Sven Quotes

Three more days. That’s what Sven always told me. When you think you’re at the end of your rope, give it three more days. And then another three. Sometimes you’ll find the rope is longer than you thought.

I often find that a novel, even a well-written and compelling novel, can become a blur to me soon after I've finished reading it. I recollect perfectly the feeling of reading it, the mood I occupied, but I am less sure about the narrative details. It is almost as if the book were, as Wittgenstein said of his propositions, a ladder to be climbed and then discarded after it has served its purpose.

Sex parties, alcohol and drugs lost their appeal to Sven after a while. Music never did, in his continual search for that sober connection--intimacy with one person over a long period of time, as opposed to periods of intimacy with a bunch of random faces.

You already know enough. So do I. It is not knowledge we lack. What is missing is the courage to understand what we know and to draw conclusions.

You know Sven? The man who takes care of the gym?' he asked. He waited till he got a nod from Nicholson. 'Well, if Sven dreamed tonight that his dog died, he'd have a very, very bad night's sleep, because he's very fond of that dog. But when he woke up in the morning, everything would be all right. He'd know it was only a dream.' Nicholson nodded. 'What's the point exactly?' The point is if his dog really died, it would be exactly the same thing. Only he wouldn't know it. I mean he wouldn't wake up till he died himself.

Reading, because we control it, is adaptable to our needs and rhythms. We are free to indulge our subjective associative impulse; the term I coin for this is deep reading: the slow and meditative possession of a book. We don't just read the words, we dream our lives in their vicinity. The printed page becomes a kind of wrought-iron fence we crawl through, returning, once we have wandered, to the very place we started.

He knows how to market himself well. Nowadays, that's all that seems to count. He's rebellious in a way that appeals to people with vain, shallow taste. So of course he manipulates his audiences with the blessing of his recording company and the financial investors behind his brand.

[A]m Ende ist man immer selber schuld, wenn man Schnaps trinkt.

I was under the impression that one became a policeman because one believes in rules and regulations." "I think Sven became a policeman because he believes in justice.

Now I understood why Sven preferred soldiering to love. It was easier to understand and far less likely to get you killed. I

Colonel Sven Haverstrom of the Dalbreck Royal Guard, Assigned Steward of Crown Prince Jaxon. The others laughed at that title. They were free with their jest and jabs, even with an officer who outranked them, but Sven gave it back as good as he got it. Officer Jeb McCance, Falworth Special Forces. Officer Tavish Baird, Tactician, Fourth Battalion. Officer Orrin del Aransas, Falworth First Archer Assault Unit.

Matthias appeared in front of them. “We should go soon. We have little more than an hour before sunrise.” “What exactly are you wearing?” Nina asked, staring at the tufted cap and woolly red vest Matthias had put on over his clothes. “Kaz procured papers for us in case we’re stopped in the Ravkan quarter. We’re Sven and Catrine Alfsson. Fjerdan defectors seeking asylum at the Ravkan embassy.” It made sense. If they were stopped, there was no way Matthias could pass himself off as Ravkan, but Nina could easily manage Fjerdan. “Are we married, Matthias?” she said, batting her lashes. He consulted the papers and frowned. “I believe we’re brother and sister.” Jesper ambled over, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Not creepy at all.

I was swept away by the irresistible desiderium incognitti which breaks down all obstacles and refuses to recognise the impossible

What reading does, ultimately, is keep alive the dangerous and exhilarating idea that a life is not a sequence of lived moments, but a destiny...the time of reading, the time defined by the author's language resonating in the self, is not the world's time, but the soul's. The energies that otherwise tend to stream outward through a thousand channels of distraction are marshaled by the cadences of the prose; they are brought into focus by the fact that it is an ulterior, and entirely new, world that the reader has entered. The free-floating self--the self we diffusely commune with while driving or walking or puttering in the kitchen--is enlisted in the work of bringing the narrative to life. In the process, we are able to shake off the habitual burden of insufficient meaning and flex our deeper natures.

