The Mender on the persecution of women as witches: “If a town be swarmed by bees with devil-face, and those bees do drip honey into open mouths, the body of a woman with honey tooth, bleeding thigh salt, shall be leashed to whatever stake will hold her. The bee swarm shall be gathered in a barrel and dumped upon the fire that eats her. The honey teeth do catch flame first, sparks of blue at the white before red tongue catches too, and the lips. Bees’ bodies when burning do smell of hot marrow; the odor makes onlookers vomit, yet still they look on.”
The Biographer on being alone: ” ‘Well, I worry kiddo. Don’t like the idea of you being alone.’ She could trot out the usual list (‘I’ve got friends, neighbors, colleagues, people from meditation group’), but her okayness with being by herself–ordinary, unheroic okayness–does not need to justify itself to her father. The feeling is hers. She can simply feel okay and not explain it, or apologize for it, or concoct arguments against the argument that she doesn’t truly feel content and is deluding herself in self-protection.”
The Daughter on sense of self: “She doesn’t want to skip the Math Academy. Or push it out. She doesn’t want to wonder; and she would. The kid too–Why wasn’t I kept? Was his mother too young? Too old? Too hot? Too cold? She doesn’t want him wondering, or herself wondering. Are you mine? And she doesn’t want to worry she’ll be found. Selfish. But she has a self. Why not use it?”
The Wife on the monotony of motherhood: “Herd crumbs into palm. Spray table. Wipe down table. Rinse cups and bowls. Put cups and bowls in dishwasher. Soak quinoa in bowl of water. Rinse and chop red bell peppers. Put strips in fridge. Rinse quinoa in sieve. Put clean, uncooked quinoa in fridge. Pour water from quinoa soaking into pot of ficus tree. Spray mist onto snake-like arms of Medusa’s head plant. Pull clothes out of dryer in basement. Fold clothes. Stack clothes in hamper. Leave hamper at bottom of stairs to second floor. Write laundry detergent on list inw allet. Plip, plip, plip says the kitchen tap. Nobody on this hill even likes quinoa.”
The Explorer on her life’s work: “The explorer wrote to the tutor, Harry Rattray, who still worked for the shipyard director in Aberdeen: ‘After many weeks of reflection on my difficulties with the Royal Society I have taken the painful decision to request that you publish my findings under your own name. Otherwise the world will never know them.’”
The Biographer on being alone: ” ‘Well, I worry kiddo. Don’t like the idea of you being alone.’ She could trot out the usual list (‘I’ve got friends, neighbors, colleagues, people from meditation group’), but her okayness with being by herself–ordinary, unheroic okayness–does not need to justify itself to her father. The feeling is hers. She can simply feel okay and not explain it, or apologize for it, or concoct arguments against the argument that she doesn’t truly feel content and is deluding herself in self-protection.”
The Daughter on sense of self: “She doesn’t want to skip the Math Academy. Or push it out. She doesn’t want to wonder; and she would. The kid too–Why wasn’t I kept? Was his mother too young? Too old? Too hot? Too cold? She doesn’t want him wondering, or herself wondering. Are you mine? And she doesn’t want to worry she’ll be found. Selfish. But she has a self. Why not use it?”
The Wife on the monotony of motherhood: “Herd crumbs into palm. Spray table. Wipe down table. Rinse cups and bowls. Put cups and bowls in dishwasher. Soak quinoa in bowl of water. Rinse and chop red bell peppers. Put strips in fridge. Rinse quinoa in sieve. Put clean, uncooked quinoa in fridge. Pour water from quinoa soaking into pot of ficus tree. Spray mist onto snake-like arms of Medusa’s head plant. Pull clothes out of dryer in basement. Fold clothes. Stack clothes in hamper. Leave hamper at bottom of stairs to second floor. Write laundry detergent on list inw allet. Plip, plip, plip says the kitchen tap. Nobody on this hill even likes quinoa.”
The Explorer on her life’s work: “The explorer wrote to the tutor, Harry Rattray, who still worked for the shipyard director in Aberdeen: ‘After many weeks of reflection on my difficulties with the Royal Society I have taken the painful decision to request that you publish my findings under your own name. Otherwise the world will never know them.’”