, “Wait, wait. I don’t get it.” “That’s because you have eight functioning brain cells.” “Studies show that marijuana is better for your health than those cigarettes,” Hank said. Alaska swallowed a mouthful of french fries, took a drag on her cigarette, and blew smoke at Hank. “I may die young,” she said. “But at least I’ll die smart. Now, back to tangents.” one hundred days before “NOT TO ASK the obvious question, but why Alaska? ” I asked.

• From Thinking, Fast and Slow (2011)

  obvious possibility that the choice may have been guided by a preference for one outcome or another. He goes on to conclude that “defining risk is thus an exercise in power.” You might not have guessed that one can get to such thorny policy issues from experimental studies of the psychology of judgment! However, policy is ultimately about people, what they want and what is best for them. Every policy question involves assumptions about human nature, in particular about the choices that people may make and the consequences of their choices for themselves and for society. Another scholar and friend whom I greatly admire, Cass Sunstein, disagrees sharply with Slovic’s stance on the different views of experts and citizens, and defends the role of experts as a bulwark against “populist” excesses. Sunstein is one of the foremost legal scholars in the United States, and shares with other leaders of his profession the attribute of intellectual fearlessness. He knows he can master any body of knowledge quickly and thoroughly, and he has mastered many, including both the psychology of judgment and choice and issues of regulation and risk policy. His view is that the existing system of regulation in the United States displays a very poor setting of priorities, which reflects reaction to public pressures more than careful objective analysis. He starts from the position that risk regulation and government intervention to reduce risks should be guided by rational weighting of costs and benefits, and that the natural units for this analysis are the number of lives saved (or perhaps the number of life-years saved, which gives more weight to saving the young) and the dollar cost to the economy. Poor regulation is wasteful of lives and money, both of which can be measured objectively. Sunstein has not been persuaded by Slovic’s argument that risk and its measurement is subjective. Many aspects of risk assessment are debatable, but he has faith in the objectivity that may be achieved by science, expertise, and careful deliberation. Sunstein came to believe that biased reactions to risks are an important source of erratic and misplaced priorities in public policy. Lawmakers and regulators may be overly responsive to the irrational concerns of citizens, both because of political sensitivity and because they are prone to the same cognitive biases as other citizens. Sunstein and a collaborator, the jurist Timur Kuran, invented a name for the mechanism through which biases flow into policy: the availability cascade. They comment that in the social context, “all heuristics are equal, but availability is more equal than the others.” They have in mind an expanded notion of the heuristic, in which availability provides a heuristic for judgments other than frequency. In particular, the importance of an idea is often judged by the fluency (and emotional charge) with which that idea comes to mind.

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  Hank’s primary claim to campus fame, I already knew, was that he always had weed, and the Colonel told me that for four years, Hank started every game without ever once playing sober. “He loves weed like Alaska loves sex,” the Colonel said. “This is a man who once constructed a bong using only the barrel of an air rifle, a ripe pear, and an eight-by-ten glossy photograph of Anna Kournikova. Not the brightest gem in the jewelry shop, but you’ve got to admire his single-minded dedication to drug abuse.” From Hank, the Colonel told me, it went downhill until you reached Wilson Carbod, the starting center, who was almost six feet tall. “We’re so bad,” the Colonel said, “we don’t even have a mascot. I call us the Culver Creek Nothings.” “So they just suck?” I asked. I didn’t quite understand the point of watching your terrible team get walloped, though the air-conditioning was reason enough for me. “Oh, they suck,” the Colonel replied. “But we always beat the shit out of the deaf-and-blind school.” Apparently, basketball wasn’t a big priority at the Alabama School for the Deaf and Blind, and so we usually came out of the season with a single victory. When we arrived, the gym was packed with most every Culver Creek student—I noticed, for instance, the Creek’s three goth girls reapplying their eyeliner as they sat on the top row of the gym’s bleachers. I’d never attended a school basketball game back home, but I doubted the crowds there were quite so inclusive. Even so, I was surprised when none other than Kevin Richman sat down on the bleacher directly in front of me while the opposing school’s cheerleading team (their unfortunate school colors were mud-brown and dehydrated-piss-yellow) tried to fire up the small visitors’ section in the crowd. Kevin turned around and stared at the Colonel. Like most of the other guy Warriors, Kevin dressed preppy, looking like a lawyer-who-enjoys-golfing waiting to happen. And his hair, a blond mop, short on the sides and spiky on top, was always soaked through with so much gel that it looked perennially wet. I didn’t hate him like the Colonel did, of course, because the Colonel hated him on principle, and principled hate is a hell of a lot stronger than “Boy, I wish you hadn’t mummified me and thrown me into the lake” hate. Still, I tried to stare at him intimidatingly as he looked at the Colonel, but it was hard to forget that this guy had seen my skinny ass in nothing but boxers a couple weeks ago. “You ratted out Paul and Marya. We got you back. Truce?” Kevin asked. “I didn’t rat them out. Pudge here certainly didn’t rat them out, but you brought him in on your fun. Truce? Hmm, let me take a poll real quick.” The cheerleaders sat down, holding their pom-poms close to their chest as if praying. “Hey, Pudge,” the Colonel said.

