Rosen Quotes

Sometimes he wakes so far from himself that he can’t even remember who he is. “Where am I?” he asks, desperate, and then, “Who am I? Who am I?” And then he hears, so close to his ear that it is as if the voice is originating inside his own head, Willem’s whispered incantation. “You’re Jude St. Francis. You are my oldest, dearest friend. You’re the son of Harold Stein and Julia Altman. You’re the friend of Malcolm Irvine, of Jean-Baptiste Marion, of Richard Goldfarb, of Andy Contractor, of Lucien Voigt, of Citizen van Straaten, of Rhodes Arrowsmith, of Elijah Kozma, of Phaedra de los Santos, of the Henry Youngs. “You’re a New Yorker. You live in SoHo. You volunteer for an arts organization; you volunteer for a food kitchen. “You’re a swimmer. You’re a baker. You’re a cook. You’re a reader. You have a beautiful voice, though you never sing anymore. You’re an excellent pianist. You’re an art collector. You write me lovely messages when I’m away. You’re patient. You’re generous. You’re the best listener I know. You’re the smartest person I know, in every way. You’re the bravest person I know, in every way. “You’re a lawyer. You’re the chair of the litigation department at Rosen Pritchard and Klein. You love your job; you work hard at it. “You’re a mathematician. You’re a logician. You’ve tried to teach me, again and again. “You were treated horribly. You came out on the other end. You were always you.

Who am I? Who am I?” “You’re Jude St. Francis. You are my oldest, dearest friend. You’re the son of Harold Stein and Julia Altman. You’re the friend of Malcolm Irvine, of Jean-Baptiste Marion, of Richard Goldfarb, of Andy Contractor, of Lucien Voigt, of Citizen van Straaten, of Rhodes Arrowsmith, of Elijah Kozma, of Phaedra de los Santos, of the Henry Youngs. You’re a New Yorker. You live in SoHo. You volunteer for an arts organization; you volunteer for a food kitchen. You’re a swimmer. You’re a baker. You’re a cook. You’re a reader. You have a beautiful voice, though you never sing anymore. You’re an excellent pianist. You’re an art collector. You write me lovely messages when I’m away. You’re patient. You’re generous. You’re the best listener I know. You’re the smartest person I know, in every way. You’re the bravest person I know, in every way. You’re a lawyer. You’re the chair of the litigation department at Rosen Pritchard and Klein. You love your job; you work hard at it. You’re a mathematician. You’re a logician. You’ve tried to teach me, again and again. You were treated horribly. You came out on the other end. You were always you.” "And who are you?" "I'm Willem Ragnarsson. And I will never let you go.

I like stepping into the future. Therefore, I look for doorknobs.

And I still have other smothered memories, now unfolding themselves into limbless monsters of pain. Once, in a sunset-ending street of Beardsley, she turned to little Eva Rosen (I was taking both nymphets to a concert and walking behind them so close as almost to touch them with my person), she turned to Eva, and so very serenely and seriously, in answer to something the other had said about its being better to die than hear Milton Pinski; some local schoolboy she knew, talk about music, my Lolita remarked: 'You know what's so dreadful about dying is that you're completely on your own'; and it struck me, as my automaton knees went up and down, that I simply did not know a thing about my darling's mind and that quite possibly, behind the awful juvenile cliches, there was in her a garden and a twilight, and a palace gate - dim and adorable regions which happened to be lucidly and absolutely forbidden to me, in my polluted rags and miserable convulsions...

Starlets were always turning up dead in people's pools. They fished them out like goldfish. Nobody seemed to find it unusual that so many young, beautiful women wanted to die.

Your feelings and emotions are your strongest indicator if your life is moving in a purposeful direction or not, so listen closely to how you feel

Most people don't want to die, but they don't want to live either. I am speaking about men now as much as women. They look for a third way, but there is no third way.

She wasn't his girlfriend. She was his bubblegum girl--only fun until she lost her flavor.

It means that the things that make us human often make us ill.

Take the local, take the express, don't get off till you reach success -- Sidney Rosen (Prince Of Tides)

Hate born from too many tears and too little Love

Abuse changes who we are, it changes who we become, It changes how we move in the world – And so does kindness

When life tries to define you with its hardship, you gotta push back, look it straight in the eye and say, ‘No matter what life throws at me, I’m going to keep telling myself that I will overcome.’ And every time you own that truth, you write your own life script.

