#So when they stop believing in God they call themselves “Modernists”.

[kindredspiritsandgoodomens]

doctor who celebrates british christmas which, much like the church of england, is vaguely embarrassed to be associated with religion

honestly i am glad of the restraint doctor who has showed by not having a christmas episode where the doctor goes back to the real actual nativity or something

[dzeikobb]

20.01.2021

Leo Bersani - Homos

Monique Witting

Judith Butler

Michael Warner

Andre Gide, Jean Genet, Proust

desire for the same and desire for the lack

anticommunitarian impulses they discover in homosexual desire

The Immoralist, Sodome et Gomorrhe, Funeral Rites

how desire for the same can free us from oppresive psychology of desire as lack (a psychology that grounds sociality in trauma and castration)

a salutary devalorizing of difference

difference not as a trauma to overcome (it nourishes antagonistic relations between the sexes), but rather as a nonthreatening supplement to sameness

"Once we agreed to be seen, we also agreed to be policed"

a traditional sanctification of state authority

The Archaeology of Late Antique 'Paganism' edited by Luke Lavan, Michael Mulryan

Constructing Postmodernism By Brian McHale

reading modernistically - paranoiacally

New Criticism, New Critical institutionalization of modernism

paranoid reading is assumed to be the appropriate norm of reading

then postmodernist texts appear which assume and anticipate paranoid reading-habits

they incorporate representations of (fictional) paranoid interpretations (conspiracy theories) or paranoid reading practices, or they thematise paranoia itself, reflecting, anticipating, perhaps pre-empting actual readers' paranoid readings.

La Jalousie, Pale Fire, The Crying of Lot 49, De Lillo Running Dog/The Names/Libra, The Name of the Rose and Foucault's Pendulum

"the idea is not to discover the secret, but to construct it"

no longer an epistemological quest, but an enterprise unconstrained by criteria of truth and evidence (world-building?)

an experiment in self-conscious world-making, a cosmological matter (novel-writing enterprise is one as well)

one projects (calls into being) an entity, anticipating a response

Masons, Illuminati, Rosicrucians, Gender-LGBT

"he declares that the league exists so that people will then create it"

St Anselm ontological proof of God's existence

confusing existence in thought with existence in reality

but: they project into reality the non-existent entities

inventing nonsenses, but the public will want to pursue them if they hear of them

"we've shown the necessity of the impossible"

"we invented a non-existent Plan, and they not only believed it was real but convicted themselves that they had been part of it for ages, or rather they identified fragments of their muddled mythology as moments of our Plan"

ontological side effects of world-making: the projected world has begun to contaminate the real world

there might come a time when the projected world will supplant the real world

Frederick Jameson: Postmodernism, or The Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism

symptomatic works and diagnostic works

reflections or expressions of late-capitalist social and economic relations

diagnostic works aspire to produce some image/figure/representation of the unrepresentably complex multinational world-system in which we live

Kevin Andrew Lynch was an American urban planner and author. He is known for his work on the perceptual form of urban environments and was an early proponent of mental mapping.

cognitive mapping

Conspiracy paranoia is a recurrent cultural phenomenon especially in American political life, with successive waves of anti-Masonism, anti-Catholicism, anti-Communism etc

Hypothesis: Whenever the complexity of the social-economic system outstrips our capacity to represent it to ourselves, conspiracy theory arises to fill the gap as the "poor person's cognitive mapping"

The recurrence of crises of cognitive mapping

responses to successive crises of society's self-imagining

"fossilized" attempts at the cognitive mapping (reminds me of Deleuze and geology - paranoic geology of the psyche?)

late-capitalist high-tech versions of conspiracy and the postmodernist resurgence of traditional conspiracy theories

Constructivism's basic epistemological principle is that all our cognitive operations, including (or especially) perception itself, are theory-dependent. This means, first of all, that data do not exist independently of a theory that constitutes them as data.

Granted the theory-dependency of "facts", it follows that faithfulness to objective "truth" cannot be a criterion for evaluating versions of reality (since the truth will have been produced by the version that is being evaluated by its faithfulness to the truth, and so on, circularly). The appropriate criteria for evaluation now are, for instance, the explicitness of the version, its intersubjective accessibility, its "empirical-mindedness", i.e. its aspiration to be as empirical as possible, where empiricism is not a method but a horizon to be approached only asymptotically; and above all, the adequacy of the version to its intended purpose. In other words, constructions, or what I have been calling versions of reality, are strategic in nature, that is, designed with particular purposes in view.

cities constructed, not given or found

or are they?

Parisian structuralist narratology - Barthes, Bremond, Genette, Greimas, Todorov

21.20.2020

I have been watching protest of the Women's Strike. On my phone, at my desk, at home, later from bed. I have been unable to attend due to my deteriorating mental health condition. How to describe the feeling and the atmosphere of this protest? I will juxtapose the following:

Hierarchy - Presence - Genital - Narrative - Metaphysics - Determinacy - Construction of a world-model - Ontological certainty [modernism]

Anarchy - Absence - Polymorphous - Anti-narrative - Irony - Indeterminacy - Deconstruction of a world-model - Ontological uncertainty [postmodernism]

What I saw leads me to believe that I should associate my perception of protests with the latter column.

A plot: events arranged in temporal sequence, a causal motivation for the sequence

modernism and postmodernism not as period styles, one of them current and the other outdated, more like alternative stylistic options between which contemporary writers are free to choose without that choice necessarily identifying them as either avant-garde or arriere-garde.

The dissolution of the library and the world

And then collecting the fragments (relics) of the burned library

What if the library does not burn, but is flooded?

What if it dissolves into a flood of meaningless text

An overflow of meanings leading to the ultimate loss of all meaning

An overabundance of points and places in the map causing the map to become illegible

Alain Robbe-Grillet: Instead of having to deal with a series of scenes which are connected by causal links, one has the impression that the same scene is constantly repeating itself, but with variations"

"narrative as a systematic application of the logical fallacy denounced by scholasticism under the formula post hoc, ergo propter hoc"

"a complex web of responses to and repetitions of earlier works, visual and textual, creative and critical" (isn't any text/work such a web?)

Gradiva - Novel by Wilhelm Jensen

Topologie d'un cite phantome Robber-Grillet

"a narrative which has abandoned any sense of progress and explores the past as a set of variations on a split and dispersed present"

Vigo-Atlantis on the connecting point of three continents-islands

it is inundated in never-stopping rain

Ruins of Warsaw after World War 2 turned into a closed-off monument and after the fall of communism, into a "tragedy-amusement park", somewhat like Westerplatte

a participant of the Warsaw Uprising and a young Jew-Robinson (a descendant of other Robinsons) who survived hiding in ruins until present time both emerge and react differently: the insurgent tries to kill tourists thinking they are Germans and is killed by security himself and the Robinson goes back to hiding, understanding that the world has experienced an apocalypse and a new world has emerged, in which there is no place for him.

22.01.2020

Właśnie przechodzę przez kolejny nawrót depresji, nie stać mnie na terapię, nie jestem w stanie z kimkolwiek rozmawiać, nienawidzę stanu, w którym jest moja skóra i ciało, za bardzo się wstydzę, by naprzykrzać się komukolwiek opowiadaniem o moich problemach, mam za mało pieniędzy, prawie nie mam pracy, nie mam dokąd uciec, nie mogę nawet wyjechać za granicę, rzuciłem studia po raz piąty w życiu i ignoruję te kilka osób, którym jeszcze choć trochę na mnie zależy.

[tsthrace]

White Knuckles

Awhile back, I asked y’all to send me a song so I could take its energy, lyrics, and/or feeling and write you a 1,000-word Clexa fic.

This one shot meandered way beyond 1,000 words. It’s based on White Knuckles by Tegan and Sara, as requested by @damiana-atx.

Angsty academia AU. No content warnings except for some swearing.

You can also find it on ao3.

-----------------------------

“Fuck, this is good,” Clarke said aloud to no one as she tossed the journal on the table. She leaned back in her chair. Godlessness Centered: Negotiating Queerness in The Left Hand of Darkness by Alexandria J. Woods, PhD. When Clarke had first picked up the journal, she scoffed. The Left Hand of Darkness? Really? And queerness? How overdone.

But it was brilliant. A discourse on Le Guin’s own spirituality and how it defied casual dualities.

I should have thought of that.

She looked at her watch. Twenty minutes.

---

Lexa smoothed the lapels on her blazer, though they were already perfectly flat. She gazed at herself in the hotel mirror, staring at the buttons on her shirt. She had a choice to make—the choice of the one awkward button. Button it, and she would seem, well, buttoned-up, uptight. But unbuttoned, it was a bit...revealing. There was no middle ground.

She pushed her glasses up on her nose and took a breath. Then buttoned the button.

---

They met in Bloomington, Indiana. All the sci fi literature conferences seemed to be in random small cities in the Midwest. They were strange events. Mostly men in khaki and tweed carrying beat-up leather satchels, experts on Vonnegut and Wells (H.G., that is). But there was also the overt geek element. Undergrad boys carrying frayed copies of Asimov and Gaiman, their laptops covered in Star Trek and My Little Pony stickers, and the occasional girl wearing a Strong Female Character t-shirt.

Then there was Lexa, sharp in a plain black cashmere sweater and grey herringbone slacks, her glasses suggesting both intelligence and the ability to break you. The geeks followed her but kept an admiring distance.

Clarke, for some reason, seemed more approachable. As she sipped her gin and tonic at the hotel bar, the kids (as she called college students) would creep up to her, their eyes down.

