Molly Bloom Quotes

Oh rocks!' says Molly Bloom, drumming her fingers in impatience. 'Tell us in plain words.

I wish I could weep the way my teacher did as he read us Molly Bloom’s soliloquy of yes.

...I heard Molly say, 'Our Mouse is a hundred miles away.' But I wasn't as far away as that; I was in a dimly lit street somewhere in Hampstead.

When you’re rich you can volunteer as much as you want, but you’re poor and stupid and you need to spend your time getting smarter and figuring out how not to be poor.

was as if being rich filtered out the inconveniences of life and left you with only the best parts.

YesIsaidyesyesyesyesyes...YesIsaidyes! andagainyesyesyes -- Molly Bloom

The spotlight hadn’t dimmed as Molly aged but had changed its glow instead. It had grown more intense with each new experience, had become more personalized and distinguished. It was no longer the bland whitish light of youth, a light dictated by a ceaselessly shallow society and therefore able to be seen by everyone in such a society. No, hers at present was a spotlight with highly individualized rays that could no longer be seen by most men simply because most men’s eyes weren’t good enough to see them.

There's something that happens to people when they see the opportunity to make money. Greed flavored with desperation, especially at a poker table, gives rise to a moment when the eyes change, the humanity vanishes, and the players become bloodthirsty, flat-eyed predators.

Ulysses [excerpt Molly Bloom’s closing soliloquy ...and Gibraltar as a girl where I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.

Nature had found the perfect place to hide the yellow fever virus. It seeded itself and grew in the blood, blooming yellow and running red.

Nothing was "recreational" in our family; everything was a lesson in pushing past the limits and being the best we could possibly be.

although i had been told my whole life that money couldnt buy you happiness, it was certainly clear to me that it could provide some desirable upgrades

Molly Bloom is simply the most sensuous woman in literature.

Oh my. Molly put her hand to her no-doubt agape mouth. Oh my, oh my, oh my. After her divorce, she hadn’t thought this day would ever come again, but here it was, a second proposal. Life is funny, she thought, and she felt herself step back from the reality of her situation for a moment, lest its emotions overwhelm her and make her swoon like a damsel in those Middle English chivalric romances she taught in 10th-grade English. Yes, life was indeed funny. It had no syllabus, which was why Molly, always a diligent student, felt so unprepared for it. Life played tricks on you too, surprised you, with the biggest surprise that life, even at the nearly half-century mark, could still hold surprises. Like so: There is a man in my kitchen, a man I’m in love with, and he wants to spend the rest of his life with me. How strange and how very unconventional by its conventional, everyday setting.

To fight against these falsehoods, though, one needed to be able to see past the present-day and very male-oriented distortion lens to the underlying truth. Beyond question, Molly Valle could do this. A woman whose surface appearance, eyeglasses and conservative clothes, fit the schoolmarm stereotype to a T. Yet she had sloughed off that exterior and society’s restrictions as effortlessly as she had her clothes, and during their lovemaking, she had not only kept up with him but often passed ahead of him. With other women, he had seen the embers of passion but never the flame. Tonight, he had witnessed the bonfire.

There's a moment," she said, "near the end of Ulysses when the character Molly Bloom appears to speak directly to the author. She says, 'O Jamesy let me up out of this.' You're imprisoned within a self that doesn't feel wholly yours, like Molly Bloom.

THERE’S SOMETHING THAT HAPPENS to people when they see the opportunity to make money. Greed flavored with desperation, especially at a poker table, gives rise to a moment when the eyes change, the humanity vanishes, and the players become bloodthirsty, flat-eyed predators.

