A review of some reviews (of some reviews, on occasion)

Video

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"An Examination of the Work of Herbert Quain", by Jorge Luis Borges, is a short story in the form of four reviews of four books that don't exist. So what you're reading right now is a review of a review. Actually, Borges sometimes reviews reviews in the story, so this is also a review of a review of a review. And if you were to review this blog post, that would be a review of a... well, you get it.

These reviews are incredibly fun to read. The reviewer describes the four nonexistent books with such vivid, skillful prose that you can't help but want to read them. One's prologue "evokes the inverse world of Bradley in which death precedes birth, the scar the wound, and the wound the blow"; another is "highly diverse, but also retrospective." But the reviewer is not full of effusive praise: in the first, he notes "the vain and frigid pomp of certain descriptions of the sea", and of the last he simultaneously lauds and laments "a good plot, deliberately frustrated by the author".

Borges' deep knowledge and mastery of his craft is on full display here, and he gets to employ those skills in ways both literal and literary: he's telling you about deficiencies in prose at the same time he's demonstrating his aplomb with prose. He's evaluating intricate plot constructions even as he's enveloping you in one. It's mesmerizing to read a great writer's thoughts on writing for the same reason it's mesmerizing to watch to a master chef showing how to prepare a gourmet meal, or hear a painter's breakdown of a blending technique. Mastery is an enigma, and these moments allow us to glimpse it -- but only glimpse, because the talent and effort required for this kind of mastery means most of us will never touch it directly.

Now, if that were the end of the premise, that would already be a great short story. You'd be forgiven for thinking Borges was merely great, but in fact, what he manages to achieve in "An Examination of the Work of Herbert Quain" is even more subtle and ingenius. Because after I'd finished reading the story -- while I was sitting there, missing the nonexistence of these four nonexistent works by a nonexistent author, wishing I had the opportunity to have these literary experiences, I realized I had just had them. Even as Borges enthralls the reader with descriptions of amazing, labyrinthine journeys of the imagination, he's secretly taking the reader on those very journeys. And all in just four pages.*

*There is a breathtaking elegance of language here -- Borges really is the God of the Labyrinth. Indeed, while writing this review, I was afraid it would be longer than the story itself. I abated these concerns by leaving a lot of stuff out.

The first non-book by the titular Quain, The God of the Labyrinth, is a murder mystery in the vein of Agatha Christie. The mystery is first difficult, eventually resolved: "An indecipherable assassination takes place... a solution takes place in the end." But after the solution, there's another sentence in the book, a sentence which causes the reader to realize that "the solution is erroneous. The unquiet reader rereads the pertinent chapters and discovers another solution, the true one. The reader of this singular book is thus forcibly more discerning than the detective."

This plot is a secret mirror of my experience reading "An Examination of the Work of Herbert Quain". I initially thought it was going to be some fun book reviews, premises Borges never got to realize. It's only after I read the last sentence that I realized what Borges was doing was not so simple. In other words, my original conception of the story was erroneous. Thus unquieted, I reread the the pertinent chapters and discovered another solution, the true one: that Borges actually did realize all his premises, and he did so in the very story I had just read. My second reading was thus forcibly more discerning than my second. My review of my experience was, in a way, more real than the experience itself.

The final sentence of "An Examination of the Work of Herbert Quain" reveals the unnamed reviewer of Herbert Quain's work is none other than Borges. Apparently, reading Quain is what inspired Borges to write his story "The Circular Ruins". But this characterization is a total lie, because Quain isn't real. Borges made him up for this story. Plus, "An Examination of the Work of Herbert Quain" was written after "The Circular Ruins", so the timeline doesn't even line up. Hence, in the real world, "An Examination of the Work of Herbert Quain" possesses a retrograde chronology.

This chronology is precisely captured in the second book reviewed, April March. The title is already indicative of the backwards perspective. Borges writes, "In judging this novel, no one would fail to discover that it is a game; it is only fair to remember that the author never considered it anything else." One wonders which author Borges is referring to.

