Spoilers!

There are no such thing as spoilers.

(Yes, if you know the twist at the end then this will ruin certain movies. Mostly those of M Night Shyamalan, I suspect, although I’ve never gone back to watch them again to check. But if this is the case – if all it takes is one little slip of the tongue and now you can’t enjoy the thing… Then it wasn’t very good to begin with. You didn’t spoil it; it was never good.)

Name your favorite movies. Would you watch them again? I contend it is the fact that you would watch them again, and again, that make them your favorites.

If it didn’t take rather longer, you’d probably reread more books too. I fucking love rereading books.

You know what’s going to happen. Maybe you can even quote along. Knowing what’s going to happen not only doesn’t spoil it for you, it becomes an active part of your enjoyment, because you can anticipate the continuation of that enjoyment knowing your expectations will be entirely met. You never have to hedge against disappointment if you’re properly “spoiled.”

Where did this idea of spoilers come from? We don’t apply it to other forms of art. Will you not bother with MoMA now because you’ve seen some van Gogh fridge magnets and you know he was kind of into sunflowers?

Rowan doesn’t listen to Harry Potter on repeat because she wants to know what happens next; she just wants to be in that world. In the same way I want to, with some regularity, be in Jane Austen or Georgette Heyer’s worlds, or Tamora Pierce or Anne McCaffrey’s. In the same way I would absolutely, like Will Smith in I Am Legend, bring Starry Night home for further enjoyment.

Recipe: Paul Hollywood's focaccia. It's very hard, I think, too make it too salty on top. Overestimate.

Where do you want to be

New Orleans is sinking. Will sink.

I remember the first time: I was in an internet cafe in Laos. It was 2005, the days of weekly emails home and transferring photos onto CDs – and I pulled up the NY Times and I saw these pictures…
It didn’t make sense.
It was the first time, perhaps, when something happened that I could not conceive of people allowing to happen. (Not the last.)

And I was in New Orleans, before that, the first time the world ended: December 31, 1999. The night the planes would fall from the sky because computers didn’t know tomorrow wasn’t 1900.
I don’t remember sleeping on that trip, except at the very beginning. We missed our flight (Jason’s fault; not mine) and couldn’t reach anyone when we arrived (after several quarters in the payphone at the back of the local dive), so we ended up sleeping on Eric’s porch until he got home from work. We’d brought sleeping bags because although he and his roommate, Feyde (not her real name; goth girls didn’t use their real names in those days), were renting an entire house, they had no furniture.
After that – the next day, or the next – it was New Year’s Eve, and we spent the night in Jackson Square and Pirate’s Alley, and were still awake the next morning when the fire department came and hosed the streets down at 6am.
(I don’t remember eating anything either, aside from pear cider and sugar cubes, both from Pirate’s Alley. I was only 19 but Eric and Jason were both 22. I assume the sugar cubes were for absinthe; it being New Orleans; there were bowls of them on the bar, like peanuts.)

Recipe: Pasta Puttanesca, in honor of the Baudelaire orphans, and because it's tasty.

An argument for watching the movie first

I've just read Rowan Matilda. Months after she saw the musical in the West End. Years after she saw the film (musical) version. She loved it. I loved it.

I cannot think of any way in which having watched it first had a negative impact on our reading experience.

We noted a few differences: Matilda is younger, in the book; she has a brother (different than the film, but not the stage version); there is no escapologist nonsense. Okay. So what?

People come into the shop all the time for whatever The Hot Thing is -- Dune, Wuthering Heights, Project Hail Mary -- saying, Well of course I've got to read it first. It shocks them when I suggest that maybe, just maybe, they don't.

How did this idea take hold? And take such hold that it is accepted gospel, really, for those who read? ...I think therein lies the answer. It is important that the book get read; that we're all not just watching the movie and being satisfied. Yes. But it got taken too far.

Consider: If you read the book first, you go to the movie holding this entire world in your head. You'll compare every plot point, measure the actors against your imagination, be annoyed when the entire thing wasn't there. But if you watch the movie first: you'll enjoy a good movie. And then you'll pick up the book and find that there is so, so much more.

Obviously this only works for a good movie. But that's fine; we're not seeing the bad ones. I say: Watch the movie first. Just make sure you do read the book after.

Recipe: Katharine Hepburn's brownies. Becuase sometimes you're in someone else's house and they do not have 5kg of chocolate lying around but they do have cocoa powder. (They didn't even have nuts; I chopped up some cocoa hazelnut protein bars no one really wanted and used those for texture instead.)

I see it all the time: Kids are brought into the bookshop and told to choose a book. They choose a book. The parent/grandparent takes one look and says Oh no, not that. Arguing ensues.

Why? Often it’s a graphic novel. Phrases like “real book” and “reading book” are bandied about. (Yes, “reading book” is what we have come to.)

I stand in the background biting my tongue and pretending not to listen and when the kid finally makes it successfully to the till I gush about how great a book it is and how much I love it and how much they’re going to love it and how well they’ve chosen. The parents always seem a little chastened at that point, and looking for reassurance – which I provide, explaining that words are art, yes, and pictures are art, and when they get too close together they do not create some kind of matter/anti-matter situation.

My favorite was the mum who kicked up an enormous fuss but finally gave in, saying on her way to the till, Well just don’t bring it to school, I can’t imagine what your English teacher would say if she saw you reading that. The book in question? Maus. I told her it was required reading in my high school.

The only real objection the adults can raise is that graphic novels take a lot less time to read. This is true. This is also why they get read again and again and again and again. They become known, deeply. They become loved. They are, if you like, investment pieces. Anyway, macarons take a lot less time to eat than a slice of chocolate cake, so what’s your point?

But graphic novels don’t need my defense; they don’t need any defense. They are what the kid wants to read. Let them. A kid who grows up reading comics has three possible paths in front of them:

1. They read comics for a while, then move on to books without pictures. Graphic novels are absolutely wonderful for overcoming a kid’s hesitance when faced with a large block of text. They transform – I have seen this over and over, including with Rowan – reluctant readers into avid ones.
2. They read comics for a while, add in books without pictures, and continue to enjoy both. It me, my dad, Richard…
3. They only ever read graphic novels.

The last is the least likely – I’ve never met anyone who’s followed that path – but even if it does happen, so what? There is just as much literary and imaginative value in graphic novels as in non-graphic novels. All the same benefits continue to apply. In other words, there is no problem.

If you have any doubts, I’ll let Katherine Rundell spell it out for you:
A defense of reading for pleasure (is there another way to read?)

Every once in a great while I see the opposite problem:
First, a kid came into the shop. My favorite kind: around 11/12, able to ask for help, happy to chat a little about what he was after, a good kid. Gives me hope for the future. Anyway what he wanted was a book of crosswords. The kid ones were too kiddy, so I showed him the adult ones. He took about 10 minutes and picked one out and bought it. Success.
…Twenty minutes later he’s back, trailing his grandmother, who waves the book at me and says it’s far too advanced for him, generally acting as if I’d pushed cocaine or Portnoy’s Complaint on him. It is clear that he has no choice in this matter, and that whatever he said to her in that interval she hasn’t heard. I patiently show her the kid crosswords and walk her through his process. I suggest, gently, that the best judge of what he can do, or is prepared to do, is him. Yes, I agree, these crosswords will likely be a bit of a challenge. Is that not – again gently – a good thing? She doesn’t really hear me any more than she heard him, but we gave it our best shot. I looked at him and shrugged and smiled and did my best to indicate that I, at least, believed in him.

“Youth cannot know how age thinks and feels. But old men are guilty if they forget what it was to be young.”¹

Parents come in for plenty of this, but grandparents often seem especially clueless. Which I can’t hold against them exactly; there have been a lot of books published since the last time they visited the children’s section, and they don’t see their grandkids that often, etc etc. I have space for their uncertainty. What I don’t have space for is the ones who ask my advice and then argue with me. Listen. You need help. I know you need help; you know you need help; that is why you asked me for help; I am very capable of providing that help. So don’t give me that look when I recommend a book with a female protagonist for your grandson. What is your bloody endgame, after all? Do you want him to turn into your husband, who only reads books by other old white men about WWII?

I am good at my job. And my job, as I see it, is to get the right book in the right hands at the right time. Simple. Some books are better than others. But the best book might not be the best book for you right now. (Or, for that matter, for your kid.) Last week I found something just right for:

• A mum with an almost-one-month old, locked out of her house on a sunny day, who had just given her husband Colson Whitehead for St. George’s Day (a sort of Spanish Valentine’s, apparently, but instead of chocolates they give books. I told her it sounded much better than the English St. George’s, where everyone just got super racist.)
• A student taking a break from their chemistry degree who needed something that would fit into their stylish bum bag.
• A man whose wife was trying to push A Little Life on him but they were renovating their house and already stressed enough as it is thank you.
• A 12-year-old boy who loved Alex Rider and Harry Potter and Naughts & Crosses and Hunger Games and all the other “kid” series and wanted more but wasn’t sure where to turn until I gave him permission to graduate to the SFF section proper.

Usually I give someone three to five books to choose from. Every once in a while it’s one-and-done and you just have to trust me. Either way, I promise, I know what I’m doing.

Sometimes, my job is to tell you to go to the library. Really. Not all books deserve to be bought. Daisy Meadows, I’m looking at you (whomever(s) you are). But at the library you don’t have to justify your purchase; the book doesn’t have to be “worth” anything. You’re allowed to try things out. You’re allowed to not finish. You’re allowed to read children’s books, and you probably should. Your kids are allowed to read whatever appeals to them and it does not cost you a dime. It’s magical. Check it out.

¹Dumbledore

Recipe: Spinach turmeric fish curry, a guaranteed crowd pleaser here.

