Awe

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 32 of 217 · 20 per page

• From Middlesex (2002)

  Her first project at Temple No. 1 was to convert the outhouse into a cocoonery. Calling upon the Fruit of Islam, as the military wing of the Nation was known, she stood by while the young men pulled out the wooden commode from the rickety shack. They covered the cesspool with dirt and removed old pinup calendars from the walls, averting their eyes as they tiirew the offending material in the trash. They installed shelves and perforated the ceiling for ventilation. De- spite their efforts, a bad smell lingered. "Just wait," Desdemona told them. "Compared to silkworms, this is nothing." Upstairs, the Muslim Girls Training and General Civilization Class wove feeding trays. Desdemona tried to save the initial batch of silkworms. She kept them warm under electric lightbulbs and sang Greek songs to them, but die silkworms weren't fooled. Hatch- ing from their black eggs, they detected the dry, indoor air and the false sun of the lightbulbs, and began to shrivel up. "Got more on the way," Sister Wanda said, brushing off this setback. "Be here direcdy." The days passed. Desdemona became accustomed to the pale palms of Negro hands. She got used to using the back door and to not speaking until spoken to. When she wasn't teaching the girls, she waited upstairs in the Silk Room. The Silk Room: a description is in order. (So much happened in that fifteen-by-twenty-foot space: God spoke; my grandmother re- nounced her race; creation was explained; and that's just for starters.) It was a small, low-ceilinged room, with a cutting table at one end. Bolts of silk leaned against the walls. The plushness extended floor to ceiling, like the inside of a jewelry box. Fabric was getting harder to come by, but Sister Wanda had stockpiled quite a bit. Sometimes the silks seemed to be dancing. Stirred by air currents of a mysterious origin, the fabrics flapped up and floated around the room. Desdemona would have to catch the cloth and roll it back up. And one day, in the middle of a ghostly pas de deux— a green silk leading as Desdemona backpedaled— she heard a voice. "I WAS BORN IN THE HOLY CITY OF MECCA, ON FEB- RUARY 17, 1877." 151 At first she thought someone had come into the room. But when she turned, no one was there. "MY FATHER WAS ALPHONSO, AN EBONY-HUED MAN OF THE TRIBE OF SHABAZZ. MY MOTHER'S NAME WAS BABY GEE. SHE WAS A CAUCASIAN, A DEVIL." A what? Desdemona couldn't quite hear. Or determine the loca- tion of the voice. It seemed to be coming from the floor now. "my FATHER MET HER IN THE HILLS OF EAST ASIA. HE SAW POTENTIAL IN HER. HE LED HER IN THE RIGHTEOUS WAYS UNTIL SHE BECAME A HOLY MUSLIM."

• From Middlesex (2002)

  After decades of neglect, I find myself thinking about departed great- aunts and -uncles, long-lost grandfathers, unknown fifth cousins, or, in the case of an inbred family like mine, all those things in one. And so before it's too late I want to get it down for good: this roller- coaster ride of a single gene through time. Sing now, O Muse, of the recessive mutation on my fifth chromosome! Sing how it bloomed two and a half centuries ago on the slopes of Mount Olympus, while the goats bleated and the olives dropped. Sing how it passed down through nine generations, gathering invisibly within the polluted pool of the Stephanides family. And sing how Providence, in the guise of a massacre, sent the gene flying again; how it blew like a seed across the sea to America, where it drifted through our industrial rains until it fell to earth in the fertile soil of my mother's own mid- western womb. Sorry if I get a little Homeric at times. That's genetic, too. Three months before I was born, in the aftermath of one of our elab- orate Sunday dinners, my grandmother Desdemona Stephanides or- dered my brother to get her silkworm box. Chapter Eleven had been heading toward the kitchen for a second helping of rice pudding when she blocked his way. At fifty-seven, with her short, squat figure and intimidating hairnet, my grandmother was perfectly designed for blocking people's paths. Behind her in the kitchen, the day's large female contingent had congregated, laughing and whispering. In- trigued, Chapter Eleven leaned sideways to see what was going on, but Desdemona reached out and firmly pinched his cheek. Having regained his attention, she sketched a rectangle in the air and pointed at the ceiling. Then, through her ill-fitting dentures, she said, "Go for yiayia, dolly mou? Chapter Eleven knew what to do. He ran across the hall into the living room. On all fours he scrambled up the formal staircase to the second floor. He raced past the bedrooms along the upstairs corridor. At the far end was a nearly invisible door, wallpapered over like the entrance to a secret passageway. Chapter Eleven located the tiny doorknob level with his head and, using all his strength, pulled it open. Another set of stairs lay behind it. For a long moment my brother stared hesitantiy into the darkness above, before climbing, very slowly now, up to the attic where my grandparents lived. In sneakers he passed beneath the twelve damply newspapered birdcages suspended from the rafters. With a brave face he immersed himself in the sour odor of the parakeets, and in my grandparents' own particular aroma, a mixture of mothballs and hashish. He nego- tiated his way past my grandfather's book-piled desk and his collec- tion of rebetika records. Finally, bumping into the leather ottoman and the circular coffee table made of brass, he found my grandpar- ents' bed and, under it, the silkworm box.

• From Holy Ghost Girl (2012)

  My mother pounded the Hammond and we sang on and on about all that God could do and how he never changed.The woman stood there in her blouse and slip with her eyes closed, her arms and hands raised, her lips speaking a language that made sense only to her. Betty Ann and the other women recovered their composure and moved toward her. Someone pulled up her skirt and held it in place at her waist. Someone else grasped her elbow and eased her down the ramp. She never opened her eyes or put her hands down. When they reached the bottom, the women talked to her and tried to get her to hold her skirt up. She grasped it for a moment, then let it fall and began to dance in her blouse and slip. Pam, Randall, and I watched in astonishment. The woman didn’t seem to know she had lost her skirt, or if she knew, she didn’t care. Brother Terrell had that effect on people.The miraculous and the mundane tap-danced up and down the aisles of the tent together, and it never occurred to me to question if one was more real than the other. I don’t think it occurred to the adults either. We experienced the world through the scrim of belief, and that made everything possible. No one followed up to see if the miracles held, but people who said they were healed often returned. The Woman Who Used To Be Big, that’s what we called her, came back and gave her testimony several times during the monthlong revival.“I went to the doctor to be checked out like Brother Terrell told me. The doctor said, ‘What happened to the tumor?’ I said the man of God healed me.”As word of the healing spread, the crowd increased until people stood two and three deep along the outside perimeter of the tent. Ambulances transported people from hospitals. Stretchers and wheelchairs lined the aisles until the fire marshal complained and we moved the sick behind the platform, where they waited until Brother Terrell called a prayer line. Chapter TwoI’VE ALWAYS THOUGHT OF MY MOTHER’S FIRST MEETING WITH DAVID Terrell as the Holy Roller equivalent of the big bang. It must have seemed as though their twin histories had been spinning toward each other with cataclysmic urgency since birth. They were kindred spirits, each believing he or she had been plucked from the mass of ordinary folks by the long bony fingers of God and set aside for great things. Almost all of the childhood stories told by Brother Terrell and my mother focused on the experience of being chosen. Brother Terrell often said from the platform that growing up he had always had a sense that he was different. No doubt the leg surgeries and hospital stays that were a part of his illness set him apart from other kids. The visit from Jesus at age nine must have sealed the deal.