The books that matter to me...are those that galvanize something inside me. I read books to read myself.

Look at this. A barstool, named Sven? Some old Swedish custom, the winter kicks in, weather gets harsh, after a while you find yourself relating to the furniture in ways you didn't expect?

In my dream I see the sea, the utterly calm sea. I see the coast, the utterly calm coast. When this utterly calm sea meets the utterly still coast, huge breakers are suddenly thrown up. Two sorts of stillness touch one and other and explode in roars and foam.

Everything in contemporary society discourages interiority. More and more of our exchanges take place via circuits, and in their very nature those interactions are such as to keep us hovering in the virtual now, a place away from ourselves.

Eve: I don't understand this word..."Freedom." Does it mean...I do what I want? Sven: Yes. Eve: Then I wouldn't have to kill anymore? Sven: No more killing.

People decide how to live their own lives! A scum bastard doesn't have the right to chain anyone down!" -Sven to Torneo

Unaware of these distressing feelings, Sven explained what she felt was called love. Antonia enjoyed that feeling because it took her attention and entirely filled her mind.

Joshua se quedó asombrado. Pero no tan asombrado como yo por lo que acababa de decir. No hacía ni veinte horas que había plantado a Sven en el altar, ¿y ya quería salir con un tío sólo para verle reír?

He took a deep breath of air. Once again he caught a strangeness on the wind, neither pleasant nor unpleasant, neither odor nor perfume—just strange, and curiously exciting. “Superintendent, what’s that smell? Casey noticed it too, the moment Sven opened the door.” Armstrong hesitated. Then he smiled. “That’s Hong Kong’s very own, Mr. Bartlett. It’s money.

The greatest barrier to success is the fear of failure.

if you never allow for the possibility that someone might care for you on your own merit, their way of demonstrating it will always feel unusual or inadequate

Poor conversation, or even its lack, murders the finer machinations of the mind,

Moment mal", sagte Herr Lehmann. "Was soll das heißen, Lebensinhalt? Lebensinhalt ist doch ein total schwachsinniger Begriff. Was willst du damit sagen, Lebensinhalt? Was ist der Inhalt eines Lebens? Ist das Leben ein Glas oder eine Flasche oder ein Eimer, irgendein Behälter, in den man was hineinfüllt, etwas hineinfüllen muss sogar, denn irgendwie scheint sich ja die ganze Welt einig zu sein, dass man so etwas wie einen Lebensinhalt unbedingt braucht. Ist das Leben so? Nur ein Behältnis für was anderes? Ein Fass vielleicht? Oder eine Kotztüte?

Colonel Bodeen’s mouth quirked awkwardly to the side. “And she is … your prisoner?” Considering the circumstances, the current animosity between our kingdoms, and my wretched appearance, it wasn’t an unlikely conclusion. Orrin snorted. Sven coughed. “No, Colonel,” Rafe answered. “Princess Arabella is your future queen.

If anything has changed about my reading over the years, it is that I value the state a book puts me in more that I value the specific contents.

To read, when one does so of one's own free will, is to make a volitional statement, to cast a vote; it is to posit an elsewhere and to set off toward it.

The empire of cotton has continued to facilitate a giant race to the bottom, limited only by the spatial constraints of the planet.

You and Sven and Sven. You're my family. I like you and you like me and we all helped each other back there. So isn't that family?

This is Africa, my friends … These folks do things differently.” Sven Taxel, who regards himself as an expert on South Africa because he has read Wilbur Smith, Rian Malan and André Brink, tries to calm his fellow congregation members.

I read novels to indulge in a concentrated and directed inner activity that parallels -- and thereby tunes up, accentuates -- my own inner life.

Always discriminating in her affections, she clearly liked something about the Finnishman’s smell: fastidiously devoid of human odor, but a little metallic, like wind blown across corrugated tin.

