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17 pages, Audible Audio
First published November 11, 2025
“I spent seven years getting laughed at. My entire teen years, I was either on television or in a magazine being mocked for thinking I saw dinosaurs, or I was . . .”
She waited, then prodded. “Or you were what ?”
His stride got heavier. “Or I was back in some kind of hospital being treated for my delusions. That’s what telling people who I really was got me. Seven years of being a punchline or a patient..."
Noah still looked stunned. Josh looked worried. Parker looked . . . well, she looked like she was waiting for someone to pause in their lecture so she could ask a question.
Only when she lurched into the eleventh-floor corridor of the hotel, half dressed and confused, stumbling over the unclaimed newspapers, whose headlines about French nuclear tests in the Pacific and political unrest in the southern province of Chiapas smudged the bare soles of her feet with their shrieking ink, only then did she understand that the suite of rooms she had abandoned was her own, she had slammed the door and didn’t have the key, and it was lucky for her in that moment of vulnerability that the person she bumped into was me, Mr. Umeed Merchant, photographer, a.k.a. “Rai,” her so to speak chum ever since the old days in Bombay and the only shutterbug within one thousand and one miles who would not dream of photographing her in such delicious and scandalous disarray, her whole self momentarily out of focus and worst of all looking her age, the only image-stealer who would never have stolen from her that frayed and hunted look, that bleary and unarguably bag-eyed helplessness, her tangled fountain of wiry dyed red hair quivering above her head in a woodpeckerish topknot, her lovely mouth trembling and uncertain, with the tiny fjords of the pitiless years deepening at the edges of her lips, the very archetype of the wild rock goddess halfway down the road to desolation and ruin. She had decided to become a redhead for this tour because at the age of forty-four she was making a new start, a solo career without Him, for the first time in years she was on the road without Ormus, so it wasn’t really surprising that she was disoriented and off balance most of the time. And lonely. It has to be admitted. Public life or private life, makes no difference, that’s the truth: when she wasn’t with him, it didn’t matter who she was with, she was always alone.
Disorientation: loss of the East. And of Ormus Cama, her sun.
And it wasn’t just dumb luck, her bumping into me. I was always there for her. Always looking out for her, always waiting for her call. If she’d wanted it, there could have been dozens of us, hundreds, thousands. But I believe there was only me. And the last time she called for help, I couldn’t give it, and she died. She ended in the middle of the story of her life, she was an unfinished song abandoned at the bridge, deprived of the right to follow her life’s verses to their final, fulfilling rhyme.
—from the opening chapter of The Ground Beneath Her Feet by Salman Rushdie
When he goes back inside, Zhang Xielin is kneeling, cradling Skippy’s head on his lap. Doughnuts scatter the ground like little candied wreaths. In the silence, people peek at Ruprecht with moist, pitying eyes. Ruprecht glares back at them murderously. He is fizzing, he is quaking, he Is incandescent with rage. He feels like stomping back to his room, and leaving Skippy where he is. He feels like screaming out, ‘What? What? What? What?’ He goes back outside to look into the traffic, he is crying, and in that moment he feels all the hundreds and thousands of facts in his head turn to sludge.
Through the laurel trees, in an upper corner of Seabrook Tower, you can just make out the window of their dorm, where not half an hour ago Skippy challenged Ruprecht to the race. Above the lot, the great pink hoop of the Ed’s Doughnut House sign broadcasts its frigid synthetic light into the night, a neon zero that outshines the moon and all the constellations of infinite space beyond it. Ruprecht is not looking in that direction. The universe at this moment appears to him as something horrific, thin and threadbare and empty; it seems to know this, and in shame to turn away.
—from the opening chapter of Skippy Dies by Paul Murray
Being gifted and being disabled are surprisingly similar: isolating, mystifying, petrifying. One of the most startling patterns that emerged during my research was that many people come to value abnormalities that are ostensibly undesirable. Equally, ostensibly desirable variances are often daunting. Many prospective parents who dread the idea of a disabled child will long for an accomplished one. Such children may create beauty in the world; they may derive intense pleasure from their achievements; they may stretch their parents’ lives into wonderful new alignments. Clever people often have clever sons and daughters, but dazzling brilliance is an aberration, as horizontal an identity as any in this study. Despite the past century’s breakthroughs in psychology and neuroscience, prodigiousness and genius are as little understood as autism. Like parents of children who are severely challenged, parents of exceptionally talented children are custodians of children beyond their comprehension.
A prodigy is able to function at an advanced adult level in some domain before the age of twelve. I’ve used the word expansively to include anyone who develops a profound innate gift at an early age, even if he does so more gradually or less publicly than classic prodigies. Prodigy derives from the Latin prodigium, a monster that violates the natural order. These people have differences so evident as to resemble a birth defect. The anxiety of abnormality goes beyond etymology. Few people wish to be identified as prodigies, especially given the correlation between prodigiousness and burnout, prodigiousness and freakishness. Prodigies are, in the eyes of many prodigies, pathetic, uncanny weirdos with little chance of lifetime social or professional success, their performances more party tricks than art.
—from the chapter titled “Prodigies” in Far From the Tree: Parents, Children, and the Search for Identity by Andrew Solomon