No denial of the truth will ever invalidate it.

Ideas do not have to be correct in order to be good; its only necessary that, if they do fail, they do so in an interesting way.

We need to learn to dance more softly.

Write what you know. Write what you can't forget. Write to give yourself courage and others hope.

Hope transcends everything. It goes beyond all doubts. It silences fear. It quiets despair.

This is me being sad. Maybe you think I'm being happy in this picture. Really I'm being sad but pretending I'm being happy. I'm doing that because I think people won't like me if I look sad.

So las ich falsch in deinem Aug, dem tiefen? Kein heimlich Sehnen sah ich heiß dort funkeln? Es birgt zu deiner Seele keine Pforte Dein feuchter Blick? Die Wünsche, die dort schliefen, Wie stille Rosen in der Flut, der dunkeln, Sind, wie dein Plaudern: seellos... Worte, Worte?

Postmodernism is the Enlightenment gone mad.

When you welcome what you've been running from, your life is no longer shaped by trying to avoid it.

No matter how slinky your lingerie, a sticker between the brows will always kill the mood.

I just feel stupid’ ‘Not stupid,’ George says. ‘A romantic maybe. A dreamer.’ ‘A theater kid,’ Ashley says. ‘But never stupid,’ George finishes.

There is no Pris,” he said. “Only Rachael Rosen, over and over again.

You should never let a silly detail such as not getting attacked with a cake fork stand in the way of a little well-deserved sexy time.

I would not look good as a splatter on the floor. It's not my ideal body type

It's the side-by-side culture of the Talmud I like so much. 'On the one hand' and 'on the other hand' is frustrating for people seeking absolute faith, but for me it gives religion an ambidextrous quality that suits my temperament.

Community is about sharing my life; about allowing the chaos of another’s circumstances to infringe on mine; about permitting myself to be known without constraint; about resigning myself to needing others.

Be the light you want to attract, and darkness will have no spell over you. Darkness is dispelled by light.

It must be odd having a lover as a servant." Jack said. "You mean a servant as a lover." Violet said. "What you describe is merely how most men view marriage.

But eleven-year-old Max Rosen was determined to stay alive.

Any fool can see you're a woman. Luckily, this is a school full of geniuses, so I don't think you'll have too much trouble.

Oh let the lemons lie there, upended yellow boats, their empty inboards so clean and white, let them always ferry such distractions from ourselves.

Im Garten sind tausend Entzückende fein Und Rosen und Veilchen mit Düften so rein Und rinnendes, plätscherndes Wasser im Fluß – Dies alles ist Vorwand: Er ist alles allein.

We all begin to die from the moment we are born. Some do it faster than others. All we can do is enjoy our lives.

Even when your dream is taken from you, you can have a great new life.

dignity” is a term for, as we would now put it, something’s intrinsic value—the value that it has by occupying its appropriate place within God’s creation,

For seventy-five years I've made ladies dresses. That means that for seventy-five years I have made women happy. For seventy-five years I have made mature women spin around in front of the mirror like young girls. For seventy-five years I have made young girls look in the mirror and for the first time see a woman staring back at them. I have made young men's eyes pop out. I've made old men's eyes pop out. Because the right dress does that. It makes ordinary women feel extraordinary.

People are always trying to claim you, without ever listening to who you are. They want you to be something else, to be the role they have for you in the family. But really, we're all better off just making our own.

Brenda, do you know God loves you? He really does. To Him, you're perfect, absolutely perfect. You always have been.

The most important things in life happen when you’re just hanging out.

Zeit ist etwas, das sich Menschen bauen, hübsche Häuser aus Minuten und Stunden, Straßen aus Jahren und Seen aus Momenten.

As I stood in front of the mirror in the beautiful little black dress, I knew that I was looking at a woman whom I would never see again. I wished I had never seen her in the first place, but the truth is she had always been there. I was being dishonest to myself by pretending that she hadn't.

Rosen explains as follows: “Hearing a succession of mediocre singers does not add up to a single outstanding performance.” In other words, talent is not a commodity you can buy in bulk and combine to reach the needed levels: There’s a premium to being the best. Therefore, if you’re in a marketplace where the consumer has access to all performers, and everyone’s q value is clear, the consumer will choose the very best.