It is in adolescence that most of us grasp that life--our own life--is a problem to be solved, that a set of personal unknowns must now be factored together with the frightening variables of experience. The future suddenly appears--it is the space upon which the answers will be inscribed.

s Middags ging ik met Sven lunchen in de stad. We liepen langs een groep jongens met petjes en scooters. 'Homo's!' riep een van de jongens. De andere lachten en een plastic flesje stuiterde over de straatstenen onze kant op. 'Hoorde je dat?' vroeg ik verrukt aan Sven. 'Ze bedoelen mij ook!

The political entanglement which encompassed me on all sides in Tibet rendered it difficult for me to make geographical discoveries, but it stimulated my ambition. Therefore I remember with particular warmth and sympathy all those who, in virtue of their temporary power in the world, sought to raise obstacles in my way.

Wait,” I said, and they paused mid-stride. “Thank you. Rafe told me you were the best of Dalbreck’s soldiers. Now I know that he didn’t overestimate your abilities.” I turned to Sven. “And I’m sorry I threatened to feed your face to the hogs.” Sven smiled. “All in a day’s work, Your Highness,” he said, and then he bowed. *

When we consider the major themes of Venezuelan socialism, we can see right away that every one of them parallels the themes of the American left. American leftists are wannabe Maduros pretending to take their cues from Sven. If we continue to move in the direction that the left is taking us, we are going to end up not where the Scandinavians are but where the Venezuelans are. Pack your bags, and make sure you label them correctly. It’s not “Stockholm, here we come” but “Caracas, here we come.” It won’t be pretty.

Fate is empty. Any Arctic explorer or common sailor can tell you this. So you must make the best choices you can, knowing they may lead you astray, but proceeding boldly lest your life become one long monotonous drift between death and your last interesting choice.

But in my experience it’s rarely the parting that is memorable, unless it’s a death. They are always hurried, awkward affairs. Never enough time to say what you wish you had said. You must trust that your feelings are known, and that you will be remembered as you were.

What reading does...is keep alive the dangerous and exhilarating idea that life is not sequenced of lived moments, but a destiny.

Ironically, their shocking success also awakened the very forces that eventually would marginalize them within the empire they had created.

The skill of moving silently through the landscape is like music,” he told her. “Almost you make me feel less a teacher and more a musician.

There are 86,400 seconds in a day. And in any ONE of them you can decide to CHANGE your life. Tick tock tick tock.

Just to see my books, to note their presence, their proximity to other books, fills me with a sense of futurity.

our journey through the empire of cotton has shown that civilization and barbarity are linked at the hip,

Is it so good to be sad...? If it is... then I don't care to be good.

Material is more important than method.

Principles are more important than methods.

It was on the back of cotton, and thus on the backs of slaves, that the U.S. economy ascended in the world (p.119).

It is quite something to feel sure that you’re alone in the world, and then to recall that you are not.

allow me to say that if you never allow for the possibility that someone might care for you on your own merit, their way of demonstrating it will always feel unusual or inadequate.

The human soul may begin pure white, immaculately laundered, but who among us can stop the dirt of life from soiling something so clean?

Sven!! Having you near her is natural to Eve... Hell, it's essential! When someone so important just disappears... you don't just feel hurt... you feel like dying.

Yeah.” Sven said. “The stuff she just said. Let’s not get all killy.

Exterminate all the Brutes, Sven Lindqvist

We startled awake, alarmed by her shouting, jumping to our feet, drawing swords, looking for imminent danger. Jeb was saying it was a false alarm, that there was nothing wrong, but Lia had somehow gotten to her feet on her own, her eyes wild, telling us we had to leave. A relieved breath hissed between my teeth and I lowered my sword. She’d only had a nightmare. I stepped toward her. “Lia, it was just a bad dream. Let me help you lie back down.” She hobbled backward, determined, sweat glistening on her face, and her arm stretched out to keep me at a distance. “No! Get ready. We leave this morning.” “Look at you,” I said. "You’re tottering like a drunk. You can’t ride.” “I can and I will." “What’s your hurry, Your Highness?” Sven asked. She looked from me to my men. Their feet were firmly planted. They weren’t going anywhere based on her wild-eyed demands. Had she spiked another fever? Her expression sobered. “Please, Rafe, you have to trust me on this.” “What did you see?” I asked. “It’s not what I saw but what I heard— Aster’s voice telling me not to tarry.” “Didn’t she say that to you a dozen times?” “At least,” she answered, but her stance remained determined. All this rush over don’t tarry? Ever since I had gathered her into my arms on that riverbank, I had been looking over my shoulder for danger. I knew it was there. But I had to weigh that uncertainty against the benefits of healing too. I looked away, trying to think. I wasn’t sure if I was making the right decision or not, but I turned back to my men. “Pack up.