• From Holy Ghost Girl (2012)

  Proof that a romantic temperament can take root anywhere, because the only dancers I had seen were believers who jigged in the spirit. The men rolled out sections of canvas over the horizontal poles, attaching the cutout pieces to the base of the now-raised center poles. They laced the sections together and swarmed the flattened tent like a team of tiny tailors stitching a ball gown for a female colossus. With the sewing finished, a man was stationed at the winch attached to each of the seven center poles. Someone shouted, “Go!” and the men cranked in unison. The canvas rose around them, and when it reached waist height, crew members hunched over like gnomes, scrambled underneath, and pushed up the secondary poles. A few more cranks and the peaks billowed thirty feet in the air.With the tent secured, the crew hung spotlights and secondary lighting from the poles, hammered together the sections of the platform, unloaded the Hammond organ, and positioned the amplifiers and speakers. The expanse of the tent posed a challenge for the sound system, so it was important that the speakers be positioned in just the right places. The tent families unloaded stacks of wooden folding chairs and arranged them in orderly sections that fanned outward from the platform. Twenty-five hundred chairs for the first night, with a thousand more stacked in the truck to be squeezed in as needed throughout the revival. Long one-by-one boards were placed between the chairs’ legs to connect them and keep the rows uniform.By seven o’clock on opening night, a dusty brown canvas and a collection of scuffed-up poles had been transformed into an ad hoc cathedral. People came from near and far. Black and white, old and young, poor and poorer. Women with creased brows and apologetic eyes as faded as their cotton dresses, clutching two and three children who looked almost as worn out as their mothers. Men, taut as fiddle strings, hunch-shouldered in overalls or someone else’s discarded Sunday best, someone taller and better fed. They came to find a sense of purpose and a connection to God and one another. They came because the promises of the beatitudes were fulfilled for a few hours under the tent, and the poor were truly blessed. They came for miracles, answers, and salvation. They came to see the show.It was our first night in Chattanooga. Up on the platform, Mama pulsed out a bass line on the organ and Brother Cotton swung his arm through the air like a metronome as he led the audience through another chorus of “Jesus on the Mainline.” He yelled, “Call him up and call him up” into the microphone and the audience screamed back, “Tell him what you want.” Brother Cotton’s job as song leader and front man was to warm up the audience for Brother Terrell. Sometimes the crowd was cold and unresponsive, and he sweated through his undershirt and dress shirt just trying to get them to say amen.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  utes were elapsedI clambered uponto the carpetand driedoff.Over the sound systemBobPrestowassaying,"Let'shearitforHermaph- roditus, ladiesand gentlemen! Onlyhere at Octopussy'sGarden, where gender isalwaysonabender! I'mtellingyou,folks,weput the glam rockinthe rock lobsters, weputtheAC/DCinthe mahi mahi.. ." Beached onherside,Zorawith blueeyesandgoldenhairasked me, "AmI zipped?" I checked. "This tankis makingme allcongested.I'malways congested." "You want somethingfrom thebar?" "Get mea Negroni, Cal. Thanks." "Ladiesand Gendemen, it'stimeforournextattractionhereat Octopussy'sGarden.Yes, I seenowthattheboysfromSteinhardt Aquariumarejust bringingherin.Put thosetokensinthe boxes, ladiesand gendemen,thisissomething youwon'twantto miss.May Ihaveadrum roll,please?Onsecondthought,make thata sushiroll." Zora'smusicstarted.Heroverture. "Ladiesandgendemen,sincetimeimmemorialmarinershave toldstoriesofseeingincrediblecreatures,halfwoman,halffish, swimminginthe seas. WehereatSixty-Ninersdidnotgivecredence tosuchstories.But a tunafishermanofouracquaintance brought us anamazing catchtheotherday.And now we knowthosestoriesare true.Ladies andgendemen," croonedBobPresto,"does . . . anyone .. . smell . . .fish!" Atthatcue, Zorain herrubbersuitwiththe flashinggreen se- quin scaleswould tumble intothetank. The suit came upto herwaist and leftherchest and shouldersbare. Into the aquaticlightZora streamed, openinghereyes underwaterasIdidnot,smilingatthe men andwomen inthe booths,herlongblondhairflowing behind herlike seaweed, tiny airbubblesbeadingherbreasts likepearls, as she kickedher glitteringemerald fishtail. She performednolewd- ness. Zora's beautywasso great that everyone was contentmerelyto look ather, the white skin,thebeautifulbreasts,thetaut bellywith its winking navel, the magnificentcurve of herswayingbackside where flesh mergedwithscales.Sheswamwithherarmsathersides, voluptuously fluctuating.Herface was serene,her eyesa light Caribbean blue. Downstairsaconstantdiscobeatthrobbed,but up 485 herein Octopussy'sGardenthemusic wasethereal, akindof melodi- ous bubblingitself. Viewedfromacertainangle,there wasakindofartistry toit. Sixty-Niners wasa smutpavilion, butupintheGarden theatmo- spherewas exoticratherthanraunchy. Itwasthe sexualequivalentof TraderVic's.Viewersgottoseestrangethings, uncommonbodies, but muchof the appealwasthetransport involved.Looking through theirportholes,thecustomerswerewatching realbodiesdothe thingsbodiessometimesdidindreams. Thereweremale customers, marriedheterosexualmen,whosometimes dreamedofmakinglove to women whopossessedpenises,notmalepenises, but thin,taper- ing feminizedstalks,likethestamensofflowers,clitorises thathad elongatedtremendouslyfromabundant desire.Therewere gaycus- tomerswhodreamedofboyswhowere almost female, smooth- skinned,hairless.There were lesbian customerswhodreamedof womenwithpenises,notmalepenises but womanlyerections, pos- sessingasensitivityandalivenessnodildoeverhad.Thereisnoway totellwhatpercentageofthepopulationdreamssuchdreams ofsex- ualtransmogrification.Buttheycametoourunderwatergarden every night and filled the booths towatchus. AfterMelanietheMermaidcameEllieandHerElectrifyingEel. Thiseel wasnotatfirstapparent.What splasheddownthroughthe aquamarinedepthsappearedtobe a slenderHawaiiangirl,cladina bikiniof waterlilies. As sheswam, her top cameoffandsheremained agirl.Butwhenshestoodonherhead,ingracefulwater ballet, pullingherbikini bottomtoher knees—ah,thenitwastheeel'smo- menttoshock.Forthereitwasonthe slendergirl's body, thereitwas whereitshouldnothavebeen, a thinbrown ill-tempered-looking eel,anendangered species,andas Ellierubbedagainsttheglass the eelgrewlongerandlonger;itstaredatthe customerswithitsCyclo- pean eye; andtheylooked backat herbreasts,her slimwaist,they looked back andforthfromEllie to eel,fromeelto Ellie,andwere electrified by thewedding ofopposites. Carmen wasa pre-op, male-to-female transsexual.Shewas from theBronx. Small, delicately boned,shewas fastidiousabout eyeliner andlipstick. Shewas always dieting.Shestayed awayfrom beer, fear- ing a belly. I thoughtsheoverdidthefemmeroutine. Therewasen- tirelytoomuchhipswayingandhairflippingin Carmen's airspace. 486 She hada prettynaiad's face, a girlonthesurfacewith a boyholding his breathjust beneath.Sometimesthehormonesshetookmade her skin break out.Her doctor (themuch-in-demandDr.Melof San Bruno) had toconstantlyadjusther dosage. The only features that gave Carmen awaywerehervoice,whichremainedhusky despitethe estrogen and progestin,andher hands.Butthemennevernoticed that. Andthey wantedCarmen tobeimpure.That was thewhole turn-on, really. Her storyfollowed the traditionallinesbetterthanmine. Froman earlyage Carmen hadfelt thatshehadbeenborninto thewrong body.In the dressingroom oneday,shetoldmeinherSouthBronx voice: "Iwaslike, yo!Who put this dickonme?Ineveraskedforno dick." Itwasstill there,however,for the time being.Itwaswhatthe mencametosee. Zora,given to analyticalthought, feltthatCar- men's admirersweremotivated by latenthomosexuality.But Carmen resistedthis notion."Myboyfriendsareallstraight.They wanta woman? "Obviouslynot,"saidZora. "Soon as I save mymoneyI'mhavingmybottomdone.Then we'll see. I'll be moreofawomanthanyou, Z." "Finewithme,"replied Zora. "I don'twantto be anything inpar- ticular." Zora hadAndrogen Insensitivity.Herbodywasimmunetomale hormones. ThoughXY like me, shehaddevelopedalongfemale lines. But Zora haddone itfarbetterthanIhad.Asidefrombeing blond, shewasshapelyand full-lipped.Herprominentcheekbones divided herface in Arcticplanes. WhenZoraspoke you wereaware ofthe skinstretchingoverthese cheekbonesandhollowingout be- tween her jaws,thetight maskitmade,banshee-like,withherblue eyes piercingthroughabove.And then therewasherfigure,the milk- maidbreasts, theswimchamp stomach, the legsof a sprinter ora Martha Graham dancer.Even unclothed,Zoraappearedtobeall woman. There wasno visiblesignthatshepossessedneitherwomb nor ovaries. AndrogenInsensitivitySyndromecreatedthe perfect woman, Zora toldme. Anumberoftopfashionmodelshadit. "How many chicksaresixtwo,skinny,but withbig boobs? Not many. That's normalforsomeonelike me." Beautiful or not, Zora didn'twanttobeawoman.Shepreferred 487