Everyday in heat, rain or cold, I ran - alone in the woods - in the hills near our home. There I felt the gentle touch of God. I head Him whisper, 'You're stronger now. It's time to tell the truth of what happened. Tell your story to give hope to others.

Not many are the moments in life, where the easiest choice also happens to be the best one. Cherish and remember those moments, but do not let them become a habit, for the fruits that hard work reaps are irreplaceable.

Many of us have pain, regrets, and disappointments buried so far deep down inside ourselves, we have no idea they’re there or how they’re manifesting in our everyday lives.

Too many told me 'you can't, you won't, impossible.' I did. I can. I will.

Conservatives believe in equality of opportunity. Liberals believe in equality of outcome.

A man who offers to cook after he's seen you trying to freeze a dead dog has to be at least a little bit keen.

If you can’t be of good character, write a good character.

If you lay down and act like a doormat... then you are sure to get walked on.

Come on. Stand up. Get up. Don't give up. Never give up. Never never ever give up!

Und tausend und abertausend Seelen werden in den Tod gehen...

She held the book in her hands, feeling a sense of awe, and lightly ran a finger over its cover as if it contained sacred writings.

I didn't want to remember...yet in remembering, it dawned on me - finally - just how far down God had reached to free me.

Our knowledge advances not when we have the best theory, or the best data, or the best lab, but when we have really good problems

Sometimes he wakes so far from himself that he can’t even remember who he is. “Where am I?” he asks, desperate, and then, “Who am I? Who am I?” And then he hears, so close to his ear that it is as if the voice is originating inside his own head, Willem’s whispered incantation. “You’re Jude St. Francis. You are my oldest, dearest friend. You’re the son of Harold Stein and Julia Altman. You’re the friend of Malcolm Irvine, of Jean-Baptiste Marion, of Richard Goldfarb, of Andy Contractor, of Lucien Voigt, of Citizen van Straaten, of Rhodes Arrowsmith, of Elijah Kozma, of Phaedra de los Santos, of the Henry Youngs. “You’re a New Yorker. You live in SoHo. You volunteer for an arts organization; you volunteer for a food kitchen. “You’re a swimmer. You’re a baker. You’re a cook. You’re a reader. You have a beautiful voice, though you never sing anymore. You’re an excellent pianist. You’re an art collector. You write me lovely messages when I’m away. You’re patient. You’re generous. You’re the best listener I know. You’re the smartest person I know, in every way. You’re the bravest person I know, in every way. “You’re a lawyer. You’re the chair of the litigation department at Rosen Pritchard and Klein. You love your job; you work hard at it. “You’re a mathematician. You’re a logician. You’ve tried to teach me, again and again. “You were treated horribly. You came out on the other end. You were always you.” ― Hanya Yanagihara, A Little Life

Before Sept. 11, the idea that Americans would voluntarily agree to live their lives under the gaze of a network of biometric surveillance cameras, peering at them in government buildings, shopping malls, subways and stadiums, would have seemed unthinkable, a dystopian fantasy of a society that had surrendered privacy and anonymity.

Stop being the shy boy that wants to do everything right and responsibly. I’m sick of your honorable intentions Eli. In fifty years, when I’m old in my bed I want to wake up when the sun shines in my window and know that the person lying beside me was the right choice. I don’t want to look at someone else and always wish it was you.” ~ Maggie Parsons from Epitaphs from the Afterlife

Some students are in a hurry to begin "real" pranayama. They go right to the later stages without first laying a quality foundation, and their practice often suffers. First find out what is. This is also part of the answer to the question Who am I?

How could I have never told anyone what He had done for me? Nothing else had worked. Nothing had been able to break the chains that kept me living on the edge. Nothing....except the gentleness of His touch.

Do not give hope where there is none. Do not turn away hope where there is seldom some.

You have to be silent, but ready

Time is money, but money isn't time

I had been reduced to jelly by a brassiere.

Helen had given me permission to pursue what I wanted, and as a result, I knew myself better—what I liked, what I didn’t. Most important, I had discovered what I deserved.

Spinsterhood didn’t matter much to her; she was already married to science.