So you must make the best choices you can, knowing they may lead you astray, but proceeding boldly lest your life become one long monotonous drift between death and your last interesting choice.

If you put nothing down,” she replied, “the people you love will only remember the skeleton of your experience. Your mind dies with you. If you must write for someone, write for Skuld. Write for me.

Can we feel contrition for other people's crimes? Can we feel contrition for crimes we have not committed personally, but have subsequently profited from? How can we formulate the criteria for contrition to make them applicable to collective responsibility for historical crimes? Perhaps like this: We freely admit that our predecessors have done wrong and that we are profiting from it. We ask forgiveness of those who were wronged and of their descendants. We promise to do our best to make amends to those who were wronged for the effects that still remain. The larger the collective, the more diluted the personal responsibility. The less intimate the contrition, the greater the risk that it will just be hollow ceremony.

I did as I was told, smoothing my hand across the lush fabric of the Moonflower. I’d named the dress design after the white flower, which looked like a long dress midtwirl when it opened. But there was a catch that made me insist on the name—the moonflower only opened at night. It blossomed in the dark. Sven had said to call it something that reminded me of myself. Nothing reminded me of myself more than blossoming in the arms of darkness.

The Norweigian philosopher Tonnesen said that to think about anything but death is evasion. Society, art, culture, the whole of civilisation is nothing but evasion, one great collective self delusion, the intention of which is to make us forget that all the time we are falling through the air, at every moment getting closer to death.

it was not so much the new machines that revolutionized the world, impressive and important as they were. The truly heroic invention was the economic, social, and political institutions in which these machines were embedded.

Many historians have called this the age of 'merchant' or 'mercantile' capitalism, but 'war capitalism' better expresses its rawness and violence as well as its intimate connection to European imperial expansion. War capitalism, a particularly important but often unrecognized phase in the development of capitalism, unfolded in constantly shifting sets of places embedded within constantly changing relationships. In some parts of the world it lasted into the nineteenth century.

That was the day I knew. It was as if Rolls met Royce, Black met Decker, Oliver met Stan, TinTin met Snowy, Marks met Spencer... he was to me what Patracolus was to Achilles, Hylas to Hercules, Enkidoe to Gilgamesh, Jonathan to David, Bosie to Oscar Wilde, Rimbaud to Verlaine. He was my Billy Budd, all the holy multitude of Thebes, Jasjoe mixed with Tadzio...

A life is substantially more curious, and mundane, than the reports would have it. And in truth, though I am known—within the tiny dewdrop circles of the unlikely few who know of me—as a solitary, unmatched Arctic hunter, I am no such thing, and I was seldom alone.

We associate industrial capitalism with contracts and markets, but early capitalism was based as often as not on violence and bodily coercion. Modern capitalism privileges property rights, but this earlier moment was characterized just as much by massive expropriations as by secure ownership. Latter-day capitalism rests upon the rule of law and powerful institutions backed by the state, but capitalism's early phase, although ultimately requiring state power to create world-spanning empires, was frequently based on the unrestrained actions of private individuals--the domination of masters over slaves and of frontier capitalists over indigenous inhabitants.

