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Everyone in America seemed to be afraid and hurting and angry, starving for a fight they could win. And more than that even, they seemed certain their natural state was to be happy, contented, and rich. The genesis of everyone’s pain had to be external, such was their certainty.

Cyrus read on a website once that there was a word for this: sonder. “The realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own.” Incredible, how naming something took nothing away from its stagger. Language could be totally impotent like that.

My marriage with Ali was never one of those, but just being perceived, all the time being perceived, was itself exhausting. Ali’s vacations were vacations for me too.

The chicken farm where I worked in Fort Wayne wasn’t a normal farm. We didn’t raise chickens for you to eat. We raised the grandparents of the chickens you eat. A breeder farm. And really, it was more laboratory than farm. The goal: to create, through selective breeding, a chicken that would go from egg to harvest in as little time as possible, on as little feed as possible.

All I know is I’m fascinated. Like in Iran, there are these schools for the children of men killed in the war, who they call ‘martyrs.’ (…) I’ve heard of children of martyrs trying to hide it, like they’re ashamed of all the privilege. Like trust fund kids, except instead of trust funds they have dead parents. It’s nuts.”

We move from one decision to the next, only we’re not even aware they’re decisions. We treat our minds like crowns, these magnificent crowns on our magnificent autonomies. But our minds aren’t crowns. They’re clocks. It’s why we invest everything in our stories. Stories are the excrement of time. Someone said that.”
Adélia Prado, said Lisa.
Adélia Prado, right, Roya answered. How did you know that? Roya asked.

(...) Uncle Arash had been tasked with the strangest job in the Persian army. At night, after the human wave attacks and the mustard gas left countless dozens or hundreds of Iranians dying on the battlefield, it was Arash’s job to quietly and secretly put on a long black cloak, get atop a horse, and ride around the battlefield of fallen men with a flashlight under his face. He was meant to look like an angel.

Her husband, her family, her friends—everyone she knew in Iran was cynical, believing that to hope was ignorant, even murderously naïve. But tomorrow would be better than today. For the first time in ages, she really believed that

— Recebe o filho de teu sangue. Chegaste a tempo; meus seios ingratos já não tinham alimento para dar-lhe!
Pousando a criança nos braços paternos, a desventurada mãe desfaleceu como a justiça se lhe arrancam o bulbo.

Nessa hora em que o canto guerreiro dos pitiguaras celebrava a derrota dos guaraciabas, o primeiro filho que o sangue da raça branca gerou nessa terra da liberdade via a luz nos campos da Porangaba.

Às vezes lhe vem à mente a ideia de tornar à sua terra e aos seus; mas ele sabe que Iracema o acompanhará; e essa lembrança lhe remorde o coração. (...)
Iracema também foge dos olhos do esposo, porque já percebeu que esses olhos tão amados se turbam com a vista dela, e, em vez de se encherem de sua beleza como outrora, a despedem de si.