For as Molly looked at him, she felt an immediate … she didn’t know what. Despite her love of the language arts, she also possessed an analytic mind, and that mind straightaway tried to seek out the why. And it couldn’t unearth the reason apart from his smile. Or, rather, how he smiled at her—warm and full-armed, like the embrace from a long-absent friend, without the slightest trace of fakeness or concealed motive. His was the most open face she’d ever seen in her life. Concomitant with these sensations, all delivered within a split second, was a thought, seemingly originating not in her mind but from the center of her torso and radiating out to the ends of each nerve, inexplicable in its suddenness and surety. A thought that children and very young people might have, but never middle-aged adults, especially one with a divorce behind her and the conviction that she already knew the world and what it was able to offer. But there it was, undeniably, the thought: I’m on a great adventure.

Author MOLLY BLOOM grew up in Loveland, Colorado. She attended the University of Colorado at Boulder, majoring in political science. Later, she was a member of the U.S. Ski Team and ranked third overall in North America in 1998. For several years Molly organized one of the largest high-stakes poker games in

Molly wondered this: Could the size of man’s soul be small? She marveled that she would ask herself this question, for the obvious answer was yes. After all, if John’s was infinitely large, then his polar opposite must also surely exist. Her ex-husband’s soul was very small indeed. He was forever spinning his wheels to enlarge his soul, to fill its emptiness, with things. The luxury car, the large house, the high-paying but unimaginative job, the respect of people he didn’t even like. Like so many men, he needed a boy’s toy box of things to feel whole. John was the opposite. He didn’t need anything to feel whole besides a hammock, a beer, and her.

...I witnessed a piece of her soul leave her body. Until that day, I had thought souls left bodies at the time of death, all at once. But when I saw Olivia's face, her arms crossed in front of her, the tears streaming down her cheeks, and the rose-colored hives blooming upward and outward across her chest, I knew everything I had believed about souls leaving bodies was wrong. Souls leave bodies in tiny gasps, like when you hold the lip of a balloon tightly and let out the air a little bit at a time" -Molly

Has it been hard for you being with me all this time? It goes against your whole need to leave and change. No more Molly in perpetual motion.

I wasn't born with a way to get it, like my brothers. I was waiting for my opportunity and somehow I knew it would come.

settled for a blooming redhead from Waco, Takes-us, name of Molly Bea Archer, carefully cut her out of the pack and trundled her, tipsy and willing, back to the Busted Flush.

although I had been told my whole life that money couldn’t buy you happiness, it was certainly clear to me that it could provide some desirable upgrades.

He had a job that would forever consume his life, and that job didn’t have anything to do with Col’s blue eyes or the flowers that bloomed at his touch.

i had nothing to lose, and so much to gain. i felt free and alive.

…but to the unicorn’s eyes Molly was becoming a softer country, full of pools and caves, where old flowers came burning out of the ground. Under the dirt and indifference, she appeared only thirty-seven or thirty-eight years old - no older than Schmendrick, surely, despite the magician’s birthdayless face. Her rough hair bloomed, her skin quickened, and her voice was nearly as gentle to all things as it was when she spoke to the unicorn. The eyes would never be joyous, any more than they could ever turn green or blue, but they too had wakened in the earth. She walked eagerly into King Haggard’s realm on bare, blistered feet, and she sang often. And far away on the other side of the unicorn, Schmendrick the Magician stalked in silence. His black cloak was sprouting holes, coming undone, and so was he. The rain that renewed Molly did not fall on him, and he seemed ever more parched and deserted, like the land itself. The unicorn could not heal him. A touch of her horn could have brought him back from death, but over despair she had no power, nor over magic that had come and gone.

There’s a moment,” she said, “near the end of Ulysses when the character Molly Bloom appears to speak directly to the author. She says, ‘O Jamesy let me up out of this.’ You’re imprisoned within a self that doesn’t feel wholly yours, like Molly Bloom. But also, to you that self often feels deeply contaminated.” I nodded. “But you give your thoughts too much power, Aza. Thoughts are only thoughts. They are not you. You do belong to yourself, even when your thoughts don’t.” “But your thoughts are you. I think therefore I am, right?” “No, not really. A fuller formation of Descartes’s philosophy would be Dubito, ergo cogito, ergo sum. ‘I doubt, therefore I think, therefore I am.’ Descartes wanted to know if you could really know that anything was real, but he believed his ability to doubt reality proved that, while it might not be real, he was. You are as real as anyone, and your doubts make you more real, not less.

