Building an audible nest for intensifying, as a bird might shed drab feathers for bright ones in a time of courtship, an ordinary song for a mating call, my sonic ornament was a customized flush of puberty, a condensed libidinal vehemence.
Publishing’s leaders composed careful statements in the height of this summer’s protests for racial justice. But these ring hollow in the face of an industry rife with sexism, classism, and racism.
Deodorant as an accoutrement of my coming-of-age was slightly thrilling… it represented the excitement of being a body that required self-maintenance, like upgrading to a vehicle that prefers to drink high octane gasoline.
“Hate” is a much ballyhooed word of the zeitgeist: We lob softballs like “I hate tofu,” “I hate Knausgard,” or, “I hate Bernie Bros.” Theroux didn’t write the book on hatred, but he wrote four novels where the emotion coruscates…