April March is tells a story with a "regressive and ramified" history, in which each subsequent chapter takes place earlier than the previous one. The events happen over three eves, all very different, further subdivided into three chapters, also very different: "the temper of one of these novels is symbolic; that of another, psychological; another, communist; of still another, anti-communist; and so on." But Borges tells us "Quain regretted the ternary order, and predicted that whoever would imitate him would choose a binary arrangement": two parts divided into two parts, resulting in four distinct stories.

The resulting structure is the exact structure of "An Examination of the Work of Herbert Quain": four distinct stories, all very different, in binary arrangement. Two parts divided into two parts. This division is further elaborated on in the third story, The Secret Mirror, a play that follows a droll and fantastical aristocracy. "We suspect" the main character "does not cultivate literature", but at the same time, the first act contains "vast fortunes and ancient blood", "a nightingale on a night", "a secret duel on a terrace."

In the second act of the play, things get weirder: "everything becomes slightly horrible, everything is postponed or frustrated." And "the characters of the first act appear in the second -- bearing other names." This is the second part of the play, but also the second part of "An Examination of the Work of Herbert Quain," in the structure Quain wanted his successor to use: two parts divided into two parts, the second half a bizarre reflection of the first.

That's not the end of the parallels: because Quain is Borges' fictional inspiration, he also functions as a secret mirror to Borges, a weird, distorted reflection of what Borges is himself, or an appearance of Borges -- bearing another name. Quain titled his works after labyrinths and mirrors, recurring symbols in Borges' oeuvre. Quain wrote a collection of eight stories in his book Statements, as did Borges in his book Fictions. This casts all of Borges' assessment of Quain in a new light: "An Examination of the Work of Herbert Quain" is no longer an author writing about another (fictional) author, but a real, semi-autobiographical self-reflection, coyly rendered as third-person critique. As an example, Borges' initial chastisement of Quain (he's "over-anxious to astonish") becomes less of a straightforward attack and more of a sly apology.

It's all the more fitting, then, that this collection of reviews is not only a collection of reviews. It's also a sort of eulogy, written in the wake of the fictional Quain's death. The author is "not astonished to find that the Times Literary Supplement allots [Quain] scarcely half a column of necrological piety," and makes up for that by writing "An Examination of the Work of Herbert Quain". Borges is both literally and literarily burying and celebrating his fictional reflection simultaneously.

Here, we get to the core of what makes "An Examination of the Work of Herbert Quain" so great. In one sense, Quain and his works are fake -- pure confabulations invented by Borges to tell a story. But in a deeper sense, the stories of Quain are very much real. Not only did we just read about them, we experienced -- both literally and literarily -- the narrative arcs essential to each of them. Borges wasn't simply crafting fictions, he was also making history. And as Borges writes of Quain, "in his mind, there was no discipline inferior to history."

When we remember stories, we don't remember every word of them. We remember the broad strokes, the feelings they inspired, the concepts and premises they espoused. In that sense, our memories of what a story was are more real to us than what the story actually is. In the same way, by taking us through the essential qualities of Quain's not-real works in multiple ways, Borges makes them more real to us than they would be if we'd merely read them -- not to mention how "An Examination of the Work of Herbert Quain" is indisputably a real short story, a concrete piece of literary history. So as Borges dreams these stories into life, we have to ask: who is the reflection? Borges, or Quain?

In Borges' final review of Quain's Statements, he says "one of the stories -- not the best -- insinuates two arguments. The reader, led astray by vanity, thinks he has invented them." This is an inversion of the arc of The God of the Labyrinth, wherein the reader does come to a solution superior to the one presented by the detective. But the statement about vanity distorts our understanding of that initial review retrospectively: were we "forcibly more discerning than the detective?" Or had we been "led astray by vanity" even then? Which do we believe, and which is the reflection?