Things I know and (therefore?) assume everyone knows:

17. You can’t just plant apple seeds and get good apples. If you want good apples, not crab apples – the same apples you started with – the only way to do it is with grafting.

17a. Tangential fact, that I can distinctly remember learning and therefore do not assume is common knowledge: Citrus fruit is also grown by grafting, because if you plant, say, lemon seeds, there’s no guarantee you won’t get grapefruits. In this case I think because they’re all hybrids, so any given genes could win.

18. Jane Austen wrote Emma. Among other things. (And here I’m talking about apparently well-educated, white, English people; the ones I feel qualified to judge. How do they not all know this? What were they doing that day?)

Recipe: I did do this with rhubarb (which I picked and roasted myself) this time, but any jam works and the shortbread is perfect. I like a sprinkly of demerara on top for crunch.

File Under: Things that Used to Be Normal

There were things that used to be normal. Because there used to be such a thing as normal. Even for me.

• Going to school. My parents went to school, my friends (a term only loosely applied some years) went to school, I went to school. (I read and loved and memorized Calvin & Hobbes, and never once did I question why he, also, went to school. I never asked why his mother, who had chosen to leave her job when he was born, neither home educated him nor returned to work. These days I look at those comics and just see the poster child for our current lifestyle.) What’s water? said one fish to the other.
• Going to the mall. Need new clothes? Go to the mall. Want to see a movie? Go to the mall. Your parents need to drop you off for a few hours with your friend? Go to the mall. Bored? Go to the mall. Eat at the food court; browse Waldenbooks (where I stole bookmarks by shoving them down my underpants); KB Toys; the music store (where I bought my first album, on tape, which I had to scrape the Explicit Lyrics sticker off before I showed it to my parents); the pet store, which was mostly just cages of puppies and kittens that we found adorable and not at all problematic; Radio Shack if someone needed a floppy disk; Friendly’s if your parents were in an expansive mood (clamwich and a clown sundae). I can still remember where in the mall they all were, first or second floor; I can tell you that the Chinese place was on the leftmost edge of the food court, Baskin Robbins on the far right. Piercing Pagoda was not for the likes of me; my mom took me to the pediatrician to get my ears pierced, and not until I hit some arbitrary age.
• Eating less healthy foods at your friend’s house without their mom consulting yours. (See, most notably: macaroni & cheese from a box; cereals that were not Cheerios and did not advertise a high fiber content.) The reverse was also the case: My friend Jen has never gotten over the dinner where my father served lamb burgers with goat cheese hidden inside.
• Mowing the lawn, raking leaves, shoveling snow. All acceptable kid jobs, blisters included. (And what did we do with the grass and leaves? Of course I piled the leaves under the swing that hung from the tree in our front yard, but what then?)
• Riding a bicycle without a helmet. Riding it to your friend’s house, and just… around. Because we were kids, and we had to come up with some way to entertain ourselves; we never expected entertainment as a sort of baseline.
• Toy commercials. How else could we learn what to want? Micromachines, Cabbage Patch Dolls, Barbie… My father taped, on VHS, the shows I wanted to watch so I could fast-forward through the commercials. Still, somehow, I knew. Another American I know referenced Gushers the other day and though I don’t think I ever managed to consume one, yeah, I knew.
• Sleepovers. At which I got ear infections, or dreaded playing Truth or Dare, or was peer-pressured into watching Carrie and the Exorcist at far too tender an age. (School years went by calendar-year-of-birth, so I was almost always the youngest.)
• Telephones. It was possible, once upon a time, to be unreachable. It was possible to leave your house and if anyone wanted to talk to you they had to damn well wait til you returned. And if you wanted to talk to your friend you had to be prepared to talk to their mom or dad, and you had to check it wasn’t too late or too early, and not hog the line because nobody had call waiting (except one kid; there’s always one). And then later there was the modem, and AOL CDs, and that very particular sound that we can all call up in a heartbeat despite not having heard it since 1998.

Recipe: Kate doesn't like bok choi but it keeps showing up in her dinner boxes so we made Ginger Scallion Noodles.

These were the good things

1. I made a chocolate souffle for Rowan and Eilidh, neither of whom had ever had one -- or indeed, apparently, anything so delicious -- before. In short, it was a hit. The middle was a bit raw because I used a 12" casserole dish rather than six individual ramekins, but nobody seemed to mind. Karolina said she even preferred that part, which was apparently similar to some sort of Polish Christmas eggnog-adjacent delight.
I need to get my ramekins from my parents basement.
We'd originally intended to do a souffle of some kind when we had our chicken petsit, but it turned out the people did not own any kind of electric beating device and I have to draw the line somewhere. Have you ever attempted stiff peaks by hand?

2. Vampires vs. the Bronx. Not one of the world's cinematic masterpieces -- I called (what can generously be described as) the twist early on. I even called the baseball bat. But still. Sometimes you just want to watch scrappy kids doin' the right thing and learning a bit of lore along the way.

3. Georgette Heyer. I've read two? three? of her romances so far and thoroughly enjoyed them. But of course it was always going to be the detective ones that really got me. Started the first one (well, actually book 2, as 1 wasn't available) yesterday. In my hammock, in the dappled sun, on a glorious day while Rowan was at the adventure playground. And then got an email from FuckingAmazon saying that as of May 20th they would no longer be supporting my Kindle, which meant I wouldn't be able to get any more library books on it... So I immediately began loading it up. Thank you, Brooklyn Public Library, for your 20 loans at once. And wtf, NYPL, for your 3. But anyway I plan to max them both out multiple times:

• - Borrow the books from the library.
• - Turn off airplane mode on the kindle and download them.
• - Turn airplane mode back on.
• - Return all the books and borrow more.
• - Repeat.
• - Repeat.

That should last me a while. At least until the Kindle does actually die, which I don't think is all that far off. Already I can't navigate forwards with the right-hand button; it jumps 3 pages instead of 1.
So far I've got another 15 Heyer books lined up. All the mysteries (except, still, the first one) and a smattering more romances. Hit me with your best recs now!

4. Music. Music is good, you know? I like walking without it, and I like podcasts and audiobooks, but... I sort of forgot about music. I mean, I listen at home when I can -- ie when Rowan isn't using the iPad, so pretty much for 20 minutes at dinner -- but I haven't done it while out and about in ages. I started getting back into it a little bit when I made my Life playlist, but then it took a while to listen to all that and it didn't occur to me to just... listen to some random albums too.
Turns out I don't need more quiet, necessarily. I just need less noise.
Further sound thoughts from one of the podcast greats.

Recipe: Aforementioned chocolate souffle(s).

In the coffeeshop

28 Aug 2025
A dad explaining to his 9?yo daughter about someone who’s an expert in Han Dynasty pottery. Trying to get her interested in being an entrepreneur. He asks what she likes and she says “horses, dogs…” He’s trying to spin that into money-making ideas now. Selling programs from the Grand National. Become an expert –- “It’s all about knowledge” -- buy low sell high. She’s not really getting it, and good for her. He finishes his speech and she says “Can I get a dog?” The answer of course is No. “You’re at school all the time.”

31 Aug 2025
Is there anything more English than calling a baguette a “French stick”?

23 Oct 2025
“I don’t like the sound of my voice. I sound like a homosexual twat. …Maybe I am a homosexual twat.”

13 Nov 2025
Watching small children almost but not quite defeated by the door jamb. Clinging on to the side to navigate their way through, they triumph.

18 Dec 2025
Am I the cow milk backlash? Defensive, but not too defensive. I can explain; I have to explain. All our choices must be explained these days. Everyone is finding their balance point.
I drink cow milk, yes, because anything else in coffee just isn’t good, you know, and I need this one small good thing in my life –- to brighten the dark mornings, to reassure me that whatever else humanity gets up to, at least we figured out lattes –- but come on, I bike and take public transport and live in a tiny apartment, and I know I take planes sometimes but at some point you have to live a life you enjoy, and there’s an obligation, isn’t there, for parents,to not let their kids grow up insular, but it’s all a balance isn’t it, and if I could take a ship everywhere I would, or if trains were cheaper and I had the time, but what does the world expect, after all? That one guy in the woods in The Good Place, barely scraping a pass while the rest of the world burns. Just this one little thing, okay? Cow milk in my coffee.

29 Jan 2026
“Wow, it’s busy in here. Like a yoga class just let out. Is it ladies day?”
Wow, fuck you dude.

If chased by cattle

Dislike: The word “muppet” as a pejorative. Also the word “silly,” same. (The latter most often used in an effort to not say “stupid” – like subbing “sugar” for “shit.” All well and good you don't want to call a kid stupid -- it's not the 80s anymore -- but let's not make silly a bad thing. It's a bad thing if a 3-year-old isn't silly.)

-------

Okay. You’re walking down the sidewalk. Not an enormous one, not a super narrow one; a normal sidewalk with space enough for two people to walk together, or pass each other in opposite directions. In New York – and as far as I can remember, in every other city I’ve ever been in – people will do just that: pass each other. There is no beat, there is no acknowledgement, there are simply two people moving independently through the world with no earthly need to acknowledge each other’s existence.

In London, the world’s most passive aggressive city, this is not the case. At least that’s how I’ve been reading the situation. Inevitably, one of the approaching people will pull over to let the other pass. At which point they expect an acknowledgment of their great largesse. Which I refuse to give, because why on Earth should I reward someone for doing something entirely unnecessary for no reason aside from receiving said acknowledgement.

But now I have a theory. It is not (merely) a case of performative politeness; it is learned behaviour based on driving. Because driving in this country is absolutely bonkers. (Have a look on YouTube for some variation of “Americans react to insane British roads!” for further illustration.) Here’s the deal: Lots and lots of roads, even in London, and certainly outside it, are too narrow for two cars to pass each other at speed. Baked into the system then is the requirement that two cars, approaching each other at 60mph, will somehow be able to slow down in time for one to pull into the side of a hedge (or in London, the gap in parallel-parked cars). There is no margin for error, and playing chicken is not an option. Whoever has the nearest two feet of shoulder must pull into it. At which point a little wave is given, the other person edges by, then they both gun it and go about their business. I do not know how everyone does not crash all the time.