He had envisioned each contour and line of her face, the spellbinding individuality of personal detail. Here was a woman who had lived, and that life had been kind and good. And within that goodness lay true glamour, which was far more than the sum of ephemeral, physical parts. That was why, even attired in an unpretentious house dress, her forty-eight-year-old face scarcely made up, Molly was glamorous in a way that put in the shade women half her age and on the cover of fashion magazines.

Robert Frost wrote about “two roads diverg[ing] in a wood” and taking “the one less traveled.” But, in Molly’s case, both roads continued on to equally devastating destinations, even if the specifics were different. Which of the two paths would you choose if one went off a cliff and the other into quicksand?

Less is not known as a teacher, in the same way Melville was not known as a customs inspector. And yet both held the respective positions. Though he was once an endowed chair at Robert’s university, he has no formal training except the drunken, cigarette-filled evenings of his youth, when Robert’s friends gathered and yelled, taunted, and played games with words. As a result, Less feels uncomfortable lecturing. Instead, he re-creates those lost days with his students. Remembering those middle-aged men sitting with a bottle of whiskey, a Norton book of poetry, and scissors, he cuts up a paragraph of Lolita and has the young doctoral students reassemble the text as they desire. In these collages, Humbert Humbert becomes an addled old man rather than a diabolical one, mixing up cocktail ingredients and, instead of confronting the betrayed Charlotte Haze, going back for more ice. He gives them a page of Joyce and a bottle of Wite-Out—and Molly Bloom merely says “Yes.” A game to write a persuasive opening sentence for a book they have never read (this is difficult, as these diligent students have read everything) leads to a chilling start to Woolf’s The Waves: I was too far out in the ocean to hear the lifeguard shouting, “Shark! Shark!” Though the course features, curiously, neither vampires nor Frankenstein monsters, the students adore it. No one has given them scissors and glue sticks since they were in kindergarten. No one has ever asked them to translate a sentence from Carson McCullers (In the town there were two mutes, and they were always together) into German (In der Stadt gab es zwei Stumme, und sie waren immer zusammen) and pass it around the room, retranslating as they go, until it comes out as playground gibberish: In the bar there were two potatoes together, and they were trouble. What a relief for their hardworking lives. Do they learn anything about literature? Doubtful. But they learn to love language again, something that has faded like sex in a long marriage. Because of this, they learn to love their teacher.

Molly wanted to hug the young girl close, stroke her black hair and tell her that loneliness, while unpleasant, was endurable. Not once, though, did she consider telling the girl that she was wrong for that reassurance would be a lie, wouldn’t it be? She was, after all, her, and in the intervening four decades, the girl’s prescience had been proven right. Loneliness had indeed been the condition—would always be the condition—of Molly’s life, of being misunderstood and neglected by others, even amidst a crowd and friends and, for a few years, a husband.

Soon, John would wake up and leave her, at least for the day, to right one injustice in a world chockful of injustices. In imagining his day, Molly understood what she was going to do for the rest of her life. The world was so wrong, so disastrously cruel, and in so many ways, it became clear to her that she would try to right it somehow, even in the minuscule measure that a single human being could influence. . . . She even had a partner in crime, a man whose wonderful mysteries she would also need a lifetime to unravel, and she was so looking forward to this task.

John never felt the insecurity that underlay the surfaces of most men, and in his mind, he could easily conjure up those male colleagues of hers. In the teachers’ lounge, in their stiff suits with their bow-tied collars, their nicotine-yellowed fingers holding up their pretentious pipes, eyeing Molly as she came in, then snickering when she went out, dismissing her not because she didn’t know enough but because she knew too much, indeed knew far more than they did, and they were cognizant of and frightened by this fact. Hence, the dismissal and, concomitantly, the figurative puffing out of their chests, like those of exotic birds whose impressive plumage hid the scrawny bodies beneath.