You're about to finish reading my review of Borges' short story, "An Examination of the Work of Herbert Quain". Between the story and the review, which of them feels more real to you? And is it the reflection?**

** As I was editing -- reviewing -- this post, I realized its final form was both (a) more true to what I wanted to say, and (b) a mere reflection of the initial ideas I had before I wrote it. But maybe I'm overanalyzing here. Maybe I, like Quain, am "over-anxious to astonish."

Talking to Strangers: A Guide

I often talk to strangers, and have gotten near-universally positive results from doing so. I've often been asked how I do it. Here it is: A guide for people who want to talk to strangers, but don't know how.

Why do it 

Before you learn how to do it, you have to really want to do it. If you're feeling inspired, you will find a way on your own.

1.) Everyone around you knows countless things you don't. They know things about Renaissance art, Brazilian culture, microbiology, transatlantic shipping, marketing strategy, food preparation, car repair, horticultural technique, hair styling, raising children... you get the point. Everyone around you is profoundly fascinating.

I'm of the opinion that anything is interesting if you learn enough about it, so to leave this incredible wellspring of information untapped seems at the very least a waste. But even if you don't feel the same natural curiosity, it's still interesting to ask why they're interested in these things you feel nothing for. What's there that's so captivating?

2.) Everyone around you contains amazing stories: stories to inspire you, to infuriate you, to make you weep, or laugh, or look at the world differently. These stories can be life-changing (they certainly have been for me), and they're all roiling there, just beneath the surface. You just have to pull them out.

3.) People can be of great help to you. I once bought someone some food. That same week, my car broke down, he happened to be passing by, and helped me fix it. While he was doing that, he casually dropped some great wisdom I try to live by to this day. These kinds of experiences are fully within your grasp. Great collaboration breeds great collaboration. Great joy breeds great joy.

Who to choose

Don't talk to people who have stuff in their ears, who are clearly in a rush, or who don't reciprocate. (This eliminates a lot of people, but it doesn't eliminate everyone. And there are some exceptions to these rules, too.) Give people a little something, and if they respond positively, give them a little more. This is how you start to build connection. If they don't give anything back, smile, shrug, move on with your day, and assume they, much like you, are an incredibly busy person whose life is packed with a diverse array of interesting hobbies and meaningful relationships.

A lot of people who want to talk to strangers but don't are afraid of bothering people. Fair enough, I've probably bothered some people. But subjecting someone to 5-10 seconds of annoyance or discomfort is beyond worth it when you consider the massive reward of genuine connection. I get the former far, far less often than I get the latter, and as I keep improving, the ratio is skewing in my favor even more. As it turns out, you and I offer just as much knowledge, story, novelty, and value as the people we're going to talk to.

Approach: 3 methods

1.) Comment on something in the local surroundings: "I love your hair", "That is so beautiful", "Wow, they painted the trains, that's cool", "I wonder how they do that?", "Dang, that's big". I once said the last one to a guy on a dock while pointing at a ship, and he proceeded to teach me all about Atlantic shipping, showed me a ship-tracking app where you can see the ocean lit up like a constellation, and recommended a great restaurant to eat brunch at. Environmental observation = instant connection.

2.) Get people to approach you. Find a skill that's visually or aurally attention-catching, practice it, and fall in love in it. Get so invested in getting good at it that you want to practice it even when other people are watching. For me, the former was card tricks, shadow puppets, practicing ASL, or dancing (even a slight rhythmic twist of the shoulders and a smile is enough to spark something); the latter was beatboxing, clapping fast, or bodily percussion. People voluntarily coming up to you is the easiest way to start a conversation.

3.) Smile, wave, say "Excuse me,", then ask a question. "Can I get your opinion on something real quick?" "Where did you get that watch?" "Do you need help? You look lost." "Do you know where the park is?" and so on. Note: this option does requires good conversational skills to maintain. I recommend pairing with #1. 

Good conversational skills

Give a little, ask for a little, then give a little more. Do your best to give just a little more than what you get. This is the basic method to building good conversations.