BERLIN, October 29 I’ve been looking into what Germans are reading these dark days. Among novels the three best-sellers are: (1) Gone with the Wind, translated as Vom Winde Verweht—literally “From the Wind Blown About”; (2) Cronin’s Citadel; (3) Beyond Sing the Woods, by Trygve Gulbranssen, a young Norwegian author. Note that all three novels are by foreign authors, one by an Englishman. Most sought-after non-fiction books are: (1) The Coloured Front, an anonymous study of the white-versus-Negro problem; (2) Look Up the Subject of England, a propaganda book about England; (3) Der totale Krieg, Ludendorff’s famous book about the Total War—very timely now; (4) Fifty Years of Germany, by Sven Hedin, the Swedish explorer and friend of Hitler; (5) So This is Poland, by von Oertzen, data on Poland, first published in 1928. Three

I think it's in Malone Dies that Beckett's creature is in a kind of prison or hospital. As I recall, he is visited twice a day, slop brought in and slop taken out. He has a stub of a pencil, a bit of paper. And he asks questions, ten, sven, I don't remember, "Why am I here?" "What day is it?" The last one, no. 10 maybe, says "Number your answers." This is not just desperation and clinging to something called 'reason'--by his fingertips--that is humanity, shit-smeared, hopeless, and mad humanity--in the face of all denial. Our work is about that. My work.

Nous nous trouvons dans l'amour parce que c'est l'essence de notre être et de notre mission de vie. Qu'est-ce que c'est l'amour après tout? C'est nous tous. Quand l'amour est là, nous sommes là. Nous sommes tous des êtres d'amour. Alors retrouvons-nous. Retrouvons-nous dans l'amour.

I often heard this melodious hymn again in days of hardship, and it always affected me painfully. Not as the reproachful warning clang of church bells ringing for service, when I pass a church door without going in, but because the men sang the hymn only when they were out of spirits and considered our position desperate. It seemed as though they would remind me that defeat awaited me, and that this time I had aimed too high.

away from fast food - for three weeks already. And I was starting to miss the occasional burger and fries. I assumed there'd be a few of the other lads feeling the same way. I talked to Sven, who thought it wouldn't do any harm, and then had a word with the England chefs. On the Wednesday night we all trooped down to dinner. The doors of the dining room were shut and there were two giant golden arches stuck up on them. We all went inside and there was a McDonald's takeaway mountain waiting for us: more burgers, cheeseburgers and chips than you've ever seen piled up in one room in your life. It was a complete surprise to all the players. We just devoured everything: it was like watching kids going mad in a candy store. And it worked. We did it again before we played Denmark. Maybe fast food was what was missing from our preparations for facing Brazil.

Eberhard died. I do not wish to articulate the details, for a form of spiritual or emotional rift in time and space was created on that day, and no matter how many years pass, I can always stretch back and know that pain as though the hole in me were being torn anew, or the sorrow may reach through with its icy finger and fell me when I’m least prepared. It is a part of me. A shadow that accompanies my shadow. There is no healing.

We never know, do we, if the future is just more of the present pushed forward, or whether the look and feel, not to mention the fundamental essence of life might not be changing

Laten we elkander terug vinden in de liefde als we dreigen te verdwalen in het bos der bijkomstigheden.

Gewoon zijn zoals je bent is gewoon goed genoeg.

Geluk is het besef dat liefde de ultieme werkelijkheid is.

Ik ben in vrede met wie ik ben. Ik heb geen controle over anderen. Maar wel over wat ik voel. Ik voel alleen liefde. Liefde is wie ik ben.

Jazz ist für diejenigen, die dabei sein wollen, wenn ein Wunder passiert.

Hmm,” I said. “No doubt he has a bright future sweating and straining in some hellish factory, hemorrhaging his meager wages so that he may survive until his early death.

we prefer to erase the realities of slavery, expropriation, and colonialism from the history of capitalism, craving a nobler, cleaner capitalism.

The modern world, indeed, has been shaped just as much by war capitalism’s death as by its birth.

There's nothing good... behind those tears.

Efficiency is nothing without effectivity.

Sometimes I think that the long-term work of reading is to discover one by one, the books that hold the scattered elements of our nature, after which the true consummation can begin. We undertake the gradual focused exploration, nuance by nuance, of their meanings, their implications; we follow out the strands that mysteriously connect the words of another with the unformulated stuff of the self.

