Harper's Magazine - 09.2026.pdf

在奥巴马中心重写历史

HARPER'S

《哈珀杂志》/ 2026年9月

实验室培育肉的失落之梦

无政府主义者 预测市场的 起源

与 世界上最丑的人们 共度周末

展示至 9/21/26

Molto Bitter

HARPER'S

M A G A Z I N E

创刊于 1850 / 第 353 卷，第 2116 期 2026年9月 HARPERS.ORG

读者来信 2 Lindsie Rank, Anne MacLachlan

民主实验室 5 Thomas Frank

舒适之椅 世上所有的变革

哈珀指数 9

阅读 11 灵感的飞翔 罗伯特·弗罗斯特 (Robert Frost) 鳄鱼教父 George Boedecker Jr. 我确实记得 Rudy Wilson 韩国军队在非军事区（DMZ）的 TMZ 式生活 关于浴室卫生的专利新方法 Matthew Page 方法 Graham Foust 紧随其后的第二人称 Hulda Guzmán, Scott Kahn, Maria Lax, 以及一项令头足类动物震惊的规则变更 And ...

报道 23 牛肉在哪里？ Erin Somers 那场并未发生的实验室培育肉革命

31 Vance Bourjaily

意大利来信 33 关于丑人的痛苦 Barrett Swanson 在丑人节共度周末

45 Finn Brunton

评论 50 借来的伤口 Kyle Berlin 一场内战，一本畅销书，以及一场令法国分歧的审判

回忆录 62 蚕 Long Ling 北京的轮回

小说 67 五个故事 Diane Williams

评论 71 新书 Dan Piepenbring 奥尔巴尼的荷马 Kasia Boddy 威廉·肯尼迪如何找到他的节奏

谜题 79 Richard E. Maltby Jr. 发现 80

封面插图：Timo Lenzen

《哈珀杂志》

读者来信

约翰·R·麦克阿瑟 (John R. MacArthur)，总裁兼出版人

编辑 克里斯托弗·卡罗尔 (CHRISTOPHER CARROLL) 执行编辑 马修·谢里尔 (MATTHEW SHERRILL) 副编辑 威尔·史蒂芬森 (WILL STEPHENSON) 管理编辑 威尔·奥格罗特 (WILL AUGEROT) 高级编辑 杰斯·伯格曼 (JESS BERGMAN), 查理·李 (CHARLIE LEE), 乔纳森·斯图尔根 (JONATHON STURGEON) 艺术总监 凯瑟琳·汉弗莱斯 (KATHRYN HUMPHRIES) 副管理编辑 梅根·埃弗舍德 (MEGAN EVERSHED), 莱克·米卡 (LAKE MICAH) 华盛顿编辑 安德鲁·科克本 (ANDREW COCKBURN) 诗歌编辑 本·勒纳 (BEN LERNER) 助理编辑 玛雅·佩里 (MAYA PERRY), 贝基·张 (BECKY ZHANG) 副艺术总监 玛丽亚·杜邦 (MARIA DUBON) 助理编辑 克拉丽莎·弗拉戈索·平海罗 (CLARISSA FRAGOSO PINHEIRO), 贾斯敏·刘 (JASMINE LIU), 诺亚·罗林斯 (NOAH RAWLINGS), 艾奥娜·泰特 (IONA TAIT) 制作经理兼设计师 克洛伊·阿诺德 (CHLOE ARNOLD) 编辑实习生 埃莱奥诺尔·卡特尔 (ELEONORE CATTLE), 尼科·泰勒 (NICO TAYLOR), 特丝·韦兰 (TESS WAYLAND), 迈尔斯·扎德 (MILES ZAUD) 艺术实习生 塞林·何 (SELIN HO), 简·皮尔斯 (JANE PIERCE) 特约编辑 安德鲁·J·巴塞维奇 (ANDREW J. BACEVICH), 凯文·贝克 (KEVIN BAKER), 汤姆·比塞尔 (TOM BISSELL), 迈克尔·W·克鲁恩 (MICHAEL W. CLUNE), 约书亚·科恩 (JOSHUA COHEN), 约翰·克劳利 (JOHN CROWLEY), 韦斯·恩津纳 (WES ENZINNA), 塔尼娅·戈尔德 (TANYA GOLD), 加里·格林伯格 (GARY GREENBERG), 杰克·希特 (JACK HITT), 弗雷德里克·考夫曼 (FREDERICK KAUFMAN), 加雷特·凯泽 (GARRET KEIZER), 马克·金威尔 (MARK KINGWELL), 拉菲尔·克罗尔-扎伊迪 (RAFIL KROLL-ZAIDI), 巴里·C·林恩 (BARRY C. LYNN), 理查德·曼宁 (RICHARD MANNING), 克兰西·马丁 (CLANCY MARTIN), 邓肯·默雷尔 (DUNCAN MURRELL), 瑞秋·诺兰 (RACHEL NOLAN), 劳伦·奥勒 (LAUREN OYLER), 文斯·帕萨罗 (VINCE PASSARO), 詹姆斯·波格 (JAMES POGUE), 弗朗辛·普罗斯 (FRANCINE PROSE), 艾伦·罗森·布什 (ELLEN ROSEN Bush), 杰夫·沙莱特 (JEFF SHARLET), 克里斯蒂娜·斯莫尔伍德 (CHRISTINE SMALLWOOD), 扎迪·史密斯 (ZADIE SMITH), 丽贝卡·索尔尼特 (REBECCA SOLNIT), 马修·史蒂文森 (MATTHEW STEVENSON), 巴雷特·斯旺森 (BARRETT SWANSON), 约翰·埃德加·怀德曼 (JOHN EDGAR WIDEMAN) 特约艺术家 维克多·J·布鲁 (VICTOR J. BLUE), 丽莎·埃尔马莱 (LISA ELMALEH), 巴拉斯·加迪 (BALAZS GARDI), 佩普·蒙特塞拉特 (PEP MONTSERRAT), 马特·罗塔 (MATT ROTA), 妮可·董 (NICOLE TUNG), 托马斯·范·豪·特里夫 (TOMAS VAN HOU TRYVE) 特约设计师 谢拉·沃尔夫 (SHEILA WOLFE) 刘易斯·H·拉法姆 (LEWIS H. LAPHAM)，编辑 (1976–1981, 1983–2006)

副总裁兼总经理 肖恩·D·格林 (SHAWN D. GREEN) 副总裁，广告 乔瑟琳·D·吉安尼尼 (JOCELYN D. GIANNINI) 营销与传播总监 梅雷迪思·伯克斯 (MEREDITH BURKS) 数字总监兼网络编辑 索菲·普尔 (SOPHIE POOLE) 数字助理 诺娃·莫里斯 (NOVA MEURICE) 数字营销实习生 埃莉卡·科斯拉瓦尼 (ELIKA KHOSRAVANI) 弗吉尼亚·纳瓦罗 (VIRGINIA NAVARRO)，出版人助理 芭芭拉·帕顿 (BARBARA PATON)，高级会计师 伊芙·布兰特 (EVE BRANT)，办公室经理 索菲亚·皮里 (SOFIA PIRRI)，广告运营协调员 广告销售： 212-420-5773; SOFIA@HARPERS.ORG 许可与转载： 212-420-5759; VIRGINIA@HARPERS.ORG 订阅查询与订购请致电： 800-444-4653

讣告

《哈珀杂志》全体同仁对特约编辑爱德华·霍格兰 (Edward Hoagland, 1932–2026) 最近的逝世深表哀悼，他为本杂志撰写的文章包括《按英亩计算的美国风情》（1970年10月）和《最后一次呼叫》（2010年5月）。我们将深切地怀念他。

民主实验室

在《共和党机器》（[佛罗里达来信，7月]）一文中，安·马诺夫（Ann Manov）正确地抵制了这样一种观点，即由共和党主导的高等教育改革（包括设立公民中心）本质上具有审查性质。然而，当来自右翼或左翼的改革努力试图将大学变成生产某种特定“美国人”的工具时，会发生什么？

马诺夫报告称，她对改革努力所引发的审查证据的搜寻并未发现太多“劲爆”的素材。她引用了联邦地区法院驳回针对佛罗里达州第266号参议院法案（Senate Bill 266）的诉讼，这些诉讼指控该法案存在审查行为。然而，审查在诉讼提起之前就已经生效；它导致人们删减教学大纲、取消作业、撤回阅读材料，并认定最安全的做法是保持沉默。在我倡导学生和教师言论自由权利的工作中，我亲眼目睹了当官员们根据党派理想来塑造大学教育时所导致的言论压制。

就在今年，彭萨科拉州立学院（Pensacola State College）因一家学生杂志发表了与LGBT相关的故事，被认为违反了佛罗里达州的《停止觉醒法案》（Stop WOKE Act），从而取消了其资金支持；德克萨斯 A&M 大学则命令一名教授将其哲学课程中的柏拉图摘录以及关于种族和性别的内容删除。但最令我担忧的例子是我们从未听闻的那些。法律学者将此称为“寒蝉效应”，法院至少从1952年起就承认了其危害。

在最理想的情况下，公民中心教授的是使言论自由变得可行的习惯：宽容地阅读、公正地争论、忍受不适、改变主意、理解异见。但只有当改革旨在让学生为民主生活做好准备，而非为了党派目的对其进行宣传时，言论自由才能繁荣。

林兹·兰克（Lindsie Rank） 费城

马诺夫写了一篇巧妙的文章，阐明了围绕保守派公民中心的紧张局势。但她不仅使此类中心失信——她还通过暗示美国高等教育不符合其宗旨，从而削弱了广义的人文科学。这是错误的。

马诺夫断言，随着最高法院对哈佛大学录取决定做出裁决，文化战争已经平息。绝非如此：校园内的种族主义继续激增，大学在联邦压力下限制多样性、公平和包容性计划，而支持巴勒斯坦的抗议活动导致学生与管理人员之间陷入僵局。在这种背景下，将根植于欧洲传统的保守过去理想化，无法为源自美国社会多样性的对话提供基础。事实上，文化战争的竞争绝不会削弱人文科学理解人类状况的能力，也不会削弱其塑造探究的能力。