The Way is to straighten oneself and await the direction of destiny.

The power of His gentleness..In the Eye of Deception - This is my story.

Life's markers are never just for one moment in time. Every event holds a key. Each builds upon the other and becomes an indicator towards a higher purpose.

America in general is much more of a melting pot than anywhere in Europe, I think. Europe has a lot of different nationalities in each country, of course, but they never really seem to melt together. You can move to Germany, but you never really become a German. The same is very true of France, and I have been living there since the age of two. In America anyone can become a true American.

I was scared. Nothing feels solid anymore. Security had been yanked out from under me. I wanted to tell her how much I loved her. She just had to know how much. My grandfather had been old; he was supposed to die. Parents weren't. It was in my mother's arms when it hit me. Every day brought you that much closer to losing the ones you loved. Death would always find you, and there was nothing you could do about it.

... it's impossible to write the whole, true story of anything. We always leave things out. We quite often put things in. Sometimes, no matter how hard we try not to, we change things. We tell the story in our own way, which might not be the same way someone else would tell it.

Caring for others tends to be the first cut when we review our personal time budget. It does not necessarily fulfill the goals of my ambition; it will not pave the way for my success; it takes away from my own depleted emotional resources. It is an imposition in every way. To some of us, it is an inconvenience from which we unashamedly run. We have become experts in maintaining a grand scope of friendships and amateurs in genuine intimacy and care. Unwittingly, we have sacrificed everything on the altar of self-sufficiency—only to discover that we have sold our souls to isolation.

Woe to those who call evil good and good evil...who put darkness for light and light for darkness...who put bitter for sweet and sweet for bitter. Woe to those who are wise in their own eyes and clever in their own sight." Issiah 5:20,21

The Talmud tells a story about a great Rabbi who is dying, he has become a goses, but he cannot die because outside all his students are praying for him to live and this is distracting to his soul. His maidservant climbs to the roof of the hut where the Rabbi is dying and hurls a clay vessel to the ground. The sound diverts the students, who stop praying. In that moment, the Rabbi dies and his soul goes to heaven. The servant, too, the Talmud says, is guaranteed her place in the world to come.

XXIII. Warum sind denn die Rosen so blaß, O sprich, mein Lieb, warum? Warum sind denn im grünen Gras Die blauen Veilchen so stumm? Warum singt denn mit so kläglichem Laut Die Lerche in der Luft? Warum steigt denn aus dem Balsamkraut Hervor ein Leichenduft? Warum scheint denn die Sonn’ auf die Au’ So kalt und verdrießlich herab? Warum ist denn die Erde so grau Und öde wie ein Grab? Warum bin ich selbst so krank und so trüb’, Mein liebes Liebchen, sprich? O sprich, mein herzallerliebstes Lieb, Warum verließest du mich?

Love forever, love is free

My indiscretion was a part of my author mystique, just like Charles Dickens and Richard Madeley.

My first kiss as a single woman. It sent a tingle sprinting down my spine like a tingle panther.

You know you’re dealing with a numpty when her saving grace is that she didn’t help to cover up a murder.

When it comes to your self-esteem, it is best not to value the opinions of deluded psychopaths.

Sandra O'Toole walked back to the nurses' station, remembering what she alone had seen. Kelly's face turning so white that her first reaction to it was that he must be in shock, then the tumult behind her as she reached for her patient -- but then what? It wasn't like the first time at all. Kelly's face has transformed itself. Only an instant, like opening a door into some other place, and she'd seen something she had never imagined. Something very old and feral and ugly. The eyes not wide, but focused on something she could not see. The pallor of his face not that of shock, but of rage. His hands balled briefly into fists of quivering stone. And then his face had changed again. There had been comprehension to replace the blind, killing rage, and what she'd seen next was the most dangerous sight she had ever beheld, though she knew not why. Then the door closed, Kelly's eyes shut, and when he opened them, his face was unnaturally serene. The complete sequence had not taken four seconds, she realized, all of it while Rosen and Douglas had been scuffling against the wall. He'd passed from horror to rage to understanding -- then to concealment, but what had come in between comprehension and disguise was the most frightening thing of all. What had she seen in the face of this man? It took her a moment to answer the question. Death was what she'd seen. Controlled. Planned. Disciplined. But it was still Death, living in the mind of a man.

