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One thing I remember doing at that age is reading every magazine and every journal all the way through. I didn't think to skip things because I felt I didn't know enough yet to be allowed to skip anything. [...]
hahhaha i still do this (and i feel guilty when i mark something as "read" on goodreads without having read all the way through)
[...] I read like five male coming-of-age novels that had intense, long passages about masturbation. These books taught me a lot about what it must be like to be a young man, and gave me some terrible ideas about the kind of woman I didn't want to be, in order to not be thought dull or needy by the intelligent, masturbating young men I liked, but they did not help me understand my life. [...]
[...] These were the books that were handed to me, and so I thought, this is something that I have to get used to. I knew that if I had been a young man, I would mimic these novels too. The realization that there were parts of that acting out that I didn't get to do, solely because of my gender, and other parts in which my acting out was seen differently, not as fun but desperate, was devastating. I can't even explain how devastating that was. I couldn't even think of the ethics of any of it because all I saw was the role I was confined to in those stories. I can't think of a book that I would've given myself that would've armed me against that feeling. I got really mad at the books. I remember getting mad at a boyfriend who had lied and saying, "YOU THINK YOU'RE THE HERO OF A FUCKING UPDIKE NOVEL." But it was my role I resented, the role of the bovine female, while he was the Julian Sorel, the deceptive, neurotic, charmingly flawed hero balancing competing claims for this affection--again, the bearer of narrative.
on Roth
I think because it seemed hard, and because it seemed comfortingly objective. I had gotten myself into this incredible existential funk as a child about moral relativity and animal rights-- I had a crazy animal rights and environmental magazine was pathologically invested in it, and also completely convinced that I was going to start a revolution among young people, like other 10- and 11-year-olds. But when I went to public high school I realized that not everyone agreed with me. Everyone wasn't a crazy hippie. I thought, "How do I know I'm right and everybody's wrong?" And so I turned to the sciences. It's also where you get that feedback loop, academically: positive reinforcement, good grades, stuff like that, and it's so easy to climb. That was something completely new to me, having grades, having gold stars. I got into that.
on why she wanted to study physics at Brown. i love this. v relateable
This relates to something Elif said at the beginning, about how as an aspiring writer she believed she should not read novels in order to be a real, creative genius. I love my influences, but I would advise people to be more like young Elif! Protect and cultivate and trust your untrammeled instincts a little bit, just for fun.
I do think that millions of other teens (who, like me, never even what Sassy was, let alone that they should ask for a subscription for it) suffered without access to feminism. But there’s also the unique and poignant and enduring suffering of the women who become fodder for its formation and sustenance: postfeminism made them villains, and in so doing, made itself stronger.
I talk about this like postfeminism is a living entity, or a side in a war, with generals captaining it. Ideologies are never that coherent, that distinguishable, even if they do have people who benefit and profit from them. But there is no “outside” of ideology: We are all participants in a given ideology’s formation. Those who push against it can inadvertantly codify and reinforce its tenets. Those who ignore it nonetheless internalize it messages. The most effective and insidious of ideologies are those that make themselves invisible: it’s not a stance, it’s not political, it’s just the way things are.
My faith in the firmness of time slips away gradually. I begin to imagine that chronological time is an illusion and that some other principle organizes existence. My memories flash like clips of film from unrelated movies. I wonder, suddenly, if I am alive. I know I'm not dead, but am I alive? I look into the memories for reassurance, searching for signs of life. I find someone moving. Is it me? My chest tightens.
interesting
Outside, the lead-gray afternoon slipped almost imperceptibly into twilight. Very gradually the earth moved toward night and as I sat eating I noted every darkening shadow. Jean sipped his coffee and lighted a Pall Mall. My mother arranged the kerosene lamp so she could see to do the dishes.
"Frank, get me some water."
Through the door and into the twilight, the bucket against my thigh. There was a path beaten through the snow, a dark line curving through the drifts to the well. The low sky was empty, uniformly leaden. Stands of trees spread pools of darkness, as if night came up from their sunken roots. [...]
The days were emptiness, a vast, spacious emptiness in which the fact of being alive became almost meaningless. The first fragile beginnings of a personality starting to collect in my twelve-year-old soul were immediately sucked up into the silence and the featureless winter sky. The overbearing, undeniable reality of those empty days! The inescapable fact that everything around me was nonhuman, that in terms of snow and sky and rocks and dormant trees I didn't exist, these things rendered me invisible even to myself. I wasn't conscious of what was happening, I lived it. I became invisible. I lost myself.
I believed I was intelligent. For a long time that thought had been important to me. At the school I felt for the first time that my intelligence was worth something to someone else besides myself. Here was a huge organization, an immense, powerful world existing for the inmate, but existing for me as well. It was the other extreme! At last I'd found someplace where my only possession would be relevant! [...]