马诺夫还忽略了美国机构独特的异质性，这些机构为几乎所有希望接受教育的人提供了机会。尽管存在当前趋势，美国仍有近两千万名高等教育学生，其中73 percent在公立机构学习。近几十年来，人文科学的入学人数有所下降，高等教育已从被广泛视为一种公共产品（在70年代，佩尔助学金可覆盖高达80 percent的大学费用）转变为一种私人商品。马诺夫所呈现的功能失调并非毫无根据，但她低估了美国高等教育系统的活力及其服务所有学生的能力。

安·麦克拉克伦（Anne MacLachlan） 加利福尼亚州，伯克利

安·马诺夫（Ann Manov）回应：

在撰写文章的报道过程中，我采访了几位学术自由研究学者。据我所知，保守派教育运动危及了一项始于美国大学教授协会 1940 年《原则声明》的准则：教师在研究和教学中享有不受限制的独立性。在 7 月 7 日针对“珀内尔诉兰姆案”（Pernell v. Lamb）的裁决中，美国第十一巡回上诉法院基于第一修正案的理由，维持了针对《停止觉醒法案》（Stop WOKE Act）的禁令。但像 SB 266 这样的立法可能会被证明更具韧性。该法律创建了公民中心，并限制了哪些课程可以获得通用教育学分，从而限制了包括对以色列的某些批评在内的概念。在“奥斯汀诉兰姆案”（Austin v. Lamb）中，一家联邦地区法院认定，第一修正案并未赋予教授的课程获得通用教育批准的宪法权利。由于“通用教育”状态直接转化为入学人数和资金，像 SB 266 这样的法律为各州控制课程提供了强有力的策略。我在文中重复了一个讽刺之处：“学术自由”既是反对此类法律的号召，也是支持此类法律的口号。

我在文章中承认，我们早期历史中理想化的学院仅服务于极小比例的人口，而且开国元勋们对受教育民众的愿景无疑在高等教育大众化中得到了推进，但却被惊人的就读成本所阻碍。鉴于我们目前的信息环境，如何维持读写能力将至关重要。

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舒适之椅：世间所有变革

作者：托马斯·弗兰克（Thomas Frank）

竞争性的宏伟是现代总统图书馆的主要美学原则。从乔治·W·布什总统中心那直线延伸的铺展布局，到比尔·克林顿建筑那高耸的玻璃盒子，每一个新加入者都被要求在价格、规模和建筑奇观上超越其前任。第二个几乎同样重要的原则是，随着一个接一个的总统中心的建立，这些设施的虚荣功能日益掩盖其研究功能。从技术上讲，我所描述的这些机构是准公共机构；它们存在的目的是为了编目行政部门的记录并将其提供给研究人员。但事实上，它们已变成了越来越张扬的、为相关人物打造的纪念碑——由那些自认为像林肯一样的人亲手建造的、试图成为林肯纪念馆的建筑。每一座中心都设有其在椭圆形办公室任职期间的博物馆，且每座中心对历史的描述方式，只有最坚定的党派支持者才会认可其合法性。

今年 6 月开幕的奥巴马总统中心是这场竞赛中的最新参赛者，并且在所有重要方面都理所当然地胜过了其前任。其建设成本约为 8.5亿美元，经通货膨胀调整后，大约是布什在达拉斯图书馆支出的两倍，几乎是克林顿在小石城图书馆支出的三倍，更是哈里·S·杜鲁门在密苏里州独立城图书馆支出的四十多倍。杜鲁门的图书馆完工于 1957 年，是一座单层且简朴的建筑；而奥巴马中心则由一座 225 英尺高的塔楼主导，这是一个轮廓分明的花岗岩块，塔顶用混凝土字母拼写出一段奥巴马演讲的文字——我的意思是，不是一两句令人难忘的短语，而是一段完整的 103 个单词的演讲片段，这段摘录如此之长，字母如此之大，以至于需要 19 行（超过 83 英尺，大约相当于一座八层楼的高度）才能完整呈现。

尽管其建筑带有文字色彩且价格惊人，但事实上，奥巴马中心根本不是一座总统图书馆：它没有存放供研究人员挖掘的官方总统记录。那些记录被存储在马里兰州郊区的某个国家档案局设施中。换句话说，通过这块宏伟的花岗岩，后总统建筑的虚荣面终于完全掩盖了研究面。奥巴马中心没有档案库，取而代之的是美丽的景观、一家餐厅和酒吧、一个体育中心，以及塔楼顶端一座吹捧其主体光辉之处并忽略其不足之地的奥巴马博物馆。

奥巴马中心的选址在规划过程中曾引发过一些争议。它现在位于芝加哥的杰克逊公园，在 1893 年举办的世界哥伦比亚博览会原址上。就像那次传奇的集会一样——其新古典主义宫殿展示了镀金时代在工程和电力方面的进步——奥巴马中心也具有一种教导性的、高尚的目的：它旨在指导我们学习“变革的科学”，这种教学法对于当今精英阶层的自我认知而言，就如同“进步”和“美术学院风格”对于世纪末那些思想正统的绅士们那样核心。

我使用“精英”这个词并非为了侮辱；这是唯一能准确代表奥巴马中心捐赠墙上那份令人眼花缭乱的名单的词汇。在 5000 万美元及以上的类别中，我们发现了亚马逊和《华盛顿邮报》的杰夫·贝佐斯；前微软首席执行官之妻康妮·鲍尔默；Airbnb 首席执行官布莱恩·切斯基；一家专注于 AI 的控股公司 TWG Global；一家与私募股权亿万富翁格伦·H·哈钦斯相关的基金会；以及一名被标识为“匿名”的神秘捐赠者。

这些模式在捐赠者人数更密集的类别中依然存在：科技与私募股权、亿万富翁与家族财富；大型基金会以及规模最大的巨头企业。埃里克·施密特和肖恩·帕克在其中，微软和盖茨基金会亦然。支持保守主义事业的金融家肯·格里芬出现在 1 到 9.9 百万美元的类别中，沃尔玛继承人爱丽丝·沃尔顿的个人基金会以及沃尔玛基金会本身也在此之列。来自慈善界的队伍规模庞大，还有许多运动员和名人，以及大量来自财富 500 强的名单。如果这座总统中心是在三十年前建造的，唐纳德·特朗普本人可能也会参与其中。

将所有这些寡头和世袭富豪、所有这些垄断者和游说者雇主联系在一起的，是他们对推进一种非常特定的历史解读的兴趣。这种解读是这样的：“普通人”可以创造“非凡的改变”。这些话语出自奥巴马中心博物馆区域的墙面文字，但传递这种关于提升和人民力量的信息，才是这个综合体真正的核心所在。博物馆有一系列名为“想象你的影响力”（IMAGINE YOUR IMPACT）的互动展览，敦促你思考诸如“与你的社区协作以创造改变”之类的事情。在五楼，巨大的金属字母组成的奥巴马名言迎接访客：我请求你们相信。不是相信我带来改变的能力——而是相信你们自己的能力。

十五年前，保守派利用这种温和的情绪——这在当时和现在都是奥巴马最喜欢的模式之一——来编造关于我们这位“激进”总统的噩梦，以及他打算如何让美国“社会化”。而像我这样的人则对此不屑一顾，因为我们认为奥巴马是一个温和派中的温和派，一个渴望成为“蓝狗”民主党人（Blue Dog Democrat）的人，一个在尊重规范、先例和渐进主义方面达到了自我削弱程度的人。我们会意识到，这个人绝非进步主义者：他是《纽约时报》专栏作家托马斯·弗里德曼的粉丝；选择拉里·萨默斯作为他的首席经济顾问；并渴望与国会中的共和党人达成一项“大交易”。（对于不记得的人来说，这意味着以削减社会保障和医疗保险来换取增税。）

然而，从奥巴马中心来看，人们可能会怀疑那些右翼分子是否最终发现了一些真相。萨默斯以及对“大交易”的追求在博物馆中没有被提及；他们已被从官方叙事中删除。但《激进分子规则》（Rules for Radicals）却在礼品店出售。而且，博物馆确实——详尽且细致地——描述了美国左翼抗议的历史。一个接一个的展品将访客引导至一个不可避免的结论：巴拉克·奥巴马在某种程度上是改革神圣火焰的承载者，是进步主义者、女性参政运动、新政、民权运动、六十年代各种动荡、八十年代芝加哥市长哈罗德·华盛顿，以及几乎任何你能想到的左翼起义的继承人。博物馆暗示，他是任何人可能希望得到的、最进步的总统。

强大的机构将自己包裹在激进主义的外衣之下，这自国家企业、基金会、电力公司和情报机构在一段时间前决定将自己描绘成反对殖民主义和白人至上主义的“交叉性战士”以来，就成了一种熟悉的现象。但在这里，这种策略表明了更有意义的东西。毕竟，奥巴马的总统任期始于压倒性的胜利，拥有巨大的选举多数席位和一枚诺贝尔和平奖，而结束于不可思议的局面：特朗普入主白宫，民主党在全国范围内支离破碎。哪里出了问题？这座中心对激进主义的多次援引，告诉了我们关于奥巴马年间的什么信息，以及该如何解读那段岁月？

当然，没有任何一座总统博物馆会正面地探讨其主题人物的失败，这座博物馆也不例外。在其关于 2008–09 年金融危机的展区中，它并未讨论为什么总统没有采取更多措施来惩罚高层的欺诈行为，或救援陷入困境的房主。关于全民医疗保健辩论中“公共选项”的命运，也几乎没有讨论。奥巴马在面对国会共和党人时持续未能采取强硬立场的问题未被提及，他对于国际贸易和硅谷所谓之仁慈的惊人天真亦然。

但这座博物馆确实给出了所有这些问题的答案，即便只是含蓄地暗示：那就是进步主义具有某些内在的局限性。如果你相信民主和普通民众——正如奥巴马显然那样相信——那么你根本无法要求他取得比已实现的更多的成就。