• From Middlesex (2002)

  watchedtheObject's mud-stained legdancing.I concentrated onthat leg, sothatI hardlynoticed when Jerome begantopull medownon ourcot. Ilethim;Igavein toourslowcollapse,allthewhile watch- ing Rex Reese andthe Objectoutofoneeye.Rex'shands weremov- ingovertheObject'sbodynow.They were pulling up her shirt, movingunderit.Thentheirbodiesshifted sothatIsawtheir facesin profile.The Object's face, as still asadeath mask, waited with eyes closed.Rex'sprofilewasrampant, flushed.Meanwhile Jerome's handsweremovingoverme. Hewasrubbingmyoveralls, butIwas nolongerinthemexactiy.Myfocusonthe Objectwastoointense. Ecstasy. FromtheGreekEkstasis.Meaningnotwhat youthink. Meaningnoteuphoriaorsexualclimaxoreven happiness.Meaning, literally: astateofdisplacement,ofbeingdrivenoutofone's senses. ThreethousandyearsagoinDelphitheOracle becameecstaticevery single working hour. Thatnightinahuntingcabininnorthern Michigan, so didCalliope.Highformyfirst time,drunkformyfirst time,Ifeltmyselfdissolving,turningtovapor.Liketheincense at churchmysoulrosetowardthe domeofmy skull— andthenbroke through.Idriftedovertheplankfloor.Ifloatedabovethelittlecamp stove. Passing bythe bourbon bottles,Ihovered over theothercot, lookingdownattheObject.Andthen,becauseIsuddenlyknewthat I could,Islipped intothebodyofRexReese. Ientered himlikea godsothatitwasme,andnotRex,whokissedher. Anowlhootedin a treesomewhere. Bugs assailedthewindows, attractedbythelight.InmyDelphicstateIwassimultaneously awareofbothmake-outsessions.By way ofRex'sbodyIwashug- gingthe ObscureObject, nuzzling herear... while at thesametime Iwasalsoawareof Jerome's handsrangingovermybody,theone I'd leftontheother cot.Hewas on topofme, crushingoneofmylegs, soImoved it, spreadmylegsapart,andhe fellbetweenthem.He madelittlesounds.I putmy armsaroundhim, appalled and moved byhisthinness.HewasevenskinnierthanIwas. Now Jerome was kissing myneck. Now, advisedby some magazinecolumn, he was paying attention tomy earlobe.His handsmovedup.They were heading formy chest."Don't,"Isaid,scaredhe'd findmytissues. And Jerome obeyed ... ...while on the other cotRex was meeting withnosuchresis- tance. Withconsummate skill hehadundone theObject's brassiere with onehand.Because he wasmore experiencedthanmeIlet him 374 deal withthe shirtbuttons,butitwasmy handsthattook holdofher braand, asif snappingupa windowshade,letintotheroom thepale light ofthe Object's breasts.I saw them;Itouchedthem;and sinceit wasn'tme who didthisbutRexReeseIdidn'thaveto feelguilty, didn't haveto ask myselfif Iwashavingunnatural desires.How couldIbe whenIwas ontheother cotfoolingaround with Jerome? .. .andso, justtobe safe,Ireturned my attention to him. Hewas now in somekind ofagony.He was rubbingagainstmeandthenhe stopped and reacheddowntoadjusthimself.Therewasthesoundof a zipper.Ipeeked athimthroughthecornerofmy eyes. I saw him thinking, concentratingonthepuzzleoftheoveralls. Hedidn't seemtobegettinganywhere,soonceagainIfloated backacross theroomandenteredthebodyofRexReese.For a minuteI couldfeeltheObjectrespondingtomytouch,thestartled, eagerwakefulnessinherskinandmuscles.AndnowIfeltsomething else,Rex,orme,lengthening,expanding.Ifeltthatforonlyasecond andthensomethingwaspullingmeback... Jerome hadhishandonmybarestomach.WhileI'dbeenoffin- habitingRex'sbody Jerome hadtakentheopportunitytoundomy shoulderstraps.Hehadflickedopenthesilverbuttonsatmywaist. Nowhewaspullingdownmy overallsand Iwas trying towakeup. Nowhewas tuggingonmyunderpantsand I was realizing how drunkIwas. Now he was insidemyunderpantsandnowhe was... insideme\ Andthen:pain.Painlike a knife,painlikefire.Itrippedinto me. Itspread upmybellyallthewaytomy nipples. Igasped;Iopened myeyes;Ilooked upandsaw Jerome lookingdown atme.Wegaped ateachotherand Iknewhe knew. Jerome knew whatIwas,assud- denly Idid,too,for the firsttimeclearlyunderstoodthatIwasn't a girl but somethinginbetween.Iknewthisfromhownaturalithad felt toenter RexReese'sbody,how right itfelt^ andIknewthisfrom theshocked expressionon Jerome's face.Allthiswasconveyedin an instant. Then Ipushed Jerome away.Hepulledback,pulledout,and slid off the bedontothe floor. Silence. Onlythetwoofus,catchingourbreath.Ilayonmy back on the camp bed. Beneaththenewspaperclippings.With only a mounted pike aswitness. I pulledupmy overalls andfeltverysober indeed. It was allovernow.TherewasnothingIcoulddo. Jerome would 375 tell Rex. RexwouldtelltheObject.Shewould stopbeing myfriend. By dietime schoolstarted,everyone atBaker&Ingliswouldknow that CalliopeStephanides was a freak. Iwaswaitingfor Jerome to jump up andrun.Ifeltpanickedand, at the sametime,strangely calm.I wasputtingthingstogetherin myhead.Clementine Stark andkissing lessons; and spinning togetherinahottub;anamphib- ianheartandacrocusblooming;bloodandbreaststhatdidn't come; andacrush onthe Object thatdid,that had,thatlookedasifitwas heretostay. Afew momentsofclarityandthenpanic again whined inmyears. Iwantedtorunmyself.Before Jerome hadachancetosayanything. Beforeanyone found out. Icouldleavetonight.I could find myway back throughthecedarswamptothehouse.IcouldstealtheObject's parents'car.Icould drivenorth,through the UpperPeninsula to Canada,whereChapter Eleven hadoncethoughtofgoingtoescape thedraft.AsI contemplatedmylifeontherunI peeked overthe edge of thecot to see what Jerome wasdoing. Hewasflatonhisback,eyes closed.Andhewassmiling to him- self. Smiling?Smilinghow?In ridicule? No. Inshock?Wrongagain. Howthen?Incontentment. Jerome hadthe smile ofaboy who, ona summernight,hadgoneallthe way.He had thesmileofa guy who couldn'twaittotellhisfriends. Reader, believe thisifyoucan: hehadn'tnoticedathing. 376