So. This is standard practice, and absolutely essential to moving through British roadspace. Even if you don’t drive and never leave London, inevitably you will encounter this on any given bus route. It sinks in: Two bodies moving toward each other cannot simply move past each other; one must give way.

Still drives me up the fucking wall though.

-------

It’s inevitable: Every time we set foot in the English countryside, I’m reminded of Bill Bryson talking about the dangers of cows. Because they are dangerous, apparently; they will attack. Bill learned this at some point after moving here, and understandably felt the need to spread the word. And the English people he told said Well yes, of course, you’d better watch out if you’re in a field with cows. And the Americans said Why on earth would I be in a field with cows?

Why would I be in a field with cows. I never was, in America. I can’t imagine a scenario where I would be. Cows are… elsewhere. Somewhere in Iowa there’s a fratboy sneaking out at midnight to tip them. But Bryson is from Iowa, so maybe it’s actually Ohio. Or Indiana, or Wisconsin, who knows. America just has so much space I guess the cows and the people all have enough of their own.

There was a sign at the edge of the field: Stay safe – use a lead around livestock. But release your dog if chased by cattle. Why would I be in a field with cows indeed.

(I have of course continued Bryson’s experiment, and so far the Americans remain confused. I usually get some variation on Well, a bull…

Which reminds me of the rodeo Richard and I went to. In Madison Square Garden, unpredictably. Two things: 1. Whoever came up with the term Mutton Busting is a genius; 2. being a rodeo clown is a damn serious business. The guy trying to stay on the bull? He just has to hang on. The guy who has to get the attention of the bull after the other guy inevitably falls off, and lure it away to potentially trample him instead? Balls of steel.)

Recipe: Last Thanksgiving was a bit of a mess -- we got stood up by Richard's sister -- but on the plus side we didn't have to share these Garlicky Hasselback Sweet Potatoes, which were one of the most delicious things I've ever eaten.

The coffeeshop mums behind me:
“We’re reading Harry Potter right now.”
“Is it not scary?”

Well of course it’s bloody scary.

I had forgotten just how much until I was the one reading it out loud to a 6 year-old. A face sticking out the back of someone’s head? A murderous whisper in the walls? Creatures that suck your soul out through your mouth? I often hear parents saying they’ll stop after book 3, as if all the bad stuff happens later on. Ha. The books get bigger, yes, and more dramatic, but just wait til you’re the one whispering murderously at bedtime, kill, kill…

It is scary, but that scariness is part of a much larger world. Say what you will about JK Rowling, she knows how to build a bloody world, and this is very much one you want to live in, for as long as possible. Has anything ever been reread/re-listened to as much as Harry Potter? How many millions of humans has Stephen Fry read to sleep over the years?

Yes, that world has danger in it. But the danger can be got through. There will be sadness, people will be lost along the way, it will get hard, but it will. be. got. through. And along the way there will be chocolate frog cards, wands that turn into rubber chickens, chipolatas, giant pumpkins, gernumbly infestations, squashy-faced cats, treacle tarts, talking portraits (sidebar: paintings can talk; photos can only move?), nutty professors, frilly robes, quidditch, wandlore, unicorns…

The best parts aren’t when Harry is facing down Voldemort; those are just the ends, when you’re already feeling sad because you know the book is almost over. The best parts are when he’s wandering Diagon Alley, or lounging around the Burrow, or even stuck in Privet Drive. The best parts are when you, the reader, can most feel like Harry. That’s when you fall in love with the books. That’s where you want to live – over, and over, and over again.

And the danger? The very dark darkness that lurks throughout? The real fear of things that are really scary? You can take it – kids can take it, and want to take it, and need to take it.

“Fairy tales, then, are not responsible for producing in children fear, or any of the shapes of fear; fairy tales do not give the child the idea of the evil or the ugly; that is in the child already, because it is in the world already. Fairy tales do not give the child his first idea of bogey. What fairy tales give the child is his first clear idea of the possible defeat of bogey. The baby has known the dragon intimately ever since he had an imagination. What the fairy tale provides for him is a St. George to kill the dragon.”¹

or

“Fairy tales are more than true: not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten.”²

I like both versions. It’s hard to read Neil Gaiman right now, but that doesn’t change the fact the man knows how to put together a sentence. No offense, Gilbert Keith.

But I don’t want to talk about Neil. I have, enough. I’ve had my reckoning. (The look on my 27-year-old queer coworker’s face when I confessed I had a Sandman quote tattooed on my back. I know.)

It’s an extension of the SFF issue isn’t it? Children need fairy tales. Children need stories filled with magic and peril. The magic expands their minds, confuses them as to what is possible, stretches their imaginations. The peril shows them that danger can be faced, demons defeated, good triumph over evil. That bravery isn’t about feeling no fear; it’s being the Cowardly Lion and roaring your foes down anyway.

Contention: That scariness (within reason) – that darkness – isn’t the problem nearly as much as the editing is.

Why is Totoro okay for literally anyone, but Into the Spiderverse isn’t? Totoro has darkness, after all: a sick mum, a missing child. But it is summer-paced; it is almost more a place you are than a movie you watch. It doesn’t happen to you; you sink into it.

The scariness of Harry Potter comes as part of a much larger/longer world. It demands attention span; it is not edited for the YouTube generation. Children need that darkness/peril/fear/depression/cruelty. They do not need – and often can’t handle – loud noises/fast editing/constant action. Me neither.

It’s hard to put your finger on exactly what makes these differences, what pushes a movie from one side to the other. Lots of things, I’m sure. But you know it when you see it. Watch a movie made forty years ago and breathe a sigh of relief. (Amazing, isn’t it, that a forty-year-old movie sounds old? It’s just an 80s movie. Which may be inappropriate for kids for plenty of other reasons…)

There were two mums in the bookshop last week, one describing the plot of The Velveteen Rabbit to the other, who was pushing a baby in a pram. Once she got to the burning, the latter said, “Oh, so skip that one, right?” As if this was something so clearly belonging to a former age when adults enjoyed traumatizing children. Not for her child, in this sanitized modern age!

I didn’t interrupt. I do sometimes, which is probably not very English. I’m supposed to pretend I can’t hear people having conversations right in front of me because they are not, after all, talking to me. But I think it’s part of my job, as a responsible bookseller, to put them right. This time though I let them walk away; the subject was too big.

I wanted to shout, It's a wonderful book! I give The Velveteen Rabbit at baby showers – there’s a whole rabbit theme – stuffed animal, blanket – it’s fantastic! Were you never a child? Have you no soul? Yes, it is sad, but do you honestly think you are doing your child any favors by not allowing them to feel this, specific sadness? It is soul-expanding sadness! It is the very definition of love. What you love, so hard, becomes real.

I won’t belabor it (more). If you know, you know; if you don’t, you have another book to read.

We are pan narrans. Stories are inextricable from the human condition. One of the things they do is provide us with a safe space in which to encounter ideas we would not otherwise come across in our day-to-day life. Ideas we may one day need to understand – so we better encounter them as children, to give us time to grapple. To raise a human being is to help them learn to be human. The more stories they’re exposed to, of all sorts, the better.

“For though Hansel and Gretel are still running silently through the dead forest, someday, no, soon, the forest will come to life and help the children with pointers, and when they get there, they’ll be welcomed with a subtitle: “Hello, there you are at last!”³

Children need fear, and mystery, and wonder. They need to be lost. Because if they are never lost they will never learn how to find themselves. Mother isn’t here now.⁴

¹G.K. Chesterton
²Neil Gaiman
³Günter Grass
⁴Stephen Sondheim

Recipe: Spanakopita Pasta, a great alternative if you need the comfort of mac n cheese but also like bitter greens. A bit like my parents in pasta form.

The Thing about JKR

We are allowed to talk about it. You and me, in a safe space over a cup of tea. Because we are women. We have been womaning for a while now and we know that it is not easy. You can’t just… become part of it, like book club. We have fought, every inch of our lives, and it doesn’t feel fair – that this could be co-opted, or devalued.

We are allowed to have this conversation. I, and the other cis women of my acquaintance, are allowed to have these thoughts.

But we need to remember that this experience we have, of being women, born as women, with every intention of dying as women (probably sooner than we should, thanks to the many “female troubles” that medical research has so far failed to care sufficiently about): is not universal.

I do not – I cannot – have any idea what it feels like to be born into the wrong body. I cannot, in point of fact, fundamentally understand any experience of living that is not my own.

But. I can try. For what it's worth. Read books, listen to podcasts, listen. I can leave a space where that understanding might be, and I can fill it with the lived experiences of other people, who do have it.

This is what it comes down to: It’s not up to me, or your mom, or the president of the United States, or JKR. It is up to you. If you say you are a woman, you are a woman.

My understanding or lack thereof is – and I cannot stress this enough – entirely irrelevant, and should have no bearing on anyone else's identity or access to whatever it is they need to access.

JKR has trouble with this. And if she were almost anyone else, I wouldn’t care. And if she didn’t donate – what I can only imagine are substantial amounts of – money to “gender-based rights” groups, I wouldn’t care. And if she didn’t double down and down and down… Well, people have been wrong on the internet before.

But as Rowan rounds her sixth listen of Harry Potter, and well-meaning friends wonder, quietly, if maybe JKR doesn’t actually have a bit of a point, and isn’t it awful how she’s been attacked, well. I need to know where I stand. I need to be very, very clear.