再次思考奥巴马多次令人振奋地号召普通民众发挥力量的言论。在相当多的一次实例中，这一信息附带了一个推论，即总统拥有的权力远比我们想象的要少。请记住，我们要相信的不是奥巴马“带来变革的能力”，而是我们自己的能力。“我们需要的变革并非来自华盛顿，”奥巴马在 2008 年民主党全国代表大会的就职演说中说道，“变革是来到华盛顿的。”在纪念塞尔玛大游行五十周年的演讲中，他再次这样说道——而他塔楼上的文字便取自这场演讲。他说，解决问题“是所有美国人的工作，而不仅仅是某些人的工作”。他继续道：

我们的民主并非仅由国会承担。也非仅由法院承担。甚至非仅由总统承担……在我们民主制度中最有力量的一个词就是“我们”。“我们人民”。“我们将克服”。“是的，我们可以。”

这些可能是高尚的情感，但如果从另一个角度思考，你会意识到它们也是一种逃避。某种程度上，采取行动并完成任务是我们的责任，而非总统的。我们，即公众，必须通过永远保持动员状态，或以某种方式证明自己配得上变革，来赢得我们的变革。正如 2009 年流行的一句自由派名言所说，我们必须“逼他去做”。进步团体用这句话来筹款是一回事，但政府官员自己重复这句话——正如副总统乔·拜登曾做过的那样——则是一种借口。

“我不相信怀旧，”奥巴马在总统中心开馆前一天为前工作人员举办的活动上说道，“因为我认为怀旧隐含着这样一种情绪，即过去曾有某种黄金时代，某种更好的时光，但现在已无法企及，而这让我们卸下了责任，因为这让我们觉得，嗯，那时很美好，但现在这就是现实，我们对此无能为力。”然而，尽管其传递着“为希望欢呼”的信息，奥巴马的博物馆实际上正是他试图否认的那种情绪的一次温暖洗礼。

通过强调奥巴马传奇的早期岁月——令人振奋的 2008 年竞选、选出首位黑人总统的伟大成就、改革的辉煌历史——奥巴马中心邀请我们沉浸在舒适的回忆中，回想起那个由一位才华横溢、优雅且年轻的男人领导的时代，他动情地谈论着变革与希望。从那时起，世界分崩离析，但在这里，参观者可以回忆起在国家陷入愚蠢与仇恨之前的样子——那个似乎万事皆有可能的黄金时刻。

我之前提到过，奥巴马中心有一个酒吧：而且是一个功能齐全且时尚的酒吧。很少有卸任总统的设施提供这种特定的便利；在参观完这座建筑后，我渴望坐在它那抛光石材的吧台前，啜饮一大杯波本威士忌，眺望美丽的杰克逊公园，并追忆 2008 年——那是我一生中唯一一次充满热情且毫无保留地投票给一位总统候选人的时刻。我当时真是个傻瓜。

遗憾的是，那天酒吧没有营业。但后来，在芝加哥北区的一家爱尔兰酒吧里，我见到了一个当年的老友。他后来随奥巴马去了华盛顿，在联邦政府工作了大约八年。对他而言，怀旧之情中掺杂着浓烈的苦涩。他回忆道，回到2009年，当时感觉就像新政再次上演。他向我讲述了政府在成立之初那些雄心勃勃但从未实现的计划，并记得他的上司们是如何否决那些哪怕只有一点点创意的想法，因为他们害怕违反规范和先例的铁律。他带着不小的愤怒，向我讲述了政府推进的一项旨在帮助资金不足学校儿童的计划，而该计划以一种灾难性但完全可以预见的方式产生了反效果。他说：奥巴马中心是一座由私人出资为奥巴马总统建立的纪念碑，其选址错误，设计也错误；他告诉我，这座建筑“在方方面面都错得离谱”。

与此同时，在华盛顿，另一位总统正计划在首都各处建造宏伟的建筑，而这些建筑是根据他对新古典主义风格的疯狂解读而建的。然而，在内心深处，特朗普更像是一个狂欢节式的人物，而非追求教化提升的人：他与色情明星交往，将自己把粪便倾倒在批评者身上的样子描绘出来，并在白宫草坪的“爪形”建筑下举办UFC比赛。

这个国家是如何被说服选择这样一个粗鄙的偏执狂，而非由高尚的奥巴马精心挑选的继任者，这是一个对有原则的人来说过于痛苦而无法解开的谜团。

奥巴马和特朗普看起来像是宇宙级的对立面：得体与庸俗；规范的维护者与先例的破坏者；不情愿的总统与不择手段的潜在暴君。

但如果我们仔细观察，会发现一条共同的线索。两人都是领导过大众运动的名人，而这些运动在受到挑战时，被证明就像挡风玻璃上的一层薄冰一样脆弱。他们都是形象塑造的大师，而且在两种情况下，这种形象都是一种伪民粹主义。奥巴马对“普通人”的致敬，并不比特朗普对“被遗忘的人”的呼喊更真诚多少。两位总统都证明了自己是这个不平等时代的合格管家，根据时势需要，要么拯救银行，要么削减税收。特朗普将在迈阿密建造的总统图书馆，在价格和奢华程度上肯定会超过奥巴马的。

两人都选择用文字来装饰他们的标志性大楼。在奥巴马的案例中，是他塞尔玛演讲中的高尚词句，环绕在他那座庄严建筑的顶部。这些文字在社区的任何地方都可见，但与此同时几乎无法阅读——碎片化的散文片段，除了代表一种漂浮在天空中的通用高尚感之外，不代表任何意义。当然，特朗普的文字则清晰得刺眼，而且永远一样：他的名字，TRUMP，用巨大的闪亮字母，贴在他那座九十二层大楼的侧面，就在栗格大厦隔壁，俯瞰着芝加哥河，让游客和卡车司机都能盯着看。

这些权势人物及其财阀民粹主义：现在是他们的世界，而不是我们的，有时感觉我们普通人真正剩下的只有徒劳的姿态。今年六月一个美好的日子，我在奥巴马中心外乘坐了CTA的6路公交车，从南区一直坐到环形路（the Loop）的终点站。一群喧闹的青少年在途中上了车，我们最后一起在瓦克大道（Wacker Drive）下车。其中一个女孩走在特朗普大厦对面拥挤的人行道上，对着总统那骄傲的名字竖起了中指，然后用她的iPhone拍了一张照片。

“理查德·诺斯·帕特森像一位现代的托克维尔，他运用海量的研究，以深刻且易读的方式揭示了我们为何现在面临失去民主的危险……任何关心美国民主未来的人都必须阅读此书。” ——马克斯·布特，《里根：他的生活与传奇》作者

《绊线》（TRIPWIRES）

15 个削弱美国民主的 21 世纪事件 ——以及如何夺回它

1 《纽约时报》畅销书作者

理查德·诺斯·帕特森

“在威权主义抬头这一危险时刻，美国面临着两个最重要的疑问：《绊线》给出了答案：我们是如何走到这一步的？我们又该如何摆脱？这是一部关于历史与政策的力作，将让你对未来充满希望。” ——尼拉·坦登，美国进步中心首席执行官

9 / 1 / 26 发售

重新定义皮革：选择苹果皮或其他纯素皮革

凯莉·考恩 为 PETA 创作

《哈珀杂志》索引

印度因单日极端高温导致的估计超额死亡人数：3,400

因连续五日极端高温导致的估计超额死亡人数：30,000

2022年以来欧洲与高温相关的最低死亡人数：200,000

预计到2030年，全球每年用于空调的电力需求增加量（单位：太瓦时）：640

用于数据中心的增加量：529

表示反对在自己所在地区建设核电站的美国人比例：1 / 2

表示反对建设数据中心的美国人比例：7 / 10

ChatGPT用户中男性与女性的比例：1:1

Grok用户中男性与女性的比例：3:1

由ChatGPT创作的短篇小说中，情节由八卦和传闻驱动的百分比：64

由人类创作的短篇小说中该比例：44

法官认定提交的文件中包含AI幻觉内容的美国法院案件最低数量：1,180

2023年生物医学研究论文包含至少一个不存在来源引用的概率：1 / 2,828

去年该概率：1 / 458

2021年至2025年间，生态学期刊中破折号出现频率的百分比变化：+202

分号出现频率的变化：-58

1926年（该考试推出之年）SAT考试每道题分配的平均秒数：18

如今：82

因联邦政府打击反犹太主义努力而导致被取消的NIH（美国国立卫生研究院）资助估计数量：668

受影响研究人员中犹太人的比例：1 / 5

在政治针对性的NIH资助终止案例中，黑人研究人员被过度代表的倍数：3

2016年以来，唐纳德·特朗普在公开声明中将个人称为“低智商”的最低次数：139

这些声明中针对黑人的百分比：66

2025年10月至2026年7月期间被允许进入美国的难民人数：7,730

这些难民中白人南非人的估计百分比：95

拜登政府期间在ICE（美国移民及海关执法局）拘留期间死亡的人数：26

首任特朗普政府期间：50

第二任特朗普政府前18个月期间：54

过去一年中，关于ICE非法拘留的诉讼数量增加的倍数：48

抗议ICE设施的人员被判处监禁的总年数最低值：450

被判定参与杰弗里·爱泼斯坦性贩卖团伙的人员被判处监禁的总年数：20

2015年迁移到新国家的全球百万富翁估计数量：64,000

去年迁移的人数：142,000

2025年阿拉伯联合酋长国作为百万富翁迁移目的地的排名：1

美国的排名：2

去年美国创造的百万富翁估计数量：441,078

该数字占全球新晋百万富翁的估计比例：1 / 2

英格博格·巴赫曼 《短篇小说全集》

安帕罗·达维拉 《门后》 大山弘子 《花园》

《完善拍摄》 马蒂亚斯·埃纳尔 夏洛特·曼德尔 译 索尔维·巴勒 《论体积的计算》 马蒂亚斯·埃纳尔 《完善拍摄》

《蜡之子》 奥尔加·拉文 海勒·海勒 《哈夫尼说》 奥尔加·拉文 《蜡之子》

基思·里德格韦 (Keith Ridgway) 杜宁 (DOONEEN)

弗拉基米尔·纳博科夫 (Vladimir Nabokov) 尼古拉·果戈里 (NIKOLAI GOGOL)