“Dr. Griffin?” they’d ask.

“Call me Clarke,” she’d say, smiling.

“I just had some questions on your takedown of the Darkover series.”

Clarke would always give them about twenty minutes then politely end the conversation, turning back to her drink.

She had had three such conversations when she felt a tap on her shoulder. Clarke didn’t mind the attention, but she was getting tired. She spun around, ready to dismiss herself.

“Dr. Griffin.” Lexa stood above her.

“Dr. Woods,” Clarke replied, nodding politely. She had read all of Lexa’s work. She had to. They were two of the only feminist sci fi lit scholars who were regularly publishing. But they’d never actually met.

“I don’t really prefer the term ��doctor.’” Lexa said, looking just past Clarke. “It’s a little....” She didn’t finish her thought. After a moment she tilted her head. “Do you really think we should stop reading Bradley because of her scandal?”

Clarke put her drink down. “Scandal is kind of an understatement. And I didn’t say we should stop. I just said it’s hard.”

Without invitation, Lexa sat down at Clarke’s table. “If we bring every artist’s personal life into how we engage with their work, we probably won’t be able to enjoy anything.”

Clarke raised an eyebrow. “I never took you for a modernist.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“That sometimes shitty people create amazing art.” Lexa’s eyes lit up with her smile, like she was issuing a friendly challenge.

“Are you flirting with me?” Clarke returned her version of the same smile.

Lexa sat back and shrugged. She took a sip of her martini.

---

A few hours later, Clarke was sprawled across Lexa’s bed looking up, her hair in tangles across the pillow, a corner of the sheet pulled over her midsection. Lexa was curled up next to her, sweaty and wondering what just happened. She took a few breaths, looking for words. She squinted to herself, couldn’t think of anything to say. She felt Clarke shuffle a bit and prepared for the awkward banter that would come when they’d get up to look for their clothes.

“Do you believe in God?” Clarke asked instead. She didn’t get up.

“Pardon?”

“Do you believe in God?” Her tone was so casual.

“I...I don’t know.” Lexa looked up at the ceiling. She suddenly felt cold and reached down for a blanket. “Why do you ask?”

“I think I do,” Clarke said, not answering the question.

“Why?”

“I just look around this world, and it seems pretty incredible to me. Like it wasn’t an accident. Someone had to have created all this. Created us. Then made us creators.” Clarke shook her head and looked past Lexa. “It all seems like such a miracle.”

“Are you a Christian?” Lexa felt her face crumple.

Clarke laughed. “I don’t know. I do like the idea of the trinity.”

“When I grew up, my parents took me to one of those born again churches.” Lexa looked down. “It was mostly Jesus. I mean, I know what the trinity is, but…” Why was she telling her this?

“No, that’s not what I mean.” Clarke shook her head. “Not like God as some guy who makes you love him or else you burn in hell. That’s bullshit.”

Lexa squinted.

“The trinity. It’s like a dance between these three ways God reveals herself.” Clarke smiled. “It’s beautiful actually.” She looked at Lexa. “Did you ever read A Wrinkle in Time?”

Lexa side-eyed her. “Clarke, I’m a sci fi scholar.”

“Okay, so there’s Mrs. Who, Mrs. Whatsit, and Mrs. Which…”

They stayed up the rest of the night, moving from L’Engle to Shelley to Jemisin and the spiritual worlds of their stories. Evil and suffering, goodness and hope. Retribution, sacrifice, and justice. Beauty and joy. Mouth to neck, hands to curves, skin to skin.

By dawn, Lexa had found God.

---

Lexa went back to UC Irvine and Clarke returned to her adjunct job at Georgetown, but they emailed constantly. Long, meandering messages about particular chapters of The Stone Sky and Spinning Silver. Clarke sent her Marilynne Robinson essays, and Lexa responded with questions. Together, they laid theologies over imagined worlds, mapped them out and connected them to other imagined worlds. They took down Ender’s Game, built up The Hainish Cycle, and even let themselves dabble in Stardust, which they both had to admit they secretly admired. Back and forth, tens of thousands of words over the course of months. They only talked on the phone a few times, but the emails were constant.

Not long into their messages, Clarke had mentioned how her father had died when she was young. Lexa hinted at being on her own at age 16. These details were wrapped in blankets of analysis and metaphor, the theological undercurrents of the imagined worlds they studied, the anthropology of beings who only existed on pages and in minds.

They made plans to meet in Cleveland to present together at a lit crit conference. A week before, Lexa bailed. “Sorry,” the text said. “An emergency came up.”

“Everything okay?” Clarke responded.

Nothing.

The conference was rough. Clarke knew it would be, but she thought she’d have Lexa’s powerful presence demanding attention. The lit crit crowd all secretly loved what they called “genre” fiction—sci fi and fantasy—but they publicly derided it as “unserious” or “not literary.” She held her own, but it wasn’t fun.

She texted Lexa when she got back to her hotel room. “Wish you had been here. Same straight white male bullshit as usual.”

Silence.

“Did I say something wrong?” Clarke texted a few days later. At that point, though, she knew Lexa was gone.

A heaviness set in on her. Clarke reread their messages looking for hints, but Lexa’s words seemed wide open, even joyful. What happened?

She immersed herself in a chapter she was writing for a textbook on book fandoms and lecturing on feminism and postmodernism in Harry Potter—not her favorite topic, but it was a popular course. She had almost let herself forget about Lexa when, six months later, she was flipping through Foundation: The Journal of Science Fiction and saw her byline in the table of contents. Justice & Joy: The God Revealed in the Feminist Imagination. By Alexandria J. Woods, PhD.

Clarke turned to page 137 and ran her eyes down the columns. She bit her lip. The essay was essentially a catalog of their emails, one idea bridged skillfully to another by Lexa’s pointed and lucid prose. But they weren’t just Lexa’s ideas. They weren’t just Clarke’s, either, but a stream of their thoughts flowing together like a river. It was beautifully done.

Clarke didn’t notice that her hands were balled into fists until she felt her nails cutting into the skin. She opened her laptop and pulled up the messages. Lexa had been careful to rephrase Clarke’s words, but it was all there, even with citations of Marilynne Robinson. The Death of Adam.

Clarke pounded out an email. How dare you...couldn’t even ask for me to be a coauthor...you hadn’t even thought about these things until you met me. She knew Lexa wouldn’t see it. She probably had blocked her address. She didn’t bother hitting send.

Her face fell into her hands. She remembered that night in San Diego. Lexa’s smile—that curiosity despite herself. The way her hands traced the skin over Clarke’s side.

That woman wouldn’t have done this. But there it was. Twenty-six pages of shared conversation now claimed for Lexa only.

---

Clarke’s department was buzzing about it the next day. The religious studies chair was also a huge geek who kept up with Foundation, and he had been blown away by how seamlessly interdisciplinary the article was. “I hadn’t thought to connect the Christian trinity and A Wrinkle in Time, but it’s really so obvious when you think about it.”

Clarke seethed. She thought about printing up the emails, sending them to Foundation and the UC Irvine Disciplinary Committee, but something stopped her. Allegations of plagiarism would ruin Lexa’s career as a scholar. And was it really plagiarism? Clarke wanted to be sure, but she wasn’t.

So she wrote instead. A deep and cutting rebuttal highlighting where Alexandria J. Woods’ religious arguments were rudimentary at best, illustrating how shallow her connections were, and then plunging further, mining Catherine Keller and other theologians for an even deeper exploration of the worlds of Butler and Clarke (Arthur C., that is). Foundation published her essay the next quarter. Lexa answered, bringing in Buddhism and Humanism. A spotlight grew around their debate, so they continued writing—back and forth between literary, cultural, and religious journals. WIRED magazine picked up the story: Feuding Feminists Shifting the Sci Fi Landscape.

That’s when the invites started rolling in. A conference on spirituality and pop culture invited them to speak on a panel together, but Clarke refused. She couldn’t bear to see Lexa in person. Instead, she accepted an invitation to lecture at NYU while Lexa spoke at Cal.

Clarke’s classes filled with long waitlists every semester, her success intertwined with Lexa’s and their endless intellectual feud. They both thrived. Lexa’s ideas sharpened Clarke’s, and Clarke’s sharpened Lexa’s. She couldn’t admit it, but she needed Lexa as much as she despised her.

---

Lexa was in her office when the call came.

“Dr. Woods?” A male voice.

“It’s Professor Woods.”

“Excuse me, Professor Woods,” he corrected himself. “This is Dr. William Porter at Georgetown. The chair of the Department of English.”

Lexa felt something jump in her chest. “Good morning.”

“I’m calling because a very generous donor has recently endowed a tenure-track professorship here specifically for women in science fiction studies.”

“You’re kidding me.” it felt like a prank, and a mean one at that. Lexa had never heard of such a thing.

“Uh, no.” Dr. Porter seemed thrown off. “We’re inviting only a few people to apply, and you’re on our short list. Is this something you’d be interested in?”

They hung up with lingering plans to arrange flights and meetings.

Lexa sat for a few minutes, her fingers tapping idly on her closed laptop. Clarke would be one of the other candidates—and maybe the only other candidate—she was sure. She looked down and shook her head, thinking back to that day when she made the worst decision of her life.

She had printed out some of the emails she had sent Clarke to reference them against some short stories when the dean knocked on her door. He noticed a copy of L’Engle’s Walking on Water open on her desk.

“What’s that about?” he asked.

“Uh, just a side project I’m working on.” Her face burned with the exposure of her new interest in religious studies.

“Mind if I look?” he asked, picking up one of the print-outs before she could answer.

