Mile High City Quotes

You don’t have to love your body every single day. That’s unrealistic to expect, but I’ll be here loving it for the days you can’t.

But the truth is, I do want to be loved, and that’s scary to admit. It’s a lot easier to say you don’t want to be loved when no one loves you.

Stevie,” Zanders says. “You following me?

It hurts a whole lot less to be hated when you’re not being yourself than it does not to be loved for who you are,

If shit-talking is a love language, then it’s ours, and I thoroughly plan on bantering with my wild girl for the rest of my life.

I pepper kisses on the side of her head as I watch a smile pull at her lips through the mirror. And though I love every single curve on her body, that one right there is my favorite.

To shut your eyes is to guess nothing of blindness. Beneath your world of skies and faces and buildings exists a rawer and older world, a place where surface planes disintegrate and sounds ribbon in shoals through the air. Marie-Laure can sit in an attic high above the street and hear lilies rustling in marshes two miles away. She hears Americans scurry across farm fields, directing their huge cannons at the smoke of Saint-Malo; she hears families sniffling around hurricane lamps in cellars, crows hopping from pile to pile, flies landing on corpses in ditches; she hears the tamarinds shiver and the jays shriek and the dune grass burn; she feels the great granite fist, sunk deep into the earth’s crust, on which Saint-Malo sits, and the ocean teething at it from all four sides, and the outer islands holding steady against the swirling tides; she hears cows drink from stone troughs and dolphins rise through the green water of the Channel; she hears the bones of dead whales stir five leagues below, their marrow offering a century of food for cities of creatures who will live their whole lives and never once see a photon sent from the sun. She hears her snails in the grotto drag their bodies over the rocks.

You’re my first choice, Vee. My only choice.

Stevie girl, I’ll follow you anywhere.

I would’ve followed you anywhere, but you never asked.

There’s only so much oxygen on an airplane. I don’t want his ego to suffocate the rest of us.  You know, safety and all that shit.

So, ‘Vee’, huh?” “It’s a family nickname.”  “My family nickname is Zee. Vee and Zee. Aren’t we fucking adorable?

You don’t have feelings?” Maddison asks, unconvinced. “You cried while watching Coco with Ella. You have fucking feelings, man. You should start letting people know.

Don’t hurt me.” He searches my face, trying to read me as hope overtakes him. “I couldn’t.

Hey, Stevie?” “Hmm.” Her head leans on her arms, facing me. “I like talking to you.

your mom is the absolute worst, Zee.”  “So is yours.” I rest my head on his shoulder. “Look at us,” I tease. “Trauma-bonding.

So, you like me?” His smile is eager and excitable.  I can’t help but laugh at this giant man asking such a childish question. “What do you think?” “Say it. Stroke my ego, Stevie.

I just want everyone to know,” Zanders announces from the backseat. “I joined the mile high club today.

But there’s no chance in hell I’m upgrading this. Stevie’s hands might drip in 24-karat gold after today, but this five-dollar beat-up ring is hers, and therefore it’s mine.

And wearing your hand around my throat like a necklace is my favorite piece of jewelry.

Stevie,” Zanders says in his smooth velvety voice. “You following me?

Get over here. I need all my girls together.

I’m going to fucking destroy your body tonight and hopefully some of those insecurities that don’t make any goddamn sense right along with it.

Don’t you fucking dare.” My voice is as quiet as I can make it. “If you say anything, I will end you. Then I’ll marry your wife just to spite you, and your son will grow up calling me Daddy.”  “Oh, fuck you!” Maddison isn’t trying to be quiet at all. “Stevie, Zee wants you to be his date to a charity gala in Chicago, but he’s too chicken shit to ask and doesn’t think you’d want to go with him.”  “I fucking hate you. We are no longer friends.

Being vulnerable and authentic is scary, man. Terrifying. But to the people who matter to you, the ones you’ve shown your true self to, they love you unconditionally. Why not let others love you unconditionally too? At least give them a chance to.

It’s the list of girls I see in those cities. It’s a little different now, but the concept is still the same.

Then for good measure, I add a kiss to Maddison’s cheek. “Zee.” He holds his spatula up in warning. “Get your nasty-ass lips away from me.