阅读

[书信] 缪斯的飞翔

摘自《罗伯特·弗罗斯特书信集》第 4 卷，由罗伯特·伯纳德·哈斯、亨利·阿特莫尔、唐纳德·希希和马克·理查森编辑。该书将于本月由哈佛大学出版社出版。这些信件写于其妻子埃莉诺·弗罗斯特去世之后。

致 伯纳德·德沃托 1938年3月21日

埃莉诺昨晚去世了，我很快北上时必须见你。

罗伯特。德沃托。

致 伯纳德·德沃托 1938年4月12日

好吧，Bennyvenuto：

我想在意识到自己并能说出我在余生中想要成为的样子之前，我的思考必须深入到层层深处。在公众面前我会没事的，但我还不知道独自一人时会如何表现。她总能陪伴在我身边，掌控我的孤独，却不让我感到更加孤独。现在离开她的时间已经超过了一周，这是自1895年6月以来我离开她最久的一次。你可以看出我为什么会对自我产生怀疑。我打算在五月份非常努力地工作，并与人们接触，以免太早地让自己陷入孤独的考验。

我想，爱总得带有欺骗性。我担心我稍微欺骗了她，为了争论的缘故，我假装不认为这个世界像她认为的那样糟糕。我的借口是我想为了我自己的自私快感而让她保持一点快乐。这就好像为了争论，她牺牲了自己的生命来给我这个可怕的答案，并真正让我陷入悲痛之中。她本不必如此。我知道我从来没有立足之地，我想我也曾在出版物中这么说过。

尽管如此，我依然相信许多减轻痛苦的事物，我对宇宙所说的任何反面之词都必须带有这个限定条件。我一直不愿听到关于可怜的小埃德加·艾伦 ·波的恶评，当我深入内心寻找原因时，是因为他用那些优美的古诗行写出了一首散文诗。

请在那里等我，我定将 在幽深的山谷与你相逢。

更有甚者，他利用从那篇《葬礼词》中捕捉到的韵律，创作了整首诗《沉睡者》。不必在意他无法在不显得阴森的情况下表现温柔。你得记住，他就是那个小埃德加·艾伦·波。

我们将于4月22日星期五下午三点，在阿默斯特学院的约翰逊礼拜堂，为我带回家的骨灰举行葬礼。也许我稍微希望那些能够方便到场的友人能来参加。我不知道你对这类事情怎么看。我不确定。当然，她的名誉毫无疑问。你、我和其他人会以更重要的方式去维护，不是吗？

永远属于你的 罗伯特

致 乔治·罗伊·埃利奥特 1938年4月13日

亲爱的罗伊和阿尔玛：

我将在周二或周三回到阿默斯特，处理一些我尚未学会用肉身去接受的最终事宜。

奥托和埃塞尔邀请我去他们家，因为我似乎不想看到自己家的内部。如果你能像之前说的那样处理约翰、伊尔玛和杰克的事，那就太好了。我希望全家人能聚在一起，但我们以后也可以聚。我可能会在他们之间徘徊一段时间，直到我能决定现在的我是谁，以及我必须继续面对什么。一些旧有的雄心勃勃的决议可能会以某种形式回到我身边。危险在于，它们可能过于公开地涉及她。如果正确阅读，我的几乎每一首诗都会被发现是关于她的。但我必须努力记住，这些诗在多大程度上关于她，取决于她的喜好和允许。她从未说一句话，却设定了界限，而我必须继续遵守。一次这样的提醒，然后永远不再有。

你忠实的

罗伯特

致 罗伯特·希勒

1938年4月14日

亲爱的罗伯特：

我们将于4月22日星期五下午三点，在阿默斯特学院的约翰逊礼拜堂，为我用骨灰瓮带回家的骨灰举行葬礼仪式。不会有抬棺者，因为不需要抬棺者。但如果能看到一两个或三个我最亲密且最具诗意的朋友出现在附近，将给我带来诗意的慰藉

[规则]

22。

广告指导系统

这是一项由国防部提出并于 6 月在《联邦公报》上公布的规则。如果最终确定，该规则将管理与五角大楼招募广告相关的合同。

拟议的招标条款要求投标人证明其不存在以下行为：

(1) 对新闻或信息来源的内容事实准确性进行评级或排名；

(2) 就新闻或信息来源的误导性信息、偏见、对新闻标准的遵守情况或伦理道德提供评级或意见；或

(3) 获取或使用任何提供 (1) 或 (2) 中所述评级、排名或意见的服务。

在这个极具终结感的时刻陪伴我。你能来吗？我知道向你提出这个要求，是对你施加了我不应有的压力。请原谅我目前的心境。诗意的慰藉似乎是我所剩下的一切中最重要的东西。

永远属于你的

罗伯特

致路易斯·安特迈尔（Louis Untermeyer）

May 16, 1938

亲爱的路易斯：

自从我在这家酒店门口与你告别以来，你经历了许多人生，我也一样。上周我特意去做了一千美元的讲座，是为了看看过度工作是否能改善我的症状，同时也是为了看看在与阿默斯特学院断绝关系后，在紧巴巴的情况下我一年能指望赚多少钱。52 次一千美元就是 5.2 万美元。扣除两周在康科德角（Concord Corners）山区的度假时间，依然有 5 万美元，这在如今，或者对任何时代的诗人来说，都是一个痛苦的高税率档位。但如果我被钉在耻辱柱上，那应该是作为一名道德家而非诗人。

我还不了解我自己，而且在很长一段时间内都不会了解，如果我真的能了解的话。发生的事情让我如此亢奋，以至于我无法用任何形式的记忆触及我的内心。我的手指触碰皮肤的任何地方，都像一种忧伤的灵感般疼痛。在这种状态下，我昨天花了一整天时间，在日落大道（Sunset Ave）那栋荒凉的房子里收拾那些极其私人的物品。我的体力被耗尽到了最后一滴，然后卡罗尔把我背回了南沙夫茨伯里（South Shaftsbury）的房子里。我觉得自己像一棵因为糟糕的林业管理而失去了周围整片森林的树。我必须得找个人倾诉。我保证不会再用这些私事过多地打扰你。卡罗尔像个好孩子一样陪了我一整天。他已经振作起来了。在最初的那几天里，他不知道该怎么做。

我带着对你教学技巧的钦佩阅读了你的新书。你知识的广度和精确度表明你本该成为一名学者。这样一本书表明你本该成为一名教师。但不要为了成为其中任何一种而离开农场太久。尽管如此，我还是希望你能抽出两三年时间，在某所大学展示你的才干。

再进行一次简短的（强力）巡演，我就能自由地处理纽约和波士顿的一两件事，然后自由地回到佛蒙特州的家中。我将成为自由本身。

© SCOTT KAHN. COURTESY THE ARTIST AND DAVID ZWIRNER

《秋入冬》，由斯科特·卡恩（Scott Kahn）创作的绘画，其作品本月在纽约市的戴维·兹维纳（David Zwirner）画廊展出。

我有许多话想和你谈。

永远属于你的 R.

致莱斯利·弗罗斯特（Lesley Frost） March 1, 1939

亲爱的莱斯利：

我就住在蒙特弗农街 88 号。不知怎么地，我在最近的信件中发现了埃莉诺的这封信。我想你一定是在我离开办公桌和文件柜时把它交给我的，而我一定是在随身携带的那些混乱的信件和手稿中，把它放进了其中一个旅行包里。这封信属于你在韦尔斯利学院早期的日子。天哪，她写给你们孩子的所有文字中都流淌着怎样的悲伤。难怪如果读得仔细，我的诗作中也会笼罩着一些这样的阴影。无论我表现得多么幽默，我内心始终是忧伤的。我是一个关于忧伤的弄臣。她从一开始就影响了我的思考，正如她在最后阶段干扰了我的政治观点。当然，这并非损失，而是一种收获。在思想上她不如我那么具有原创性，但她以其性格和天性的力量主导了我的艺术。我希望我没有这种悲哀的怀疑——即在临终前，她开始对我给予她的生活产生某种怨恨。说到完全无关的其他人，赫维·艾伦前几天在他年迈的睿智中评论道，你永远不知道一个女人在心中为你积攒了多少不满。现在看来，她似乎在潜移默化地将我给予她的孩子们的不成功，作为不满积压在我身上。她是一个拥有最稳健现实判断力的人。但在这一点上，我认为她破天荒地彻底错了。她没能意识到，她并没有给予你们像耐心地给予我那样的时间。你们正以自己的方式成长得很好。艾尔玛也会成长得很好。总会有办法让卡罗尔独立起来的。你会看到的。

但今天我受到了一个冲击，这与埃莉诺在听到我打电话给

© THE ANONYMOUS PROJECT / LEE SHULMAN. COURTESY GALERIE CLÉMENTINE DE LA FÉRONNIÈRE, PARIS 一张来自“匿名项目”（Anonymous Project）的照片，由李·舒尔曼（Lee Shulman）拍摄。该项目的部分作品在柏林 Fotografiska 举办的名为《没有像家一样的地方》（No Place Like Home）的展览中展出，展期至 11 月。

汉诺威的约翰时所会有的反应相一致。由于我沉溺于旅途，无论如何都联系不上，期间发现艾尔玛患有一个巨大的肿瘤，并在汉诺威医院进行了手术。那是上周五。一切进展顺利，她明天应该能回家，健康状况有望比之前更好。我想你之前没意识到她的情况如此糟糕。我知道她比以前差了一些。一定要给她写一封充满鼓励的好信。她会想知道我告诉你拉森是如何吹嘘约翰的。我想应该是这样。一个女人对一个男人积攒的不满，不可能是因为他在外界取得了她只能不完全分享的成功吧。记住，即便她真的如此，我也不在乎。我已经准备好面对宇宙结构中的任何悲伤。去追求你所有自己的成功吧。但要冷静且审慎地去做，不要急躁。保持健康，保持良好的外貌。女人必须看起来体面。你拥有可以进一步提升的基础相貌。我一直听到各种消息，说你在华盛顿已经站稳了脚跟。