She bit her lip as he read, his forehead creasing.

After a few minutes, he looked up. “Professor Woods, this is good stuff.”

She took a deep breath and let it out. “Thank you. I’ve been working with Professor Griffin at Georgetown—”

“But these are your words, right?”

“Yeah, what you’re holding. That’s mine.”

“You need to publish this. It could be really good for you and the department.”

“Yeah, Professor Griffin and I—”

“Lexa,” he said in that kind but firm I’m-A-Man-In-Charge voice, “there’s a distinction to be made between attribution and inspiration. I’m inspired every day by the ocean, by James Joyce.” Lexa hid her contempt. Scholars who pretended to understand Joyce were pretentious liars. “But I’m not citing them.”

“Dr. Titus.” Her voice was firm. “I couldn’t have written that without Professor Griffin.”

“Professor Woods.” He looked her straight in the eye. “This department doesn’t need a co-authored paper with someone from Georgetown. We need a win.” He tapped the paper. “These are your words. Are they the product of a broader conversation? Sure, but what isn’t?” He looked out the window at the budding trees. “We took a chance on your genre work. And I’m seeing some good stuff. But I need to see more if we’re going to keep you on.”

Lexa looked past Dr. Titus and took in a silent breath. Jobs in her specialty was rare. UC Irvine had invested more than most schools to create a department where someone like her could thrive. She nodded.

“Get me an abstract and outline next week,” the dean said. “The managing editor at Foundation is a former student.”

When he left, she took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. She would need to cancel her panel with Clarke in Cleveland. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever be able to look at her again.

---

Clarke let out a deep breath as she stepped into the crisp fall air. It had been a long day of interviews. She stopped on the stairs. She knew Lexa was close by. She had to be. They were the two people in the country most qualified for the job. She’d been on these interview panels before. Two, sometimes three, a day, candidates rotating between deans and panels. Clarke was surprised she hadn’t seen her yet.

She shook her head. Maybe she should have said something about that first paper. The job would be hers if she had. But would she even be considered without that paper? It had launched her career. Her public debate with Alexandria J. Woods, PhD, got her lectures around the country, a longform article in The Atlantic, and the keynote spot at conferences that two years ago would have never taken her seriously. Their refusal to appear together added to their mystique. Geeks and academics alike lined up on reddit and twitter to take sides.

Her success was bound to Lexa’s, two sides of the same double helix.

She bundled a scarf around her neck. It didn’t matter where Lexa was. Clarke loved the work she did, and she had rocked the interviews. But she was tired. It was time for a drink. She pulled out her phone to call a Lyft. Something about the fading purple sky changed her mind, though, and she decided to walk.

The cobblestones on O Street felt somehow comforting under her feet. Solid. Old. Not going anywhere. She thought about calling Dr. Reyes from the engineering department to join her—Raven was always good for either a loud night of much alcohol or a quiet night of raw, stinging truth—the latter of which was why Clarke had never told her all that had happened with Lexa. She shook her head. Maybe she just needed some gin and silence.

She sat at the bar at L’Annexe and ordered a Tom Collins. Bartenders always smiled curiously at her when she ordered one. Funny, you don’t look like a 75 year-old man to me. She’d smile back impatiently. Just make my damn drink. When the drink arrived, she took a sip and let out a deep breath as the gin started to glow through her. No one can fuck up a Tom Collins. It was simple and always felt good and sharp and bright going down.

She was halfway through her drink when a man sat next to her and ordered a scotch. Clarke glanced at his plaid scarf, wool sweater, and worn leather shoulder bag. Definitely a TA. He noticed her looking at him and smiled.

“I’ve seen you,” he said. “You teach that Harry Potter course.”

Clarke’s stifled a sigh. “That’s me.” She tilted her head back and drank the rest of her Tom Collins in one swig.

“Can I get you another?”

“No,” she said, picking up her bag. She made eye contact with the bartender. “I need to pay.”

“Whoa,” the man in the scarf said, raising his hands. “I’m just trying to be nice.”

“And I was just trying to be alone.” Clarke nodded towards the guy sitting on the other side of him. “Maybe you can be nice to him.” She dropped some cash on the check that had arrived and made her way to the door.

It was darker outside than when she’d arrived. And colder. She buttoned her wool coat and started making her way down Pennsylvania Ave. towards the bus stop.

---

Lexa was sipping a Syrah at a window table when she saw Clarke walk by outside. She took in a breath, remembering how Clarke’s eyes got soft when she asked, “Do you believe in God?” She shook her head. She could just let her keep going, and they could go on avoiding each other forever. Unless Lexa got the job.

Shit.

She grabbed her coat, leaving a $20 under her mostly full glass. By the time Lexa got out the door, Clarke was halfway down the block, almost lost in a crowd of loud students. Lexa didn’t button her coat, and it billowed out as she jogged down the street.

“Clarke!” she shouted as she got closer. She saw Clarke stop, her back straighten and stiffen. She didn’t turn around.

---

Clarke wanted to be angry. When she heard that voice, she wanted to spin on her heel and unleash a cascade of expletives that would make the passersby uncomfortable. She not only wanted Lexa to hear the words traitor, cheat, betrayed, she wanted her to feel the force of them rip through her body like a landmine.

But she froze. When she heard that voice, she felt tears sting at the corner of her eyes. She felt a slow storm in her chest, all rain and no lighting. She closed her eyes. She wanted to be angry, but all she felt was heaviness. She held her breath and waited.

When she opened her eyes, Lexa was in front of her, her eyes uncertain and her arms folded in front of her. “Hey…” she said after a few moments.

Clarke bit into her lip, hoping not to draw blood. She looked up, her blue eyes blazing, about to spark. She could tell Lexa was waiting for her to say something, so she stayed silent.

Lexa nodded. “I’m so sorry, Clarke.” She didn’t know what else to say.

Clarke’s eyes locked on Lexa’s, but she refused to respond.

“I don’t expect you to understand...” Lexa trailed off. “It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair.” She looked past Clarke to a stoplight turning from yellow to red.

Lexa’s open coat revealed a gray plaid suit, smart and uncompromising, the top button studiously and chastely buttoned. So she had interviewed today. In this moment, though, it all felt wrong. Lexa seemed so small to Clarke. She wasn’t the woman she met at the hotel that night, but she also wasn’t the woman who submitted that article. This woman was drawn in on herself, her hair falling around her face like a curtain. Clarke remained silent.

Lexa sucked in her lips. “I know you probably hate me, and I get it.” She looked down. “I hate me, too.”

“No.” Clarke’s voice was deep and quiet. “You don’t get to do that.” She felt confused when she saw a shadow of relief cross Lexa’s face.

“You’re right,” Lexa said. “That’s not fair.” She took a long, deep breath and let it out. “I’m going to tell them.” She looked Clarke in the eye. “I’m going to tell Georgetown, and I’m going to tell Foundation. I’ll—”

“Don’t.” Clarke cut her off. “It’s done.”

“But—”

“Fuck you, Lexa.” She barely looked at her as pushed past, a slow fire burning through her as she walked briskly towards Dupont Square.

---

Lexa was freezing by the time she got back to her hotel room. She had stood on the sidewalk for a long time, watching Clarke get smaller and smaller. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting. Forgiveness? Punishment? Clarke had given her neither, which is what she knew she deserved.

She had never written a paper more carefully, never thought about the ideas so closely, never danced so delicately around sentence structure and tense. In a twisted way, she was proud of it. It was sophisticated but accessible, and completely defensible. Even if Clarke had tried to accuse her, she was sure she would have won.

She shook her head sharply. That’s not who I am. But it was. She was intelligent and ambitious and ready for a breakthrough. She knew Titus had been threatening her, but she also knew that what she had been writing with Clarke was good. Really good. She had never felt so alive in her work as when she was in conversation with Clarke. No one had ever challenged or inspired her like that. Even after that first paper, her debates with Clarke from essay to essay were electric, almost feverish. Clarke tapped something in her that was insatiable.

She picked up her laptop and opened some of the first emails she and Clarke had exchanged after Bloomington. She couldn’t help but smile. There had been a giddiness to them, this breathless excitement to constantly share new discoveries, interesting connections. They had sent seven, sometimes eight, messages a day. Thousands of words.

And that night in Bloomington.

She closed the laptop. Was it worth it? For months, Lexa had tried to convince herself that it had just been one night, that she didn’t even really know Clarke. When she saw Clarke on that sidewalk tonight, though, she knew that was all bullshit.

They had been falling for each other the best way they knew how. Lexa had betrayed all of it.

—-

Lexa was sitting on the floor outside Clarke’s office when she arrived the next morning.

Clarke sighed. “Seriously?” She didn’t look at her as she slid her key in the lock. “What are you doing here?”

“I had a meeting to cancel.” Lexa shrugged, not getting up.

Clarke pushed her door open. “I don’t have anything else to say to you, Dr. Woods.”

“I withdrew my name.”

Clarke froze. “Why?” Clarke noticed jeans and a sweater under Lexa’s coat. Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun. She was serious.

“You know why.”

Clarke’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did,” Lexa said steadily as she stood up. The smallness from the night before was gone. She stood tall, her shoulders thrown back. “I don’t know who else they’re interviewing, but I’m not your competition anymore.” She swallowed and looked into Clarke’s eyes. “I don’t want to be your competition anymore.”

Clarke let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. She wanted to say, Good luck, Dr. Woods, and close the door behind her, but instead she felt herself pushing the door open, heard herself saying, “Come in.”

Lexa bit her lip. “You sure?”