Hey, Zanders?” “Hmm?” “That’s what it feels like to be loved.

And you’re not an option, Stevie, because besides you, there’s no other choice.

Oh my God,” she cries, head falling back.  I didn’t know I earned a new nickname, but she can call me that anytime she wants.

I like that he lets me see hidden sides to him.

I watch as his ring-covered fingers type in the ten digits with precision before adding his name. Zee (Daddy) Zanders

I kind of what to hang out with her, too. With our clothes on. Without is cool too. Whatever.

I’ve recently learned that sometimes the clothes don’t matter all that much. Just the memories you make in them

You’re not an idiot. You’re not crazy for wanting to be wanted. For wanting to be loved.

It’s a lot easier to say you don’t want to be loved when no one loves you.

I like you, Vee, and I’m being completely honest and vulnerable here. I just want the chance for you to want me. The real me.

Can I fuck you senseless, sweetheart?

Do you want to be loved for who you are or for who people think you are?”  “For me.” “Then why haven’t you let anyone know who that is?

This is my favorite one, Stevie girl.” He allows me to spin the ring that’s lost all its shine. “Because it was yours, and you’re my favorite.

You cry at Disney movies?” I tease, my breath ghosting his skin. He wraps his arms around my waist, holding me to him. “Fucking sob.

Yes. I like you, the most arrogant man in Chicago.” I watch as the weight falls off him, his eyes bright and his smile pompous as hell. “I think you mean the sexiest man in Chicago.

Are you shitting me, Stevie? That’s why you’ve avoided me all these years? That’s locker room talk.” Wait. Was it? Was I exaggerating this whole time about the words he said about me?

Stevie- Does me buying you pants qualify me to get back in your pants? Kidding...sort of. Merry Christmas, -Zee (Please get rid of those disgusting sweatpants. No one needs to see those.)

Zanders and I standoff, holding each other’s stare for far too long, silence stretching between us. I swallow. “You following me?” A light laugh flows through him. “You have no idea, Stevie girl.

He loves hard and cares about his people like you wouldn’t believe. So, there’s nothing about him that needs to change. He just needs someone to accept who he is and appreciate what he brings to the table.

It hurts a whole lot less to be hated when you’re not being yourself than it does not to be loved for who you are,” he continues. “As much as I tell people I enjoy the hate, I want to be loved more than anything, but I’m not ready to risk rejection yet.

If I can’t stand you”—Zanders inches forward, leaving absolutely no room between our bodies, his large frame overpowering me—“then why has my only thought of every minute of every day for the last week been me wondering what it would feel like to fuck you?

One day, I hope you can fully appreciate the body you’re living in because, sweetheart, it’s smoking hot, and my dick has never been happier.

You’re my personal version of heaven, Stevie girl.

That’s when I realized no one had ever loved me enough to stick around.

I remember all too well

You like me,” he coaxes, his lips only inches from mine as he stares at my mouth. “Kiss me.” “Say it, and I’ll do a whole lot more than kiss you, sweetheart.

You’re always going to be a part of our family. You don’t need my permission to go, but if for some reason you think you do, well, you have it. I just want you to be happy. We all do.

The Roman Road is the greatest monument ever raised to human liberty by a noble and generous people. It runs across mountain, marsh and river. It is built broad, straight and firm. It joins city with city and nation with nation. It is tens of thousands of miles long, and always thronged with grateful travellers. And while the Great Pyramid, a few hundred feet high and wide, awes sight-seers to silence—though it is only the rifled tomb of an ignoble corpse and a monument of oppression and misery, so that no doubt in viewing it you may still seem to hear the crack of the taskmaster's whip and the squeals and groans of the poor workmen struggling to set a huge block of stone into position——

When Sadik lost his own lease, we moved in together. And after a few months of closer scrutiny, he began to realize that the city had indeed had an effect on me, although not the one he’d expected. I stopped getting high. I ran three miles a day and fasted on Sundays. For the first time in years, I applied myself to my studies and started keeping a journal of daily reflections and very bad poetry.