I listened to The Witch Trials recently. It’s the kind of thing that make me miss high school debate, with its clearly signposted arguments, unforgiving cross examination, clear winner and loser, and utter absence of real-world policy-making. There is nothing more frustrating than an interview where the interviewer cannot treat the interviewee as an “opponent,” no matter how much you suspect they would like to.

And people get so muddled when they’re not bound by debate rules. I felt a bit like a college judge at a local novice tournament: forced to be the one who turned a featureless mush into a sensible flow chart just so that I could begin to get some kind of handle on the situation before turning in my ballot.

As far as I can tell, JKR has three main issues:

1. Children.
2. Men who “identify” as women but have not completed or perhaps even begun a physical transition.
3. “Women” who are not, definitionally, women (in her words, not capable of menstruation).

Let’s take them, as 16-year-old me said on more than one occasion, one at a time.

Children.
Interviewer: Now, you've said that you've been immersing yourself in a lot of reading – memoirs and philosophy and academic literature all around the subject. And I know that one thing that's made this conversation about minors medically transitioning so contentious is that because it's quite new, there aren't a lot of authoritative studies. And so with the studies that are out there, the assertion is that people on all sides are cherry-picking to fit their arguments. What evidence are you seeing that makes you think that you are right to be worried?

JKR: I haven't yet found a study that hasn't found that the majority of young people, children and adolescents, experiencing gender dysphoria, will grow out of it. Now, I haven't found a single study that contradicts that and I have gone looking. The majority of children will, if allowed to go through adolescence, many of them will grow up, not all, but many will grow up to be gay and their gender dysphoria will resolve. Why then, if that's the evidence, are we immediately putting children onto an affirmative path? Can we follow the science? There's activism, and all activism isn't equal.I genuinely think that we are watching one of the worst medical scandals in a century. And I believe that those who should have known better, and I'm talking here, not God knows, about trans people, gender dysphoric people, distressed young people. I'm certainly not talking about them. I am talking about medics and those who have cheered this on unquestioningly, creating a climate in which many people trying to raise red flags have been intimidated and silenced. And I would ask proponents of gender identity ideology who are so militant, who are so determined on no debate, I would ask them, what if you are wrong? If I'm wrong, honestly, hallelujah. If I'm wrong, great. People aren't being harmed. But if you are wrong, you have cheered on, you have created a climate, quite a threatening climate in which whistleblowers and young people themselves are being intimidated out of raising concerns.

JKR, a consummate world builder, here gives us a very clear picture of how any child with slight gender dysphoria is immediately “cheered on” to transition without delay, while all conflicting opinions are “intimidated and silenced.” It is expertly done – full speaker points – but she has -- and I heard her do this again and again -- created an enemy for the sole purpose of fighting it.

If that threatening climate exists, she’s right that it shouldn’t. But she’s so busy proving herself right she completely fails to address the central question, which is whether children should have access to certain drugs and procedures. At what age can a person make this kind of decision? 12? 13? 16? 18? 25? Not just to wear different clothes or use the pronoun of their choice, but to physically transition? That is literally the only actual question here.

I don’t have an answer yet. Partly that may be another debate holdover – it’s my job to argue for an ideal world, not come up with real-world solutions. But partly too I think this is not a question that can have a blanket answer, because JKR is also wrong about the harms all being one-sided. The reason this is even an issue in the first place is because waiting to transition until after puberty can make it a far more difficult and traumatic experience, both physically and mentally. Puberty fucks ya up, and even more so if it’s the wrong puberty. “A majority” may end up one way or the other, but this is an intensely personal experience, which can perhaps only be dealt with on a personal, individual level.

I tend to come down on the side of listening to people, and trusting them, and letting them lead their own lives. An adult’s job is not to protect a child from all pain, but to be there while they navigate it, and help them turn into a decent human being. A child dealing with gender dysphoria needs support – and, to a certain extent in this day and age, cheerleading. The issue has existed in darkness and shame and confusion for so long that maybe we do need a finger on the scales now, to help balance things out. In the same way that saying Black Lives Matter doesn’t mean all lives don’t; it just means that right now, these ones need a little extra attention. And if someone tells JKR to butt out, consider that it is perhaps not a question of “silencing” those who have tried to “raise red flags” so much as it is telling them to mind their own goddam business, and let the individual and their family and their friends and their doctor get on with it.

Eliminate the danger, the threats, the shouting down, the trolls, and it becomes very simple: Do we provide access or do we not?

2. Men who “identify as women.” And, you know what,
3. “Women.” My argument here covers both these points, which may actually be the same point after all.

Interviewer: You have said that you respect trans people. You said that you would march with them. That you think the transition is right for some people. But you also say that there's a real difference between biological women and trans women and a meaningful distinction between the two in their experiences.
And I think some of your critics point to that and say, you're essentially making trans women second-class women, you know, like you're almost women, that despite all of their efforts to live in the world as women, as what feels right and authentic to them, you are essentially saying, I'll treat you as a woman, you are an honorary woman, but this distinction that you are emphasizing, the biological distinction that you see as being so important, it can feel hurtful to them. They are almost a thing, but not quite. Something is being held back. Can you understand the pain that that could cause?

JKR: Yes, is the short answer. Yes, I can understand that hurt. The thing is, women are the only group to my knowledge that are being asked to embrace members of their oppressor class unquestioningly with no caveat. Now, on an individual basis, and I think many people new to this argument would see it on that level, because many people of my generation particularly think that we're talking about old school transexuals, people who have been through full sex reassignment because of profound gender dysphoria. And I feel 100% compassion for such people, and I would absolutely respect their pronouns always have, always will, and would want, as I say, them to have comfortable, easy lives. This movement, though, is pressing for something different, very different. This movement has argued, continues to argue, that a man may have had no surgery whatsoever. But if he feels himself to be a woman, the door of every woman's bathroom, changing room, rape centre should be open to him. I say no, I'm afraid I say no.

Brilliant of her, isn’t it? To say that after all this she is not actually talking about transexuals at all. Nope, she loves ‘em. So long as they’re, you know, those comfortable ones from the 1950s, preferably still in black and white, and they come at her individually rather than en masse. (She did the same with the children, “certainly not talking about them.”) Wow.

And yes, she can even understand the hurt. Okay. Take a beat.

…

She understands it… and does. not. give. a. single. fuck. She causes pain with the language she chooses and she will absolutely go on choosing it. But if she isn’t talking about transexuals, who is she talking about? Aha: a man who “may have had no surgery whatsoever” but still “feels himself to be a woman.”

This is the threat she’s fighting: Men who are going to say they’re women and thus gain access to all the women stuff. Like we’ll all just be stuck at that point, hoist on our own petards. Oop, well, we did say we’d trust people so even though these ones are clearly violating that trust and lying through their teeth and taking advantage, we’ll just have to let them get away with it because after all it would be hypocritical otherwise. I… what?

You know why Order of the Phoenix is my favorite Harry Potter book? Because Dolores Umbridge is not a Death Eater. She is a far better villain than Voldemort. No red eyes, no talking to snakes, no black cloak. She isn’t doing all this because she selfishly wants to live forever; she is doing it for the good of the children. (Okay, she enjoys a little pain, but you know, layers.) The best bad guys are the ones who don’t think they are.

So to convince herself that she’s the good guy, JKR builds these straw men, builds this world where she is so obviously the reasonable one here. She’s Umbridge, convinced that Dumbledore wants Fudge’s job. She’s on defense people, not offense! Everyone is out to get her and she’s just trying to protect people! She is protecting women, real women, from that man who is obviously a man, can’t you see, is she the only one with eyes?

It is so, so clear to her. She hasn’t yet realized that not only is that clarity gone, it was never here, and the illusion of it should go, and good riddance.

Let me ask you, JKR, when does a man who feels himself to be a woman become enough of a woman for you? How many drugs, how many surgeries? Does it only count when they put on lipstick and a dress? Are they allowed to have short hair? Do they need full fake boobs or is stuffing acceptable, and is a B enough or would you rather a C or D to be on the safe side? Could you provide a checklist please?

JKR sees a world divided down the middle. Two sides, female and male. For her, to accept transgender women is to “embrace our oppressors.” There is no room for nuance. It’s us against them, forever. Her imagination, shockingly, fails her. She’s stuck on defense and cannot imagine her way forward – not into offense, but out of the game entirely. She’s so focused on maintaining “an accurate definition of sex difference” (and building a world where those who question this need are no better than a pitchfork-wielding mob), she cannot see how problematic that is.

For one thing, no matter how hard she tries, there will never be one single way to define what a woman is. I have not, by choice, menstruated in eight years. Not every woman can conceive and carry a child. Not all of us have only two X chromosomes. We do not all have a cervix and uterus.

For another thing, even if you can find that one shining defining feature… It is still absolutely none of my business.

I don’t want to live in a world of clarity, where every person is only one thing or the other. I don’t want to live in a world where the first thing you need to know about somebody, the first question you ask is What are you? I don’t want to live in a world where I am immediately concerned by the genitals of whomever I’m talking to.

My final lesson from debate: You don’t win by competing; you win by not needing to compete. JKR cannot make the leap. If she hasn’t by this point, I don’t think she’s going to. I’ve listened to other podcasts too, listened to Potterhead trans activists grappling with this, the open letters they’ve written her, the space they’ve given her, the dying hope that if they can just explain it to her properly, she’ll understand. I don’t think she will, but at least now I know where I stand.

Everyone gets to be who they are. It has nothing to do with me. They can share as much or as little with the world as they like. They can wear what they like, cut their hair how they like, modify their bodies how they like. My only obligation is to treat them as who they are, as the person they present to the world. Not the person I secretly believe them to be, or think they should be, and not as a category; an individual.

Thus, I affirm the resolution. JKR has gone over to the dark side. I stand ready for cross examination. Thank you.