To give, ask yourself: What does what they said remind you of? What can you respond with that might interest them? How can you provide additional meaning or context to their existing knowledge? What stories have you lived that resonate with theirs? What's something funny about the situation?

To ask for more, ask yourself: What's interesting about this person's story? How does it relate to something you don't know much about? How can you get more of their knowledge? Where does it come from?

Failure

A lot of people think I'm confident at this because I succeed a lot. The truth is the opposite: I'm so confident because I've failed a lot. Confidence comes from continuing to practice something even though you fail, because that's actually how you get good at things. Reframe failure: either you're succeeding, or you're learning. Those are the only 2 possibilities.

Lyrics: Fast and Slow

I’m a man o’ simple tastes, not sybaritic
I ran a little race, half a millisecond
Behind the guy who finished in second place
I’m my own worst critic
Need a change o pace to make a mark, see I’m worth diacritics
Steal your heart, feel the spark, deconvert eremitics
I’m where power con-verges-analytic func-tion, I’m like Mao or Kim Jong-Un
Cuz I’m an Asian at the top site, invasion of the spotlight
On occasions when I talk, might ‘ cause a paralytic man to walk right
Tighter than a croc bite, fighter pilot’s height still lower than my stock price
Soft ice ‘ cuz I’m warmin’ the earth
Heatin’ things up from Bergen to Perth

Triple up but often I’m omitted
That’s why my mark is the ellipsis
Started this, don’t know if I’ma finish
Let’s try, I’ve never been a cynic
Off the dome and it’s already vintage
Gosh, can Ozzy (ashkenazi) speak-me like I’m Yiddish
Osbourne (I was born) for fame, Prince of Darkness
Say my name, glimpse catharsis

I’m a man o’ simple words, not often boastful
But my woeful foes couldn’t pass the TOEFL
Scope o’ my tones is surpassin’ global
Horde o’ devotees at my disposal
Chernobyl’s glow is diminished in comparison
Di-rect currents like I’m muhfuckin Edison
Affect the tides, Poseidon’s bein’ arrogant
Navigate the Red Sea better than a plucky Saracen
Air (heir) to greatness like a master on a theremin

Dopamine levels spike when I’m spittin’ raps
So sick make ‘em all hypochondriacs
Think quick, you love it or your money back
Usain Bolt gonna quit when I run the track
Tax and death less certain than plaques on me
Got more class than practicin’ taxonomy
So grand I’m studied in- astronomy
Drop a CD and collapse the world economy

I’m a man who rarely feels any awkwardness
Old school fly like archaeopteryx
Indivisible spirit, ask Democritus
We all know who the carry on the roster is
I’m sweeter than the inside of a Rocket Fizz
And I could fix the UN with a socket wrench
Connect em all up like I’m collagen
Call a genetics guy-a god musta fathered him

I’m a man o many tastes and they’re quite complex
Sophisticated critic up on my doorstep
But soon he must lament (Sunni Muslim-ette), baby Malcom X*
Make him take his title back like Ralph-It-Wreck
I’m not a villain at heart, not an ad exec
This rap’ll never let your thesaurus rest
It’s shinin’ so bright like the aurora’s crest
A-pex of its time, ‘ Tyrannosaurus Rex
Man who saw us next had no choice but to prostrate
Flow’s seminal, I contain it like a prostate
So OP, same letters as a phosphate
Wannabes dressin up as me for their cosplay

*Someone pointed out that this line could be read as a criticism of Malcom X. This was absolutely not the intention -- the only intention I had was the wordplay between "soon he must lament" and Malcom X's conversion to Sunni Islam, along with the "baby" tie-in to the kids' movie referenced in the next line. I consider Malcom X to be one of the greatest civil rights leaders in American history, especially for his transcendent work in the Black Power and Black Arts movements.

On Charity and Me

Part 1: Me (and how great I am)

I consistently donate my money to charity. I used to get uncomfortable talking about this, because our culture has a weird taboo on talking about charity. The taboo is understandable: we want to be sure we're being charitable for the right reasons -- genuine selflessness and compassion, rather than performative self-aggrandizement.

