[OCTOBER 2024.]
The devil’s new October. Everything has a fever. I am too pure for you or anyone
But the Trader Joe’s clerk was kind to me. Appreciated my help with the bagging. Someone else liked my hair. World of blessings, dream kingdom, day after day—
“You have much gold upon your head,”
They answer’d all together:
“Buy from us with a golden curl.”
And I was given fruit to eat.
Later, he dropped me off at the pension. I walked through the moonlit garden, went up the stone staircase, took a shower, and wrote copy until I fell asleep, with the feeling of leading “a full life.”
—Elif Batuman, Either/Or
Look at this, mom. Look at this, mom.
Somehow I make things real by looking at them. Even when my ghost feet don’t touch the floor.
Being a ghost could be a full-time job. We tried that, didn’t we. Is that why you wanted to be a writer? Yes and no. Half in and half out of everything.
I was telling Nicole that (what I understand of) Jewish guilt is a communal and other-directed matter, all the mitzvot you’ve slacked on; but Catholic guilt goes inward, toward the filthy things you want in your horrible heart. “Oh. Well, that explains you.”