From the time I'd been a precocious, skeptical child, the idea of simply winking out like a light, or a star, was more than enough to nearly paralyze me with existential misery. I knew I would cease to be, and yet I could not comfortably imagine a world without me in it. It's a form of narcissism, sure, but how do we live from one day to the next without convincing ourselves of our own fallacious importance?

Slavery, the expropriation of indigenous peoples, imperial expansion, armed trade, and the assertion of sovereignty over people and land by entrepreneurs were at its core. I call this system war capitalism.

Through the clouds of smoke I seemed to see all old Asia before me, and the adventures of past years behind me. A carnival of old camp-scenes danced before my mind’s eye, expiring like shooting-stars in the night—merry songs which came to an end among other mountains and the dying sound of strings and flutes. And I was surprised that I had not had enough of these things and that I was not tired of the light of camp-fires.

I am in good company, simply following those in front of me and knowing others are following behind. We are on our way up a narrow staircase. The bannister is a thick rope suggesting safety. The stairs go around and around inside a church tower; or perhaps it is a minaret? The whorls of the staircase grow narrower and narrower, but as there are so many people behind there is no longer any possibility of turning around or even stopping. The pressure from behind foeces me on. The staircase suddenly stops at a garbage chute in the wall. When i open the hatch and squeeze my way through the hole, i find myself on the outside of the tower. The rope has dissappeared. It is totally dark. I cling on to the slippery, icy wall of the tower while vainly trying to find a foothold in the emptiness.

...a novel for me is a pretext, a way of starting up and sustaining a complicated and many layered inner exchange, a to-and-fro which I long ago discovered that I need in order to locate myself in the world. Reading...keeps the inner realm open, susceptible. Involvement in a book sets things going at a depth. If I cannot sink into some virtual 'other' place or triangulate my experience with that of another, I feel that my life is lacking the shadows and overtones and illusion of added dimension that imagination provides. It feels flat to me.

My core fear is that we are, as a culture, as a species, becoming shallower; that we have turned from depth--from the Judeo-Christian premise of unfathomable mystery--and are adapting ourselves to the ersatz security of a vast lateral consciousness. That we are giving up on wisdom, the struggle for which has for millennia been central to the very idea of culture, and that we are pledging instead to a faith in the web. What is our idea, our ideal, of wisdom these days? Who represents it? Who even invokes it? Our postmodern culture is a vast fabric of completing isms; we are leaderless and subject to the terrors, masked as the freedoms, of an absolute relativism. It would be wrong to lay all the blame at the feet of technology, but more wrong to ignore the great transformative impact of new technological systems--to act as if it's all just business as usual.

India and China, or, for that matter, the Aztec and Inca empires, had not even come close to such global dominance, and even less so to reinventing how people produced things in the far-flung corners of the globe. And yet starting in the sixteenth century, armed European capitalists and capital-rich European states reorganized the world’s cotton industry.