The more I think about it, the more I find this dumb. I only donate because other people broadcasted their own contributions in very public and compelling ways, ways that inspired me personally. This publicity didn't do any harm -- quite the opposite; it actually inspired me to donate, and hence brought about a lot of good in the world.

Furthermore, even if  you donate purely for performative, self-aggrandizing reasons, like you just want to impress other people, it's still (literally) infinitely better than not giving anything at all. The people getting helped won't know the difference.

Part of why I'm writing this is to show how impactful your money is -- tiny amounts truly make an enormous difference. The degree of enormity is difficult to comprehend. Part of it is to show how incredibly easy and effortless it is -- if I can give this much, maybe you can give a little bit, too. (Or maybe you'll be able to give more, which I freely admit will make you superior to me in a very real way). Part of it is so I can get praise from all my peers. So here we go:

I currently make ~$40k/yr after taxes, or around $800/wk. I currently donate $50/wk (6.25%) to charity. I'm realizing I can do a lot more than that, though. As of this post, I will now commit to giving a minimum of 20% ($160/wk as of right now) of my post-tax income every week to the charities I list below (Against Malaria Foundation, GiveDirectly, Evidence Action), with additional monthly contributions to organizations that move me, such as the Clean Air Task Force, NAACP, Amnesty International, and charities impacting my local communities. This is a non-negotiable, lifelong commitment -- for all financial purposes, I'll simply consider my post-tax income to be 20% lower than it actually is, from now till death. And I'll also be dedicating a minimum of 90% of my lifetime earnings to these charities after death, as part of my will.

I expect these commitments to have absolutely zero negative impacts on my day-to-day quality of life, and an enormous number of positive impacts. I'll feel really good about helping people who truly need it. I'll be able to brag to everybody about how I'm a great person who's making a big impact in the world. Furthermore, every time I get the confirmation email for my monthly donations, I'm going to buy myself an extremely delicious meal, as another, even more immediate reward.

I understand I occupy a very privileged position. I know how incredibly annoying it is to hear about people bragging about how much money they're giving away are when you're struggling. If you don't feel comfortable committing to something like I did, that's totally fine. None of this means you're greedy, or selfish, or unkind. But maybe, even though you're struggling, you can give a little bit. Maybe you can only give a single dollar, right now. Or maybe you really, really can't give anything right now, but you can promise yourself you'll give a little bit later, when you're in a better place. I guarantee you it will be extremely effective. Give in such a way that doesn't impinge on your daily existence at all. It's easier than you think. As it turns out, billions of people in the world need a lot of help, and we're really good at helping people. You're free to join the party anytime.

Imagine if you ran into a burning building one day and saved a child from dying in the blaze. You would fondly remember that moment as a moment of great courage and heroism. Other people would rightly praise and feel inspired by you. Well, as it turns out, you can save a child any time you want, at zero risk to you, all for the price of a medium coffee.

 If you disagree with, or have any questions or comments on, anything in this post, message me directly or email me at wunsei@protonmail.com and we'll talk. I've heard tons of reasons people don't want to give to charity, and I've found none of them convincing.

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Part 2: Math (or, how unbelievably effective your money is)

If you live a middle-class life in a developed country, you are capable of doing an enormous amount of good while expending minimal effort. Truly enormous. The ratio of work to reward is so lopsided it's almost impossible to feel it. But let's try. Below are some of the best charities of the world (courtesy of GiveWell, a truly wonderful site doing really important and meaningful work).

1.) Malaria killed an estimated 229 million people in 2019 (source), even though it's a completely preventable and treatable disease. It costs $4.95 to provide a mosquito net that can save an entire family from malaria (source). It costs an estimated $6.59 to protect a child's life from malaria via chemoprevention (source). You can do it right now, here. (I timed myself doing it. It took less than 2 minutes, and I intentionally went slowly.)