Wicked

‘Tis the second year of the “Wicked” Christmas. “For Good” just came on in the coffee shop. That’s how they get you I suppose: make it a two-parter. So much spectacle you can’t fit it all in one film.

I thought I might like Wicked. I love musicals. I’m here for some brain-off glitz and Busby Berkeleyesque choreography and amazing set design and costumes. I tried it on our last airplane ride to the States this summer. I got maybe 20 minutes (and two numbers) in.

I wonder if it’s like The Matrix or Avatar: So big and dumb you can only watch it on the big screen. A marvellous cinematic experience; a mediocre film.

For years I refused to engage with it at all. Oz was such an important part of my childhood – what was this non-canon prequel bullshit?

But I gave it a shot. I read the book not long after it came out. I didn’t like it. Eventually I listened to the show, after it had been on Broadway for a little while. Defying Gravity is a moment, yes, a true 11 o’clock number. But only the least forgettable of a very forgettable score. I moved on.

And now we have the movies. The actors are amazing. The whole thing is a visual feast.

It is not for me.

I am glad, on balance, to have it in the world. Every time a person watches a musical an angel gets their wings.

And maybe it will lead them to “The Wizard of Oz.” And maybe that will lead them to Judy Garland. And the stories I love will be loved by other people, and what is best in the world will never truly die. And we always defeat the bad guys and save the day. No one ever dies and everybody lives happily ever after.¹

¹Lie to Me, “Buffy the Vampire Slayer”

Recipe: Harissa White Bean Chili. Simple but effective. Improves, as all stews do, with age.

Extremely Short Movie Reviews II

"The Lobster"
Weird. But why? Sort of good? Unclear. Could be shorter.
Entirely joyless. Which I guess is the point? And that's not to say I didn't like it, I think? But there's only so far unwavering commitment to an idea can take you.

"Topkapi"
Classic heist shenanigans.

"In a Valley of Violence"
Richard nailed this one: It's a Western, but the director thinks he's still making horror movies. Which should work, but he's dont it the wrong way round. The characters are disappointingly stupid and the whole thing is utterly predictable. Jon Travolta, however, continues to inspire an unexpected level of affection.
It's not her fault, and actually her American accent is quite good, but all I can see is Amy Pond.

"Hunt for the Wilderpeople"
Yes.

“You’re all about being somewhere else.” A potential friend told me that during college orientation week. He was right. I was too busy trying to prove I was too cool for the room. We never became actual friends; my fault, not his, and my loss.

I preach so much about paying attention. Not getting lost in a phone; really thinking about where you are, what you’re doing, why. But can that be carried too far? If I’m always questioning whether I’m in the right place, living the right life, am I forgetting to be actually here, living it? Am I not appreciating what I have?

Almost everyone I know wants to be somewhere else. Hannah wants London proper, not the farthest reaches of Romford. Kate wants anything but Walthamstow, but will settle for Bath. Sarah wants France but actually Surrey, but Drew just wants not to get beat up. Maddy says she’s N7 til death but actually she takes a break in Nice every six weeks. I think she’s got it sorted.

Rebecca asked me – shop chitchat – where my perfect place would be. “It’s not one place,” I told her, “it’s two.” No one place ticks all the boxes; everywhere is a compromise. You need two, each to be an escape for the other.

Think about it: You go on vacation and after a few days start looking forward to going home. You’re home, but dreaming of vacation destinations. We always want to be where we’re not, and we never appreciate where we are til we leave it.

I never saw the morning 'til I stayed up all night
I never saw the sunshine 'til you turned out the light
I never saw my hometown until I stayed away too long
I never heard the melody until I needed the song ¹

Okay, so that’s sorted. Two places. Bringing balance to the Force. …Where?

The thing about home ed is that once you start questioning the system it’s hard to know where to stop. We’re saying “This shit is broken, okay, we’ll design our own.” We’ve opened the door and the whole fucking world is on the other side.

But it’s always easier to alter something that already exists than it is to design from scratch. I’m a great reorganizer; I’m not an architect. I find working with constraints an exciting challenge; a completely blank space would be paralyzing.

One place has to be a city. Start there. Or… list all the things I want, total, and then make sure they’re all represented – distributed somehow between the two places? Ok then:

Theatre
Swimmable water
Good food
No need for a car
Different country
Friends/family close by

It’s a start.

Richard was saying that he’s happy now. He’s got this life, here, figured out, and it works. And I agree. But that’s the point where I say, That means we’ve finished here, right? I left NY not because I didn’t love it but because I knew what it was to live in NY, and I did love it, but I’d done it. I wanted something new. And now I know what it is to live in London, and it works for us now but there will come a time when it will have been enough.

Only in complete privacy am I allowed to denigrate England, so I’ll repeat instead what Kate told me yesterday:
"This is the definition of depressing: sitting on the bus home, it’s raining, 4pm, it’s already dark, you’re sitting next to a stranger coughing."

There are many adjectives to describe the other places I’ve lived, but England really has a lock on grim.

I’m not sure a move to Bath will help her with that. It’s something, but is it enough? Hopefully at least it's enough for the next ten years. It helps to remember that you don’t have to move anywhere forever.

Despite what Instagram influencers would have us believe: A Forever Home is not necessarily a desirable thing. Buying a place and deciding to stay in it for the rest of your life does not make you an adult.

My uncle once told me that his definition of adulthood was owning matching mugs, which is sort of the Forever Home ideal writ small. But I’ve never wanted matching mugs. In point of fact, Richard and I decided years ago that mugs were the ideal souvenir. Because it’s important to buy a souvenir – you have to make a point of it – but we wanted something useful, not just decorative. Mugs are the perfect solution. Plus over time they break so then you have an excuse to go away and find another one.

It’s appealing, the Forever Home. A place that is ours with everything in its place, where we always know where the Christmas tree will go, where we can paint the wainscotting and build a greenhouse out of discarded windows and not worry about resale appeal. It’s fun to imagine. But that’s all. It’s a fantasy, and like all fantasies it’s not meant to come real.

When you’re a kid, being an adult is simple.

And when I grow up
I will be smart enough to answer all
The questions that you need to know
The answers to before you're grown up ²

There are markers, after all: At 6 you can rock climb; at 8 you can swim alone; at 12 you can baby-sit; at 16 you can drive; at 18 you can vote; at 21 you can drink; at 25 you can rent a car. But after that you’re on your own. Your brain is fully formed, congratulations and good luck out there.

But we keep searching. We keep wanting to be told, yes, you’ve made it, you’re here.

"I'm so glad that you finally made it here,"
"You thought nobody cared, but I did, I could tell,"
And "This is your year," and "It always starts here,”
And oh-oh oh-oh-oh oh-oh, "You're aging well." ³

But only Dar Williams is there for us. We have to craft adulthood ourselves. From scratch, every time.

¹Tom Waits, "San Diego Serenade"
²Tim Minchin, "When I Grow Up"
³Dar Williams, "You're Aging Well

Recipe: Sweet Potato Tea Cake but for god's sake leave off the meringue.

I work with a 24-year-old. More than one, actually, but some embody it more than others.

He’s called Alf. He starts his cover letters for other – what he imagines are better – jobs with “My name is Alf.” He wants to write but seems to spend all his time in the pubs where his friends work, drinking free beer and playing pool. He also attends weekly meetings of the Revolutionary Communist Party. As I said, 24.

He seems to think his life lacks direction. He’s not wrong, but that doesn’t mean he’s right either. When I was 24 I was finishing up a stint teaching English in Japan, about to embark on six months of backpacking across Southeast Asia, China, and New Zealand, followed by a homecoming to… friends’ couches?

I wanted to write too. Somewhere along the way I forgot that if you wanted to write there was only one thing for it: Write.

It didn’t have to lead anywhere. It might have, but that isn’t the point. You do a thing because it is a thing you want to do. It is not part one; it is not a step; you are not progressing.

He says he doesn’t want to work in a bookshop because he should be able to buy a flat in London. I say, “Why do you want to buy a flat in London?” Alf says it’s home, and his Mum and sister and friends are here, and okay, sure, but just because you have a place you identify as Home doesn’t mean you have to live there. New York will never not be my home.

But Alf says it’s more the idea of a Proper Job. A Proper Job should pay the bills and buy a flat. He has this idea of what an adult looks like, and what we are isn’t it.

Fair. I once thought I wanted a Proper Job too. So I found one. And I spent 7 years working it, and another 5 working another, and then I had a baby and moved to London and wondered what the hell I’d been doing all that time.

A lot, I suppose. And not enough. None of it was wasted; if I hadn’t decided on a “career” I wouldn’t have met Richard. Much follows. But I wasn’t writing, and I should have been. Not to publish a book but because… Look, if you’re a Librarian, you will always be a librarian, whether you work in a library or not. If you’re a writer: you write. I don’t want Alf, who says he wants to write, to forget that.

Right now his main concern is dating. More important than finding a new job is finding a girl he can be crazy about. He thinks the way to do this is to have, as one of his Hinge questions, “What is your madeleine moment?” As if a girl, a) getting this reference, and b) thinking it’s profoundly meaningful, is the key to lasting happiness.

I asked him how many volumes he’s read. “Two?” Right, of course. And did you like them? I mean look, Alf, if you’re going to attach this much weight to a reference, it has to be both a lot more obscure and a lot more important to you. And it has to be something that if they don’t get it, once you explain (with no judgement you ponce) they'll think, okay, this is interesting and I want to learn more.

I once had a dating profile (on a book-based site) with the fake name Carrie Kelly. No one got it. And it’s worth noting that I did once date someone who would have, and am glad I stopped, and that Richard still wouldn’t. But I know if I handed him the book he’d enjoy it and agree that I should totally dress as her for Halloween. Why else do I keep rollerblades in the closet?