There's a moment, she said, near the end of Ulysses when the character Molly Bloom appears to speak directly to the author. She says, 'O Jamesy let me up out of this.' You're imprisoned within a self that doesn't feel wholly yours, like Molly Bloom.

design by Amanda Kain Cover and author photographs © by Yolanda Perez

There was Customer Service, a chirpy brunette with a permanent smile behind the desk. And there was someone waiting there, someone dressed in jeans and a sweater, devilishly normal in the twenty-first-century crowd. He saw her, and he straightened, his eyes hopeful. Apparently, Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s barrister hadn’t been in his office to assure her that being a magazine writer doesn’t nullify a confidentially agreement. “Jane.” “Martin. You whistled?” She laid the rancor on thick. No need to tap dance around. “Jane, I’m sorry. I was going to tell you today. Or tonight. The point is, I was going to tell you, and then we could still see if you and I--” “You’re an actor,” Jane said as though “actor” and “bastard” were synonymous. “Yes, but, but…” He looked around as though for cue cards. “But you’re desperately in love with me,” she prompted him. “I’m unbelievably beautiful, and I make you feel like yourself. Oh, and I remind you of your sister.” The chirpy brunette behind the counter furiously refused to look up from her monitor. “Jane, please.” “And the suddenly passionate feelings that sent you running after me at the airport have nothing to do with Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s fear that I’ll write a negative review of Pembrook Park.” “No! Listen, I know I was a cad, and I lied and was misleading, and I’ve never actually been an NBA fan--go United--but romances have bloomed on stonier ground.” “Romances…stonier ground…Did Mrs. Wattlesbrook write that line?” Martin exhaled in exasperation. Thinking of Molly’s dead end on the background check, she asked, “Your name’s not really Martin Jasper, is it?” “Well,” he looked at the brunette as though for help. “Well, it is Martin.” The brunette smiled encouragement. Then, impossibly, another figure ran toward her. The sideburns and stiff-collared jacket looked ridiculous out of the context of Pembrook Park, though he’d stuck on a baseball cap and trench coat, trying to blend. His face was flushed from running, and when he saw Jane, he sighed with relief. Jane dropped her jaw. Literally. She had never, even in her most ridiculous daydreaming, imagined that Mr. Nobley would come after her.

Zack stepped toward Mollie, and without asking permission, tugged her into his arms. “Let’s dance,” he said impulsively. Her eyes widened in alarm. “Don’t be ridiculous.” Mollie was not the sort to be drawn out of her comfort zone without a little prodding. She tried to skitter out of his arms, but he hauled her back. “Let me do all the work, Mollie. I know what I’m doing.” Like any good Pole in Chicago, Zack had been dancing since childhood and confidently led Mollie in a rousing jig. She was clumsy at first, but all she had to do was follow his lead. The tension in her back relaxed, and she learned the steps. Her smile started out hesitant, then bloomed wider. With her face illuminated by firelight and laughter, she was perfect in his arms.

Love was a liability. I just couldn't allow it in my world.

You're a pathetic man,” I snarl. “And there isn't a single soul on this planet that will care when you're gone.” He laughs, and his rotten breath fans across my face. I dig the sharp end deeper, a bead of blood blooming from the tip. “That don't matter to me, baby. Come on, you know better than that. Even if I was a fucking stand-up citizen, I'd go down in history like everybody else. Forgotten. My name carved in some stupid gravestone that people pass by and don't look twice at. And ya know what? The same thing will happen to you.” “Yeah, you're right,” I say, my voice breathless and trembling. “But at least when I go down, I'll be able to say I took as many of you sick fucks as I could with me.

I can’t go back to yesterday because I was a different person then.

Though the garden is still blooming, the blossoms are growing blowsy and losing petals; the sun, rising swiftly now, is still bright, but there is a particular smell to the air, sharp as autumn, like damp leaves underfoot even though they have yet to turn and fall. The world is in transition, and I stand inert as it changes around me.