Money had replaced community mental healthcare the way medication had replaced state hospitals. Medication did not go looking for those who resisted taking it, and money could not administer itself. Neither came with counseling or support. The SSI checks Michael received, and the Medicaid requirements he was eligible for, did not create a caring community or even an indifferent one. Nevertheless, checks and pills were what remained of a grand promise, the ingredients of a mental healthcare system that had never been baked but were handed out like flour and yeast in separate packets to starving people.

Carefully she spread open the skirt of the dress and found the place where Ellen’s necklace lay hidden in the pocket. The little Star of David still gleamed gold. “Papa?” she said, returning to the balcony, where her father was standing with the others, watching the rejoicing crowd, She opened her hand and showed him the necklace. “Can you fix this? I have kept it all this long time. It was Ellen’s.” Her father took it from her and examined the broken clasp. “Yes,” he said. “I can fix it. When the Rosens come home, you can give it back to Ellen.” “Until then,” Annemarie told him, “I will wear it myself.

You’ve gone drinking?” Ashton asked. “She was quite the lushington the other night. But don’t worry, I took her home okay.” “You took me to the basement to go hunting for vicious killer automata.” “Well, yeah, but it was at home.

Kerr found that a spinning black hole would not collapse into a pointlike star, as Schwarzschild assumed, but would collapse into a spinning ring. Anyone unfortunate enough to hit the ring would perish; but someone falling into the ring would not die, but would actually fall through. But instead of winding up on the other side of the ring, he or she would pass through the Einstein-Rosen Bridge and wind up in another universe. In other words, the spinning black hole is the rim of Alice's Looking Glass. If he or she were to move around the spinning ring a second time, he or she would enter yet another universe. In fact, repeated entry into the spinning ring would put a person in different parallel universes, much like hitting the "up" button on an elevator. In principle, there could be an infinite number of universes, each stacked on top of each other. "Pass through this magic ring and-presto!-you're in a completely different universe where radius and mass are negative!" Kerr wrote. There is an important catch, however. Black holes are examples of "nontransversable wormholes"; that is, passing through the event horizon is a one-way trip. Once you pass through the event horizon and the Kerr ring, you cannot go backward through the ring and out through the event horizon.

Elizabeth ran her finger along the windowsill, gathering dust. The view was almost exactly the same as from her own bedroom, only a few degrees shifted. She could still see the Rosens' place, with its red door and folding shutters, and the Martinez house, with its porch swing and the dog bowl. She'd heard once that what made you a real New Yorker was when you could remember back three laters -- the place on the corner that had been a bakery and then a barbershop before it was a cell-phone store, or the restaurant that had been Italian, then Mexican, then Cuban. The city was a palimpsest, a Mod Podged pileup or old signage and other people's failures. Newcomers saw only what was in front of them, but people who had been there long enough were always looking at two or three other places simultaneously. The IRT, Canal Jeans, the Limelight. So much of the city she'd fallen in love with was gone, but then again, that's how it worked. It was your job to remember. At least the bridges were still there. Some things were too heavy to take down.

So maybe you're asexual. But that is not all bad! I know it feels bad. You're pretty much in you're own version of the closet trying to figure it out. I've been there. I thought my liking boys was a phase I would grow out of if I just ignored it. ...but I want to tell you, as someone who thought they were broken and everyone was staring at them and knew that you, that are not broken. Plus you might [be somewhere else on the sexuality spectrum]...or [you might] only be interested in sex with people once you know them, and have a bond with them [Demisexual]. Or maybe you're only turned on by a very particular kind of sex or fetish that you haven't discovered. But as long as everyone is consenting, there's nothing wrong with your desire, or you're not having desire! We're all wired differently.

In my tradition, God revealed Himself in words and lives in stories and, no, you cannot touch or even see Him. The Word, in Judaism, was never made flesh. The closest God came to embodiment was in the Temple in Jerusalem...But the Temple was destroyed. In Judaism, the flesh became words. Words were the traditional refuge of the Jewish people - Yochanan ben Zakkai led a yeshiva, my father became a professor. And little boys, in the Middle Ages, ate cakes with verses inscribed on them, an image I find deeply moving and, somehow, deeply depressing. This might help explain a certain melancholy quality books in general, for all their bright allure, have always had for me. As many times as I went down to my parents' library for comfort, I would find myself standing in front of the books and could almost feel them turning back into trees, failing me somehow.