明天晚上，我将在你的出生地开始一系列五场讲座。我的主题将是“一首诗的成功”。我的第二个主题将是“四个半诗人”——指的是爱默生、朗费罗、布莱恩特、波以及西尔。

我最近收到了很多信。怎么？

深爱你的，爸爸

[回忆录] 洞洞鞋之父

作者：乔治·博德克尔（George Boedecker Jr.），摘自《洞洞鞋：我如何发明了世界上最受欢迎的鞋子，获得巨大成功，并几乎毁掉自己——15个简单教训》。本书将于本月由哈珀柯林斯领导力出版社（HarperCollins Leadership）出版。

我曾与 Fleetwood Mac 乐队一起狂欢，给乔·蒙塔纳（Joe Montana）送过比萨，与罗宾·威廉姆斯（Robin Williams）开过玩笑。我的快速拨号名单里有三星将军。我在夏洛特赛车场（Charlotte Motor Speedway）参加过赛车。我差不多进入过证人保护计划。

我曾与无数美丽且令人沉醉的女性共处，多到无法计数。但有一件事我可以计数：我环球旅行了 28 次。

我生活在疯狂的速度中，但我依然在这里。尽管取得了所有这些成就，但还是有……一些事情。其他的事情。当然会有。怎么可能没有呢？

我失去了这么多朋友。虽然死亡我可以理解——那是不可避免的。但那些背弃我的人呢？或者篡改故事的人？或者因为觉得应该得到更多好处而跳下这辆“金钱快车”的人？或者那些摆出圣人姿态的人？我的一位朋友禁止我进入他所有的餐厅，包括一些我在博尔德（Boulder）最喜欢的聚集地。公平地说，那次被拒是我应得的。

我生命中的挚爱与我已经分开几十年了。

在伊丽莎白之后，我交往最认真的一位女性曾加入一场针对我的诉讼。

也许 Crocs 的成功、名望、 notoriety 以及尤其是那笔疯狂的钱，与我几乎毁掉自己这件事有关。我不禁想到生活的轮盘赌：我当时想要一双好船鞋——仅仅如此——于是我走进迈阿密的一家 Tommy Bahama 商店，询问他们是否有我想要的。他们没有。谢谢你，Tommy。如果答案是肯定的，我可能永远不会创造 Crocs。你们现在读到的就会是别的东西了。

那是我想成为“牛奶贼”的一年。

在牛奶还送到家门口的年代，我会趁着送报路线上的客户外出度假，从他们的门廊和侧门偷牛奶。

我意识到这不仅仅是违反规则——事实上，这是违法。但请听我解释。我自己买不起。我很饿。而且那些牛奶本来也会变质的。

其中一些我喝了。我体内的创业精神让我产生了一个绝妙的主意：把一部分囤积的牛奶给我的哥哥之一斯科特（Scott），换取他不揍我。我用瓶盖在电影院换取折扣。我把空瓶子还到主人的门廊上，这样他们就能拿到 5 美分的回收费。并不是说我不懂公平。

他们完全不知道是我偷了他们的牛奶。在他们眼中，我只是一个有进取心、有纪律的送报童。

我不止是违反规则。我还制定自己的规则。我们在旧金山的时候，49人足球队是王者。在我在那里的几年里，他们赢了好几次超级碗，而且有很多球星——首先是四分卫乔·蒙塔纳；还有未来的名人堂角卫罗尼·洛特（Ronnie Lott）；未来的明星四分卫史蒂夫·杨（Steve Young）；伟大的跑卫罗杰·克雷格（Roger Craig）；以及完成了“关键接球”的接球手德怀特·克拉克（Dwight Clark）。我知道他们所有人的住址——这听起来很诡异，但湾区几乎每个人都知道他们的足球英雄住在哪里——而且他们离我的其中一家店不远。我以前给其中一些人家送过比萨，所以我的下一个主意并不那么离谱：每当 49 人队在客场比赛时，那个周日我就给几个球员家里送比萨，因为他们的妻子、孩子和朋友几乎肯定聚集在一起看电视转播。没有人订比萨。我在开赛前带着几个比萨出现。

“抱歉，我们没订这个。”

“噢，有人订了，而且已经全部付过钱了，包括小费。给您。”

当然他们接受了，因为谁会拒绝在周日开球前送达的热比萨和冷饮呢？ 而且还是免费的？

在多米诺披萨（Domino's），从八十年代初到九十年代末，我和乔尔比任何人都努力工作，也比他们更懂得享受生活。这并不完全是一场竞争。而更像是：你能从生活中榨取出多少生命力？好吧，也许这确实是一场竞争，因为我绝不会让任何人在这方面胜过我。我希望别人一年中最美好的时刻，对我来说仅仅是一个周二的下午。

我们的客户群是最酷的。我们有一群固定的同性恋顾客，他们觉得乔尔很可爱，希望能够说服他放弃异性恋。偶尔他们也会对我产生兴趣。对于其中一些男人来说，他们的口味几乎涵盖所有人。我和乔尔可能会开着多米诺的配送车出去送货——两个穿着多米诺制服的二十多岁年轻人——然后人们会从他们的车里对着我们大喊，那些车很高级。而当我开始赚大钱，开着我的红色敞篷车到处跑时，这种情况变得更加频繁。那时候人们没什么克制力。

八十年代末，每个人都在吸毒，或者至少看起来是这样。有钱人吸可卡因粉末，穷人吸可吸食的裂克可卡因。

旧金山就像一场大雪（指可卡因粉末）。可能美国大部分地区也是如此。

斯科蒂懂化学，但我懂时尚。而且我知道这里有些情况在发生。当时在加勒比海，时间大约在午夜到凌晨3点之间，我是船上唯一醒着的人。

尽管如此，我知道这正朝着正确的方向发展。我在顶部钻了几个孔，让脚能透气（稍后详述）。附近没有镜子，但我敢肯定我的头顶上正亮着一只灯泡（指灵光一现）。

一只鞋。实际上是一只船鞋。一只看起来非常奇怪的鞋，与任何其他种类的鞋都不同，但我确信，如果我们能想出制造方法，热爱船的人一定会穿它。当我们上岸后，斯科蒂和我的一家五金店里找到了一只塑料木鞋，并开始在上面钻孔，看看它是否能支撑孔洞且不会刮花表面。

不行。它没能达到我们的要求。

我当时没有意识到，追求这个想法会导致我们一次又一次地被炸得措手不及——字面意义上的爆炸。

在博尔德，在俱乐部打完一轮高尔夫后，我遇到了美国法警，他们告诉我需要将我带回旧金山，在两名涉嫌杀害桑尼的男子的谋杀案审判中出庭作证。

[通知]

这些男子因一级谋杀罪受审。在诉讼期间，法警对我居住的地方进行了看守。我认为这太过了——这些罪犯看起来像是个小偷，或者可能是些陷入绝境的裂克瘾君子。此外，我不明白我的证词如何能成为决定性因素——但在一次离开法庭去买酒时，当我经过一名坐在后方的年轻人身边时，我看到他正在画一张画……画的是我。是以“通缉令”的形式画的。

给我壳（GIMME SHELLTER）

我们，即美国鱼类及野生动物管理局，正在修订《联邦法规》（CFR）中关于“贝类 / 甲壳类动物”（shellfish）的定义，删除“具有壳”（having a shell）这一短语，并增加具体的分类群。此次修订将明确鱿鱼、乌贼、章鱼及其他头足类动物均包含在贝类 / 甲壳类动物的监管定义之内。第 10.12 节将“贝类 / 甲壳类动物”定义为“任何具有壳的软体动物物种”，这一表述反映的是历史术语，而非当代生物分类或现代商业用途。

摘自美国鱼类及野生动物管理局 6 月在《联邦公报》上公布的一项修订规则。

为了我的安全，在出庭作证之前，我被转移了四次住所。伊丽莎白和孩子们回到了科罗拉多州，住在某个没人知道的地方，所以我不用担心那个。

头足类动物——包括鱿鱼、乌贼、章鱼和鹦鹉螺——虽然属于软体动物，但其特点是具有内壳、退化的壳或完全没有壳。同样，头足类动物属于头足纲（Cephalopoda），其中包括具有扁平螺旋壳特征的菊石。因此，目前的监管定义在头足类动物是否符合 50 CFR 第 10, 14, 部分及相关条款中关于野生动物进口、出口、申报、检查和执法的“贝类 / 甲壳类动物”资格方面产生了歧义。

在实践中，这种歧义导致入境口岸对头足类产品处理不一，受监管实体感到困惑，并给进口商、出口商和执法人员带来了不必要的监管负担。

两名男子都被判一级谋杀罪。不管他们是否要被关很久，我再也不想和达美乐（Domino's）有任何关系了。

负责接送我们的是两位船长，都是我雇的。蒂米（Timmy）和奥利（Oli）足够传奇——他们都是远洋水手，年轻时曾在南太平洋到美国的所有地方走私大麻和枪支。他们曾在南海与海盗对峙。他们最大的一笔货是从泰国运往越南岘港的大麻，是用大米支付的。那两个家伙在夜间驶入岘港港口，然后停靠在俄罗斯海军基地的一艘巨型油轮旁。在打点好足够多的人之后，对方将货物装上了他们的船。随后，蒂米和奥利横跨太平洋向东驶向美国，航程三个月。当他们被发现并在太平洋沿岸被追击时，他们在美国培养的一个关系告诉了他们海岸警卫队的位置以及如何规避。他们认为这个联系人本人一定就在海岸警卫队里。每当警卫队靠近时，蒂米和奥利就会消失在更深的海域几天，然后从其他地方返回。那时他们是无所畏惧的二十多岁青年，一次又一次地进行为期一个月左右的航行，那是真正的冒险。之后，他们搬到欧洲潜伏了几年。

“我他妈有 17 套房子，”我说。事实上，其中大多数房子被其他人居住，包括许多家庭成员、朋友以及几个负担不起其他住所的人，但这并不重要，至少在那个时刻不重要。

警察问那个地址是否是我的主要住所。“那是你他妈唯一需要知道的，”我说，以为自己是在提供建设性的帮助。

然后我告诉警察我当时是如何出现在那个地点的，大约是下午 5:30。我告诉他，我的女朋友在前一天晚上 11:30 的一场慈善活动结束后开车带我去的。他对时间点表示怀疑，于是我确认，是的，一切都始于晚上 11:30。我告诉警察，我和女朋友发生了争吵，这导致她靠边停车，走出保时捷，然后跑掉了。