• From Holy Ghost Girl (2012)

  The preacher woman spoke over the microphone as the men led Brother Terrell offstage.“We’ve just seen an innocent man take a whipping for the sins of this country. I want everyone to gather in the altar and pray. Pray for Brother Terrell. Pray for America.”I skipped the altar and headed for my car. I passed my sisters, crying in the back row, fists stuffed into their mouths. Their fake grandma was on her knees. I wanted to comfort them, but that would have frightened them more. I stepped out into the night feeling purged of every transgression and wondered if Brother Terrell felt the same. The whippings continued off and on for several years and most of the men associated with the ministry, including Randall, had to take a turn with the belt. Brother Terrell never handed the belt to my mother or the preacher woman, who sat on opposite ends of the platform.Not long after I witnessed the whipping, Brother Terrell sent word through my mother that if I didn’t get right with God, I wouldn’t live past twenty-five. Right on cue, I came down with an illness that doctors could neither diagnose nor cure. Sores erupted on my body. I was beset with fever and chills. My bones ached and my energy dwindled. No matter how much I ate, I lost weight. After several months, I made my way to the tent in Bangs. Brother Terrell began calling people out of the audience almost at once that night. He made his way to our section. I tried to catch his eye but he looked over my head and asked a man in the back to stand up. He prayed for him and moved on to the young mother across the row. Finally, he pointed at my most recent live-in boyfriend and told him to step into the aisle. He clapped his hand on the man’s forehead and told him he had been bound by the powers of Satan and from that moment forward, he was free. The boyfriend hit the ground so hard he had a lump on the back of his head for a couple of weeks. He later told me he lost consciousness as soon as the prophet laid hands on him. He estimated he was out for ten minutes, maybe longer.Brother Terrell placed his hands on my head next, and it was as if a curtain fell over my senses. Sight, sound, smell, and touch were gone. The I that was me, separate and distinct, released its hold, and I experienced myself as a vast and bliss-filled darkness. I did not shout or speak in tongues. I did not fall to the ground as my boyfriend had. I was there, but I was not there. I don’t know how long I drifted like this before slowly becoming aware of sound and of being back in my body.

• From Holy Ghost Girl (2012)

  I climbed back onto my chair to see what had happened to Doreen, but I couldn’t see her in the crush of bodies. I hopped down and pushed through the crowd to the altar. A tall, skinny woman with big curls on her head moved her feet in dainty steps, two forward, one back, her hands crossing in front of her, then behind her with each step. A young woman with red hair that fell to her waist held a child’s hand and skipped in place. Stout black women in faded blue or gray cotton dresses wobbled here and there on black sturdy shoes, arms flailing to no particular rhythm.“Thank you, Jesus. Yes, Lord. Yes, Lord.”An old man in overalls marched in place. Children about my age danced with their eyes closed. Some peeked from under half-closed eyelids to see if anyone noticed, but there were others whose faces wore that vacant, rapturous expression that separated the real from the faker.In between the arms and legs and torsos and backsides I saw Doreen sit up and look around. Her mother helped her up and they stood with their arms clasped around each other, the daughter’s head resting on her mother’s shoulder, the mother’s hands smoothing her daughter’s blond hair, whispering in her ear while several thousand sang, “Glory, hallelujah, Jesus set me free.” Brother Terrell made his way back down the prayer ramp and waved at my mother to bring down the volume of the organ.“I want everyone who needs a miracle, I mean a real miracle, to come on up here tonight. This isn’t the night for nervous conditions and alcoholism. God is going to heal the lame here tonight. Glory hallelujah. He’s going to open blind eyes and deaf ears. Lama la bahia. Everyone else, please go on back to your seats.”As the crowd drifted back, an old black man with a cane felt his way along the aisle, one arm in front. He wore a brown suit and a dark fedora. He overshot the altar and Brother Cotton brought him back. Brother Terrell walked down the prayer ramp and met them at the altar. He took the man’s arm from Brother Cotton and they stood on level with the congregation in front of the prayer ramp.“Sir, how long you been blind?”“Ever since I can remember.”“You were born blind?”“No. There was an accident when I was little. At my grandmama’s.”“Do you believe Jesus can heal you?”“I promised him I’d stay away from the juke joints if he would.”Brother Terrell laughed. “You won’t be going back after tonight. Let me see your cane.” The man drew back and held the cane close to his chest.“You ain’t gonna need that piece of wood no more.” He took the cane and handed it to Brother Cotton. The man grabbed in the air after it. Brother Terrell took his hands. “Sir, I want you to bow your head and pray with me. Believe with me.”“In the name of Jesus.