No. If she cared about me, she would have loved me for whomever I was, not just who she wanted me to be. What she maybe thought I was. Relationships are always made up of these little perceptions of relationships, you know. What you think is friendship is something else so to someone else. You can never really know what's in someone else's mind, no matter how much you love them." I nod, then say, "Yeah," because I realize she can't see me. I think of the distance between us, and how maybe there's that distance between all of us, because she's right, I can't know what's in someone else's head. And just like that, I can feel the distance close—snap like a rubber band. We were never really far apart, maybe. It just looked that way.

An observant friend will recognize the signs of the rise of grief: eyes that easily well with tears, a smile that is difficult to sustain, a tendency to withdraw. And ultimately, perhaps we each need to create our own symbol of grieving — to wear our version of black, or maybe to color with black crayons for a while.

Freilich ist es seltsam, die Erde nicht mehr zu bewohnen, kaum erlernte Gebräuche nicht mehr zu üben, Rosen, und andern eigens versprechenden Dingen nicht die Bedeutung menschlicher Zukunft zu geben; das, was man war in unendlich ängstlichen Händen, nicht mehr zu sein, und selbst den eigenen Namen wegzulassen wie ein zerbrochenes Spielzeug. Seltsam, die Wünsche nicht weiterzuwünschen. Seltsam, alles, was sich bezog, so lose im Raume flattern zu sehen. Und das Totsein ist mühsam und voller Nachholn, daß man allmählich ein wenig Ewigkeit spürt.—Aber Lebendige machen alle den Fehler, daß sie zu stark unterscheiden. Engel (sagt man) wüßten oft nicht, ob sie unter Lebenden gehn oder Toten. Die ewige Strömung.

And then he hears, so close to his ear that it is as if the voice is originating inside his own head, Willem’s whispered incantation. “You’re Jude St. Francis. You are my oldest, dearest friend. You’re the son of Harold Stein and Julia Altman. You’re the friend of Malcolm Irvine, of Jean-Baptiste Marion, of Richard Goldfarb, of Andy Contractor, of Lucien Voigt, of Citizen van Straaten, of Rhodes Arrowsmith, of Elijah Kozma, of Phaedra de los Santos, of the Henry Youngs. “You’re a New Yorker. You live in SoHo. You volunteer for an arts organization; you volunteer for a food kitchen. “You’re a swimmer. You’re a baker. You’re a cook. You’re a reader. You have a beautiful voice, though you never sing anymore. You’re an excellent pianist. You’re an art collector. You write me lovely messages when I’m away. You’re patient. You’re generous. You’re the best listener I know. You’re the smartest person I know, in every way. You’re the bravest person I know, in every way. “You’re a lawyer. You’re the chair of the litigation department at Rosen Pritchard and Klein. You love your job; you work hard at it. “You’re a mathematician. You’re a logician. You’ve tried to teach me, again and again. “You were treated horribly. You came out on

Sometimes he wakes so far from himself that he can't even remember who he is. 'Where am I?' he asks, desperate, and then, 'Who am I? Who am I?' And then he hears, so close to his ear that it is as if the voice is originating inside his own head, Willem's whispered incantation. 'You're Jude St. Francis. You are my oldest, dearest friend. You're the son of Harold Stein and Julia Altman. You're the friend of Malcolm Irvine, Jean-Baptiste Marion, of Richard Goldfarb, of Andy Contractor, of Lucien Voigt, of Citizen van Straaten, of Rhodes Arrowsmith, of Elijah Kozma, of Phaedra de los Santos, of the Henry Youngs. You're a New Yorker. You live in SoHo. You volunteer for an arts organization; you volunteer for a food kitchen. You're a swimmer. You're a baker. You're a cook. You're a reader. You have a beautiful voice, though you never sing anymore. You're an excellent pianist. You're an art collector. You write me lovely messages when I'm away. You're patient. You're generous. You're the best listener I know. You're the smartest person I know, in every way. You're the bravest person I know, in every way. You're a lawyer. You're the chair of the litigation department at Rosen Pritchard and Klein. You love your job, you work hard at it. You're a mathematician. You're a logician. You've tried to teach me, again and again. You were treated horribly. You came out on the other end. You were always you. On and on Willem talks, chanting him back to himself, and in the daytime - sometimes days later - he remembers pieces of what Willem has said and holds them close to him, as much as for what he said as for what he didn't, for how he hadn't defined him. But in the nighttime he is too terrified, he is too lost to recognize this. His panic is too real, too consuming. 'And who are you?' he asks, looking at the man who is holding him, who is describing someone he doesn't recognize, someone who seems to have so much, someone who seems like such an enviable, beloved person. 'Who are you?' The man has an answer to this question as well. 'I'm Willem Ragnarsson,' he says. 'And I will never let you go.