Every single part of my body aches. My heart hurts. My lungs are shallow. My eyes burn. The man who lifted me up with his words, who has been so adamant about reminding me that I’m enough, that drowned out everyone else’s noise, is now listening to what others have to say.

Your body is my favorite thing on this planet.” He takes a deep, earned breath. “And wearing your hand around my throat like a necklace is my favorite piece of jewelry.

Good for you. And I don’t want your autograph.” Her tone is entirely unimpressed. “What I was going to ask is, are you ready for me to give you your exit row briefing?

Maddison’s wife, Logan, is one of my closest friends and probably the most capable person I know.

The city’s golden boy and Chicago’s unlovable bad boy,” Jerry adds. “My favorite headline to use when it comes to you two.

co-founder of a charity for underprivileged youth suffering from mental illness.

Sometimes I let you think you’re in control, but not this time.

She playfully rolls her eyes. “Stop calling me ‘sweetheart.’” “Never.

Not that subtlety is my specialty by any means. I’m not shy about the things I want, but this one thing, this one woman, I shouldn’t want and can’t have.

The material feels like straight-up butter as it glides over my thick thighs. And I shaved my legs this morning. Well, my lower legs because I’m too lazy to do the whole thing,

I try to breathe, but I can’t. Understanding floods me. It’s all making sense that his fear of not being worthy of love comes from his mom—the woman who left him.

I want more than just sex with you. I want you. All of you. I just want a chance.

You’ll always be my first choice. Have been since the day I met you, sweetheart.

Because I’m about to eat you out like you’re the last goddamn meal on the planet.

My sister is almost more of a player than I am. She pulls as many women, if not more, and tries half as hard. She stole more than a chick or two from me growing up.

Good for you. And I don’t want your autograph.

Hurt people hurt people,

The point is, he’s an arrogant athlete that’s in love with himself. I know his type. I’ve dated that type, and I’ll never do it again.

I watch as his ring-covered fingers type in the ten digits with precision before adding his name. Zee (Daddy) Zanders I shake my head, laughing, holding my hand out to take my phone back.

Say yes,” I whisper. “Tell me you’d go with me. Tell me you want to go with me.” I need her to say yes, not just to inflate my ego, but because I need to know I’m not crazy. I need to know that she feels it too. That she likes being around me just as much. That she likes talking to me just as much. That she likes fucking me just as much. That she likes teasing me just as much.

I can’t help but turn around and watch her in shock. Her round hips sway, taking up more space than the other flight attendants I’ve seen on board, but her little pencil skirt dips in at the waist.

If you want to be in Seattle, then I’ll try my hardest to play in Seattle. If you want to move somewhere else, then I’m coming too.” He releases a heavy sigh. “Stevie girl, I’ll follow you anywhere.

Fuck yeah, I would’ve cut him out of our lives!” Ryan sits forward, his voice rising. “Just like I’m going to do right now. Fuck, Vee. You should’ve told me. I should’ve had your back on this. Fuck that guy.

You took Brett back after he left because you were trying to prove to yourself you were good enough to keep him, but if you take Zanders back, it’s because he’s been working on himself to be good enough to keep you.

Call me Ishmael. Some years ago--never mind how long precisely--having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off--then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me. There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round by wharves as Indian isles by coral reefs--commerce surrounds it with her surf. Right and left, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme downtown is the battery, where that noble mole is washed by waves, and cooled by breezes, which a few hours previous were out of sight of land. Look at the crowds of water-gazers there. Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip, and from thence, by Whitehall, northward. What do you see?--Posted like silent sentinels all around the town, stand thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries. Some leaning against the spiles; some seated upon the pier-heads; some looking over the bulwarks of ships from China; some high aloft in the rigging, as if striving to get a still better seaward peep. But these are all landsmen; of week days pent up in lath and plaster--tied to counters, nailed to benches, clinched to desks. How then is this? Are the green fields gone? What do they here? But look! here come more crowds, pacing straight for the water, and seemingly bound for a dive. Strange! Nothing will content them but the extremest limit of the land; loitering under the shady lee of yonder warehouses will not suffice. No. They must get just as nigh the water as they possibly can without falling in. And there they stand--miles of them--leagues. Inlanders all, they come from lanes and alleys, streets and avenues--north, east, south, and west. Yet here they all unite. Tell me, does the magnetic virtue of the needles of the compasses of all those ships attract them thither? Once more. Say you are in the country; in some high land of lakes. Take almost any path you please, and ten to one it carries you down in a dale, and leaves you there by a pool in the stream. There is magic in it. Let the most absent-minded of men be plunged in his deepest reveries--stand that man on his legs, set his feet a-going, and he will infallibly lead you to water, if water there be in all that region. Should you ever be athirst in the great American desert, try this experiment, if your caravan happen to be supplied with a metaphysical professor. Yes, as every one knows, meditation and water are wedded for ever.