He walked beside her, in front of her, behind her. He tried not to be overwhelmed by her fragrance and sheer presence. Yet, beyond the near-overwhelming desire for Molly Valle, he felt something else. It was as if the hands of some internal clock had long been off-kilter and had, at last, rearranged themselves into the correct positions.

No, life has no soundtrack, just the daily grind occasionally alleviated by short-lived bursts of happiness—a vacation, the birth of a child, retirement. This is my life and the life of everyone I know—all my friends, all my family members, everyone with whom I have more than a passing acquaintance. I’ve spent nearly forty-five years on this planet, and the majority of those years—my adult years, my reality-based years—have shown me that the adventure Molly and John had no longer exists. This is why I so want Molly to wake up and tell me that I’m wrong.

there was no such thing as favors, so i needed to incentivize him

For that matter, why did Molly marry Leopold Bloom? Her answer was “Well as well him as another.

And although I had been told my whole life that money couldn’t buy you happiness, it was certainly clear to me that it could provide some desirable upgrades.

. . since [no] women whose acquaintance I had made in fiction had much to do with the life I led or wanted to lead, I was not female. . . . if Molly Bloom was a woman. what was I? A mutant or a dinosaur.

Bluff and perception are much more important than actual truth and circumstance.

I grieved for a night or two and then I got angry—and anger felt better than sadness, more powerful. I could see Los Angeles clearly now . . . it was the kind of town where people came to prove themselves and their worth, dedicated to the pursuit of their own amazingness. Either you climbed to the top and then fought with all of your energy to hang on, looking at everyone around you with suspicion while accepting their fawning admiration, or you let the victors chew you up and spit you out, nourishing themselves on your weakness. This town was not made for permanence. It was designed for the quick flare of genius, the sputter and die when a new genius came along. That’s not how it was going to be with me.

I have been asked many times: If I had to do it all over, would I choose the same path? My answer is yes, a thousand times, yes. I had a grand adventure. I learned to believe in myself. I was brave, and I went big. I was also reckless and selfish. I got lost along the way. I abandoned the things that mattered and traded them for wealth and statues. I lusted for power and I hurt people. But I was forced to face myself, to lose everything, to fall on my face in front of the world, and the lessons I learned on the way up were just as valuable as the ones on the way down. I know that this time I will use everything I have learned to do something that matters.

Some girls have hearts and stars in their eyes. I had dollar signs.

Grow up, Molly, I told myself. This isn’t high school, it’s not a popularity contest. This is part of being a businesswoman. It’s just business, I thought. This phrase was a useful way to justify behaving with greed instead of compassion. I had been using it a lot lately.

I loved to read and write, and when I was young I lived half my life in books, movies, and my imagination. In elementary school I didn’t want to play with other kids; I was shy and sensitive and I found them intimidating. So my mom spoke to the school librarian. Tina Sekavic agreed to allow me to hang out in the library, so I spent the next few years reading biographies about women who had changed the world like Cleopatra, Joan of Arc, Queen Elizabeth, and others. (My mom had initially suggested this, but I quickly became fascinated.) I was moved by their bravery and determination, and I decided right then and there, I didn’t want to settle for an ordinary life. I craved adventure; I wanted to leave my mark.

I loved to read and write, and when I was young I lived half my life in books, movies, and my imagination. In elementary school I didn’t want to play with other kids; I was shy and sensitive and I found them intimidating. So my mom spoke to the school librarian. Tina Sekavic agreed to allow me to hang out in the library, so I spent the next few years reading biographies about women who had changed the world like Cleopatra, Joan of Arc, Queen Elizabeth, and others. (My mom had initially suggested this, but I quickly became fascinated.) I was moved by their bravery and determination, and I decided right then and there, I didn’t want to settle for an ordinary life. I craved adventure; I wanted to leave my mark.

As much as I had intended on spending my year in L.A. being young, spontaneous, and carefree, my gut told me to stick it out.