由于即使是我在那种状态下也能感觉到这个故事听起来很可疑，于是我修改了说法，说实际上我们是在上午 11:30 开车到那个地区的。这看起来更可信。但我坚持主张我绝对没有开车，不过这一点也很难站住脚，因为拨打投诉电话的目击者报告说，有人在驾驶座上打盹。

警察随后询问了我关于我女朋友及其行踪的情况。我告诉他她是一名歌手，而且“他妈的超级出名”。我问他是否熟悉泰勒·斯威夫特（Taylor Swift）。

“我知道，”他说。

“就是泰勒·斯威夫特，”我说。

直到今天，我从未见过泰勒·斯威夫特。

胸口和背部。它们在黑暗中闪烁，像微小的彩色灯光。我用指尖触碰胸口看到光亮的地方。我触碰那里，我知道那是来自她的。

我那时七岁半。我记得当我身在冰柜内部时，看到了冰柜的外在。在巨大的绿色院子里，它看起来如此孤独，而我们的意识则隐藏在其中。我想起了家里一直放在冰柜顶上的橙子，在我的记忆中，它们柔软、圆润，带着橙色的涂抹感。内德（Ned）靠在我身上哭泣。我胸口那一点微光照亮了他的脸，让我能最后一次看清他。

他想起了那天落雪时，我们父亲手指被切断的情景。他当时在为火堆劈引火柴。在密西西比州，下雪很罕见。他必须把木头劈得很薄。木头呈橙色。雪通常维持不了多久，有时仅能维持一夜。我们剪出纸人，将它们悬挂在火焰正上方的热气中。我们折磨它们，让它们谈论各种事情。

[小说] 我确实记得

摘自鲁迪·威尔逊（Rudy Wilson）的《红卡车》（The Red Truck），该书将于本月由 Cash4Gold Books 出版社重新发行。

内德（Ned）在一年前去世了。我们钻进了一个旧冰柜里，就在小树林附近的小溪边。内德六岁，个头很小。门随着一声金属咔哒声关上了。我们说着南方口音；我们在黑暗中交谈。

“这里没有光，”内德说，“我现在想出去。”

“我们不能出去，”我说，“我们得等到他们找到我们。妈妈很快就会来的。她会找到我们的。”

我们在里面待了一个多小时，低声耳语，安静且紧挨在一起。我们在衣服下面赤裸着，蜷缩在一个白色的盒子空间里。薄薄的橡胶密封条将光线和空气隔绝在我们的之外。

我们等待着。内德给我讲了一些关于动物的梦，关于翅膀的梦。在他的房间里，他用蜡笔画过一些宽翅鸟类的画。他说：“我曾经有过翅膀。很久以前，在我变成现在这个我之前。”

我听着，没有回答。我觉得我一直以来就是我自己。

我就在那片白色的黑暗之中。然后我感觉到一个印记，两个印记，对称地出现在我的

[Twofer] 变脸

这是一则韩国整形诊所的广告，从左上角起依次写着：“忠诚！”（韩国军队的问候语）；“长官，我们认为男人应该拥有好看的‘眼和鼻’！”；“眼+鼻整形手术”；“士兵两项手术套餐”；以及价格 1,584,000 韩元。越来越多的韩国士兵正在接受整形手术。由 Yuna Chang 从韩语翻译而来。

《疾病作为其美妙的一部分》，由胡尔达·古兹曼（Hulda Guzmán）创作。本月其作品在英国马盖特（Margate）的特纳当代艺术馆（Turner Contemporary）展出。

“他们很快就会开口了，”我对内德说。

我们知道他们并不知情。而当他们不开口时，他们被焚烧了。那些小人们蜷缩起来，变得漆黑。他们呼喊着他们的朋友，呼喊着他们的妻子和孩子，以及他们自己。他们从未想过要死去。

爸爸失手用砍柴刀砍到了食指。我看到他意识到了这一点。我想起初他并不觉得疼。他看到了贯穿整个手指的骨头和手指肌肉。然后血液泵了出来。他抓住手指将其贴在胸前。他紧咬牙关，嘴唇向后收缩。他看向内德，内德看到了。内德睁大了棕色的眼睛。爸爸说：“快去叫妈妈。快。”血液滴落在膝盖旁地上的雪中。

“他跪在了地上，比利-比利。他捂着手，好像不想看到它。他的脸变得苍白。而且很悲伤。妈妈来了帮他。他哭了。爸爸也哭了。”

© HULDA GUZMÁN. COURTESY THE ARTIST AND ALEXANDER BEROGRUEN, NEW YORK CITY. BENEDICTA M. BADIA COLLECTION

随着空气被耗尽，我们互相倚靠在对方肩上。我感觉自己与身体分离了。我的头部感觉颗粒感十足。我想到了她；我几乎感觉到有一只手在我的手中。也许那是内德的手。当空气开始被重复呼吸两次、三次时，内德昏过去了。我的头感觉快要炸裂了。我闭上眼睛。我看到了许多面孔，仿佛他们知道一些关于我的、而我却不知道的事情。然后我听到喊叫声和向前推搡的声音。我的心怦怦直跳。我觉得自己看起来像个老人。我感觉到某种比我身处其中的黑暗更深沉的东西在靠近。我对着内德大喊，但他已经不在了。

“不要死，”我对自己说。我看到了房子后面充满空气的绿色院子。我尽可能地睁大眼睛。“不要死，比利-比利，”我说。

当冰盒被打开时，内德死掉了，从里面滚了出来。因为缺氧，他的脸是紫色的。

我还活着。我的肺活量更大。

在那之后的几天里，我处于一种疲惫、梦幻的状态。我的大脑发烫。我陷入了一场噩梦：一个男人走在路上，望着天空，感觉很惬意。他看着穿着旧鞋的脚。他又走了一步——然后掉进了一个洞里。他爬出来，沿着路跑向一个朋友家——但他又掉进了另一个洞里。然后他出来，沿着路走到胖子们居住的地方——他又掉进了另一个洞里。在其中一个洞里的梦境中，是些长着胡须、脸上沾着血的男人。他们都死了。我也在其中。有人压在我身上，双臂环抱着我。我挣扎，但他们勒得更紧。我的嘴里含着某个人的长发。我尖叫，但没有人能听到。

然后场景变了：我进入了更深的黑暗，那里没有空气，也没有人。

汗水从我身上倾泻而出；那是冰冷的。K妈妈说我在睡梦中大喊大叫。我醒了。我曾去过地球的中心。

“到了地核，”我说。“它在草地下面，在地下，在那之下，在深处的中部，它是光滑的。它是铁做的。它是固体，但在其内部深处，有世界上最古老的空气。我得以呼吸它，这样我就能活下来。这让我比任何活着的人都要年长。”

我的父母对我点头。他们摇了摇头。“没关系的，比利-比利。没关系。你睡了一会儿，做了几个梦。”

“那不是梦，”我说。“那是真实的。”

我在床上抬头看着他们。床离地面很高。我们的地板是木制的，里面装有地板加热器，就像能透出热气的扁平格栅。有一次我摔倒了，腿在格栅上被割了一个口子。阳光透过窗户洒进来。在我脑后，白色的窗帘在微微飘动。我转过身，看向窗外的一片绿意。再次醒来感觉很好。

我的父母站着注视着我。K妈妈坐在房间角落的藤椅上。她的眼睛时不时地闭上，一次闭上好几分钟。我的脑海中有什么东西。感觉像一把勺子。我头里有一个那样的形状。我想，像一把勺子。

我觉得我的大拇指像房间一样大，轻而易举地填满了整个空间，然后它又变得如此

“亲爱的，”我母亲说。她有一双北方的眼睛。“内德被埋了，在公墓里。在共济会之家，在斯蒂娃姑姑旁边。”

“在地下？”我问。

“嗯，是的，他在地下。我们不得不把他埋在地下。不过他是在某个东西里——在棺材里。”

在我看来，她的整张脸就像被一个大屏幕撞击过，上面布满了细小的凹痕——就像被一个巨大的苍蝇拍拍过一样。

“我们本想等你——但我们不知道。我们不得不先办理。”K妈妈睁开了眼睛；我听到她低声对自己说着什么。

“他不应该在地下，”我说。“那样他怎么移动，或者怎么去任何地方？”

我想，这就像在冰柜里一样。我再次看到了它，巨大的矗立在那里。它在我的脑海中与他墓地上的墓碑混淆在一起。我想象邻居的孩子们在冰柜门上涂鸦：内德死了。六岁。他在里面停止了呼吸。

我想起了一天，父亲、内德和我在一起，在公园里的一天，白色的鸭子在绿草地上行走。我们走到了旋转木马附近。内德和我都剪了新的平头，戴着新的太阳镜。鸭子那么白。它们用橙色的脚爬行，天空是蓝色的。

填满了空间，但与此同时又变得如此之小。我的嘴里感觉麻麻的。我觉得我以前来过这里。不是这里，不是和这些人在一起，不是在这栋房子里，也不是作为一个躺在大白床上的男孩，而是以前来过。然后我失去了那种感觉，我忘了那是什么，我变成了我自己，比利-比利。我仍然能感觉到那把勺子，但现在感觉更柔软了，就像它在遥远的距离观察着我。

我看着K妈妈闭上的眼睑，苍老的闭上的眼睑。

她坐在藤椅里。

那是夏天。

我感觉到她的手臂搁在藤椅坚硬的线条上。

“内德在哪？”我问。

“愿上帝保佑他那颗小小心灵，”我听到K妈妈说。

她用布满斑点的手抓着椅子。她有一头白发。以前是红色的。

“内德走了，比利-比利，”我父亲说。“我们再也见不到他了。”

“别这么说，”我母亲说。

“我想起来了，”我说。“我知道。但现在他在哪里？”