• From Holy Ghost Girl (2012)

  I looked over my shoulder as the swing rocked to and fro. Roses, ramshackle sheds, scuppernong vines, and patches of bare earth slick and shiny as Brother Smith’s bald head jammed against the heavens and were gone. The world in all its misbegotten beauty rushed through me; glory, glory, glory. Wanda found me there weeping once, and asked what was wrong.“Nothing’s wrong. It’s just so . . . you know, beautiful.”She held me at arm’s length and looked me up and down. “Are you feeling sick again?”The people who passed the porch on their way to work looked so different from the men and women I had known. I had never seen a man with a briefcase or a woman in a suit. The women in particular caught my attention. With their matching coats and skirts, purposeful strides, and straight-ahead stares, they constituted a third gender. I decided they were hermaphrodites, a word I had picked up from a recent sermon. Sometimes I imagined the porch breaking free with me and Gary aboard and gliding down the street past the suits, or sailing up past the clouds and the ghost of a moon on the rise. I wrapped my arm around a peeling column, curled my bare toes into the edge of the splintery boards, and peered into the sky. I had recently learned from one of the Smith kids that Earth was not fixed as it seemed, but was spinning in space and at the same time traveling in a vast circle around the sun. These facts I could not comprehend. I believed that if I looked long enough and hard enough and stood perfectly still, I might see some trace of the planet’s turning, some vestige of its journey, but of course I never did. Chapter SixteenAN ALARM SHOULD HAVE SOUNDED THE DAY SISTER COLEMAN APPEARED at the Smiths’ house: a siren’s whup whup whup ; the blast of a foghorn; an automated voice announcing, “Danger, danger.” No such luck. Gary and I watched from the front-porch swing as she turned in from the sidewalk and walked up the steps, moving at her own pace, neither fast nor slow. Church people were the only ones to call on the Smiths and they always came at night, after the service was over. I dragged my feet and slowed the swing. She stepped onto the porch and stood feet apart, hands on her hips. She stared at us as if deciding what she was going to do. Gary and I squirmed uncomfortably. My hand slipped nervously up and down one of the chains that tethered the swing to the porch ceiling.“Are you here to take us to the orphanage?” I asked.Her lips tightened into a thin line of a smile. “Are you expecting someone to take you to the orphanage?”“Uh-uh.” Gary and I shook our heads vigorously.She walked over to the swing and eased herself down between us. “I’m Sister Coleman.

• From Holy Ghost Girl (2012)

  It was two fingers wide, two fingers deep, and marbled with yellow and green.Pam and I threaded our way through the crowd. We never missed a chance to look at the scar. Randall stepped from behind a rear corner of the platform where he hung out with the tent crew and walked with us to the front. Brother Terrell acknowledged each of us with a quick hug and we huddled there beside him as people came forward. Randall was seven years old and not afraid of anything. He laid his fingers in the scar as he always did. Later, I would ask him for the hundredth time what it felt like, and he would tell me that it was as slick and hard as the devil’s backbone. As much as I longed to run my fingers down the length of the scar, I could not bring myself to touch it. I stared at it for as long as I could, trying to peer past the outraged skin into the empty cavern of Brother Terrell’s calf. There was something there or something not there that I needed to understand, but I did not know and could not have articulated the nature of that something.Brother Terrell picked up the microphone that hung around his neck and spoke directly into it. “The doctors said I’d never walk without crutches, that I’d be a cripple for the rest of my life.“Then one day when I was nine years old, Jesus stood in my room. He said, ‘David, get up. Walk.’ I reached for my crutches. He said, ‘Not with those.’ ”Brother Terrell leapt from the chair and people scattered like the jacks Pam and I threw between services. “When Jesus heals you, praise God, you don’t need no crutches. You don’t need no bone. You don’t need nothin’ but faith to take that first step.”The words flew from his mouth with the ferocity of hornets and we rushed before them to our sections and seats. It wasn’t so much what he said, but how he said it. Every word uttered with such urgency that I half expected the world to end before he finished his sentence.He prowled in front of the audience now, swishing the microphone cord when he turned so that it trailed him like a living thing. His pant cuff fell a bit as he walked, but I could still see the naked glow of that pale patch of skin.His words slowed and lulled the crowd into believing the storm had passed. “My mama had faith. She believed.”Then he crammed the microphone into his mouth again and the veins on his neck popped up. “You got to have faith. You got to hold on. You can’t lie there on your cot and die!”His voice grew louder with each sentence. “You got to get up. Get uuuuuuup. Get uuuuuuup!”He went hoarse each time he screamed “get up.” The ministers on the platform stood. Mama stood and clapped her hands and amened.“Yes. That’s right.

• From Holy Ghost Girl (2012)

  I see people throwing their money in the streets. Their money is no good. Banks are failing. Babies are hungry, asking their mamas for food, but they don’t have none to give.”He shook the staff in the air and began to weep. “Woe! Woe! Woe! Woe to the cities. Woe to the merchants. Woe to those who call good evil and evil good.” He threw down the staff, pulled his shirttail from his pants, and ripped one side and then the other. He stalked the aisles with his torn shirt flapping.“Judgment, judgment, judgment. Judgment on America! Judgment on America! The only people who survive will be those who have made themselves ready, those who heed the word of this man”—meaning himself—“those who move to the country and become selfsufficient. The Great Depression won’t be nothing compared to what’s fixing to hit this country.”The prophecy rambled on for hours, ending with predictions of earthquakes, floods, and airplane crashes—all disasters God would allow so that we would know Brother Terrell was a true prophet. With the last “thus saith the Lord,” he walked back up the ramp to the platform. A woman minister who sat behind him on the platform brought him a box of handkerchiefs. He pulled them out of the box and rubbed them over some part of his face or neck, talking into the microphone the entire time.“The Bible says the prophet will sustain you. The Lord told me that these handkerchiefs will work miracles. Tie them on your cars and your door handles. The anointing of God is in them. Get me some more handkerchiefs. I want everyone to have one. Y’all line up around the tent and come on up here.”Some say it was my mother who first placed the prophet mantle on Brother Terrell’s shoulders. If that’s so, she sealed her fate. As a prophet Brother Terrell came to believe that everything he said, everything he did, and everything he thought was sanctioned by God. He said this from the platform, and he said God would not tolerate those who questioned his anointing. The emergence of the prophet changed the dynamic between my mother and Brother Terrell—she had no right to question him about money or anything else. It also changed the dynamic of the ministry. Employees who once feared Brother Terrell’s temper now feared the word of the prophet. That fear overshadowed the love that had always been present. People who questioned the prophet died. It was biblical. Brother Cotton and several other longtime colleagues had left or been replaced by employees who bowed and scraped when they approached him.“Ah, Brother Terrell, sir, if you don’t mind, I was wondering if I could talk with you for a minute, please, only if you can spare the time. Yes, sir, yes, sir. Thank you, sir, thank you.”They disapproved when his children or Gary and I treated him with familiarity.