Shortly before school started, I moved into a studio apartment on a quiet street near the bustle of the downtown in one of the most self-conscious bends of the world. The “Gold Coast” was a neighborhood that stretched five blocks along the lake in a sliver of land just south of Lincoln Park and north of River North. The streets were like fine necklaces and strung together were the brownstone houses and tall condominiums and tiny mansions like pearls, and when the day broke and the sun faded away, their lights burned like jewels shining gaudily in the night. The world’s most elegant bazaar, Michigan Avenue, jutted out from its eastern tip near The Drake Hotel and the timeless blue-green waters of Lake Michigan pressed its shores. The fractious make-up of the people that inhabited it, the flat squareness of its parks and the hint of the lake at the ends of its tree-lined streets squeezed together a domesticated cesspool of age and wealth and standing. It was a place one could readily dress up for an expensive dinner at one of the fashionable restaurants or have a drink miles high in the lounge of the looming John Hancock Building and five minutes later be out walking on the beach with pants cuffed and feet in the cool water at the lake’s edge.

Dad: I love you. My eyes burn with tears from seeing those three words. Words he and I haven’t spoken to each other in twelve years. I try to hold it in, but eventually, my body shakes with a silent sob. I didn’t know how badly I needed to hear that from him until now.

During the school year, I practically lived in Dongguk’s modern, glass-walled library, with its stacks of tantalizing books and its high-speed Internet access. It became my playground, my dining room, and sometimes my bedroom. I liked the library best late at night, when there were fewer students around to distract me. When I needed a break, I took a walk out to a small garden that had a bench overlooking the city. I often bought a small coffee from a vending machine for a few cents and just sat there for a while, staring into the sea of lights that was metropolitan Seoul. Sometimes I wondered how there could be so many lights in this place when, just thirty-five miles north of here, a whole country was shrouded in darkness. Even in the small hours of the morning, the city was alive with flashing signs and blinking transmission towers and busy roadways with headlights traveling along like bright cells pumping through blood vessels. Everything was so connected, and yet so remote. I would wonder: Where is my place out there? Was I a North Korean or a South Korean? Was I neither?

An asteroid or comet traveling at cosmic velocities would enter the Earth’s atmosphere at such a speed that the air beneath it couldn’t get out of the way and would be compressed, as in a bicycle pump. As anyone who has used such a pump knows, compressed air grows swiftly hot, and the temperature below it would rise to some 60,000 Kelvin, or ten times the surface temperature of the Sun. In this instant of its arrival in our atmosphere, everything in the meteor’s path—people, houses, factories, cars—would crinkle and vanish like cellophane in a flame. One second after entering the atmosphere, the meteorite would slam into the Earth’s surface, where the people of Manson had a moment before been going about their business. The meteorite itself would vaporize instantly, but the blast would blow out a thousand cubic kilometers of rock, earth, and superheated gases. Every living thing within 150 miles that hadn’t been killed by the heat of entry would now be killed by the blast. Radiating outward at almost the speed of light would be the initial shock wave, sweeping everything before it. For those outside the zone of immediate devastation, the first inkling of catastrophe would be a flash of blinding light—the brightest ever seen by human eyes—followed an instant to a minute or two later by an apocalyptic sight of unimaginable grandeur: a roiling wall of darkness reaching high into the heavens, filling an entire field of view and traveling at thousands of miles an hour. Its approach would be eerily silent since it would be moving far beyond the speed of sound. Anyone in a tall building in Omaha or Des Moines, say, who chanced to look in the right direction would see a bewildering veil of turmoil followed by instantaneous oblivion. Within minutes, over an area stretching from Denver to Detroit and encompassing what had once been Chicago, St. Louis, Kansas City, the Twin Cities—the whole of the Midwest, in short—nearly every standing thing would be flattened or on fire, and nearly every living thing would be dead. People up to a thousand miles away would be knocked off their feet and sliced or clobbered by a blizzard of flying projectiles. Beyond a thousand miles the devastation from the blast would gradually diminish. But that’s just the initial shockwave. No one can do more than guess what the associated damage would be, other than that it would be brisk and global. The impact would almost certainly set off a chain of devastating earthquakes. Volcanoes across the globe would begin to rumble and spew. Tsunamis would rise up and head devastatingly for distant shores. Within an hour, a cloud of blackness would cover the planet, and burning rock and other debris would be pelting down everywhere, setting much of the planet ablaze. It has been estimated that at least a billion and a half people would be dead by the end of the first day. The massive disturbances to the ionosphere would knock out communications systems everywhere, so survivors would have no idea what was happening elsewhere or where to turn. It would hardly matter. As one commentator has put it, fleeing would mean “selecting a slow death over a quick one. The death toll would be very little affected by any plausible relocation effort, since Earth’s ability to support life would be universally diminished.