True luxury is worth the spend.

I was there to make money, not friends.

I was working long hours during the day, and at a different club every night. Iwas completely exhausted. But I discovered that I had endless stamina when it came to making money. No matter how busy or tired I was, I never said no to a job.

I put on my disappointingly ordinary outfit and decided I would compensate for my lack of elegance by being superfriendly, helpful, and professional.

Molly Bloom, you are wearing the dress of your dreams, you are confident and fearless and you will be perfect.

I instantly fell in love with the unfamiliarity and uncertainty involved in being in a foreign place. Everything was a discovery, a riddle to solve. Suddenly my world became a lot bigger than seeking my father’s approval. Somewhere, someone else was winning a blue ribbon in women’s moguls, or acing an exam, but frankly I didn’t care.

There was no university on the planet that could have prepared me for the education I got from Reardon. It was baptism by fire. It was frustrating, and it was challenging, but I loved every class. I loved the show. I loved watching him succeed. In order to survive in his world, I had to learn how to operate well under pressure, and so he tightened the screws in order to teach me. Reardon was like a more extreme version of my father, always pushing me, never allowing me to take it easy, wanting to make me tough. He gave me a Wall Street–style education, the kind that guys give guys down on the floor or at the trading desk, the kind that women rarely get. I started to see the world for what it was, or at least his world. I also saw that there were more than just the traditional, safe routes to success.

Reardon was a master strategist. He knew how to analyze a deal, and if he recognized opportunity, he would capitalize on it. It didn’t matter if it was something he had no experience in, he would learn. Study it day and night, until he figured it out.

I was working long hours during the day, and at a different club every night. I was completely exhausted. But I discovered that I had endless stamina when it came to making money. No matter how busy or tired I was, I never said no to a job.

The most important thing was to somehow figure out how to make myself relatable.

I wanted a big life, a grand adventure, and no one was going to hand it to me. I wasn’t born with a way to get it, like my brothers. I was waiting for my opportunity, and somehow I knew it would come. Again I thought of Lewis Carroll’s Alice saying, “I can’t go back to yesterday because I was a different person then.” I understood the profound simplicity of that statement—because after tonight I knew I could never, ever go back.

I dressed like a woman and looked like a woman, but I could speak the language of men fluently.

Someday . . ." he said, “someday, you’ll understand. Volunteering doesn’t solve your problems. Every lost stupid girl I know is saving puppies or babies instead of facing the reality of what the world is and how to survive in it.

You can tell a lot about a man’s character by watching him win or lose money. Money is the great equalizer.

I had learned from watching the guys play that it was the calm, cool, unfettered heads that prevailed.

My dad was someone who was always processing and analyzing everything. Discussions were never simple with him, words were dissected, references sourced. Growing up with this was sometimes annoying, but I realized what an important skill this kind of thinking actually was in the real world. In order to really run the game the way I dreamed, to offer value and to make myself irreplaceable, I needed to process and analyze my players. I needed to get inside the psyche of the gambler.

For the most part, these were men who had risked it all to attain enormous success. Risked, past tense. Now they were coasting. They were safe. There was no jugular to their day-to day lives. They could get any woman they desired, buy anything they wanted, make movies, live in mansions, acquire and disembowel huge corporations. They craved the adrenaline of the gamble: that was what kept them coming back. It was much more than just a game—it was escapism, adventure, fantasy. It had become an escape for me as well. A way to avoid “growing up,” which meant, at least to my father, succumbing to a life of thankless obligations. I decided that this game was the next level of my education. Everything that passed in front of my eyes was another lesson in economics, in psychology, in entrepreneurship, in the American dream.

Reardon was always trying to make me tougher, and smarter; he equated idealism with stupidity. He kept me around because I worked my ass off, and I was the only assistant he had ever had that didn’t quit after a week. He very rarely admitted it, but every once in a while he would tell me I had potential, that I could be smart. It was always followed quickly by an insult, of course. He was like an evil fairy godmother.