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  They wondered why they had come. But then Rasputin approached them one by one, wrapping his big hands around their fingers and gazing deep into their eyes. At first his gaze was unsettling: as he looked them up and down, he seemed to be probing and judging them. Yet suddenly his expression would change, and kindness, joy, and understanding would radiate from his face. Several of the ladies he actually hugged, in a most effusive manner. This startling contrast had pro- found effects. The mood in the salon soon changed from disappointment to excite- ment. Rasputin's voice was so calm and deep; his language was coarse, yet the ideas it expressed were delightfully simple, and had the ring of great spiritual truth. Then, just as the guests were beginning to relax with this dirty-looking peasant, his mood suddenly changed to anger: "I know you, I can read your souls. You are all too pampered. . . . These fine clothes and arts of yours are useless and pernicious. Men must learn to humble them- selves! You must be simpler, far, far simpler. Only then will God come nearer to you." The monk's face grew animated, his pupils expanded, he looked completely different. How impressive that angry look was, recalling Jesus throwing the moneylenders from the temple. Now Rasputin calmed down, returned to being gracious, but the guests already saw him as some- one strange and remarkable. Next, in a performance he would soon repeat "How peculiar [Rasputin's] eyes are," confesses a woman who had made efforts to resist his influence. She goes on to say that every time she met him she was always amazed afresh at the power of his glance, which it was impossible to withstand for any considerable time. There was something oppressive in this kind and gentle, but at the same time sly and cunning, glance; people were helpless under the spell of the powerful will which could be felt in his whole being. However tired you might be of this charm, and however much you wanted to escape it, somehow or other you always found yourself attracted back and held. • A young girl who had heard of the strange new saint came from her province to the capital, and visited him in search of edification and spiritual instruction. She had never seen either him or a portrait of him before, and met him for the first time in his house. When he came up to her and spoke to her, she thought him like one of the peasant preachers she had often seen in her own country home. His gentle, monastic gaze and the plainly parted light brown hair around the worthy simple face, all at first inspired her confidence.

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  The city cast \ Her people out upon her; and Antony, \ Enthron'd i' the market- place, did sit alone, \ Whistling to the air; which, but for vacancy, \ Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too \ And made a gap in nature. —WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA In the palmy days of the gay quarters at Edo there was a connoisseur of fashion named Sakakura who grew intimate with the great courtesan Chitose. This woman was much given to drinking sake; as a side dish she relished the so-called flower crabs, to be found in the Mogami River in the East, and these she had pickled in salt for her enjoyment. Knowing this, Sakakura commissioned a painter of the Kano School to execute her bamboo crest in powdered gold on the tiny shells of these crabs; he fixed the price of each painted shell at one rectangular piece of gold, and presented them to Chitose throughout the year, so that she never lacked for them. —IHARA SAIKAKU, THE LIFE OF AN AMOROUS WOMAN, AND OTHER WRITINGS, TRANSLATED BY IVAN MORRIS For such men as have practised love, have ever held this a sound maxim that there is naught to be compared with a woman in her clothes. Again when you reflect how a man doth brave, rumple, squeeze and make light of his lady's finery, and how he doth Pay Attention to Detail • 269 ern powers, which had been threatening invasion if the emperor had been killed. The goal of the seduction was simple: dazzle the wives with color, spectacle, theater. The empress applied all her expertise to the task, and she was a genius for detail. She had designed the spectacles in a rising order— the uniformed eunuchs first, then the Manchu ladies in their headdresses, and finally the empress herself. It was pure theater, and it was overwhelm- ing. Then the empress brought the spectacle down a notch, humanizing it with gifts, warm greetings, the reassuring presence of the emperor, teas, and entertainments, which were in no way inferior to anything in the West. She ended the banquet on another high note—the little drama with the sharing of the teacups, followed by even more magnificent gifts. The women's heads were spinning when they left. In truth they had never seen such exotic splendor—and they never understood how carefully its details had been orchestrated by the empress. Charmed by the spectacle, they trans- ferred their happy feelings to the empress and gave her their approval—all that she required. The key to distracting people (seduction is distraction) is to fill their eyes and ears with details, little rituals, colorful objects. Detail is what makes things seem real and substantial. A thoughtful gift won't seem to have an ulterior motive.

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  Amy and three of her friends, all women, handled the move with the military precision of a hostage extraction. They waited until Stanley went to work, arrived in a rented truck, and moved Reese’s belongings out of the closet in Stanley’s apartment and into Amy’s place by noon. Reese and Amy had already eaten two meals together in their new home before Stanley even learned of his own reacquaintance with bachelorhood. Reese stole Stanley’s blender when she left. She told herself that both she and he deserved it. That small theft turned out to be the grievance on which he litigated his subsequent stream of enraged voicemails, texts, and emails: her greed, how spoiled she was, the way she used people, broke them down, and ultimately stole their small appliances. Then the messages stopped. Even a few years after the financial crash, the occasional aftershock reverberated to collapse yet another firm. This time it was Stanley’s. CHAPTER THREE Six weeks after conception W wes BOOM AGAINST the breakwater along Lake Shore Drive, beneath the Chicago skyline. They bounce back from the vertical concrete seawall into the oncoming sets, rolling under and over the newcomers, violently hoisting each other aloft then dropping apart diminished. Even from inside the taxi, with the windows rolled up, Ames can smell the water, can sense the ionized air that jolts him into a pleasant alertness, as happens near waterfalls, or just after a sudden, hard downpour. Bikers weave to avoid the spray, which gets caught by the wind and carried over the lake path. Two windsurfers rip across the flat inner breakwater at Navy Pier, bracing their weight so hard against the gusts that they’ve pulled back the sails, closer to parallel with than perpendicular to the horizon. One of them carves toward the channel entrance, where the steeper whitecaps come in, catches the first big crest, and launches twelve feet into the air, hanging for a moment like a kite. Ames is so surprised and impressed by the maneuver that he cries out and grabs Katrina’s arm, forgetting that, for the past week, every conversation that does not stick tightly to questions of their work has ended in uneasy sadness or recriminations. “Sorry,” he says, his hand retreating. “Did you see that, though? That guy was using his sail like a wing when he jumped off the wave.” Katrina refuses to direct her attention toward the lakefront, and the full bore of her distress is recalled to him. He exhales slowly through his nose.