Why am I feeling this way? Because she doesn’t love me. Because she chose money over my sister and me. But it doesn’t matter because I love myself.  That’s what therapy has taught me—to love myself. And I do. Unapologetically and without question, I love myself.  Someone’s got to.

Can I stay here?” She sucks in a deep inhale. “Only for the night? Until my parents are back?” “Of course.” My head darts to my shirtless brother in the kitchen. “Ryan, Indy is going to stay with us for the night.” Indy’s eyes follow mine, finding my brother. She quickly cleans up her face. “Who are you?”  “Um...I’m Ryan.” He offers her an awkward wave. This has got to be uncomfortable for him, having a random crying girl in his living room, not to mention he’s shirtless right now. “Why? Who?” Indy turns towards me then back to my brother. “Why are you hot?” That causes a relieved laugh to escape me, but my brother awkwardly chokes on his saliva in response.  “Indy, this is my twin brother, Ryan. Ryan, Indy.”  “Jesus,” she huffs out. “What kind of voodoo did your parents do while you two were in the womb for you to both be so attractive?

Evan Zanders’ hair is black and tightly faded to his scalp, seeming like he can’t go more than seven to ten business days without getting a fresh cut. At the same time, Eli Maddison’s brown mop falls messily over his eyes, and he probably couldn’t tell you the last time he saw his barber.

I saw the sky descending, black and white, Not blue, on Boston where the winters wore The skulls to jack-o’-lanterns on the slates, And Hunger’s skin-and-bone retrievers tore The chickadee and shrike. The thorn tree waits Its victim and tonight The worms will eat the deadwood to the foot Of Ararat: the scythers, Time and Death, Helmed locusts, move upon the tree of breath; The wild ingrafted olive and the root Are withered, and a winter drifts to where The Pepperpot, ironic rainbow, spans Charles River and its scales of scorched-earth miles. I saw my city in the Scales, the pans Of judgement rising and descending. Piles Of dead leaves char the air— And I am a red arrow on this graph Of Revelations. Every dove is sold. The Chapel’s sharp-shinned eagle shifts its hold On serpent-Time, the rainbow’s epitaph. In Boston serpents whistle at the cold. The victim climbs the altar steps and sings: “Hosannah to the lion, lamb, and beast Who fans the furnace-face of IS with wings: I breathe the ether of my marriage feast.” At the high altar, gold And a fair cloth. I kneel and the wings beat My cheek. What can the dove of Jesus give You now but wisdom, exile? Stand and live, The dove has brought an olive branch to eat.

Actually, no. I don’t really give a shit,” I state with honesty as Maddison almost chokes in startled laughter next to him. “Just curious. But you could’ve asked the other flight attendant to make you one when she came over here, you know.”  He glances towards the front of the airplane, where Tara’s perfectly thin frame is standing, watching us. “Yeah, but something tells me when it comes to food, I trust your opinion more than hers.” What the hell does that mean? Is that his way of judging my body? Is that his way of saying he knows I eat that kind of junk on a regular basis and can probably make a good one? I mean, he’s not wrong, but still.