She sat and watched the dockhand when it was sunny and she sat and watched him when it rained. Or when it was foggy, which is what it was nearly every morning at eight o’clock. This morning was none of the above. This morning was cold. The pier smelled of fresh water and of fish. The seagulls screeched overhead, a man’s voice shouted. Where is my brother to help me, my sister, my mother? Pasha, help me, hide in the woods where I know I can find you. Dasha, look what’s happened. Do you even see? Mama, Mama. I want my mother. Where is my family to ask things of me, to weigh on me, to intrude on me, to never let me be silent or alone, where are they to help me through this? Deda, what do I do? I don’t know what to do. This morning the dockhand did not go over to see his friend at the next pier for a smoke and a coffee. Instead, he walked across the road and sat next to her on the bench. This surprised her. But she said nothing, she just wrapped her white nurse’s coat tighter around herself, and fixed the kerchief covering her hair. In Swedish he said to her, “My name is Sven. What’s your name?” After a longish pause, she replied. “Tatiana. I don’t speak Swedish.” In English he said to her, “Do you want a cigarette?” “No,” she replied, also in English. She thought of telling him she spoke little English. She was sure he didn’t speak Russian. He asked her if he could get her a coffee, or something warm to throw over her shoulders. No and no. She did not look at him. Sven was silent a moment. “You want to get on my barge, don’t you?” he asked. “Come. I will take you.” He took her by her arm. Tatiana didn’t move. “I can see you have left something behind,” he said, pulling on her gently. “Go and retrieve it.” Tatiana did not move. “Take my cigarette, take my coffee, or get on my barge. I won’t even turn away. You don’t have to sneak past me. I would have let you on the first time you came. All you had to do was ask. You want to go to Helsinki? Fine. I know you’re not Finnish.” Sven paused. “But you are very pregnant. Two months ago it would have been easier for you. But you need to go back or go forward. How long do you plan to sit here and watch my back?” Tatiana stared into the Baltic Sea. “If I knew, would I be sitting here?” “Don’t sit here anymore. Come,” said the longshoreman. She shook her head. “Where is your husband? Where is the father of your baby?” “Dead in the Soviet Union,” Tatiana breathed out. “Ah, you’re from the Soviet Union.” He nodded. “You’ve escaped somehow? Well, you’re here, so stay. Stay in Sweden. Go to the consulate, get yourself refugee protection. We have hundreds of people getting through from Denmark. Go to the consulate.” Tatiana shook her head. “You’re going to have that baby soon,” Sven said. “Go back, or move forward.” Tatiana’s hands went around her belly. Her eyes glazed over. The dockhand patted her gently and stood up. “What will it be? You want to go back to the Soviet Union? Why?” Tatiana did not reply. How to tell him her soul had been left there? “If you go back, what happens to you?” “I die most likely,” she barely whispered. “If you go forward, what happens to you?” “I live most likely.” He clapped his hands. “What kind of a choice is that? You must go forward.” “Yes,” said Tatiana, “but how do I live like this? Look at me. You think, if I could, I wouldn’t?” “So you’re here in the Stockholm purgatory, watching me move my paper day in and day out, watching me smoke, watching me. What are you going to do? Sit with your baby on the bench? Is that what you want?” Tatiana was silent. The first time she laid eyes on him she was sitting on a bench, eating ice cream. “Go forward.” “I don’t have it in me.” He nodded. “You have it. It’s just covered up. For you it’s winter.” He smiled. “Don’t worry. Summer’s here. The ice will melt.” Tatiana struggled up from the bench. Walking away, she said in Russian, “It’s not the ice anymore, my seagoing philosopher. It’s the pyre.

It was fantastic to dive from the side of the boat into the dark waters, for as you hit them they burst into a firework display of greeny-gold phosphorescence so that you felt as though you were diving into a fire. Swimming under water, people left trails of phosphorescence behind them like a million tiny stars and when finally Leonora, who was the last one to come aboard, hauled herself up, her whole body for a brief moment looked as though it was encased in gold. “My God, she's lovely,” said Larry admiringly, “but I'm sure she's a lesbian. She resists all my advances.” “She's certainly very lovely,” said Sven, “so beautiful, in fact, that it almost makes me wish I weren't a homosexual. However, there are advantages to being homosexual.” “I think to be bisexual is best,” said Larry, “then you've got the best of both worlds, as it were.