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  Body and adornment. If the voice must lull, the body and its adornment must dazzle. It is with her clothes that the Siren aims to create the goddess effect that Baudelaire described in his essay "In Praise of Makeup": "Woman is well within her rights, and indeed she is accomplishing a kind of duty in striving to appear magical and supernatural. She must astonish and bewitch; an idol, she must adorn herself with gold in order to be adored. She must borrow from all of the arts in order to raise herself above nature, the better to subjugate hearts and stir souls." A Siren who was a genius of clothes and adornment was Pauline Bonaparte, sister of Napoleon. Pauline consciously strove for a goddess effect, fashioning hair, makeup, and clothes to evoke the look and air of Venus, the goddess of love. No one in history could boast a more extensive and elaborate wardrobe. Pauline's entrance at a ball in 1798 created an astounding effect. She asked the hostess, Madame Permon, if she could dress at her house, so no one would see her clothes as she came in. When she came down the stairs, everyone stopped dead in stunned silence. She wore the headdress of a bacchante—clusters of gold grapes interlaced in her hair, which was done up in the Greek style. Her Greek tunic, with its gold-embroidered hem, showed off her goddesslike figure. Below her breasts was a girdle of burnished gold, held by a magnificent jewel. "No words can convey the loveliness of her appearance," wrote the Duchess d'Abrantes. "The very room grew brighter as she entered. The whole ensemble was so harmonious that her appearance was greeted with a buzz of admiration which continued with utter disregard of all the other women." The key: everything must dazzle, but must also be harmonious, so that no single ornament draws attention. Your presence must be charged, larger than life, a fantasy come true. Ornament is used to cast a spell and distract. The Siren can also use clothing to hint at the sexual, at times overtly but more often by suggesting it rather than screaming it—that would make you seem manipulative. Related to this is the notion of selective disclosure, the revealing of only a part of the body—but a part that will excite and stir the imagination. In the late sixteenth century, Marguerite de Valois, the infa- The Siren • 15 mous daughter of Queen Catherine de Médicis of France, was one of the first women ever to incorporate decolletage in her wardrobe, simply because she had the most beautiful breasts in the realm. For Josephine Bonaparte it was her arms, which she carefully always left bare.

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  Purposefulness is doubly charismatic in times of trouble. Since most he went in to speak people hesitate before taking bold action (even when action is what is re-with him. quired), single-minded self-assurance will make you the focus of attention. — E X O D U S 34:27 O L D People will believe in you through the simple force of your character. When TESTAMENT Franklin Delano Roosevelt came to power amidst the Depression, much of the public had little faith he could turn things around. But in his first few months in office he displayed such confidence, such decisiveness and clarity The Charismatic • 99 in dealing with the country's many problems, that the public began to see That devil of a man him as their savior, someone with intense charisma. exercises a fascination on me that I cannot explain even to myself, and in such a degree that, though I fear Mystery. Mystery lies at charisma's heart, but it is a particular kind of neither God nor devil, mystery—a mystery expressed by contradiction. The Charismatic may be when I am in his presence I am ready to tremble like both proletarian and aristocratic (Mao Zedong), both cruel and kind (Peter a child, and he could make the Great), both excitable and icily detached (Charles de Gaulle), both inti- me go through the eye of a mate and distant (Sigmund Freud). Since most people are predictable, the needle to throw myself into the fire. effect of these contradictions is devastatingly charismatic. They make you —GENERAL VANDAMME, ON hard to fathom, add richness to your character, make people talk about you. NAPOLEON BONAPARTE It is often better to reveal your contradictions slowly and subtly—if you throw them out one on top of the other, people may think you have an er-ratic personality. Show your mysteriousness gradually and word will spread. [ The masses] have never You must also keep people at arm's length, to keep them from figuring thirsted after truth. They you out. demand illusions, and Another aspect of mystery is a hint of the uncanny. The appearance of cannot do without them. They constantly give what prophetic or psychic gifts will add to your aura. Predict things authorita- is unreal precedence over tively and people will often imagine that what you have said has come true. what is real; they are almost as strongly influenced by what is untrue as by what is true. Saintliness. Most of us must compromise constantly to survive; saints do They have an evident not. They must live out their ideals without caring about the consequences. tendency not to distinguish between the two. The saintly effect bestows charisma. Saintliness goes far beyond religion: politicians as disparate as George —SIGMUND FREUD, THE STANDARD EDITION OFTHE Washington and Lenin won saintly reputations by living simply, despite COMPLETE PSYCHOLOGICAL their power—by matching their political values to their personal lives. Both WORKS OF SIGMUND FREUD, VOLUME I8

• From Holy Ghost Girl (2012)

  The crowd pressed against Doreen and Brother Terrell. I hopped off my chair and moved into the aisle for a better look. There he was, kneeling in front of Doreen, drawing or writing with his finger in the sawdust, just as Jesus had in the Bible with the adulteress. All around me eyes were closed, faces tensed, bodies rocking to and fro. Doreen kicked at Brother Terrell, but he continued to write. When he stopped, he placed his hands on Doreen’s feet and looked up at her. His expression was tender.“Lord, have pity on this girl. Have pity on her family. The Bible says, for God so loved the world, he gave his only begotten son. For the sake of your son Jesus, drive these tormenting spirits from this girl’s mind and body.”He stood up and walked in a circle around Doreen, then stopped and clapped his hands on her head and shook it from side to side. “Satan, I refuse to let you have this girl. In the name of Jesus, I command you be gone. Be gone!”Doreen trembled, then crumpled to the floor. She looked like a baby lying there with her legs crooked at the knees, her arm slung carelessly in front. Her mother fell beside her and wept.Brother Terrell stood over the pair and urged the congregation to praise God. “The Lord has just delivered this girl. Raise your hands and praise him. We’ve witnessed a miracle here. A child of God has been restored tonight.” He knelt beside Doreen’s mother. “Sister, when your daughter wakes up, she’ll be whole. God has made her whole.”A cacophony of praise rose throughout the tent. People flooded the altar and in a moment, the throng swallowed Doreen and her mother.My mother played “I’m so glad Jesus lifted me, glory, hallelujah, Jesus lifted me.”Brother Terrell walked up the prayer ramp, ignoring the arm Brother Cotton offered him, and stepped up onto the platform. He reared back, then bent forward at the waist, his chest parallel with his knees. “Glory! I said glory!”He laughed and with his eyes closed put one hand on his hip and moved his feet in the quick shuffle step that was his trademark. He danced from one end of the platform to the other with Brother Cotton running beside him, worried he might stumble and fall. When he started across the platform for the second time, Brother Cotton gave up, put one hand on Brother Terrell’s shoulder, and fell in step behind him. As they danced across the stage, other preachers joined them until they formed a chorus line of men in white shirts and black pants, hands resting on the shoulder of the man in front, everyone dancing like Brother Terrell. My mother bounced up and down as she played, her eyes fixed on Brother Terrell and the line of dancing men.Laverne took Gary out of her lap, placed him in the seat beside her, stood up, and began to jig.