Beyond the river and ten miles east of the city the Sangre Mountains began to reveal themselves in more detail as the sun rose higher, the rampart of blue shadow dissolving in the light, exposing the fissured red cliffs, the canyons and gorges a thousand feet deep, the towers leaning out from the main wall, the foothills dry and barren as old bones, and above and behind these tumbled ruins the final barrier of granite, the great horizontal crest tilted up a mile high into the frosty blue sky, sparkling with a new fall of snow. The mountains loomed over the valley like a psychical presence, a source and mirror of nervous influences, emotions, subtle and unlabeled aspirations; no man could ignore that presence; in an underground poker game, in the vaults of the First National Bank, in the realtor's office during the composition of and intricate swindle, in the heart of a sexual embrace, the emanations of mountain and sky imprinted some analogue of their nature on the evolution and shape of every soul.

On my days off I leave my apartment explore the city or grab coffee with a friend. The grocery stores here don’t make my hands sweat. I haven’t had the urge since I moved. I know who to call if I’m feeling sad. No, I haven’t even thought of it. I hurt myself once in high school, but not since. I have enough money to make it. I’m not nervous about moving. Yes, I ate dinner. I run five miles because I like it. I only hurt myself the one time in middle school, but that’s it. No, sex never scares me. I can tell my mom anything. I don’t really feel sad, I guess. I don’t care. I don’t need her. I never fight with my girlfriend. Yeah, I must’ve been. It was kind of an accident. Everyone in seventh grade. I’m friends with everyone. I know what that means. No, I didn’t read that in a book. I like having two bedrooms cause I have lots of toys. Yes, I understand why I’m here.

The failure of Islam to take the city in 717 had far-reaching consequences. The collapse of Constantinople would have opened the way for a Muslim expansion into Europe that might have reshaped the whole future of the West; it remains one of the great “What ifs” of history. It blunted the first powerful onslaught of Islamic jihad that reached its high watermark fifteen years later at the other end of the Mediterranean when a Muslim force was defeated on the banks of the Loire, a mere 150 miles south of Paris.

It was a wonderful night. Central City is two miles high; at first you get drunk on the altitude, then you get tired, and there’s a fever in your soul. We approached the lights around the opera house down the narrow dark street; then we took a sharp right and hit some old saloons with swinging doors. Most of the tourists were in the opera. We started off with a few extra-size beers. There was a player piano. Beyond the back door was a view of mountainsides in the moonlight. I let out a yahoo. The night was on.

The country, it seemed, was on the verge of a second civil war, this one over industrial slavery. But Frick was a gambler who cared little what the world thought of him. He was already a villain in the public’s eye, thanks to a disaster of epic proportions three years earlier. Frick and a band of wealthy friends had established the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club on land near an unused reservoir high in the hills above the small Pennsylvania city of Johnstown, 70 miles east of Pittsburgh. The club beautified the grounds around the dam but paid little attention to the dam itself, which held back the Conemaugh River and was in poor condition from years of neglect. On May 31, 1889, after heavy rainfall, the dam gave way, releasing nearly 5 billion gallons of water from Lake Conemaugh into Johnstown and killing 2,209 people. What became known as the Johnstown Flood caused $17 million in damages. Frick’s carefully crafted corporate structure for the club made it impossible for victims to pursue the financial assets of its members. Although he personally donated several thousands of dollars to relief efforts, Frick remained to many a scoundrel, the prototype of the uncaring robber baron of the Gilded Age.