But since we’re on the topic of identity and narrative voice - here’s an interesting conundrum. You may know that The Correspondence Artist won a Lambda Award. I love the Lambda Literary Foundation, and I was thrilled to win a Lammy. My book won in the category of “Bisexual Fiction.” The Awards (or nearly all of them) are categorized according to the sexual identity of the dominant character in a work of fiction, not the author. I’m not sure if “dominant” is the word they use, but you get the idea. The foregrounded character. In The Correspondence Artist, the narrator is a woman, but you’re never sure about the gender of her lover. You’re also never sure about the lover’s age or ethnicity - these things change too, and pretty dramatically. Also, sometimes when the narrator corresponds with her lover by email, she (the narrator) makes reference to her “hard on.” That is, part of her erotic play with her lover has to do with destabilizing the ways she refers to her own sex (by which I mean both gender and naughty bits). So really, the narrator and her lover are only verifiably “bisexual” in the Freudian sense of the term - that is, it’s unclear if they have sex with people of the same sex, but they each have a complex gender identity that shifts over time. Looking at the various possible categorizations for that book, I think “Bisexual Fiction” was the most appropriate, but better, of course, would have been “Queer Fiction.” Maybe even trans, though surely that would have raised some hackles. So, I just submitted I’m Trying to Reach You for this year’s Lambda Awards and I had to choose a category. Well. As I said, the narrator identifies as a gay man. I guess you’d say the primary erotic relationship is with his boyfriend, Sven. But he has an obsession with a weird middle-aged white lady dancer on YouTube who happens to be me, and ultimately you come to understand that she is involved in an erotic relationship with a lesbian electric guitarist. And this romance isn’t just a titillating spectacle for a voyeuristic narrator: it turns out to be the founding myth of our national poetics! They are Emily Dickinson and Walt Whitman! Sorry for all the spoilers. I never mind spoilers because I never read for plot. Maybe the editor (hello Emily) will want to head plot-sensitive readers off at the pass if you publish this paragraph. Anyway, the question then is: does authorial self-referentiality matter? Does the national mythos matter? Is this a work of Bisexual or Lesbian Fiction? Is Walt trans? I ended up submitting the book as Gay (Male) Fiction. The administrator of the prizes also thought this was appropriate, since Gray is the narrator. And Gray is not me, but also not not me, just as Emily Dickinson is not me but also not not me, and Walt Whitman is not my lover but also not not my lover. Again, it’s a really queer book, but the point is kind of to trip you up about what you thought you knew about gender anyway.

I recently lost my partner." "Your business partner?" "No. My dog. But not just a dog." "Of course," he said instantly "Some dogs are not just dogs." To my astonishment he clapped his hand over mine and held it there. His face was red and contorted and tears spilled into his beard. I admire those who wear their emotions openly, for I have always concealed mine, and the years of scar tissue and isolation have only served to bury them deeper. "You know this pain," I said. " Oh yes. My beloved Czolgosz. Faithful through all weathers. Except very bad weather. Or any kind of precipitation at all. A light mist and he would become traitorous and seek shelter with whomever. Bu my shadow. A better, kinder shadow.

When “free trade” was imposed upon the Ottoman Empire in 1838 and British cloth “flooded the market in Izmir,” local cotton workers lost their ability to maintain their old production regime. In coastal southeastern Africa, cotton yarn and cloth imports also began to devastate the local cotton textile industry. In Mexico, European cotton imports had a serious impact on local manufacturing—before tariffs enabled Mexican industrialization, Guadalajara’s industry had been, as one historian found, “virtually eliminated.” In Oaxaca, 450 out of 500 looms ceased operating. In China, the 1842 Treaty of Nanking forced the opening of markets, and the subsequent influx of European and North American yarn and cloth had a “devastating” effect, especially on China’s hand spinners.22

The arrival of cotton growers in most cases displaced the indigenous inhabitants. In the antebellum decades, native peoples who had inhabited the cotton-growing territories of Georgia, Alabama, and Mississippi had been pushed farther west. Now pressure resumed. In October 1865, the Kiowa and Comanche were forced to give up land in central Texas, west Kansas, and eastern New Mexico—land that was turned, among other things, into cotton plantations. Shortly thereafter, many of the Texas plains Indians were pushed into reservations in Oklahoma, and so were the last southwestern Indians during the Red River War of 1874 and 1875, thereby freeing up further land for cotton growing.28 Yet Oklahoma ultimately provided little protection for these Native Americans. By the 1880s, the old Oklahoma and Indian territories came under pressure from white settlers who hoped to displace the native population from the most fertile lands.