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  make a combination balcony/front yard. Thalia talked Iris into giving her a massage, so it’s just the two of them. Below, the rainfall from a brief thunderstorm earlier has collected into a sunken square of sidewalk concrete to create a perfectly quadrilateral puddle. A mother hurries along with a little daughter in tow, dragging her by the hand. At the puddle, the girl, with brown hair in a braid and a tiny pair of red galoshes on her feet, wriggles out of her mother’s grasp and stamps the puddle, making a little splash. Her mother calls out her name: “J6zefa, no, stop that, it is late.” The girl ignores her mother, stamps again. Reese waits for the mother to get angry. But she doesn’t. Instead, she pulls out her phone, kneels, and says, “Okay. We will film.” The little girl jumps and splashes, and the reflections of streetlights shiver in the pooled water, while the mother films and says, “Okay, wait, one more, now jump, sweetheart, yes good, look at me!” Reese and Katrina watch in silence from above. The moment elongates like pulled taffy. They are barely breathing, the two of them, their dark shapes two stories above, raptors transfixed by the scene. The mother, still kneeling, shows her daughter the video, the light of the phone illuminating the girl’s pleased face as she watches her recently past self giggling in the tinny audio. When the two walk away, they seem lighter. The mother no longer pulls at her daughter. A truck coming down the Pulaski Bridge engine-brakes with a loud fart, they turn the corner, and Reese exhales. “Ooof,” Reese says. “Yeah.” “That hurt me to watch.” “Tt hurt me to watch you watch.” “Thanks, I think.” Katrina snuffles, pulls her shawl around her. “So now what?” Reese’s machinations fire up, but just as quickly sputter out. Her head tilts back against the shingles of the building, and a wave of resignation comes over her. She has nothing left to think about Ames, no more advice to give. “I don’t know, Katrina. I’d just tell Ames you outed him before someone at work does. He’s not new to gender hijinks.” “T mean about the baby. That could be us.” Reese wants to say the right thing, but has no idea what that could be, so waits, hoping Katrina will go on. “Your friends, Iris and Thalia, you know, when you were in your room changing, they jumped all over me. Told me what a great mother you would be.” “Oh, so that’s it. They acted so weird when I came back out.” “Tt’s just a question if you can find a place for yourself in this.” “Yeah,” said Reese. “I want it. But I’m afraid Ill resent my place.” “Tt doesn’t mean you won’t be a mom too.”

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  They have an evident tendency not to distinguish between the two. —SIGMUND FREUD, THE STANDARD EDITION OFTHE COMPLETE PSYCHOLOGICAL WORKS OF SIGMUND FREUD, VOLUME I8 Eloquence. A Charismatic relies on the power of words. The reason is simple: words are the quickest way to create emotional disturbance. They can uplift, elevate, stir anger, without referring to anything real. During the Spanish Civil War, Dolores Gómez Ibarruri, known as La Pasionaria, gave pro-Communist speeches that were so emotionally powerful as to deter- mine several key moments in the war. To bring off this kind of eloquence, it helps if the speaker is as emotional, as caught up in words, as the audi- ence is. Yet eloquence can be learned: the devices La Pasionaria used— 100 • The Art of Seduction catchwords, slogans, rhythmic repetitions, phrases for the audience to re- peat—can easily be acquired. Roosevelt, a calm, patrician type, was able to make himself a dynamic speaker, both through his style of delivery, which was slow and hypnotic, and through his brilliant use of imagery, allitera- tion, and biblical rhetoric. The crowds at his rallies were often moved to tears. The slow, authoritative style is often more effective than passion in the long run, for it is more subtly spellbinding, and less tiring. Theatricality. A Charismatic is larger than life, has extra presence. Actors have studied this kind of presence for centuries; they know how to stand on a crowded stage and command attention. Surprisingly, it is not the actor who screams the loudest or gestures the most wildly who works this magic best, but the actor who stays calm, radiating self-assurance. The effect is ruined by trying too hard. It is essential to be self-aware, to have the ability to see yourself as others see you. De Gaulle understood that self-awareness was key to his charisma; in the most turbulent circumstances—the Nazi occupation of France, the national reconstruction after World War II, an army rebellion in Algeria—he retained an Olympian composure that played beautifully against the hysteria of his colleagues. When he spoke, no one could take their eyes off him. Once you know how to command at- tention this way, heighten the effect by appearing in ceremonial and ritual events that are full of exciting imagery, making you look regal and godlike. Flamboyancy has nothing to do with charisma—it attracts the wrong kind of attention. Uninhibitedness. Most people are repressed, and have little access to their unconscious—a problem that creates opportunities for the Charismatic, who can become a kind of screen on which others project their secret fan- tasies and longings. You will first have to show that you are less inhibited than your audience—that you radiate a dangerous sexuality, have no fear of death, are delightfully spontaneous. Even a hint of these qualities will make people think you more powerful than you are.

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  Thomas Edison’s last words were: “It’s very beautiful over there.” I don’t know where there is, but I believe it’s somewhere, and I hope it’s beautiful. some last words on last wordsIn the years since Looking for Alaska was published, I have learned many last words. Sometimes readers share with me the last words of their family members or friends. (One grandfather told his grandson: “There’s a pot of coffee on,” while dying of a massive heart attack.) And I often hear of new last words from prominent people—Steve Jobs, for instance, said, “Oh wow oh wow oh wow.” My interest in last words began as a child when I learned the final words of John Adams and Thomas Jefferson, respectively the second and third presidents of the United States. Adams’s mind turned to his longtime political rival at the end. He said, “Thomas Jefferson still survives.” But in fact, Jefferson had died a few hours earlier on the same day, July 4th, 1826, the fiftieth anniversary of the signing of the American Declaration of Independence. Jefferson’s last words were, “Is it the fourth?” Many of my favorite last words don’t appear in the novel. Emily Dickinson said, “I must go in; the fog is rising.” O. Henry said, “Turn up the lights. I don’t want to go home in the dark.” The economist John Maynard Keynes said, “I wish I’d drunk more champagne.” Kafka begged for a morphine overdose: “Kill me, or else you are a murderer.” And Oscar Wilde, dying in a garishly decorated hotel room, famously said, “Either this wallpaper goes, or I do.” But now I have gotten to tell you about them anyway. If you’re curious to learn (far, far) more last words, I recommend Last Words of Notable People by William B. Brahms. Last words are notoriously unreliable. Witnesses are emotional; time gets conflated; and the speaker isn’t around to clear up ambiguity. (In some cases, we know the stories are untrue: Oscar Wilde’s “last words,” for instance, were spoken months before he actually died.) “How will I ever get out of this labyrinth” were probably not Simón Bolívar’s last words (although he did say them). His last words are also recorded as, “José, bring the baggage. They do not want us here.” And François Rabelais is credited with no fewer than four dying declarations. In addition to seeking the Great Perhaps, Rabelais may also have said (1) “I am greasing my boots for the last journey” (after receiving extreme unction rites), (2) “Bring down the curtain; the farce is played out,” or (3) “Beati qui in Domino moriuntur.” (He supposedly said this while pulling a cloak over himself, which is a joke, but because it is a Latin joke, it is rarely quoted outside of Latin conventions.) I’m often asked what I want my own last words to be. I believed for many years that the worst possible last words are “I love you.” They’re cliché, unmemorable, and totally unfunny.