All this fantastic effort—giant machines, road networks, strip mines, conveyor belt, pipelines, slurry lines, loading towers, railway and electric train, hundred-million-dollar coal-burning power plant; ten thousand miles of high-tension towers and high-voltage power lines; the devastation of the landscape, the destruction of Indian homes and Indian grazing lands, Indian shrines and Indian burial grounds; the poisoning of the last big clean-air reservoir in the forty-eight contiguous United States, the exhaustion of precious water supplies—all that ball-breaking labor and all that backbreaking expense and all that heartbreaking insult to land and sky and human heart, for what? All that for what? Why, to light the lamps of Phoenix suburbs not yet built, to run the air conditioners of San Diego and Los Angeles, to illuminate shopping-center parking lots at two in the morning, to power aluminum plants, magnesium plants, vinyl-chloride factories and copper smelters, to charge the neon tubing that makes the meaning (all the meaning there is) of Las Vegas, Albuquerque, Tucson, Salt Lake City, the amalgamated metropoli of southern California, to keep alive that phosphorescent putrefying glory (all the glory there is left) called Down Town, Night Time, Wonderville, U.S.A. They

Probably the first book that Hamilton absorbed was Malachy Postlethwayt’s Universal Dictionary of Trade and Commerce, a learned almanac of politics, economics, and geography that was crammed with articles about taxes, public debt, money, and banking. The dictionary took the form of two ponderous, folio-sized volumes, and it is touching to think of young Hamilton lugging them through the chaos of war. Hamilton would praise Postlethwayt as one of “the ablest masters of political arithmetic.” A proponent of manufacturing, Postlethwayt gave the aide-de-camp a glimpse of a mixed economy in which government would both steer business activity and free individual energies. In the pay book one can see the future treasury wizard mastering the rudiments of finance. “When you can get more of foreign coin, [the] coin for your native exchange is said to be high and the reverse low,” Hamilton noted. He also stocked his mind with basic information about the world: “The continent of Europe is 2600 miles long and 2800 miles broad”; “Prague is the principal city of Bohemia, the principal part of the commerce of which is carried on by the Jews.” He recorded tables from Postlethwayt showing infant-mortality rates, population growth, foreign-exchange rates, trade balances, and the total economic output of assorted nations.

One interesting side-effect of the fire in Ankh-Morpork concerns the inn-sewer-ants policy, which left the city through the ravaged roof of the Broken Drum, was wafted high into the discworld's atmosphere on the ensuing thermal, and came to earth several days and a few thousand miles away on an uloruaha bush in the beTrobi islands. The simple, laughing islanders subsequently worshipped it as a god, much to the amusement of their more sophisticated neighbours. Strangely enough the rainfall and harvests in the next few years were almost supernaturally abundant, and this led to a research team being despatched to the islands by the Minor Religions faculty of Unseen University. Their verdict was that it only went to show. *

I like rainbows. We came back down to the meadow near the steaming terrace and sat in the river, just where one of the bigger hot streams poured into the cold water of the Ferris Fork. It is illegal – not to say suicidal – to bathe in any of the thermal features of the park. But when those features empty into the river, at what is called a hot pot, swimming and soaking are perfectly acceptable. So we were soaking off our long walk, talking about our favorite waterfalls, and discussing rainbows when it occurred to us that the moon was full. There wasn’t a hint of foul weather. And if you had a clear sky and a waterfall facing in just the right direction… Over the course of a couple of days we hked back down the canyon to the Boundary Creek Trail and followed it to Dunanda Falls, which is only about eight miles from the ranger station at the entrance to the park. Dunanda is a 150-foot-high plunge facing generally south, so that in the afternoons reliable rainbows dance over the rocks at its base. It is the archetype of all western waterfalls. Dunenda is an Indian name; in Shoshone it means “straight down,” which is a pretty good description of the plunge. ... …We had to walk three miles back toward the ranger station and our assigned campsite. We planned to set up our tents, eat, hang our food, and walk back to Dunanda Falls in the dark, using headlamps. We could be there by ten or eleven. At that time the full moon would clear the east ridge of the downriver canyon and would be shining directly on the fall. Walking at night is never a happy proposition, and this particular evening stroll involved five stream crossings, mostly on old logs, and took a lot longer than we’d anticipated. Still, we beat the moon to the fall. Most of us took up residence in one or another of the hot pots. Presently the moon, like a floodlight, rose over the canyon rim. The falling water took on a silver tinge, and the rock wall, which had looked gold under the sun, was now a slick black so the contrast of water and rock was incomparably stark. The pools below the lip of the fall were glowing, as from within, with a pale blue light. And then it started at the base of the fall: just a diagonal line in the spray that ran from the lower east to the upper west side of the wall. “It’s going to happen,” I told Kara, who was sitting beside me in one of the hot pots. Where falling water hit the rock at the base of the fall and exploded upward in vapor, the light was very bright. It concentrated itself in a shining ball. The diagonal line was above and slowly began to bend until, in the fullness of time (ten minutes, maybe), it formed a perfectly symmetrical bow, shining silver blue under the moon. The color was vaguely electrical. Kara said she could see colors in the moonbow, and when I looked very hard, I thought I could make out a faint line of reddish orange above, and some deep violet at the bottom. Both colors were very pale, flickering, like bad florescent light. In any case, it was exhilarating, the experience of a lifetime: an entirely perfect moonbow, silver and iridescent, all shining and spectral there at the base of Dunanda Falls. The hot pot itself was a luxury, and I considered myself a pretty swell fellow, doing all this for the sanity of city dwellers, who need such things more than anyone else. I even thought of naming the moonbow: Cahill’s Luminescence. Something like that. Otherwise, someone else might take credit for it.