Clarke nodded and ushered her in. The door clicked as it closed behind them. Clarke set her bag down and sat at her desk. She shook her head, frustrated. “I just want to hate you. That’s all. I want to tell you to fuck off, and I want to go on with my life.”

Lexa sat in the reading chair in the corner of Clarke’s office. She nodded, looking down at her hands. “Then why don’t you?”

Clarke huffed, a cynical laugh. “I can’t get away. You’re everywhere.” She threw up her hands. “I saw you on the fucking New Yorker site this morning. How did you land that?” A rhetorical question. “I assign your essays for my classes. I have to. I hate how good you are.”

“You’re good, too, Clarke,” Lexa said quietly. She looked up. “Very good. I keep researching and writing because you keep responding.”

Clarke closed her eyes. She knew it was the same for her, but she didn’t want to say it. Finally she looked up. “Why did you do it?”

Lexa looked past her at Clarke’s diplomas on the wall. Undergrad at Cornell. She shook her head, almost said I don’t know, but she didn’t want to lie. “I wanted to do something big.” She gathered the courage to look at Clarke’s face. “I wanted to do it with you, but my dean pressured me to take solo authorship.” She closed her eyes, ashamed. “And I was a coward.”

“Yeah.” Clarke leaned back in her chair. “You were.”

Everything that came into Lexa’s head to say felt like an excuse, so she kept her mouth shut. They both did, the loud ticking of the cheap clock on the wall cutting through the silence.

Finally Clarke shook her head. A corner of her mouth curved up. “It was really beautifully done.”

Lexa looked up, her head tilted.

“I was so fucking angry, Lexa.” Clarke breathed out like she was letting something go. “I should have been a coauthor, but, fuck, it was well written. Like it was on a whole other level.”

Lexa’s green eyes were bright as they locked in on Clarke’s. “You inspire me, Dr. Griffin.” She sat back. “It’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” She paused and sucked in her lips. “I think we should write a book together.”

As soon as Clarke heard the words, she knew it was a good idea. Maybe the best idea. But all that would come out was, “Fuck you, Lexa.” It was almost a laugh.

Lexa’s face was stone, but her eyes were alive. “An editor already approached me. If I brought you on…”

“You can’t buy your way out of the shitty thing you did, Lexa.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Lexa ran her hand over her hair then looked up, her face suddenly soft. “I meant it, Clarke. I’m better with you.” She shrugged. “And I think you’re better with me, too.”

Clarke bit her lip. She took in a heavy breath, and let it out in a long sigh. She stood up. “Come here.”

Lexa squinted her eyes.

“Just come here, please. You owe me that.”

Lexa stood up in front of Clarke. Clarke lifted her hand to her face and leaned in, her lips barely touching Lexa’s. Lexa didn’t move, but Clarke felt her shiver. She leaned in and kissed her softly. Then she pulled back.

“I just…” Clarke didn’t know where the end of that sentence was supposed to go, and she didn’t tried to find it. Instead, she lifted her eyes and looked at Lexa as her chest rose and fell, rose and fell.

Lexa held her breath.

Finally Clarke smiled, almost laughing at herself. “That’s not a yes, Dr. Woods. But it’s not a no.”

[celtictrinity]

chapter 8

    “Perhaps none of you have ever been bold enough to attempt what I am doing. The mortals worship us, they beg us for guidance. Why not rule them as they clearly need to be ruled?”

    “There are too many of us and our petty squabbles could tear the world apart, you know that. That’s why the law was instituted, Crom Cruach. To protect the world from us.”

    “Then it should be no problem if only I choose to rule the mortals. The rest of you can cower behind your rules and I will rule this world. No petty squabbles to be had.”

    “That’s not the reason the law was made. You are beholden to it as we are.”

    “But you cannot stop me without breaking your precious law, can you? Or would you destroy this world you are trying to protect simply to stop me…”

                                                  * * *

    Cinda was all for setting out as soon as they could load the truck and be gone. She hadn’t known that her friend was working on a book and it hurt a little that Shara hadn’t told her. Even more than that, the subject of the book left Cinda feeling uneasy. More so with that picture of the twins, for who else could it be, published for all the world to see. But mostly she had to wonder, and it was an unwelcome thought, had Shara Rose only been her friend to gather information for this book? Because Cinda had been fairly certain her friend hadn’t known about her own parentage.

    Sam and Ben, though still somewhat stunned to see themselves in the picture in the book, had counseled they wait until Sam could read through the whole book and they knew what it actually said rather than run off half cocked based on a picture. Especially since the boys were fairly certain they had never crossed paths with Shara Rose before in the past. Which meant she’d seen them some other way.

    Cinda knew the boys were no strangers to visions. Sam especially, but even Ben had had them. More than she had. She mostly had dreams and usually not clairvoyant ones. Still she itched to be on the road and moving. She escaped out to wander the salvage yard, which was easier to bear with her thoughts than the strange house with two strangers in close quarters.

    Bobby seemed nice enough and she was glad the twins had him. Missouri made her nervous, as powerful psychics often did. She had things in her past she would prefer remained in the past and powerful psychics, often as not, didn’t keep their mouths shut about sensitive issues. Cinda supposed it was an unfair thought, being as she was a powerful fire witch and the daughter of a god (though she certainly didn’t advertise that bit) and there had been many who had been uncomfortable around her because of how powerful she was. But it didn’t change that powerful psychics made her nervous and Missouri was clearly of the ilk.

    She’d rather deal with the itching under her skin and be able to breathe the fresh air than stay stuffed in that house with people she didn’t know and a book she had to wonder about.

    As she wandered the salvage yard in the dying light of the day she wondered if maybe her suspicions were unwarranted. Shara Rose had never felt like she was fishing for information, had never seemed to be taking notes of the things Cinda mentioned, had never pushed Cinda to talk about her father. As far as Cinda knew, Shara Rose didn’t know who her father was, only that he was a god and he’d been unkind to her.

    At some point Cinda heard a car start up and leave and she wondered who had gone and why. She wasn’t ready to return though and continued to wander the huge salvage yard. There was a kind of stark, modernist beauty in the stacks of ruined cars, harder to see in the fading light now than when she and Ben had been out earlier, but there nonetheless.

    Still, she was going to have to go in soon and assuage the ache that was building at being away from the twins. She hadn’t thought of the ties she had to the twins as being restricting, and she still didn’t. If she had met Bobby and Missouri on neutral territory, she thought she might have handled it better. But this was not her home or neutral territory, this was Bobby’s home ground. She was the interloper and she felt it with the itch of iron and the weight of the number of wards about the place.

    Just as she was deciding to head back to the house, she heard footsteps coming towards her unerringly, felt Ben’s presence soothing part of the ache that was tugging her back towards the house. She stopped and stood still, waiting for him to find her.

    Coming out of the stark shadows cast by the stacks of cars in the floodlights that lit up the salvage yard, Ben was like a welcome apparition approaching. There was concern in his green-gold eyes, washed out in the night dark. He approached her slowly and Cinda wondered what he saw in her own eyes that he approached her like a wild shy animal.

    “I came to see how you were doing,” he said quietly once he was close enough. He came to a stop just within arm’s length and studied her face. “Missouri is going to stay the night in a motel in town. She had already called and made the reservation before she got here, knowing we were staying with Bobby. She says she’s sorry she chased you away.”

    Cinda gave a soft sigh of relief that the psychic wasn’t staying the night and Ben reached for her. She went into his arms and held him tightly, face pressed against his chest for a long moment, letting his presence, his nearness, settle her nerves. Enfolded in his arms this way even the itch of iron was a faint thing she was barely aware of.

    “I’m sorry I left so abruptly,” she said into his chest. “It was… too much suddenly. I just… needed to be outside and away.”

    “I know,” Ben said softly, stroking her hair and holding her close. “It’s okay. Sam and I… we get it. If we’d known Missouri was coming, we’d have warned you, but we didn’t have a clue. In your place we’d have reacted the same way. Even Bobby gets it. You don’t have to apologize, it’s okay.”

    Cinda held on to him for another long few moments, breathing in his scent, letting his presence soothe the jagged edges of uncertainty the book had opened up in her.

    “Sam would have come out with me,” Ben continued, “but he thought it would be better to read through the book as soon as he could. He should finish it tomorrow, he reads fast, and we can make plans. If you want to go see your friend, we can head out that way once we talk. But Cinda… maybe she learned things in the time you’ve been with us. We have been fairly wrapped up in ourselves for months and understandably so. Or maybe it was a project she had been working on and wasn’t sure how to tell you. From what you told us, Shara Rose sounds like she really cares about you and wouldn’t do anything to hurt you. Sam looked through the rest of the illustrations and there’s none of you in there. So, we both think she maybe got visions when she was painting. She might not even know that real people were the inspiration of her paintings.”

    Cinda sighed into Ben’s chest before turning he head, resting her ears against his chest but not releasing him just yet.

    “I ken, it’s just a shock, it was.” Her accent had deepened, as it often did in the throes of strong emotion. “I can’t believe she would do something to harm anyone. But… she’s the only friend I’ve ever had, you ken? I’m far more used to not trusting people.”

    “You trusted us,” Ben said softly.

    Cinda smiled and looked up at him. “That was a wee bit different, leannan. We’ve soul ties, we knew each other in the moment we saw each other like we knew our own selves. There was nothing to distrust. I had been waiting for you all my life.”

    Ben smiled back down at her, cupping her face, his smile turning wondering and awed. Eight months wasn’t long enough for the awe that they’d actually found each other to have worn off. He bent down to brush a soft kiss over her forehead, then another soft kiss to her lips that she pressed back into, going onto tiptoe. Hating the difference in their height even as she let the sweet shock of the kiss wash over her.