Well, Alf can’t help being 24. I was no better, and I can’t stop him from making his own mistakes and learning his own lessons. In 20 years he’ll agree that office jobs suck, but maybe he’s got to have a few first.

He really does need to read more science fiction though. Most people do, but especially if they’re in danger of becoming one of those people who Do Not Read Science Fiction. Nip that shit in the bud. Otherwise you end up yet another old white man going into the bookshop and asking for military history and reading only books about WWII, of which there are way, way too many.

(The British obsession with WWII: Discuss. My theory is that this country has been involved in many wars over the centuries, many of which they should not have been, and in all that time, all those conflicts, about only one can they feel fairly unambiguously proud. 1939: The other side was Nazis. ‘Nuff said.)

So please Alf, don’t become that guy. Don’t hang all that meaning on Proust while sneering at literal time travel.

Because… I can’t believe I have to explain this… The literal “science fiction” stuff that happens in those books is all metaphorical. It’s time travel because time travel is fun to think about but also because it gets at the human condition. Could you kill Hitler? Should you, sure, but could you? At the end of the day the best science fiction is not about the future, or aliens, or space ships, or the apocalypse; that’s window-dressing. Science fiction is about people. Who are we, really? When we’re at our best, and our worst? When we follow the logic and ask What If?

(Potentially much more meaningful Hinge questions: Which of Heinlein’s 3 kinds of SF appeals to you most? Or, Do Asimov’s Laws of Robotics need updating? Would you kill Hitler? Would you travel forwards or backwards in time? Would you push the button and invite the aliens in?)

Because humans are not, after all, homo sapiens. Wise my ass. We are (I don’t know if Pratchett originated this or if that’s just where I heard it first, but I’ll take the opportunity to plug another SF name) pan narrans. Just another ape, but with stories. So many stories.

You’re an animal, Sibling Dex. You are not separate or other. You’re an animal. And animals have no purpose. Nothing has a purpose. The world simply is. If you want to do things that are meaningful to others, fine! Good! So do I! But if I wanted to crawl into a cave and watch stalagmites with Frostfrog for the remainder of my days, that would also be both fine and good. You keep asking why your work is not enough, and I don’t know how to answer that, because it is enough to exist in the world and marvel at it. You don’t need to justify that, or earn it. You are allowed to just live. That is all most animals do.¹

It is not easy, explaining this to a 24-year-old: that your life is what you do with it, every day. Your obituary will have a narrative but your days, hours, minutes are discrete, and yours alone. I don’t dislike office jobs; I dislike spending my days in an office. I left the archives not because the collections weren’t fascinating (hello, Maya Angelou’s porn), but because no matter how fascinating they were (that frisson when I held Malcolm X’s briefcase) it didn’t change the fact that I was spending all my time a) commuting, to b) sit in front of a computer, in c) a windowless room, temperature-controlled for the comfort of paper, not people.

And that’s it, isn’t it? Pan narrans to our own detriment. So good at stories we conflate them with reality or worse, believe the story we tell is more important than the reality we live.

Alf tells himself a story where he has a Proper Job. He is a writer, editor, publisher – a person of that world – attending salons, drinking cocktails with people who, it goes without saying, understand what a madeleine moment is. He goes home to his North London flat with his very attractive lady friend who will not pressure him to have children, where the walls are lined with the books of people he regularly meets, as well as a tasteful number of his own, perhaps translated into Russian and French. The Booker, when it arrives, he keeps in the downstairs loo.

¹Becky Chambers, A Psalm for the Wild-Built

Update: It turns out Alf is 23. He turned 23 in the course of our colleaguedom. The other day I mentioned Tumblr and he had no idea what I was talking about.
I watched "When Harry Met Sally" last night, and despite the fact that I pretty much know every line, I’d forgotten the direct connections to many of the conversations Alf and I have had. Like, “Somewhere between 30 seconds and all night, that’s your problem.” And “The clock doesn’t really start ticking until you’re 36.”
I should make sure he watches it. It’s a Christmas movie after all.

Recipe: The sleeper hit of last Thanksgiving, an updated creamed spinach.

I like having rules. Not other people’s; my own. Other people’s rules are restrictive, impersonal, arbitrary; mine are born of experience, designed to save me from regret and recriminations. When in doubt – I don’t have to be in doubt; there’s a rule for that.

Rule 1:
If you’re wondering whether or not you should pee, go pee.

Rule 2:
If you don’t know whose turn it is: it’s yours.

Rule 3:
Always toast your nuts. I don’t care what the recipe says. And double the cinnamon.

Rule 4:
Never get the soft serve. It is always disappointing, even with the chocolate shell/sprinkles.

Rule 5:
If you want to keep something secret, don’t leave it lying around.

Rule 6:
Do not underestimate children. Do not underestimate girls. Trust your Boop.

Rule 7:
You never regret going for a swim. I know it’s a faff. Do it anyway.

Recipe: I'm not vegan but that doesn't mean I can't eat Vegan Mushroom Tantanmen.

I read a lot of Science Fiction. You’re shocked, shocked, I know. Becky Chambers, Anne Leckie, Octavia Butler, Anne McCaffrey, China Mieville, Kim Stanley Robinson, Peter Hamilton, Jon Scalzi, Naomi Novik. I read a lot of other books too, but this – space colonization, mid-to-post-Apocalyptic Earth, alien invasion, time travel – this is where I live.

Calling it Science Fiction is misleading though. Heinlein’s Speculative Fiction is a much more encompassing term. Or throw up our hands and call it all Fantasy, because then we get dragons and don’t have to quibble over where the line is between “sufficiently advanced form of technology” and magic.

Of course with a genre that broad (and I haven’t even made the argument for folding in Mystery) books get a little hard to find on the shelves. And if there’s one thing I believe in, it’s effective signposting. Heather and I used to try and come up with more helpful genre labels:

Here Be Dragons
Something Is Lurking in the Forest
The Fungus Is Among Us
Aliens!
I Suddenly Find Myself Needing to Know the Plural of Apocalypse
Sexy Fairies
A Local Village for Local People Who Are Being Picked Off One by One

Some Fantasy is creepy, some sinister, some grim, some… comforting, hopeful, escapist, fun. In all but the most relentless, there is often an assumption – often explicit, in the face of hazardous microbiomes, climate collapse, alien invasion, singularity – that Humanity Is Worth Saving.

I like those stories. I don’t like relentless-to-the-point-of-nightmares. (Battlestar Galactica, I’m looking at you.) I like heart, and humor. (Hi, Murderbot!) Even Shakespeare at his most tragic threw in a dog or a couple of clowns. There is nothing more human than laughing in the face of disaster. But I wonder. Humanity, eh?

The Three Body Problem was the book/TV show of the moment a couple years ago. I don’t necessarily recommend it; I found the characters utterly forgettable. But the central question was intriguing:

Humans send an Hello out into the universe. One day they get a reply. It says: Shut up, for the love of god shut up, because if you reply to this my people will know where to find you and they will come, and they will conquer because that is what they do, so please if you want to survive as you are, stay quiet. And the person who reads this message thinks, Hmm, well, actually I’m not so sure humans have done such a bang-up job after all, maybe it’s someone else’s turn and can it really be any worse? So she replies: Come on guys, show me what you’ve got. I for one welcome our new alien overlords.

I can’t really blame her.

There’s a dog in the coffeeshop now. His name is Waffles. I look at him and think You used to be a wolf. His fur is glossy and gold, his ears are delightfully floppy, he can’t wipe the smile off his face.

“Are you scared of dogs?” says the barista to the customer waiting for his coffee while Waffles desperately tries to sniff every part of him. He clearly isn’t happy. But what does one male adult say to another male adult in response to such a question?

Of course he’s not scared of Waffles. Who could be scared of Waffles? He’s just saying hello, he likes to sniff, he’s a good boy, he thinks he’s still a puppy. Waffles doesn’t know he is a wolf.

But I know. I remember. Am I scared of dogs? What kind of moron isn’t? I am a poorly designed fragile monkey and wolf or no wolf this thing has teeth.

I like dogs. I petsit. I throw balls, I give treats, I scratch ears. I pretend I don’t mind when they race up out of nowhere. I pretend I’m not scared of dogs and I pretend I don’t hate humans.

I look out the window here and think Look at this Shit. It’s not just dogs we’ve made; it’s traffic lights, takeaway coffee, internal combustion engines, oscillating fans, mylar balloons, double-wide strollers.

As a species we have much to answer for.

Heinlein said there were three kinds of Speculative Fiction: the what-if; the if-only; the if-this-[shit]-goes-on. All of them asking one thing, really: Is humanity worth saving?

There haven’t been wolves in England in over 600 years. Lions, more like 12,000. The countryside is covered, appropriately, with oilseed rape; maybe 2% of the trees remain. More can’t grow because the sheep and deer won’t let them. And the sheep and deer have no predators anymore.

People are too scared to reintroduce wolves. They close their eyes and imagine -- what? Teeth in the night. Howling, the moon, the untamed. They breed dogs instead. They demonize wolves and forget that dogs are wolves. They forget that people are too.

This country is too safe. We need, I think, teeth in the dark. We need howling to bring terror to the darkest hours. We are too complacent. Too many double-wide strollers and never a thought of a fat baby being snatched out of one. (But even so we would never leave one parked outside a restaurant, as we’re assured the civilized Swedes so blithely do.)

We are scared of all the wrong things. In the absence of wolves, other predators fill the ecological niche. A lion cannot threaten our village, but the next village over can. Its remnants, fleeing lions of their own, can.