[Nero] castrated the boy Sporus and actually tried to make a woman of him; and he married him with all the usual ceremonies, including a dowry and a bridal veil, took him to his house attended by a great throng, and treated him as his wife. This Sporus, decked out with the finery of the empresses and riding in a litter, he took with him to the assizes and marts of Greece, and later at Rome through the Street of the Images,​ fondly kissing him from time to time. That he even desired illicit relations with his own mother, and was kept from it by her enemies, who feared that such a help might give the reckless and insolent woman too great influence, was notorious, especially after he added to his concubines a courtesan who was said to look very like Agrippina. Even before that, so they say, whenever he rode in a litter with his mother, he had incestuous relations with her, which were betrayed by the stains on his clothing. He so prostituted his own chastity that after defiling almost every part of his body, he at last devised a kind of game, in which, covered with the skin of some wild animal, he was let loose from a cage and attacked the private parts of men and women, who were bound to stakes, and when he had sated his mad lust, was dispatched​ by his freedman Doryphorus; for he was even married to this man in the same way that he himself had married Sporus, going so far as to imitate the cries and lamentations of a maiden being deflowered. He made a palace extending all the way from the Palatine to the Esquiline, which at first he called the House of Passage, but when it was burned shortly after its completion and rebuilt, the Golden House. Its size and splendour will be sufficiently indicated by the following details. Its vestibule was large enough to contain a colossal statue of the emperor a hundred and twenty feet high; and it was so extensive that it had a triple colonnade​ a mile long. There was a pond too, like a sea, surrounded with buildings to represent cities,​ besides tracts of country, varied by tilled fields, vineyards, pastures and woods, with great numbers of wild and domestic animals. In the rest of the house all parts were overlaid with gold and adorned with gems and mother-of‑pearl. There were dining-rooms with fretted ceils of ivory, whose panels could turn and shower down flowers and were fitted with pipes for sprinkling the guests with perfumes. The main banquet hall was circular and constantly revolved day and night, like the heavens. His mother offended him by too strict surveillance and criticism of his words and acts. At last terrified by her violence and threats, he determined to have her life, and after thrice attempting it by poison and finding that she had made herself immune by antidotes, he tampered with the ceiling of her bedroom, contriving a mechanical device for loosening its panels and dropping them upon her while she slept. When this leaked out through some of those connected with the plot, he devised a collapsible boat,​ to destroy her by shipwreck or by the falling in of its cabin. ...[He] offered her his contrivance, escorting her to it in high spirits and even kissing her breasts as they parted. The rest of the night he passed sleepless in intense anxiety, awaiting the outcome of his design. On learning that everything had gone wrong and that she had escaped by swimming, driven to desperation he secretly had a dagger thrown down beside her freedman Lucius Agermus, when he joyfully brought word that she was safe and sound, and then ordered that the freedman be seized and bound, on the charge of being hired to kill the emperor; that his mother be put to death, and the pretence made that she had escaped the consequences of her detected guilt by suicide.