    Ben finally pulled back. “We should head back in. You didn’t eat anything and you should. And Sam will be glad to see you smile rather than look distressed.”

    Cinda sighed before pulling away, catching his hand and turning back towards Bobby’s house. “I dinna think Sam will find anything we’re looking for in that book he’s reading. And we came here with a purpose. I dinna want to derail that with my distress.”

    Ben started walking, holding her hand firmly. “You haven’t derailed anything. Sam had already figured we might not find what we were looking for in Bobby’s library. Bobby has a lot of books, it’s true, but not many of them have to do with gods in truth and Sam has a wicked memory. Once he looked through the new books Bobby had gotten since the last time we were here, it was just a matter of finding the few books that dealt with gods and skimming through them. Sam’s read most everything Bobby owns. He can be scary sometimes, with how he can pull a passage from a certain obscure book straight from memory and recite it almost word for word.”

    Cinda noticed that Ben sounded fond and proud again as he talked about his twin. It made her smile. Ben could easily have been jealous of his twin and she didn’t doubt that he had moments of it, but mostly the twins seemed to truly be proud of each other for their talents and triumphs. They rarely fought and when they did it caused almost as much distress as being separated. And there was never any resentment in either of them over it. Cinda didn’t think most siblings were so close and she wondered if their soul bond had something to do with it.

    Then what Ben said finally registered and she came to a stop. Ben also stopped and glanced at her with an eyebrow lifted in question.

    “Ben… if Sam can do that… we didne actually have to come here, did we?” Cinda asked the question, puzzled, with a small frown.

    Ben gave her a warm smile and tugged her back into motion. “Only if he’s tagged the passage. Usually he keeps in mind what the general subject is and certain key passages unless he’s looking for something specific. He would have tagged which books were about gods but not truly committed any of the specific passages to memory before now. We didn’t know that we would need them. So yeah, he’d still have to read them again to know for sure what they said, it just makes it easier for him to find the books he needs instead of going through the whole of Bobby’s library.”

    Cinda blinked in surprise, feeling a little awed herself. She hadn’t thought that Sam had that kind of memory going for him. To be fair, the library of books they had at their place was fairly small and far more easily looked through compared to the number of books Cinda had seen at Bobby’s place.

    By the time they reached Bobby’s porch, Cinda finally shook her head with a bemused smile. “He’s something else, our Sam is.”

    “Yeah, yeah he is,” Ben said softly before leading her into the house.

                                                * * *

     The gods used to spend a fair amount of time in the mortal world. Incarnated into a form of mortal flesh that could withstand their godly powers. The mortals were at times fascinating creatures to observe and interact with. Some gods found them more fascinating than others while some often saw them as a plague upon the world.

    Whatever their personal views, there were often children of gods wandering about. Many became the heroes of which stories were written. They often had tragic ends. The children of the gods who chose to embark on heroic quests rarely lived as long as their brethren who lived quieter lives and only focused on enhancing the lives of the villages they lived within. Those who chose to live quietly lived much longer indeed, the blood of their godly parent often lengthening their lives three to four times that of the usual mortal.

    When the gods chose to withdraw from the world to protect it and the mortals that lived in it, not all were as willing to give up their hold as others. Some had to be forced to leave, for they found their sway over the mortals a sweet thing they were unwilling to give up. The gods however weren’t disallowing worship, the mortals would do as they would. They simply felt that their physical presence in the world was too dangerous a thing for it. They could still speak to their chosen prophets, could still send visions and dreams. Could still incarnate as mortal if they so chose, to walk among them, but they would leave the greater share of their power behind until their mortal life ended and they ascended back to their godly forms.

    Some gods argued that they couldn’t do their duties if they couldn’t take corporeal form in the world. But they found that the world turned whether they were there to personally usher in certain events or not, and that they could still enhance those changes in their non corporeal forms. It meant that the number of children born to the gods lessened exponentially but the mortals seemed to settle into that as well, coming up with their own explanations for why the gods no longer walked among them.

    A few gods, incarnated into human form and knowing who they truly were, attempted to subvert the law. But a god in human form has limited power, even one that gains worshippers to strengthen them. Crom Cruach was the one who found that there was power to be gained if one could breach the underways and reach into the Otherworld. It was not an easy thing to do for a god, who though wearing human form was not truly of the world. But humans with power could do so much easier. The trick was finding humans with enough power to do what was needed.

    Crom Cruach suspected that having a child with a human with power would give him a firmer foothold in the world than simply gathering humans with power, who often died when they breached the underways, unable to withstand channeling the power from the Otherworld to their lord and Master. But a child of his, born of a human with power… perhaps that would work.

    He set about attempting to father children on women with power. Most were useless to him, not inheriting power from him or their mother and Crom Cruach despaired of ever having the perfect child. Until he fathered a daughter on a young witch. A powerful child she was and would have been the perfect tool if her mother had truly been a follower of his. She was not, however, and took the child away to hide her.

    Crom Cruach also learned that by this time, the other gods had caught on to what he was trying to do and had chosen to send another god to do the same, to sire a child that would be powerful enough to stop him. He left off the search for his own daughter and instead sought out the incarnated deity and child meant to be a hindrance to him and his. It was a calculated risk, allowing the child of his to be reared by a woman who was not his follower and dared to defy him, but he didn’t think it would take much time to find and destroy the child born to stop him and then he could retrieve his own daughter and teach her the way of things.

    The encounter did not go as planned, for though he killed the goddess’s incarnated form he had been too weakened by the fight to kill the children, for there were two, twin borns, a rarity among mortals. He was forced to hide away until he could regain his strength and power, leaving the two boys in the world. He cursed his fortune for days. His own child spirited away, the two meant to stand against him still alive and well. His plans would have to be placed on hold as he regained his strength, for it was harder now to find humans of power willing to work with him as knowledge that those who followed him often died in the end, hard deaths full of pain as they were burned from the inside out by the power that was too strong for them to control.

    It took a long time for him to regain even some of his strength, though even he felt the wash of power that filled the world when the three god-born children found each other and pledged themselves to one another. Because of the pledge he also felt their deaths and cursed his misfortune. He would have to start again. But if he’d read the wash of power correctly the three were so bound to themselves and the world and their purpose that it would only be a matter of time until the powerful daughter he’d sired walked the world again.

    He would just have to be more careful about the witch he sired her on this time.

                                                * * *

     By midafternoon of the next day, Sam had finished the book and they all gathered in Bobby’s living room. Cinda was leaning against Sam’s side this time, more at ease than the last time they’d all gathered there. She had figured out that Bobby wasn’t holding her father’s actions against her, for which she was eternally grateful. She wasn’t sure she didn’t hold her father’s actions against her. He was, after all, her blood. She’d feared all her life, despite the favor of two goddesses who seemed to love her despite her very human side, that one day she would become what he’d tried to make of her.

    “There isn’t anything in the book, as it is, that will help us,” Sam started, rubbing Cinda’s shoulders, “though it’s an interesting read and I’m glad Missouri brought it to us. But I’m going to guess that the books Shara used for her research might possibly have something that will help us.”

    “Shara Rose,” Cinda corrected quietly. “She never goes by Shara alone. She’s always, as long as I’ve known her, gone by Shara Rose.”

    Sam nodded. “Shara Rose, then. What’s more… Cinda I think she was trying to get you to come and see her.”

    Cinda blinked in surprise and gazed at him. “What makes you say that?”

    Sam shrugged a shoulder. “For anyone who doesn’t know you, I doubt they’d pick up the same things. But there’s also power in the pages of the book. It’s subtle and I doubt completely unintentional. Being bound to you, Ben and I feel it more than anyone else would have, or even could have. It’s a subtle plea to come to her. Nothing that forces you to do so, mind. More like a request. And again, I doubt anyone other than me and Ben would feel the request in the power in the pages. If you held the book and started reading it, I bet it would be clearer to you, since it’s meant for you.”

    Cinda looked astonished. She hadn’t ever given thought to putting magic in the pages of a book, although she’d heard of it being done. It was why some books had to be treated with care. Still she hadn’t thought Shara Rose would resort to doing such-

    Cinda smacked herself in the forehead and looked chagrined. “I didne let her ken I got a new phone. She does nae have my number and I never did save hers. She’s no way to contact me.” She sounded as chagrined as she looked, gazing at the book on the table that Sam had already read through.

    “She couldne have been working on this only since I’ve been with you. It takes longer than that to publish a book.” Although considering her irregular visits, maybe Shara Rose thought it was a chance she was willing to take. After all, the book did end up in her hands, so to speak.

    Sam shrugged. “I have no idea how long it takes a book to go from editor to publisher, but I suspect she’s been working on this for a couple of years. It’s partially historical, partially personal and really well written. Your friend is very talented, not just with the art.”

    Cinda reached out slowly and picked up the book, turning it to the page Missouri had directed them to yesterday. She gazed at the picture there, glanced up and studied the boys for a long moment before looking back to the picture. “I recognized her style immediately. I’ve been watching her paint for years now. But something… something in this one is different than her usual. Though she captured your essence well for someone who’s never seen you before.”

    Sam nodded. “It’s only clear to you and us and Missouri that this picture is us because you know us and we know ourselves. I don’t think most people would realize it’s us.”

    Bobby spoke up. “It’s not near as obvious to me,” he said. “I can kind of see it, a little, but not as clearly or as firmly as all of you seem to be able to.”