2.) 200,000 children die from vitamin deficiencies a year (source). It costs $1 to deliver a vitamin A supplement that has the potential to prevent a child from dying via malnutrition (source). You can do it right now, here.

3.) Hundreds of millions of people suffer from parasitic worm infections that cause an enormous amount of suffering, reduction in income, and quality of life. It costs less than $1 to fully deworm a child, (source) leading to massively diminished suffering throughout their entire life. You can do it right now, here.

4.) Around 65% of people in the world live on $3700/yr, or ~$10/day (source). That means you can pay for someone's entire day for less than the cost of eating out once. Many high-quality studies show these impoverished people use the money to invest in business or agriculture, get housing, or get education, which results in massive improvements to their quality of life. You can give a direct (highly efficient) cash injection to these people right now, here.

5.) As a result of all these ultra-cheap interventions, GiveWell estimates the approximate cost of saving a human life to be $3-5k. That's an incredibly low cost for an incredibly high gain.

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P.S.: It's also weird how I have the instinct to condemn CEOs of extremely successful and efficient charities for making a lot of money. The more I think about it, the more I want those CEOs to be the best-compensated people in the world. Our incentive structures should heavily reward the people who are best at helping others.

Lyrics: Milk and Honey

I got a lot to say and we’re just at the start
So sit down and wait, patience, for a piece of my heart
See I nor’mly don’t do this, my smarts and success
Meant I never had any pent-up rage
I always made rent ok
And felony’s like a pair o’ foreign syllables
More impor’ant for me was makin’ sure my address was billable
For the stuff I bought, cuz I got a lot of products largely for showin’ off
Like boxes o’ nice socks prolly made of fox fur in Darfur
And hors d’oeurves rottin’ in sauces I didn’t cook
Books with embossed glossaries
Prolly -- I never bothered to look,
Took too many things, man, feelin’ claustrophobic in my apartment,
Myopic when I got plush carpets ‘n leather wallets with too many compartments,
Is that the arc of the covenant or the carcass o’ providence?
I’m tarnished, alarmin’ when I’m partin’ with my time in this world like a swine with a pearl

Made that money just to give it back
Milk and honey and a booster pack
Swollen tummy and I’m losin’ track
What did I want to go and do again?
Oh, I’ll eat there, I heard it’s Michelin

I’m livin’ a farcical show largely unnoticed and eas’ly dismissed, like
“You’re happy though aren’t you” as though that’s all it is
I pissed away fortunes on unfortunate whims
Dystopian hymn when Ethiopian wom-en are reminiscin’ ‘bout that time they traded away a day’s wage for a spot of shade
While I’m wond’rin’ whether to upgrade my gym membership,
Made gains but ate bad and let it slip so maybe I won’t quit
And I’ll be copacetic if I throw cash it
More athletic and penitent is better, I know that
But my aesthetic fetish requests Doordash this second
It’s pathetic, what I thought was so fab’s just anaesthetic
Instant gratification doesn’t make me more free
It’s illus’ry, I’m a poor freak, I don’t just buy what I need
Got no reason or creed, it’s pure greed
“Avariciousness” euphemized to “succeed”
The seed of ambitiousness euthanized, a done deed
Capriciously seceded from humankind with all speed

Made that money just to give it back
Milk and honey and a booster pack
Swollen tummy and I’m losin’ track
Coulda made art but I chose to stay
In my room and surf the web all day

I’m enslaved by my own brain
Chained down by my ability to satisfy
Paints dried up cuz I never gratified
The canvas, propaganda’s got me feelin’ calcified
And sep’rate, a soli-tary panda though my birthright’s a gemini
Ran this land up from the veranda, now horrified
To find out it’s runnin’ me
Material demand’s got me right up its sleeve
Cereal brands are septic, even skeptics admit
The sheer colors are bright enough to smite an epileptic on sight
The quest to success is endless and measured in dollar signs and algorithms,
Benign crimes suffice to consign my mind to aneurysms
Surprised to find I’m oblivious and blind to the most obvious shit
Got so used to buyin’, forgot what a library is
Imperious businesses holdin’ me tight in their fist
A grip I might never escape
But hey, at least I ate cake and made rent
I’ll stay si-lent and consent, it makes sense
I never meant it to be this way, and I wouldn't make a diff’rence if I tried, so
Pass me that milkshake, it’s past five, I gotta ride home
To catch the latest episode of that new show