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  Natalie had become Sappho herself. When they finally returned to Paris, and in the doorway she Renée wrote her, "My blond Siren, I don't want you to become like those found a holy man, who who dwell on earth. . . . I want you to stay yourself, for this is the way you was astonished to see her in those parts and asked her cast your spell over me." Their affair lasted until Renée's death, in 1909. what she was doing there. She told him that she had been inspired by God, and Interpretation. Liane de Pougy and Renée Vivien both suffered a similar that she was trying, not only to serve Him, but also oppression: they were self-absorbed, hyperaware of themselves. The source to find someone who could of this habit in Liane was men's constant attention to her body. She could teach her how she should never escape their looks, which plagued her with a feeling of heavi- go about it. • On observing how young and ness. Renée, meanwhile, thought too much about her own problems— exceedingly pretty she was, her repression of her lesbianism, her mortality. She felt consumed with the good man was afraid to self-hatred. take her under his wing lest the devil should catch Natalie Barney, on the other hand, was buoyant, lighthearted, absorbed him unawares. So he in the world around her. Her seductions—and by the end of her life they praised her for her good numbered well into the hundreds—all had a similar quality: she took the intentions, and having given her a quantity of victim outside herself, directing her attention toward beauty, poetry, the in- herb roots, wild apples, and nocence of Sapphic love. She invited her women to participate in a kind of dates to eat, and some cult in which they would worship these sublimities. To heighten the cult- water to drink, he said to like feeling, she involved them in little rituals: they would call each other by her: • "My daughter, not-very far from here there is a new names, send each other poems in daily telegrams, wear costumes, holy man who is much make pilgrimages to holy sites. Two things would inevitably happen: the more capable than I of women would start to direct some of the worshipful feelings they were ex- teaching you what you want to know. Go along to periencing toward Natalie, who seemed as lofty and beautiful as the things him." And he sent her she held up to be adored; and, pleasantly diverted into this spiritualized upon her way. • When she realm, they would also lose any heaviness they had felt about their bodies, came to this second man, she was told precisely the

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  The cute boys in cutoff shorts lined up along the bar laugh. Thalia theatrically narrows her eyes at them. “What are you all laughing at? If you're here listening to me,” she admonishes, “it probably means youre also a disappointment to your parents! If you like my shtick, and you didn’t just wander in off the street, there is a high probability that you are also a degenerate who will never give your parents a grandchild.” Thalia spits out her gum in a pique, then continues on to the next question unabated. Thalia had given Reese a drink ticket and Reese laughs happily along with the rants, sipping on the free Corona. Reese sort of loves Thalia’s parents, or at least, Thalia’s version of them. She empathizes with them. They make all the classic parents-of-a-trans mistakes, but unlike Reese’s own parents, they seem to truly and deeply love their child, as baffling and confusing as they find her. Reese can relate: Thalia is deeply lovable and talented and spoiled and capable of inexplicable rage—which makes her one of the most compelling girls Reese knows. Thalia also happens to be one of the most talented musicians in the city, though she prima-donna-ishly refuses almost all offers to perform—her parents’ largesse allows her to avoid the grind of petty performances, which lesser musicians accept primarily in order to eat and secondarily to build up a following. Still, although Thalia performs only rarely, half of her twink followers are fans of her music who settle for seeing her yell at them in a dive bar because it is the closest thing available to hearing her sing. Thalia’s talents only explain a part of Reese’s deep affection for her. Reese knows a lot of talented people—half the trans women in Brooklyn live in a state of perpetual pre-celebrity, awaiting a well- deserved recognition that will never come. No, more than simply finding Thalia compelling, Reese secretly and proudly thinks of Thalia as her trans daughter. Reese shares this with almost no one, because she’d be mortified to take public credit for how remarkably level Thalia has turned out to be, even though in her own mind, she deserves a healthy share of that credit.

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  After a couple of poor seasons trying to raise vegetables and sell them to restaurants and farmer’s markets, Isaac met a man who introduced him to a Danish system of raising mink for fur. So for the majority of her childhood, Katrina lived on a mink farm, where her daily chores included feeding a mixture of pureed meat and dried fish to hundreds of slinky river predators stacked in twenty-four-by- forty-eight-inch cages. “Fur is really so gross,” Reese says. “I’m lucky I could never afford a fur coat, because that kind of raw barbarism is a little bit sexy. I wouldn’t be able to resist flaunting it.” “Yeah,” Ames agrees. “She has a picture on Facebook, from like eighth grade, where she skinned a mink in front of the class as her science project. The student newspaper took the photo. It’s like, of a pretty, gawky girl smiling in front of a pile of red gore.” “Horrifying,” says Reese happily. “No wonder she pretends to be norm-core now.” Ames’s favorite story from Katrina’s childhood was the one where a young black bear broke through a screen window and into their house while the family was out. The bear crashed around the kitchen, broke two bottles of red wine, then trod through the resulting wine puddle, leaving red paw prints all over the seventies white carpet and cream-colored couch. Isaac came home and, enraged at the property damage, charged around the house brandishing a fire poker, convinced that he had the skills to engage a bear in combat. Maya, by contrast, arrived home carrying Katrina in one of those toddler back- slings and clapped her hands in delight. Mink pelts were never as lucrative as Isaac had been promised by mink breeders, and so the couple faced dire finances at times throughout Katrina’s childhood. Within two weeks, Maya had sold the paw-printed couch to some rich New Yorkers with a nearby ski lodge, who displayed it in a position of honor, the perfect conversation piece for their friends to admire. In fact, the couch sale was so lucrative that Maya forged a bear paw, poured out another bottle of red wine, and embellished the bear’s paw route to include two other chairs that she went on to sell. “Huh,” says Reese. “When I tortured myself thinking about what women you'd love instead of me, a rural Jewish Chinese mink farmer was not what I came up with. My stereotyping has failed me.” “Tm not sure she’s so happy I’ve picked her either.” “So why does she put up with you, may I ask?” “My rugged masculine good looks, obviously.” Reese scoffs. He’s still too pretty by half; the once rhinoplasty- perfect nose now broken but still delicate, and those light blue eyes that, in old photos, would have come out empty-white, one of those colors that required photographic technology to evolve before it could be captured on film. “Ts she queer at all, this woman?”