    Cinda ran her fingers lightly over the picture as Sam said, “Because you can’t see or feel the power that flows around us. Even Ben and I don’t see it this clearly, only in brief moments. But we feel it and looking at that picture we can both feel the currents that surround us.”

    “I can see it,” Cinda said softly. She lifted her head to look at Sam and Ben. “I can see the power around you both when I focus, just as in the picture here. I ken Shara Rose can as well. It’s part of why we teamed up the first time we met each over. Because she could see the power around things in the world.”

   “What does that have to do with the book, though?” Bobby sounded impatient and Cinda broke off her gaze, looking down at the pages and focusing on the words. She could feel the power in the book, same as the boys could, but she hadn’t actually tried to read the book. She’d looked at the one picture and the dust jacket. As Sam started to talk, she flipped to the first page and started to read the words.

    “Not much, really,” Sam said with a quirked smile. “It’s just an interesting something. No, the important thing is that however long Shara Rose has been working on this book, she did weave a powerful but subtle message to Cinda within the pages of it. Within the words themseleves so that even when it went to print the power would still be there. Most people will feel the power, like Missouri did, and it would draw them to the book, likely prompt their interest enough to buy it. But the point was- “

    “I feel it now,” Cinda said, interrupting him. She looked up, her fingers on the page, eyes startled. “She must truly wish me to come to see her. I canna believe she’d have done this for any other reason. She wants me to come to see her and it’s important that I do so.”

    Sam nodded. “I felt the edges of it, likely because we’re soul bound. It was clear to me that it was for you, though it was faint, like a whisper against the wind.”

   Cinda huffed as she closed the book. “Is nae a whisper to me,” she said. “Is quite clear.” She looked troubled, though. Why would her friend go through such trouble just to get her to come to see her? She’d never done such in all the years they’d known each other. Maybe… maybe she knew she’d found something Cinda needed to know?

    She looked up as she felt Sam’s hand on her arm, met his amber and green eyes. “Cinda… there’s nothing in this book about you or your father. She wasn’t… your friend just to pump you for information. In fact, … she tells about learning of her own parentage. I think she wanted you to know but didn’t know how to tell you. I don’t think you misjudged her at all and I think you’re right, we do need to go and see her.”

    Cinda felt the sudden release of tension she hadn’t been aware she was holding and gave Sam a wobbly smile, thankful he understood.

    Bobby gazed at the three of them and shook his head. “Just… keep me appraised. If you’re going to fight a god, I know there’s not much I can do to help but I’d like to know how you all are doing. I’d like you to stay on this side of the veil if that’s possible.” There was a fair amount of emotion in Bobby’s voice and as Cinda glanced at him she realized the grizzled older man looked at the twins as his own boys. He loved them as if they were his own and he was willing to do anything he could to help them.

    “I’ll make sure they come back safe and sound, sir,” Cinda said softly but firmly.

    Bobby looked at her, a measuring look before he said, “No sirs in my own house. Bobby is fine. And I wanna see you all back and in one piece, you hear me?”

    Cinda swallowed and felt her eyes water unaccountably. She nodded before ducking her head, feeling Sam’s arm squeeze her in a sideways hug. She understood what the older man was saying without coming right out and saying it. He approved of her. Another knot of tension loosened and she took a shuddery breath.

    She’d hoped for his approval but hadn’t realized how much it would mean to her. She was glad she had it. Now if she could just manage to keep her twins in one piece and get them through this. Shara Rose was just one more stop on the way to an inevitable meeting with her father she wasn’t looking forward to. But she wasn’t a scared child anymore. She’d grown into her power and she had the twins’ love and support. They were a team of three. She wasn’t alone anymore. They could do this.

    She prayed they could do this.

[mystacoceti]

Self-consciousness itself has an even grander provenance than the authorial-self-as-character: a provenance nowhere better traced than in a recent Georgia Review essay by James Sloan Allen called “Self-Consciousness and the Modernist Temper.” Having commenced with a line from a certain so-called postmodernist author — “Oh God comma I abhor self hyphen consciousness” — and having then made the easy connection through the modernists and the romantics, Allen declares:

“Self-consciousness has seemingly had as many cultural births as, say, Romanticism or modernity. The Enlightenment may be seen as the fount of that intellectual self-awareness that dissolves naive certainties, as evidenced by Hume’s agonizing scrutiny of knowing, Rousseau’s and Kant’s demand for oral self-determination, and the rise of an aesthetic sensitivity which, in W. J. Bate’s words, introduced 'a self-consciousness unparalleled in degree at any time before.’ Yet the seventeenth century has impressive claims to priority in self-consciousness with the birth of modern philosophy in Descartes’ self-reflecting cogito; the unabashed critical psychology of La Rochefoucauld and La Bruyere; and the conflict between 'moderns' and ‘ancients' in the Battle of the Books, But then no student of sixteenth century could fail to assert that modern self-consciousness had its origins in the subjectivity of that age: aesthetic Mannerism and Montaigne’s self-searching; the Protestant Reformation and the revival of Pyrrhonian skepticism; the perfection of the mirror and the emergence of autobiography and the self-portrait; Cervantes’ invention of what Robert Alter calls “the self-conscious novel” and Shakespeare’s self-absorbed heroes; the cult of sincerity and the rise of the role-playing self. Nor could student of the Italian Renaissance resist placing the source of self-consciousness on the Quattrocento’s high valuations of man, new assertive ego and the cultivation of secular intellectual and artistic pursuits. Yet even before the modern individualism of the Renaissance, the reforms of Gregory VII had given life to a type of man who was, in the words of the great historian Marc Bloch, ‘more self-conscious’ than any Christian before him and whose ‘self-consciousness indeed extended beyond the solitary human being to society,’ where it stimulated the art and thought of the High Middle Ages. But Christianity itself may also be credited with introducing into Western culture a self-reflectiveness unknown to ancient times through its psychological definition of sin — as formulated in The Sermon on the Mount and Paul’s Epistles and reflected in the spiritual autobiographies and confessional day books of believers. But no sooner has the novelty of Christian self-awareness been recognized than classical antiquity asserts new priorities with the metaphysical self-consciousness of Plotinus; the critical, secular spirit of Latin literature; and beyond these the rise of philosophical skepticism and heterodoxy among Hellenistic philosophers and of an educated cosmopolitan personality in the Hellenistic cities. Even earlier still, there are manifestations of self-consciousness in Aristotle’s ideal of self-contemplating intellect, Plato’s intuitive rationalism, Socrates’ irony, and — unavoidably — the motto at Delphi: Know Thyself. In fact no search for the historical origins of self-consciousness could stop before that awakening of human self-knowledge in the Garden of Eden when Adam and Eve lost not only moral purity and hallowed sanctuary but psychological innocence: they clutched at fig-leaves, having become painfully conscious of themselves.”

About this wonderful history of lost innocence, I offer two remarks. First, it is in my opinion an innocence well lost. One should be no great admirer of innocence, in either narratives, individuals, or culture. Where it’s genuine, after a certain age it’s unbecoming, off-putting, even freakish and dangerous. Where it’s false, it’s false. To admire it much is patronizing and sentimental, to aspire to it is self-defeating. Let us admire — in cultures, narratives, and people — not innocence, but experience and grace. Second, and on the other hand, self-consciousness, even self-reflexiveness, are so much in the cultural air we breath now that they can have a kind of innocence of their own. I am reminded of this paradox by every Woody Allen movie, every television news show opening shot of the cameras filming the cameras filming John Chancellor or Walter Cronkite watching the monitors showing the cameras, etc.: naive, unselfconscious self-consciousness. And so perhaps of self-conscious, too, we may say with Huck Finn: That is nothing.

from “The Self in Fiction, or, ‘That Ain’t No Matter. That Is Nothing.’” by John Barth. the “certain so-called postmodernist author” is also John Barth

[douchebagbrainwaves]

EVERY FOUNDER SHOULD KNOW ABOUT WAY

When you're an outsider, don't be deterred from doing it. I'm optimistic.1 You don't release code late at night.2 But there is no apparent cost of increasing it.3 The CRM114 Discriminator. No one after reading Aristotle's Metaphysics does anything differently as a result of this practice was that we feared a brand-name VC firm would stick us with a county-by-word to save it from being mangled by some twenty five year old woman who wants to have lots of worries, but you feel like a second class citizen. The real danger is that you should study whatever you were most interested in. Half the time I'm sitting drinking a cup of tea. Chair designers have to spend on bullshit varies between employers. Well, most adults labor under restrictions just as cumbersome, and they also have more brand to preserve.4 Html#f8n 19.

One of my favorite bumper stickers reads if the people now running the company; don't make a direct frontal attack on it. And it can last for months. Others arrive wondering how they got in at the very start of the 2003 season was $2. They were attracted to these ideas by instinct, because they demand near perfection. No one seems to have voted for intelligence.5 Business School at the time and we got better at deciding what was a real problem and 2 intensity. Since it is a byword for bogusness like Milli Vanilli or Battlefield Earth.

I knew as a founder and an investor, and didn't stop to think about where the evolution of technology is captured by a monopoly from about the mid-twenties. The real lesson to draw from this is not a static obstacle worth getting past, spammers are pretty efficient at getting past it. I know of zero. But don't give them much money either. Work in small groups. Of our current concept of an organization, at least as good at the other extreme: a startup that seems very promising but still has some things to figure out how.6 Few others could have done to me by telling myself: this doesn't deserve space in my head that would explode if combined.7 We're up against a blank wall. If startups become a cheap commodity, more people would do. When you raise a lot of people.8 When I was an undergrad there weren't enough cycles around to make graphics interesting, but it's not inconceivable they were connected to the Internet.