Humans have been the apex predators here for far too long. It isn’t healthy. When stinging nettles are your biggest concern, you may get great literature (Day of the Triffids) but you don’t get healthy psyches. You get boredom, which leads to colonialism, which leads to hate, which leads to the Dark Side. Is it too much to lay the evils of the modern world entirely on this extended lack of wolves? Perhaps. But also, perhaps not. If we bring them back, we might find out. We might become worthy after all.

Recipe: Apparently lemon bars are entirely American. Score us another one.

The End of Nostalgia

I walked by a car wash yesterday. A Tesla jumped the queue, to the great ire of a BMW, and I thought, well, sometimes there is no good answer. There was a big sign saying HAND CAR WASH. Which in my imagination involves scantily clad American co-eds by the side of a highway, trying to raise money for new lacrosse sticks or mouth guards or pom poms. The sun is shining, there are supersized soapsuds everywhere, the line is filled mostly by pickup trucks, and Journey is always playing. The reality, in London in March, was a handful of bearded men in their 30s brandishing towels and looking grim. And so I wondered: What on earth is the point of that?

I used to love the car wash when I was a kid. Our sports teams must have done the wet-hot-American-summer kind, but we always went to the mechanical one next to Burger King. You know, where you drive the car oh so slowly through as the big swishy hula skirt slaps across the windshield, and the rotating brushes come at you from both sides, and it’s as close as you want to get to a horror movie – just enough thrill, but not likely at all to follow you home.

In the brief period I owned a car (my dad’s hand-me-down), I never once washed it. Why would I? It got me where I wanted to go. (Until the one time it memorably didn’t, when I was driving from Boston to New York in the middle of the night, having convinced my parents that it was a much nicer drive if I left at 11pm, and around 1am a cloud of black smoke began pouring out of the hood and I had to pull into a truck stop and call them on a pay phone, undoubtedly collect. (God, remember that? When a phone call meant finding a machine and keeping track of quarters?) When my dad answered I said, “I know.” I sat at Dunkin Donuts and ate a blueberry bagel for the first and only time in my life, and drank a cup of coffee, and when he showed up he said, “I don’t have to say it, do I?” And that was the end of the car, and of me driving across states in the middle of the night, and someone came and towed the stupid thing and I drove us home and three hours later we woke up again and went to Disney World.)

Someone once told me that people washed their cars for aerodynamic reasons. This was before the age of Google so I didn’t check it, and as I fully intend to live the rest of my life sans car, I likely never will. Anyway I can’t believe it made that much of a difference. I exceeded the speed limit, but not to the point where milliseconds counted.

The only thing I can come up with is that, it being the Northeast, it made sense to wash the salt off after a long winter. And to be fair: My mom parked the Little Green Car to go grocery shopping once, came back and climbed in – and the bottom fell out. I was quite young, but I imagine that could have been why I remember regular car washes later in my childhood. The odd thing, given my (negative, very) feelings on cars, is how fondly I remember them. But that’s how nostalgia works; logic is irrelevant.

Take school lunch. I hardly ever had one; we were a packed-lunch, brown-bag, cheese-sandwich-on-brown-bread-with-mayo, two Fig Newtons, 100%-juice box, maybe an apple kind of family. But school lunch was A Thing. In my mind it consisted entirely and solely of square soggy pizza and pale french fries and cartons of milk with pictures of missing kids on the side. My parents derided it, I never bought it – and yet I can taste that pizza now. Did I save up my allowance and secretly buy it? Did I trade with Fig-Newton-deprived friends? (Acquaintances, more likely, friends being rather thin on the ground.)

All I know is that I know the taste. Terrible pizza. Unconscionable that they made children pay for it. But somehow… It was good. So this becomes the central question of nostalgia: Is it good because it was part of one’s childhood? Or is it actually good, despite not being, in any way, what we adults with all our grownup sophisticated taste buds, would call good?

Certainly the first part is true. Thing you liked in childhood + time = fond memory -> nostalgia. Entire industries (see: toys NIB on eBay) are built on this fact. Things do not have to be good to be remembered fondly. Remembered as good, even. It’s a sort of doublethink: You can love a thing without claiming it is Good.

Some of it is that kids have no taste. Rowan loves all kinds of crap that is, objectively, No Good. Foods, films, dance moves. She has no taste at all. That’s fine. Taste is acquired. My favorite movie in second grade was Care Bears 2. You like something as a kid, so you have positive associations with it, and then you grow up and your taste has changed but the associations never do. (I tried watching CB2 as an adult and I can tell you it is Not a Good Movie. But still, #darkheart4eva.)

Snobbery is learned. Call it taste, call it experience, whatever. You grow up and you can now identify bad pizza from good. You have a whole pizza ranking system, starting with John’s of Bleecker St and going all the way through Japanese cracker pizza with mayonnaise and sweet corn down to our old friend square soggy school pizza. Children are indiscriminate but you are not. You know, and you care, and you will expound on it regardless of whether anyone else does.

But. What if that whole adult construct is just that – a ranking system your adult brain has created to convince you that you are, in fact, an adult, and therefore wise and learned and ready for the responsibilities that you cannot avoid? What if… Soggy square school pizza is, actually, still, always… good?

Not the same kind of good, perhaps. But good in the sense that… you like it. If you allow yourself to.

Or take my grandmother’s macaroni and cheese. Which was actually macaroni in a thin tomato sauce with a layer of melted cheese on top. I can’t imagine she followed an actual recipe. Or what about the mac and cheese from a powder where you just add butter and milk? Terrible, both. But… good. If you let them be.

Perhaps there is no such thing as bad mac and cheese. Or bad pizza. Or bad chocolate. Remember milk chocolate? Mini candy bars on Halloween? The outrage of blue M&Ms? Nowadays it’s all 70% cacao and halvah and sea salt. And while I will only buy the kind not made by enslaved people (that seems a basic requirement, no?), talking purely of taste: Dark chocolate is not better than milk chocolate. Tell yourself it’s all just nostalgia and you’ve grown out of it and you don’t need that Milky Way anyway but remember Roald Dahl, who ate milk chocolate every day of his adult life and built a career largely on a book dedicated to it. One Kit Kat a day, apparently. (And he fed his dog Smarties. So put that in your dog-care pipe and smoke it.)

There’s more to him than that, I know. The big flap last year about removing all the fat-shaming and ugly-people-are-evil stuff from his books. (Although he came by it honestly; see: Aristotle.) His anti-Semitism. But also, relevant to our times: Having watched his daughter die from measles, he was understandably extremely pro-vaccination.

So he has layers. He has complications. He has not been canceled. I have not canceled him, not even in his original form. I stock him in the shop and feel no guilt about it. I put his books into the hands of impressionable young humans and I do not worry. Should I?

There’s a lot to consider after all. I might need a flowchart – or possibly several overlapping ones. Does that exist? Because where does it begin?

I don’t know what order they go in, but these feel like the important questions:

Is the author still alive?

Is it their work that’s problematic, or their personal views?

Is it just their opinions I find distasteful, or has there been harmful action?

And then my response can take various forms:

Do I never read another word they’ve written?

Do I recommend them in the shop?

Do I actively warn people away from them?

Because I can’t change what’s gone before. I will have always read and re-read that scene in Charlie where he’s eye level with the nine coins and he just can’t stop himself from getting one more chocolate bar. I will have always had outraged feelings when they changed the ending of The Witches for the movie and turned the kid back into a human. I will have always been excited at the publication of Matilda – the first time I remember being aware that an author I liked was coming out with a new book. The love has already happened. The positive associations are already there. What’s done cannot be undone.

Especially true when you start tattooing literary quotes on your body. Neil Gaiman, I’m looking at you. I cannot unlove Sandman. I cannot remove this tattoo – or the nights I spent drawing Death eyeliner on goth boys with their long skirts and black nail polish and ankh necklaces, ready to head to the club and dance little-tree big-tree to Cruxshadows and the Sisters of Mercy.

But Neil is alive. And although his books are unobjectionable content-wise – the opposite, in fact – his behaviour is not. Thus after much listening to podcasts and chatting and wrangling I have decided: I can recommend him, but not in the shop. If you want to read him, go to the library. Money = support, and that I can no longer give, to him, as a person.

What that looks like in practice is… complicated. The other day someone came in and asked for a few Gaiman books, looking to start her daughter on him. Coraline, Stardust, as you’d expect for a 10ish-year-old. I found them for her. But as she was paying I said hesitantly… Have you heard about him recently? I didn’t get into it but I suggested she might want to take a look at recent news, and implied that yes, it was what she might expect these days when it’s not all men but for fuck’s sake it certainly seems like it is. She bought the books but, well, we’re all feeling our way forward.

Orson Scott Card is the other current Question that Matters to Me in My Head in a Big Way but Nobody Else is Probably Taking Much Notice of Even in the Shop. He’s old news anyway. But until I wrangle him to my own satisfaction, or until he dies, or I stop working in a bookshop, here we are.

Unlike Neil, his personal views are atrocious but he has not behaved in an illegal/abusive way. Unlike JKR (who needs to be mentioned in this context but let’s leave it at that), his platform is not such that atrocious personal views are damaging to a vulnerable population. Yes, the aliens are called Buggers, but, I mean, they are giant bugs. Nor do they remain, in the series, faceless evil. So his personal views, I’d say, are entirely separate from the work. A work I loved, that was crucial to me as a certain kind of person at a certain age. (Slight geek nod to my people, the Lonely Suburban Smart Kids.)

So isn’t that worth something? So OSC thinks the gays and the Blacks and who knows who else are coming for him and of course he’s a crackpot with a gun but also… He created something important. Shouldn’t that count? Shouldn’t he reap some appropriate rewards? Giving Neil support is a direct line to giving him power, which leads to him exploiting the power imbalance that has informed his history of abusive behaviour. Giving OSC money… buys him a cup of coffee which, all else aside since it can be put aside, he deserves. Let him rant to the ether in his bunker in Utah. Except he’s a Mormon, so he doesn’t drink coffee. (Or he was? The LDS church is apparently on the long line of people who want to punch him in the face.) And Neil was a Scientologist, and much of his family still is. All of which sent me – is still sending me – down quite the rabbit hole. This year’s required reading: stories from people who have left restrictive (insane? abusive?) religious groups. Please, send in your recommendations re: Mormons, Jehovah’s Witnesses, the Hasidim, Evangelicals, et al.