[专利] 马修·佩奇法

摘自美国专利号 12648600 B1，该专利由美国专利商标局于六月颁发。该专利由田纳西州罗素维尔的马修·佩奇（Matthew Page）持有，描述了一种在如厕时防止裤子接触地面的方法。

那天早晨，我们在录音室里为我母亲录制了一张唱片。父亲将我举向太阳。他看着我。明亮的黄色被我圆圆的新脑袋挡住了。他看着我的脸。他抱着我。

他的手指很粗，他把我放在那匹木马上，木马有着彩绘的脸和坚硬、流畅的灰色鬃毛，于是我骑了起来。我在弯道处寻找他。我有一只手是空着的。我透过深色的太阳镜看到他，镜片让所有东西的边缘看起来都锐利且发蓝。他注视着我。他站在那里，强壮，双腿微张。内德在另一匹马上；现在他走了。

“你需要休息，儿子。你一定需要更多休息，”我父亲说。“K妈妈会陪着你。如果你需要我们，我和你妈会在房间里。”

我能看出他就像我一样，在痛苦着，带着那根截断的手指，而他的儿子就躺在外的土地里。我没对他说什么。他离开时对K妈妈说了些什么，我没听清，但我以为我听到了“耶稣”这个词。

有时，一个敌对的事实会在你的口中冒头——你口中那个敌对的事实——尽管并非完全如此，而是因为一个友好的事实崩溃了，于是你将平庸的笑容粘贴、涂抹并钉在那个愁容之上，同时推开，然后再次拾起，然后将下文提到的电话一遍遍关掉又开启，你的凝视使最近的事物变得模糊，有效地将每一个抽搐变成了某种信号，直到最后，你的卡片通过了，你跟着你所有的数据走出房门，步履蹒跚地回家，醉得失去了节奏感，一种粗糙而轻盈的怪异感被烈火中的主题和基调所支撑，这一天，每个人都分得一份，像罪恶一样有趣——其小时之中潜藏着欲望！——你的声音，再次失去了力量，然后，仿佛从未离开一般，面具的味道渗了回来，至于天空，你确信那种蓝色一直存在，蓝色是虔诚的精髓之所在，而就在你的那部电话里，无数元素在蠕动，为你提供两种景象——其一，是飞翔的黄鹂之肩；其二，是粒子肿胀的核心。

内德走后，我和K妈妈在一起。她读给我听。她听我朗读。她说读得很好。她上下地点了点头。“你读得很好，亲爱的。我喜欢听你悦耳的声音。”然后她又给我讲了关于耶稣的事，以及他是如何喜爱孩子们的。

我说：“如果他照顾孩子，为什么我从未见过他，甚至没感觉到他在身边？”

[诗歌] 近距离第二人称 (CLOSE SECOND PERSON)

作者：格雷厄姆·福斯特 (Graham Foust)，摘自《近距离第二人称》，该书将于本月由 Flood Editions 出版。

我喜欢耶稣这个名字。他看起来很高，皮肤白皙。我想象他身处风中的水面上。我试着回忆他是否曾与我们一起待在冰柜里。

“他在你的心里，”K妈妈说。“在最深处，最安静的地方。那是一种不同的视觉。那是一种存在。如果你感觉不到，也没关系，因为他无论如何都在那里。无论你做什么，他都爱你。”

“无论做什么？”我问。

“无论做什么，他都爱你，”K妈妈说。“他无法克制自己。”

我想到了人们及其灵魂，就像轮廓线，填满了彩色光芒，像圣诞灯一样，闪烁地亮起又熄灭。

我说：“K妈妈，你快要死了吗？”

她说：“我不知道，比利-比利。我没法说。我们为什么不沿着路走到养老院去，你可以坐那个轮子——你可以转啊转，一直转下去。”

K妈妈看着我。她是个高大的女人。我觉得在她眼里我很渺小，是一个有着小小灵魂的小人物，是某种东西的一小块碎片，是这个世界上留给她的唯一碎片。她的牙齿又大又方。就像我父母睡觉的新房间里的彩绘木板，那个房间离我们很远。

K妈妈牵着我的手，我们沿着路走到泥土开始的地方。路上到处散落着旧纸杯和垃圾。内德和我以前常从黏土下面挖掘金属物件。我曾听见K妈妈笑着说我们在泥路里挖掘失踪的孤儿，妈妈说这太可怕了，爸爸则带着那种呆滞的眼神点头；他们当时都拿着冷饮坐在有纱窗的门廊上。通常我们只能找到旧螺栓，有一次发现了一个还能旋转的小彩色陀螺。

住在养老院里的孩子们我几乎从未见过。但在养老院后面有一个墓地，狭窄的小径在坟墓之间延伸。我知道内德就在其中一座坟里，在地下，孤身一人。我想，如果两个人能被埋在同一个盒子里，两个真正喜欢彼此的人，那一定会很有趣。

我想把那个轮子移到他的坟墓正上方，这样它就能转动并把他搅动起来，把他拉回来，这样他这次就能坐上去并抓牢了。

照片由玛丽亚·拉克丝 (Maria Lax) 拍摄，出自《流浪之土》(Stray Sod) 系列，该系列上月在洛杉矶的 La Sena 画廊展出。同名书籍于六月由 Setanta Books 出版。

圣约翰学院 研究生院

精通 经典巨著

文学硕士 东方古典文学 中东古典文学 博雅艺术（西方古典文学） 提供线下或在线选项

《三国演义》第二卷

中国哲学 原典读本

孟子，范·诺登 (VAN NORDEN) 译 玄奘的《现成公案》及三篇评注 《西游记》 安东尼·C·余 (Anthony C. Yu) 译

黄帝内经 • 全集

龙树《中论》

《摩诃婆罗多》2. 集会厅之书 范·布伊特嫩 (van Buitenen) 3. 森林之书

牛肉在哪里？那场并未发生的实验室培育肉革命

作者：埃琳·索默斯 (Erin Somers)

2013年8月5日，一名男子和一名女子吃了一个汉堡。这并非普通的汉堡：这是一个具有世界历史意义的汉堡，由荷兰马斯特里赫特大学血管生理学教授马克·波斯特 (Mark Post) 在实验室中培育的牛细胞制成。这个汉堡耗时两年生产，成本高达 330,000 美元，资金由谷歌联合创始人谢尔盖·布林 (Sergey Brin) 提供。现在，它在伦敦的河滨工作室 (Riverside Studios) 首次公开试吃，活动现场有两百名媒体人员参加，并向数千人进行了直播。

为了制作这个特殊的汉堡，波斯特从一头活牛的肩部肌肉中提取了干细胞，然后在充满营养补充剂的塑料容器中对其进行培养，这种补充剂被称为胎牛血清，提取自牛胎儿。这些细胞最终变成了两万条组织纤维，进而——埃琳·索默斯是小说《十年之情》(The Ten Year Affair) 的作者。她现居纽约州比肯。

成为了一个单枚、五盎司重的肉饼。波斯特认为，以这种方式生产的牛肉有潜力大幅减少温室气体排放并减缓气候变化。为了食用而养殖牛类需要大量的土地和水——以及在极高环境成本下种植的大量饲料。他预测，全球对肉类的需求很快将超过我们用传统方式生产的能力，届时我们的粮食系统将变得不可持续。但这并不意味着我们必须大规模调整消费习惯，或在全球范围内放弃红肉。波斯特和他的团队找到了另一种方法。

波斯特站在一个除此以外空无一物的录影棚的浅色木质岛台上，揭开了通常出现在客房服务餐车上的那种不锈钢餐盖，展示了他的作品。生肉饼放在一个裸盘的培养皿中，在工作室的灯光下闪烁着湿润的光泽。在 ITV 伦敦主播尼娜·霍赛因 (Nina Hossain) 的主持下，一位名叫理查德·麦格翁 (Richard McGeown) 的康沃尔厨师用向日葵油和黄油将汉堡煎好，交给两名志愿者试吃：常驻芝加哥的《明日之味：来自未来食物的报告》(The Taste of Tomorrow: Dispatches from the Future of Food) 作者乔什·肖恩沃尔德 (Josh Schonwald)，以及奥地利营养科学家汉尼·鲁茨勒 (Hanni Rützler)。这块肉如此珍贵，以至于他们两人只能共用一个汉堡。汉堡是以拆解形式供应的，配有芝麻面包、生菜和番茄——这是一种为了推销汉堡、为其提供语境的表演手法。肉饼本身呈红褐色，扁平且呈完美的圆形。当肖恩沃尔德和鲁茨勒切开它时，汉堡没有渗血。

两人用刀叉进食，传递着盘子，谨慎地切下小块。缓慢地咀嚼。随后，他们给出了评判。“我想说，它的味道介于 Boca 汉堡和麦当劳之间，”肖恩沃尔德告诉一名 NBC 的记者。“缺乏脂肪带来了巨大的差异。它具有一种我没预料到的质感。就像一块动物蛋白蛋糕。”鲁茨勒在接受《科学》(Science) 杂志记者采访时指出了汉堡的平淡。“这里还有改进的空间，”她说。活动结束时，价值约 150,000 美元的汉堡仍未被食用。但这并没有阻止波斯特做出预测：在十年之内，实验室培育的肉类将成为一种消费产品。

这场活动——这场戏剧性的揭晓，这场公关盛宴——引发了一场类似于“淘金热”的狂潮。六大洲迅速涌现出140家公司，试图将波斯特在牛肉上取得的成果复制到其他物种身上：鸡肉、猪肉、鱼肉，甚至鹌鹑肉。高达30 亿美元 billion的投资涌入该领域。真正的信徒们声称，细胞农业不仅能对抗气候变化和全球粮食不安全，还能减缓人畜共患病和抗生素耐药性的传播。一家名为Upside Foods的公司宣称其计划将“设定肉类的新标准”，并使“肉类成为世界上的一种向善的力量”。另一家名为Vow的公司制造了一个巨大的猛犸象肉丸，不过没有人被允许食用它，因为其DNA来自化石，公司并不确定它是否真的适合人类食用。智库RethinkX预测，到2030, 培育肉将使美国牛肉业崩溃，使传统品种的需求量大幅下降70 percent。正如该组织所写：“我们已经处于食品和农业生产自10,000年前首次驯化动植物以来，最深刻、最快速、影响最深远的变革前夜。”