Poker is a game of odds, simple math, and being able to read people. If you are going to bluff, you have to believe it yourself. Keep in mind, the other players are looking for information from you. Facial expressions, body language, the amount and the way you bet. When you have what you believe to be the best hand, which is called the ‘nuts,’ you can either try to keep your opponents playing by betting in a way that strings them along, or bet aggressively and take the pot. And if you are going to go all in, make sure you have thought it through. Make sure you have the nuts, or that your opponent thinks you have them beat. “But,” he continued, “outplaying your opponent doesn’t always work. Even the best players in the world have nights when they run bad. Recognize those nights and be disciplined with your downside, or the amount of money you allow yourself to lose. Know when to leave the table.

By now, I had figured out how to operate with confidence, or fake it till I made it.

If you’re going to be a risk taker, make sure you’re taking calculated risks.

In my life and my career, I have seen what the world can do to people, especially girls. I wanted to make sure you kids had the best possible shot.

My brother Jordan was also a talented athlete, but his mind was his greatest attribute. He loved to learn. He loved to take things apart and figure out how to put them back together. He didn’t want to hear imaginary bedtime stories; he wanted to hear stories about real people in history. My mom had a new story every night for him, about great world leaders or visionary scientists, and she researched the facts and wove them into engaging tales.

I loved to read and write, and when I was young I lived half my life in books, movies, and my imagination. In elementary school I didn’t want to play with other kids; I was shy and sensitive and I found them intimidating. So my mom spoke to the school librarian. Tina Sekavic agreed to allow me to hang out in the library, so I spent the next few years reading biographies about women who had changed the world like Cleopatra, Joan of Arc, Queen Elizabeth, and others.

My father was handsome, charismatic, and complicated. He was a practicing psychologist and a professor at Colorado State University. The education of his children was of paramount importance to him. If my brothers and I didn’t bring home A’s and B’s, we were in big trouble. That being said, he always encouraged us to pursue our dreams. At home he was affectionate, playful, and loving, but when it came to our performance in school and athletics, he demanded excellence. He was filled with a fiery passion that at times was so intense, it was almost terrifying. Nothing was “recreational” in our family; everything was a lesson in pushing past the limits and being the best we could possibly be.

I’ve held off telling it because I believe that when you speak, you are always also listening—or you should be. You are trying, in a sense, to “overhear” yourself, and so to be changed by what you have heard yourself reveal no less than if someone other than yourself were the one revealing it to you. Revelation was what I was afraid of: self-knowledge and change. Molly said Harold Bloom said that this capacity for self-overhearing is what Shakespeare’s characters do in their soliloquies—they listen to themselves, are changed, and then act based on that change—and that this is the foundation of modern human consciousness. Or something. I’m not saying I followed it all, but I did take the trouble later to peruse the relevant Wikis, where I learned that Bloom borrowed this idea from Hegel. Or maybe what I really did was hire Molly to ghostwrite this whole book for me, and here she is throwing in Easter eggs that reveal her unacknowledged legislation of my story.

You’ll have to believe me that I haven’t been withholding this to be coy, or because I was scared to face this story, though it’s possible that both those things are true. I’ve held off telling it because I believe that when you speak, you are always also listening—or you should be. You are trying, in a sense, to “overhear” yourself, and so to be changed by what you have heard yourself reveal no less than if someone other than yourself were the one revealing it to you. Revelation was what I was afraid of: self-knowledge and change. Molly said Harold Bloom said that this capacity for self-overhearing is what Shakespeare’s characters do in their soliloquies—they listen to themselves, are changed, and then act based on that change—and that this is the foundation of modern human consciousness. Or something. I’m not saying I followed it all, but I did take the trouble later to peruse the relevant Wikis, where I learned that Bloom borrowed this idea from Hegel. Or maybe what I really did was hire Molly to ghostwrite this whole book for me, and here she is throwing in Easter eggs that reveal her unacknowledged legislation of my story.