Because if I can learn about these people, their worlds, then I can understand. And if I can understand – if I can make the ideas line up like books on a shelf – I will know where to find them and what to say about them, and which books to place in whose hands. I will have librarianed. The importance of which cannot be overstated.

I do not need a physical library. Books are objects; objects are transient. I move too much to hold on to them all. But the library in my head: that needs to be kept in order. And one of the ways I do that, is this, right here, putting my thoughts on the page. (What Nabokov called “my bitter, brief, insane salutations” that the rest of the world pays no attention to.) And part of it is lists.

I made a playlist of My Life in Music recently. All the songs, basically, that were meaningful at one time or another. The songs I associated with important people or times. It’s 7.5 hours long. It feels like a memoir. All of it is, I promise, Good Music. At some point I’ll do the same with books, with the same lack of apologies or caveats or cringe. Because there are a million reasons to love what you love, and all of it is you.

The songs:

Moonshadow - Cat Stevens Two Princes - Spin Doctors Basket Case - Green Day 7 - Prince Man on the Moon - REM Holiday in Cambodia - Dead Kennedies Piano Man - Billy Joel Rift - Phish Fast Enough for You - Phish American Pie - Don Mclean Sequel - Harry Chapin Tom’s Diner (a capella) - Suzanne Vega Birdhouse in Your Soul - TMBG As Cool as I Am - Dar Williams When I Was a Boy - Dar Williams Fire & Rain - James Taylor Everybody Wants to Rule the World - Tears for Fears Pinball Wizard - The Who Winter - Tori Amos Silent All These Years - Tori Amos Once in a Lifetime - Talking Heads Werewolves of London - Warren Zevon Flight of the Cosmic Hippo - Bela Fleck & the Flecktones Cecilia - Simon & Garfunkel Marilyn, My Bitterness - The Cruxshadows Bloodletting - Concrete Blonde Temple of Love - Sisters of Mercy White Rabbit - Jefferson Airplane Crucify - Tori Amos Pictures of You - The Cure Mmm Mmm Mmm Mmm - Crash Test Dummies Afternoons & Coffee Spoons - Crash Test Dummies Catch - The Cure Just Like Heaven - The Cure I Hope that I Don’t Fall in Love with You - Tom Waits Only Happy When it Rains - Garbage It Can’t Rain All the Time - Jane Siberry Old Shoes - Tom Waits Enjoy the Silence - Depeche Mode The State I Am In - Belle & Sebastian She’s Losing It - Belle & Sebastian Origin of Love - Hedwig & the Angry Inch She Talks to Rainbows - Ramones You Said Something - PJ Harvey Skinhead on the Mbta - Dropkick Murphys Ring of Fire - Social Distortion Cure for Pain - Morphine You Look Like Rain - Morphine The Heart of Saturday Night - Tom Waits Zombie - The Cranberries Alison - Elvis Costello Benzedrine - Thea Gilmore Sk8er Boi - Avril Lavigne Hungry Like the Wolf - Duran Duran Anarchy in the UK - Sex Pistols Walk on the Wild Side - Lou Reed Fear of Trains - Magnetic Fields Papa Was a Rodeo - Magnetic Fields A Sorta Fairytale - Tori Amos Leaving NY - REM Hand in My Pocket - Alanis Morissette All the Umbrellas in London - Magnetic Fields December in NY - Thea Gilmore Life for Rent - Dido All You Want - Dido The River - Bruce Springsteen Road Rage - Catatonia Hey Eugene - Pink Martini New York City - TMBG Divorce Song - Liz Phair We Will Become Silhouettes - Postal Service Southern California Wants to Be Western NY - Dar Williams I’m Not Down - Thea Gilmore Cemetery Gates - The Smiths Redemption Song - Joe Strummer & the Mescaleros Ghosts - Laura Marling Sunday Morning - Velvet Underground Undiscovered Colors - The Flashbulb Empire State of Mind - Jay-Z Rolling in the Deep - Adele Clint Eastwood - Gorillaz Fast Car - Tracy Chapman Animal Life - Shearwater Breaking the Yearlings - Shearwater Everybody’s Talkin’ - Harry Nilsson I Guess the Lord Must Be in NYC - Harry Nilsson Polyester Bride - Liz Phair Poncho & Lefty - Townes van Zandt To Live Is to Fly - Townes van Zandt Sugar Water - Cibo Matto Transylvanian Concubine - Rasputina How We Quit the Forest - Rasputina Just Another - Pete Yorn It Never Rains in Southern California - Albert Hammond This Is Not a Test - She & Him What’s Up? - 4 Non Blondes Train - 4 Non Blondes Don’t Need the Sunshine - Catatonia Bizarre Love Triangle - New Order Cloudbursting - Kate Bush Clementine - Pink Martini England Made Me - Black Box Recorder The Art of Driving - Black Box Recorder The Sing - Bill Callahan Wild World - Cat Stevens Pink Moon - Nick Drake The Book of Love - Magnetic Fields Hallelujah - Leonard Cohen Accidentally Like a Martyr - Warren Zevon Desperados Under the Eaves - Warren Zevon Brutal - Olivia Rodrigo In My Mind - Amanda Palmer …to be continued.

Recipe: Creamy Macaroni & Cheese, not a bechamel in sight.

A separate SFF section in a bookstore: yes or no?

Maybe?

But now that I work in a bookstore, maybe doesn't cut it. The question is no longer academic; I need to decide.

I started with conflicting issues:

- The implication that SFF was somehow less worthy than "general" or "literary" fiction. (Thus the implication that the presence of a spaceship or dragon or the renaming of a city went hand-in-hand somehow with bad writing.)

- That plenty of novels in General are in fact SFF. How do these escape the ghetto? Sometimes by virtue of age, I suspect -- 1984, Brave New World, Day of the Triffids, War of the Worlds -- but others just because the publisher wills it -- Handmaid's Tale, The Night Circus, The Road.

So either everything that's SFF should be in SFF, or none of it should. Either eliminate the ghetto or make its boundaries clear.

Fine. But which should I do? Pick your battles, but first pick a side.

I tended, I thought, towards integration. This is literature too! Ram it down their throats! It's a position I can still support on my more militant, idealistic days.

The reality is though that SFF is the first place I head in any bookshop. I'm disappointed (and I judge the shop poorly) if it's not there. The people in that section: those are my people. The ghetto is an immigrant's small slice of home.

And the SFF that's snuck under the barricades into General? Leave it there. Let it lure in the masses. You like that bagel, yeah? Okay let me tell you about babka and bialys.

Also because this -- small -- section will have only books in it that I have read and would recommend, which means that all my non-SFF-reading colleagues can feel safe in pointing customers toward it.

Related: What would you recommend? Skip anything that's been committed to film -- I already know.

I do not know what to say about America anymore. Only that I am done.

We are done, America. It is over.

For a while I thought NY was separate; I could love NY and leave it, but still maybe one day come back to it. That may not be true now.

My train caught fire last week. At 50th St, the conductor announced that due to an investigation this would be the last stop on our train. I got off, from one of the cars in the back, and started walking forward, not really knowing what to do next. I could switch from the B to the E, but that wasn't remotely useful in terms of getting to work. As I got toward the front of the train though I realized that -- either on the track, directly in front of it, or the front carriage itself was on fire. Like, a big bonfire filling the entire tunnel. I wrapped my scarf around my face and headed back the way I'd come, to wait for an E going the wrong direction, so I could switch to an A...

The next night my B train turned into a D, halfway home. This weekend I took the shuttle to the C, but the C was stopped in the station for a sick passenger. It had been there ten minutes already; I waited ten more, then gave up and got back on the shuttle, which I took to the 4 (because the 2/3 wasn't running), to get to Union Square, which had not been my original destination. At least I got a babka out of it.

The point is NY is no great shakes. It is too hot in summer and too cold in winter. The MTA is crumbling. It may be kind and thoughtful on an individual level (it is! it really is) but en masse, it is hard. Brutal. I love Prospect Park but I don't think I could still be here without it.

And however much I want to separate NY from America, the fundamentals remain the same. Too many cars. Guns. Lack of health care.

We are not okay. This -- none of this -- is okay.

I can't fix it. I can't change it. The best I can do is boycott it.

I will not send my child to school in this country.

Can I raise her with any pride in her American half? Pride perhaps in what was, what could have been, in the idea of an America that never was? Pride in simulacrum. Pride in Disney World and Sesame Street and Mister Rogers and The Parent Trap. Pride in the stories we tell, especially those we tell about ourselves. Pride tempered with the knowledge that we have failed. We dreamed, but it did not come true.

Is this overly pessimistic? I had dinner with an old friend last night and he seemed to think so. He claims humanity will be fine, ultimately. We'll have self-driving cars and yes we're all self-interested but actually that will eventually lead us to utopia. Or something. Anyway he was more optimistic than me.

But he doesn't have children. He can talk about the survival of humanity without worrying about how it will actually feel to be a human. Like sure, humanity survives in Planet of the Apes but dude, that is not how I want my daughter to live. I want to believe the way people in the 50s believed (if they did), that for my children it's all up, up up! from here.

I don't. All I can do is apologize to her, for that.

And then teach her which plants are edible, how to find water and start a fire and climb trees and snare small rodents and incapacitate a person with her bare hands if she needs to.

Not here though.

Bye, America.