Made that money just to give it back
Milk and honey and a booster pack
Swollen tummy and I’m losin’ track
Made that money just to give it back
Milk and honey and a booster pack
Swollen tummy and I’m losin’ track

On family, friends, and other things

Part of what makes growing up in an abusive home hard is the difficulty of assigning blame. On one hand, my parents (especially my dad) deserve enormous blame for the harm they caused, and I have a small, dark part of me that wants to absolutely shred them for it. This part of me sees itself as a great arbiter of justice. It likes to imagine itself privy to all the necessary context and nuance to perform the solemn duty of eviscerating two failed souls, which it would do in the greatest blog post ever written, with all the flair and grace and subtlety the task demands.

This part of me is dead wrong, and I constantly fight to kill it. Justice is not about evisceration. Justice is compassion, forgiveness, mercy. Justice is stepping back to look at the vast gulf between myself and my parents -- the generational gap, the cultural programming, the historical inequality -- and realizing just how little choice they had. The suffering contained in each of their childhoods would bury mine in a landslide, with a little dirt left over for the laundry. I have enormous admiration for both of their stories, and their quartet of well-adjusted children speaks volumes about the strength of their characters.

But this landslide leaves me at an impasse. Experiencing harm does not justify inflicting it on others. And while I want, desperately, to forgive them for all they've done, I can never bring myself to do it. Even imagining myself doing it dredges up a profound sense of disgust from that same dark part of me I'm constantly trying to kill. I know I should do this thing, but I can't. The result is a confused, deeply ungratifying, festering bitterness.

This situation is made even more frustrating (in the same way getting annoyed by a totally irrelevant thing that really shouldn't bother you makes the situation even more frustrating) when considered in context. I live, by any metric, a fantastic life. Just yesterday, I was reflecting on how I spent every minute of the day doing things drenched to the point of dripping with meaning, every one of which I loved and wouldn't have traded for anything else. These kinds of days are not at all rare for me, and I am painfully aware of just how few people share such privilege.

So here I am, living a phenomenal life. The abuses of my past wither in the light of my present joys. I've won. I've tangibly and obviously transcended every ugly word and angry beating my parents inflicted on me. And yet they fester nonetheless. My default state of being is so good that it's jarring whenever the bitterness creeps in. For the most part, I succeed in quashing it, but I never know when it'll next come calling.

Here's another unfortunate thing that occasionally creeps in unless I resist: Sometimes I feel like I like my friends too much. See, my only family here is my mom and dad. I don't talk to them much. I don't talk to my siblings much, either. As relationships go, my friends are all I really have. And that's a scary thing.*

*One of my worst fears: dying suddenly one day, and my friends finding out only long, long after I'm gone.

Friendships function best when everyone feels equal. I usually feel equal to my friends, but a noticeable exception occurs whenever I hear stories about their wonderful families and strong support systems. It produces a soup of mild jealousy, awkwardness, and inability to relate.

It's just a soup because the main course is what's actually important. See, I actually can't get enough of these stories. I can't get enough of any story where my friends succeed and flourish. They are my favorite stories in the world, in part because they're true. The main course is delicious, but I still have to have sip that soup.

All of this makes me feel silly. There is no shame in loving your friends too much. If anything, I would prefer to love them more. And they really are better then family, because on closer inspection, the human devotion to family is a strange, evolutionary house of cards. Family relationships are totally arbitrary. Whether you get really unlucky and have horrible family members, or get lucky and have the best family in the world, you didn't do anything to deserve either. Why should I care about random people in my life I had no say in? Contrast this with the incredibly empowering ability to choose your friends, and be chosen by them -- not just once, but continuously, in ways that grow and deepen. The relentless agency inherent to friendships makes them so much more fulfilling.