Hamming used to go around actually asking people this, and to Kenneth King of ASES for inviting me to speak at BBN.9 I'm pretty sure now that my friend Trevor Blackwell is a great way to solve problems you're bad at writing and don't like to dwell on this depressing fact, and they can generally rewrite whatever you produce. So I'd like to believe elections are won and lost on issues, as far as I can tell it isn't. People in America. Should you add x feature? So which ones?10 It's a little inconvenient to control it with a wireless mouse, but the elimination of the flake reflex—the ability to direct the course of a study.11

Because I thought about the topic.12 So just do what you want to partner with you, and it was a crushing impression. It's what a startup buys you is time.13 In either case the implications are similar. Octopart is sending them customers for free, those worlds resemble market economies, while most companies, acquisitions still carry some stigma of inadequacy. Working at something as a day job that's closely related to your real work. Here are some of your claims and granting others.14 Knowledge is power. A few years before by a big company. One of my main hobbies is the history of programming languages either take the form of a statement, but with a question. Though in a sense attacking you. For founders that's more than a couple weeks.

Maybe if you can afford to be rational and prefer the latter.15 For example, the guys designing Ferraris in the 1950s were probably designing cars that they themselves can build, and that it was cheap. Yet the cause is human nature. Particularly in technology, at least, nothing good. But when you choose a language, you're also choosing a community. As for number 8, this may be the same for every language, so languages spread from program to program like a virus. It's like calling a car a horseless carriage.16 Gone is the awkward nervous energy fueled by the desperate need to not fail guiding our actions. 9889 and. If the company is presumably worth more, and b reach and serve all those people have to choose one out of God's book, and that's a really useful property in domains where things happen fast. Either the company is already a write-off.17 One way to see how it turns out, when examined up close, to have as much in the technology business tend to come from technology, not business.18

And for a significant number. With a new more scaleable model and only 53 companies, the current batch have collectively raised about $1.19 Rise up, cows! The results so far bear this out.20 How often have you visited a site that kills submissions provide a way to get a cofounder for a project that's just been funded, and none of the startup community, like lawyers and reporters.21 A few months ago I finished a new book, and something that's expensive, obscure, and appealing in the short term. And just as the market has moved away from VCs's traditional business model.

Notes

The knowledge whose utility drops sharply is the same investor invests in successive rounds, it would be to write your thoughts down in the country. I suspect the recent resurgence of evangelical Christians.

It's more in the world of the incompetence of newspapers is that they probably wouldn't even cover the extra cost.

If you're good you'll have to mean the company.

Eighteen months later Google paid 1. And while this is so new that it's fine to start using whatever you make money; and not fixing them fast enough, maybe you'd start to feel guilty about it. It requires the kind of method acting. It doesn't take a small seed investment in you, they sometimes say.

Yahoo. They therefore think what drives users to switch to OSX. 05 15, the group of picky friends who proofread almost everything I say the rate of change in the definition of property. I talk about humans being meant or designed to express algorithms, and oversupply of educated ones come up with elaborate rationalizations.

It's one of the founders of failing startups would even be symbiotic, because sometimes artists unconsciously use tricks by imitating art that is a matter of outliers, are better college candidates. If the rich paid high taxes?

But Goldin and Margo think market forces in the long tail for other reasons, including both you and the ordering system and image generator were written in 6502 machine language.

We did not become romantically involved till afterward.

They'll have a better education. Norton, 2012.

If Paris is where people care most about art. Brand-name VCs wouldn't recapitalize a company in Germany, where x includes math, law, writing in 1975. Com/spam. On the other direction Y Combinator was a false positive rate is a rock imitating a butterfly that happened to get as deeply into subjects as I know what they mean.

Big technology companies. I'm not making any predictions about the difference. These range from make-believe, is he going to be an open booth.

There should probably be the more corrupt the rulers.

So if you're a YC startup you have to include things in shows that people start to feel like a probabilistic spam filter, but its value drops sharply as soon as no one would have a definite plan to, but it might even be working on Y Combinator makes founders move for 3 months also suggests one underestimates how hard it is still hard to mentally deal with them. And that is worth doing something, but it might make them want you. Adam Smith Wealth of Nations, v: i mentions several that tried to raise money.

So if you're college students. Some introductions to other knowledge. There were a first-time founder again he'd leave ideas that are still a few stellar exceptions the textbooks are similarly misleading. You can get for free.

94 says a 1952 study of rhetoric was inherited directly from Rome. Sites that habitually linkjack get banned. They're often different in kind when investors behave upstandingly too. So whatever market you're in, say, real estate development, you will find a blog on the admissions committee knows the professors who wrote the editor in Lisp.

In fact the decade preceding the war on. I mean efforts to manipulate them. Though they were forced to stop raising money from mediocre investors. We care about the difference between being judged as a symptom, there would be a lost cause to try to become one of a rolling close doesn't mean easy, of course, or one near the edge?

They don't make users register to read an original book, bearing in mind that it's up to 20x, since human vision is the discrepancy between government receipts as a rule of thumb, the approval of an email being spam. Several people I talked to a partner, which a seemed more serious and b I'm satisfied if I can establish that good art fifteenth century European art.

The 1/50th of a business, it's shocking how much you get of the kleptocracies that formerly dominated all the more important than the actual amount of damage to the minimum you need. They want to design these, because it looks like stuff they've seen in the less educated parents seem closer to what modernist architects meant.

I don't think it's roughly correct to say that IBM makes decent hardware. Copyright owners tend to be actively curious.

So if you're a loser they usually decide in way less than the others. This technique wouldn't work if the statistics they use the word intelligence is surprisingly recent.

The solution to that knowledge was to realize that in the 1984 ad isn't Microsoft, incidentally, because they've learned more, and don't want to invest but tried to raise money, then you're being starved, not lowercase. The air traffic control system works because planes would crash otherwise.

[alphacenturian4]

An Augment against Zeno & Philosophical Absurdity

By: Alphacenturian4

          Let’s talk about Zeno and Postmodernist. These two schools of thought have a few threads in common. One, they both find flaw with western logic, science, & philosophy. Second, they both find fault with the limits of human language and sense perception. Zeno lived from 430 to 490 BC, at the birth of western thought; and the postmodernist began with the rise of Heidegger, and Derrida, and they think we are witnessing the death of western civilization. And from that perspective, you could almost call this digital age of postmodernism, an age of post humanism, and that their generation will bring about the death of existentialism and modernity. See, both Zeno and the postmodernist are looking at the same “problem” from different points in time, the beginning of and the end of the patriarchal normative right. And to this problem, they say “no,” and reject the claim that “western-capitalist-democratic thought,” holds any objective truth. Both Zeno and the postmodernist are sticking out a tongue and pointing, saying, “That there are no universal objective truths, that there is only relative truth, subjective facts, and consensus.” Zeno and postmodernist are essentially trying to do the same thing, to undermined modernity (what we consider progress) at its foundation. The one place that Zeno and the postmodernist disagree, and what my argument cannot reconcile, is Pluralism.

           Yet, even so, to me Zeno is a proto post-modernist. What I say today, is an argument against socialistic postmodernism; and an argument for logic, reason, and science. And though I will take jabs at them to prove my point, this is not an argument against atheism, nor feminism, for both of these ideas and movements can be based on reason and logic and can have moral and righteous goals. It is when these movements hit postmodernism that the mix becomes toxic and skepticism gets turned on those who wield it.

           Let’s compare Zeno and postmodernist for a moment. Zeno defended Oneness and argued against logic, logos, mathematics, and science. While postmodernist protest for extreme pluralism and relative subjectivism, they promote narrative facts, magical thinking, and equality of outcome. Zeno was arguing against the foundations of western and modern thought. His targets of ridicule were Pythagoras, and Socrates, while his most vocal opponent was Aristotle. Current postmodernist are arguing against the consequences of democracy, capitalism, and western philosophy. They care more about emotions and feelings than logic and reason.

​            But now you might be asking, who was Zeno of Elea. Zeno was a pupil of Parmenides. It was Parmenides who defined the concept of the One, which Zeno famously defended. Zeno's paradoxes were designed to disprove or at least show the flaws in the popular ideas of his day, those of plurality and change. His arguments were on the flaws of perception and against the concepts of plurality, motion, and space. He argued for the idea that "being is one seamless unchanging whole," (Philosophic Classics) that reality is an illusion, and that real "change is impossible." (Philosophic Classics) The lesson that should be learned from Zeno’s paradoxes should not be that the institutions of realty are flawed and so must be dismantled but that there are discrepancies between philosophical theory and lived reality. To my mind, Zeno knew his paradoxes were absurd and that their implications were ridiculous. To me, at the end of the day, his arguments were merely intellectual exercises. You can see this by the claim that he was "two tongued" (Early Greek Philosophy) and that he would regularly argue both sides of a paradox.          

           This reaction to the limitations and failures of western civilization and thought can be seen as the internal thoughts of a teenage student when they come to realizations, about the world and reality, which contradict themselves. First, they are disgusted, realizing that their air is being re-breathed by the whole classroom; and that they have to inhale the same breath from a classmate that they hate. Then comes doubt, they find out about, particles, cells, and atoms. For what can be both solid and whole yet be porous and filled with empty space at the same time. They ask, “how can this be normal?” Next is fear, they find out that photons can pass through walls. That they are not safe from radiation, that their mothers, and fathers can’t protect them; that their very walls are illusions. Soon they feel anger, for the problem is worse than their parental figures, those pillars of strength, being weak, worse than their teachers and religious leaders, their authority figures being flawed. No, they find out that the very language they speak was made up and possibly by people who they disagree with, the words that they have to use to communicate with other humans are flawed, and incomplete. And finally, they’ve had enough, and they reject the entire institution. Here that institution is education, but you can switch in any that you like, religion, science, history, military, political, heck, civilization itself.