And then he hears, so close to his ear that it is as if the voice is originating inside his own head, Willem’s whispered incantation. “You’re Jude St. Francis. You are my oldest, dearest friend. You’re the son of Harold Stein and Julia Altman. You’re the friend of Malcolm Irvine, of Jean-Baptiste Marion, of Richard Goldfarb, of Andy Contractor, of Lucien Voigt, of Citizen van Straaten, of Rhodes Arrowsmith, of Elijah Kozma, of Phaedra de los Santos, of the Henry Youngs. “You’re a New Yorker. You live in SoHo. You volunteer for an arts organization; you volunteer for a food kitchen. “You’re a swimmer. You’re a baker. You’re a cook. You’re a reader. You have a beautiful voice, though you never sing anymore. You’re an excellent pianist. You’re an art collector. You write me lovely messages when I’m away. You’re patient. You’re generous. You’re the best listener I know. You’re the smartest person I know, in every way. You’re the bravest person I know, in every way. “You’re a lawyer. You’re the chair of the litigation department at Rosen Pritchard and Klein. You love your job; you work hard at it. “You’re a mathematician. You’re a logician. You’ve tried to teach me, again and again. “You were treated horribly. You came out on the other end. You were always you.

I realized then that there are moments when life seems to be happening to you. These are those moments that you later reflect on, wondering how you survived them. Getting the injections in my eye was like that. So were the laser treatments. It was even a little like that when I lost my virginity. These are moments that change and shape you, and they’re so imposing that you can’t stay present for them. So you slip away, someplace safe inside yourself, and wait for the storm to pass.

Sometimes he wakes so far from himself that he can't even remember who he is. 'Where am I?' he asks, desperate, and then, 'Who am I? Who am I?' "And then he hears, so close to his ear that it is as if the voice is originating inside his own head, Willem's whispered incantation. 'You're Jude St. Francis. You are my oldest, dearest friend. You're the son of Harold Stein and Julia Altman. You're the friend of Malcolm Irvine, Jean-Baptiste Marion, of Richard Goldfarb, of Andy Contractor, of Lucien Voigt, of Citizen van Straaten, of Rhodes Arrowsmith, of Elijah Kozma, of Phaedra de los Santos, of the Henry Youngs. "You're a New Yorker. You live in SoHo. You volunteer for an arts organization; you volunteer for a food kitchen. "You're a swimmer. You're a baker. You're a cook. You're a reader. You have a beautiful voice, though you never sing anymore. You're an excellent pianist. You're an art collector. You write me lovely messages when I'm away. You're patient. You're generous. You're the best listener I know. You're the smartest person I know, in every way. You're the bravest person I know, in every way. "You're a lawyer. You're the chair of the litigation department at Rosen Pritchard and Klein. You love your job, you work hard at it. "You're a mathematician. You're a logician. You've tried to teach me, again and again. "You were treated horribly. You came out on the other end. You were always you. "On and on Willem talks, chanting him back to himself, and in the daytime - sometimes days later - he remembers pieces of what Willem has said and holds them close to him, as much as for what he said as for what he didn't, for how he hadn't defined him. "But in the nighttime he is too terrified, he is too lost to recognize this. His panic is too real, too consuming. 'And who are you?' he asks, looking at the man who is holding him, who is describing someone he doesn't recognize, someone who seems to have so much, someone who seems like such an enviable, beloved person. 'Who are you?' "The man has an answer to this question as well. 'I'm Willem Ragnarsson,' he says. 'And I will never let you go.