Yet the beauty of family is incredible. When my family traveled back to China after a full ten years of absence, I still remember the vivid expressions of my uncles and aunts and cousins jumping up and down in the airport, waving their hands up, crying from eager anticipation. They'd never even seen some of us before. There were hundreds of people I was connected to by blood who invited us in for tea without a second thought, a community I didn't even know I was a part of even while I was apart from them. It was a sort of unconditional love everyone should have access to.

I often tell people that trip was when I first started to understand what "family" could really mean. I'm still trying to untangle the full meaning.

There's this oft-misinterpreted Bible quote: "Blood is thicker than water". A lot of people think it means family (i.e. blood) relationships should supersede all other relationships; i.e. can't be washed away by water. But the full quote actually has the opposite meaning: "The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb." The promises and bonds -- the blood covenants -- we form with our friends can often supersede our family, water-of-the-womb relations.

I like both readings of the quote. Both can be true. Both family and friendships are incredibly powerful and meaningful for different reasons. And I've had more access to one than the other, and I feel simultaneously blessed and cursed by that.

 

This post was brutally hard to write. For the most part, I don't like telling people about this stuff. I don't like seeing the naked pity writ large on their expressions, nor do I like hearing the hushed, meaningless condolences that quickly follow. I don't see myself as a hero or a victim, so I don't want other people to see me as a hero or a victim, either. I don't want to be praised, and I definitely don't want to be pitied. I want to be judged on who I am now, not what happened to me a long time ago. But after you read something like this, your opinion of its author changes. It's inevitable. I wouldn't write it if it weren't.

So how do I want your opinion to change? I'm going to answer that question in two words: It's complicated.

That answer might initially seem like a cop-out, because you can use it as a valid answer to almost any question while also not actually answering the question. But it's not a cop-out, because I don't mean the answer is complicated. I mean what I wanted to communicate in this post is just how very complicated we all are, how complicated the people who've wronged us are, how complicated the people we love most are. We are, all of us, roiling landslides of happiness and suffering, ceaselessly picking up dirt and leaving other dirt behind as we cascade down the mountain of of time. We only collide with each other in the most ephemeral ways. Let's make the most of them.

Turn

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The world is but a small, dark place

A fleck of motion, a pinprick of light drifting amidst an unbearably vast void

And that makes every grain of sugar all the sweeter

Every breath of laughter all the sweeter

 

Think of the all sailors, lost at sea, adrift in that small, dark place

As they glimpse the pinprick of the lighthouse, that fleck of motion on the unbearably vast horizon

How radiant their smiles, how jubilant their hearts

Think of the newborn, emerging from that small, dark place

As they open their eyes for the first time and glimpse true love

The smallest among us are often sweetest

And to be fleeting is to be precious

 

How precious this pinprick is

All of Earth

All of it sustained by a fraction of a fraction of a ball of light which is itself a fraction of a fraction

Yet nonetheless it holds all this

Home to all we know, and so much more we don’t 

 

See, the world is not some small, dark place

It is vast

Incomprehensibly, yet bearably vast

The horizon itself, that endless expanse of sky, is but a fraction of a fraction of it all

 

Each unturned stone harbors a thousand untold secrets

Each turned stone felt a thousand long-dead loves

And so I want to turn them all

 

And I lied to you before

The earth is not all sustained by sunlight

See, we know of biological communities deep beneath the waves that subsist entirely off of the energy of hydrothermal vents

Laborious chemeosynthesizers

Glorious anaerobic reminders

Of the countless untold wonders that dance at the edges of my periphery

So let me turn my head, and let me turn yours, too

I want to turn them all

So I guess what I want is to turn into the world

See, the world is but a small, dark place

And yet it turns us all