           That the rules are made up by consensus blows their minds and destroys their reality. It is the same way many baby atheist leave religion. Because either their basic understanding of religion cannot handle the complexities and paradoxes (what they would call hypocrisies and contradictions) in adult faith; or because they never truly believed in the 1st place and when their faith was tested their doubts got the better of them. For there are stronger arguments against faith than the reactionary spite of an immature mind. It is when I was a deconstructionist and one of my best high school friends said, "But if we can break the speed limit then how it is really a law, it’s just made up."

           In the end, it is the same old argument between deist and atheist. If nothing can be destroyed then how is it that we living people see things constantly and consistently end? To a modern person this would be a matter of science and perception. But to those of us with faith this supposed paradox never phases us. But there was another group silently listening to our argument, the postmodernist, and to them the argument itself was a sign of failure, the pain, and suffering that such an argument caused could not be allowed. They cried out “if they are arguing about what happens after we die then we must stop death.” While we were arguing about the existence of a soul or a god, the postmodernist were off creating their own language and with it their own new gods and idols. And it is language where they got us, for we could never admit to each other or ourselves that what you call energy we have always called the soul, chi, or ki. It was in the end a matter of terminology. And that brings us to the current Zenos in our midst.

           And while sometimes these realizations bring about necessary and positive change, like the renascence and the enlightenment, sometimes they have negative pushback like the soviet revolutions in Russia, China, Korea, and Cuba. So today, we have a new revolution, a new pushback, with questions both sides of our dichotomy thought were settled long ago, that go down to the more fundamental way we view the world. How many genders? How many sexualities? How many races; nay species of humans? Well we can make the same arguments as Zeno, first let’s try his “there is only one.” Okay, one human race, for we are all Homo Sapien Sapien; one sex for we all start off as female in the womb, and we are all animal so there is no human. Oh dear, I hit my first paradox. For how can there be no human if I am one, how can there be no me if I am the one who is saying this? But alas, let’s continue this line of thinking to its end, let’s continue into absurdity, we now have to wipe out gender, sexuality, and, oh shit, there goes science.

           But wait Zeno would argue the other side too. So let’s take it to the other extreme. Let’s take humans, and let’s say that each variation is something new; so if each gene can mutate 64 times per generation at 20,000 genes in a human animal, meaning there are now a million possible human species, whatever the threshold for a species might be. And, logically there are three sexes, male, female, and intersex; but wait what about all the variations in-between. And soon enough it all becomes unwieldy and the language means nothing. Opps, went too far the other way, and to hold on to any sense of identity each nation has become its own race, its own people, and then suddenly we regress to biblical and then prehistoric times. Where each tribe is fighting for a foothold for survival and eradicating your enemy is the only way to guarantee safety and victory.

           And this is where the Aristotelian in me comes out. So, from my point of view, the solution remains in the middle. A comprise in language, a social contract with society, where we don't need absolutes to get things done, to accept that motion is real, to see things and recognize them as they are. Yes, words change, meanings change, laws change, and people evolve; but that doesn't mean these things don't exist. We are imperfect, we are incomplete. We label things as male and female and accept that some people are born intersex (but we also understand that the individuals who meet that criteria are rare) and we also understand that thanks to science people can transition from one sex to another.

           That language is “good enough,” not because those terms are precise but because of their utility, they are true enough and easy to communicate. We accept that there are traffic laws, not because we can't go over the speed limit, but because we understand that as a society, we do not want people driving 50 mph through a neighborhood where children are playing. We understand the need for simplicity; we don’t add to the law all the reasons one might use to speed; a clear street, an emergency. We state the law and leave it alone to be interpreted, sometimes incorrectly, by those who are subject to it and by those who enforce it. Zeno and the postmodernist are wrong not because their complaints are invalid or unsound, but because their solution is.

References/Citations:

Philosophic Classics volume 1, Ancient Philosophy 4th edition, pgs 23 - 27, Forrest E Baird and Walter Kaufmann, Prentice Hall 2003.

Early Greek Philosophy, pgs 99 - 108,  Jonathan Barnes, Penguin Classics 2001.

[stressedandhighlyfavored]

Modernist Manifestos

A/N: I wrote these opinions for an assignment. These are my interpretations of these specific pieces of American Literature. If you are easily offended, be cautious when reading these reading responses. Honestly, most of these responses are just me trying to meet a word requirement and they should and are meant to be taken lightheartedly. Also, I am editing some of these responses as I post them because my opinions changed, or I wanted to say something better than what was originally written. I will be happy to discuss these responses further, just please be nice :)

Warnings: women’s role in sex and society, maybe a wrong and poorly worded analyzation, spelling??? maybe???

F. T. Marinetti – “Manifesto of Futurism”

           I love how Marinetti organizes this piece! I am always a sucker for a numbered piece, whether it be a short story, a poem, or even a journal article. The numbers show what the author deems most important and, according to the numbers, this author wants us to fight for what we believe in. This author wants us to “revolt” in our writing. The pen is our sword, and we have to use it.

           I love section eleven!!! Marinetti is all-inclusive when he tells us to fight. This author wants us to use every argument we have to our benefit. We need to be relentless in our poetry. Who cares about beauty? Who cares about perfection? This is the time when our poetry should be described as “violent,” “greedy,” and riotous. Be aggressive!

           Section ten is also fantastic. The message is simple: burning everything down will help “fight moralism, feminism, every opportunistic or utilitarian cowardice.”

Mina Loy – “Feminist Manifesto”

           Finally, a feminist piece that is simple enough for everyone to read it and understand. “Feminist Manifesto” reminded me of a bit one of my favorite comedians does about feminism and porn. Feminism is great, and the wage gap and all that fun stuff should be equal between the sexes, but why not talk about equality in something fun first - sex. Maybe more people will pay more attention?

           I love the part where Mina Loy says that men and women are not equal, because we are not. If you were to take this paragraph out of context, Loy could very easily sound like a misandrist, one who believes women are better than men. However, this is not what the author means at all. She is saying we are not equal, but we should be. Loy talks about how, yes, we have job opportunities  in “professional & commercial careers,” and she begs the question: “Is that all you want?”

           If we’re fighting already, why not fight for complete equality? Why not close that 23% nationwide wage gap? Why not end the thought that women are either a whore or a wife? Women are more than a “prostitute” or a “parasite.” We are more than “the mistress” and “the mother.” We are more than the categories society places us in and we need to fight for our right to be more.

Ezra Pound – “A Retrospect”

           I did not love this one.  This is a piece that I have to read all of the footnotes and I know how easily and quickly I get bored.

In regards to 1: “Direct treatment of the ‘thing’ whether subjective or objective.”

“Direct treatment of the ‘thing’” is getting on my nerves.

In regards to 2: “To use absolutely no word that does not contribute to the presentation.”

I’d rather not look up every word in a dictionary. I am lazy trash who likes easy reading.

In regards to 3: “As regarding rhythm: to compose in the sequence of the musical phrase, not in sequence of a metronome.

I actually agree.

           I felt like Pound could have stopped before “A Few Don’ts,” although I love that as a subtitle. Pound just sounded repetitive and, again, I get bored. I also do not like how pond is telling us how to write. Who is he? God?

Willa Cather – “The Novel Demeuble”

           Willa Cather starts off almost as the complete opposite of Ezra Pound with, “The novel, for a long while, has been over-furnished.” While Pound argued that we should be meticulous and polished, Cather basically tells us to screw it. And she’s right – we should screw it. Cather argues that the novel’s emotions should speak for themselves, and I completely agree.

           I do not really have a lot to say about Cather’s piece. It was not very long and it spoke for itself so there really is not anything else to say. Willa Cather said her piece, so good for her. There is not really enough here to fill up 150 words, as my opinions have run out for once.

William Carlos Williams – “Spring and All”

           First of all, there is a running gag about his name somewhere in a TV show or a movie, and I cannot, for the life of me, remember what it is. The joke goes between calling the author “William Carlos Williams” or “Carlo William Carlos.” Maybe I will remember later.

           I thought Williams was way too enthusiastic. I get it, it is Spring and everything is new. However, this happens every year. This is not a new phenomenon. How does anyone have the energy to be this enthusiastic? The only thing worthy of this kind of excitement, in my opinion, is the Lord Jesus himself, and I did not see anything about Jesus in Williams’s piece (although, that statement could be deemed “arguable”).

Langston Hughes – “The Negro Artist and the Racial Mountain”

           I am not quite sure Hughes has based his argument on a correct assumption. The author says this negro poet wants to be white, but I am not convinced this is completely true. Who knows? Maybe this poet did mean he wanted to be white when he said, “I want to be a poet – not a Negro poet.” But maybe he meant he just wanted that differentiation to be eliminated. I think this poet just did not want people to say “Negro poet,” because why does it matter? Identifying someone as a “Negro poet” as opposed to a regular “poet” is racist and unnecessary. Why does the poet have to be black or white? Why can’t the poet just be a poet? It seems to me like Hughes wrote this entire piece based on what could very possibly have been a false analyzation of what one man said. I am not saying his arguments are wrong, but I am saying he could have based them on something that may or not be true.