然而，尽管如此疯狂，肉类本身却始终没有出现。挑战接踵而至。首先是建设生产设施的巨额前期成本，以及运行这些设施所需的惊人电能。其次是难以生产出足够数量的产品，且价格低到人们愿意购买。此外，还缺乏经过培训、能够操作这项新技术的熟练劳动力。美国食品药品监督管理局（FDA）和美国农业部（USDA）进行了轮番检查。偶尔甚至会出现产品样本中出现不想要的啮齿动物DNA的情况，Upside和Eat Just两家公司就遭遇了此事。在2021, 达到顶峰后，投资开始下降。2023, 该行业仅筹集了微不足道的1.77亿美元。

但开始对培育肉产生怀疑的不仅仅是风险投资家。这项技术很快成为了保守派的目标。佛罗里达州、阿拉巴马州、密西西比州、印第安纳州、蒙大拿州、内布拉斯加州和德克萨斯州的州政府接连采取行动，通过立法反对培育肉，通过法律禁止其销售、生产或两者兼而有之。州长罗恩·德桑蒂斯将签署佛罗里达州法律变成了一场媒体活动，他在一块堆满牛排且沾有血迹的切菜板前摆拍。“把你们那些虚假的实验室培育肉拿到别处去，”他说，“在佛罗里达州，我们不搞这一套。”2024, 工业生物技术顾问乔尔·斯通告诉《纽约时报》，如果必须给出概率，那么在可预见的未来，该行业能提供哪怕10 percent肉类供应的可能性“将为零”。如今，全球只有一家商店可以购买培育肉：新加坡的Huber's Butchery，顾客可以在那里购买由一家名为GOOD Meat的制造商生产的实验室培育鸡肉丝包装。

这些进展对我来说很不方便，因为就在我痴迷于品尝细胞培育肉的前景时，这种可能性似乎在我眼前渐渐远去。我被这个关于肉的故事所吸引，因为它似乎包含了定义这个时代美国生活的诸多元素：可疑的技术乐观主义、夸张的文化战争姿态，以及像猛犸象肉丸这样的嘉年华奇闻。它呈现出一种相互竞争的动机之乱，是利他主义与冷酷的资本追求的混合体（没有任何东西能仅仅为了公共利益而存在；它必须让某人成为亿万富翁）。还有一个事实是，我已经做了近二十年的素食主义者。

我最后一次吃肉是在2007年谢伊体育场吃的一根热狗。我不记得它是什么味道了——大概和我之前吃过的所有热狗都一样。我用一瓶价格昂贵但冰凉的百威啤酒把它冲了下去，那是装在金属瓶里的那种。在那之后我就不再吃肉了，并不是因为那根热狗令人作呕，而是因为我不喜欢那种不可避免地咬到糟糕部分的感觉，即偶尔会嚼到软骨、筋或骨头。随后，我的禁欲变成了习惯，而这种习惯又被其他顾虑所强化：工业化肉类生产带来的灾难性环境后果；以及随着年龄增长而悄然滋生的怀疑——我是否真的在宇宙秩序中必然高于一只鸡或一头牛。但实验室培育肉提出了一个极具吸引力的疑问：如果你能减去其中的一些弊端——让肉类对环境的破坏性降低，通过工程手段消除其美学上的缺陷——那么没有理由不吃它，不是吗？

随着实验室培育肉的潜力变得越来越不乐观，这个问题开始显得毫无意义。但就在波斯特（Post）的愿景似乎永远无法实现之时，一个令人惊讶的地方传来了鼓舞人心的消息：北卡罗来纳州。2024年5月，正当许多同行纷纷逃离该领域时，杰夫·贝佐斯通过他的地球基金（Earth Fund）捐赠了3000万美元，在北卡罗来纳州立大学成立贝佐斯可持续蛋白质中心，该计划致力于开发“环保、健康、美味且负担得起的膳食蛋白质”。这笔捐款巩固了该州作为全球实验室培育肉产业新中心的地位。贝佐斯中心将加入

北卡罗来纳生物技术中心，这是一个位于研究三角园（Research Triangle Park）的生命科学经济发展组织。

在商业方面，一家生产培育鸡肉的以色列公司 Believer Meats 最近在北卡罗来纳州的威尔逊市动工兴建一座200,000平方英尺的制造工厂。该公司声称，该工厂将成为全球最大的实验室培育肉设施，每年能够生产2100万磅的工程鸡肉。

去年秋天，Believer 收到了一封来自美国食品药品监督管理局（FDA）的“无异议”信函，表明该机构在对设施的检查中未发现安全问题。在庆祝这一里程碑的新闻稿中，Believer 当时的首席执行官——一个（真的）名叫古斯塔沃·汉堡（Gustavo Burger）的人表示：“我们很自豪能在该州实现商业化，创造高质量的制造业岗位，并使我们能够实现引领关爱地球的食品创新愿景。”不久之后，我与该公司取得了联系。在与 Believer 的首席产品与增长官海瑟·哈德逊（Heather Hudson）以及来自销售与营销部门的罗德里戈·拉瓦尔（Rodrigo Lavall）的一次 Zoom 会议中，两人向我暗示了参加剪彩仪式的可能性。他们可以初步计划一次活动，并邀请我前往参观。

整件事感觉有点像《巧克力工厂》（Wonka-ish）。目前还没有任何媒体人员被允许进入工厂。甚至只有少数业内专业人士参观过。为什么我能拿到那张“金奖券”？但我尽量不去质疑自己的好运。在获得独家访问机会的期待下，我开始计划前往三角区。如果实验室培育肉有未来，我或许能在那里找到答案。我想，也许我甚至能尝到它的味道。

12月初的一个温和日子里，我抵达了北卡罗来纳州立大学广阔的校园，这里有大约四万名学生。我原以为这里会很热闹，到处是孩子，但这里却死寂得诡异。贝佐斯中心那位戴眼镜且友好的主任罗汉·希尔瓦伊克（Rohan Shirwaiker）在一家洁净的建筑里接到了我，在那里我没看到一个学生。他解释说，大家都回家过节了。

希尔瓦伊克（Shirwaiker）是一位工业工程师，他的研究兴趣涵盖了从细胞农业到人体组织3D打印的广泛领域。他带着一种教授习惯于回答外行重复提问时才有的极度耐心的态度，带我浏览了一份关于该中心工作的 PowerPoint 演示文稿。演示文稿以一张色彩斑斓的熟食拼盘图片开始，并引用了温斯顿·丘吉尔在 1931 年关于未来预测的实验文章《五十年后》（"Fifty Years Hence"）中的一段话：“我们将摆脱为了吃胸肉或翅膀而必须养一只整鸡的荒诞局面，而是在合适的培养基中分别培育这些部位。”随后，希尔瓦伊克点击切换到一张汉堡的信息图，用以阐述该中心的使命。汉堡面包分别代表“研究 + 开发”、“参与 + 外展”、“劳动力

如果你能减掉一部分负面影响——让肉类生产破坏性降低——那么还有什么理由不吃它？

研发，以及跨学科团队。生菜是材料、工艺和系统。肉类是植物基、细胞培养和发酵制造。盘子是公私合作伙伴关系。而奶酪则什么都不是。

贝佐斯中心旨在解决其网站所称的，依然困扰着培育肉的“关键障碍与差距”。随着产业规模的扩大，生产流程已经发生了变化。它不再是波斯特在实验室里花好几年时间潜心研究一个汉堡。现在的培养是在看起来更像酿酒厂的无菌工厂中进行的，细胞不再生长在培养皿中，而是在巨大的不锈钢生物反应器中生长。生产商也已经不再使用胎牛血清来喂养细胞，因为血清价格昂贵，且需要从屠宰场采集牛血（对于一种主打无残酷替代肉产品来说，这形象实在不佳）。该行业现在依赖于所谓的“无血清培养基”（serum-free media），简称 SFM，这是一种因公司而异的专利化合物。尽管如此，基础科学依然没变：在一种典型的流程中，通过针刺活检从活体动物身上采集干细胞，然后将其置于含有葡萄糖、维生素、脂肪、矿物质、蛋白质和氨基酸的溶液中滋养，这些溶液在反应器内部循环搅动，以确保营养物质均匀扩散。在这种条件下，细胞就像在动物体内一样进行分裂、增殖和分化。当它们达到所需的密度时，就可以进行采集：根据培育物种的不同，大约需要两到八周。

但依然存在的是该行业面临的一个根本性挑战。你不能简单地培育出一块牛排——把它从反应器里拽出来，然后拍在彼得·卢格牛排馆的桌子上——因为一块牛排包含多种组织。目前，肌肉和脂肪只能分开培育，而且通常它们不会形成固体，而是一种半固体的浆糊，必须将其从反应器中取出，清洗，与其他用于调味和改善口感的成分结合，然后通过挤出或 3D 打印，将其变成某种你能认出是肉的东西：一个汉堡、一块鸡块、一颗肉丸或一片鱼排。一些公司正试图通过在反应器内部构建支架让细胞附着，从而绕过浆糊阶段，生产出更坚实的成品。（我被告知，某些类型的细胞不喜欢那样自由地漂浮在槽中。组织倾向于附着在骨骼上。）

自从乔什·肖恩沃尔德将波斯特的汉堡称为“动物蛋白蛋糕”以来，所有这些的成本已经大幅下降，这得益于快速倍增起始细胞的分离以及 SFM 领域的突破，使流程变得更快、更高效，科学家们声称这一趋势还将继续。但目前，培育肉的价格远高于真肉。在新加坡的 Huber's 餐厅，名为 GOOD Meat 3（名字听起来有些不祥）的产品仅含 3% 的鸡细胞，每 4 盎司一份的零售价为 \$5.62。与此同时，在我当地 ShopRite 超市的鸡肉含有 100% 的动物细胞，起售价为每磅 \$3.49。

演示文稿结束后，希尔怀克带我参观了贝佐斯中心全新的蛋白质实验室，那里仍在布置中。实验室宽敞且光线充足，摆满了 3D 打印机，还有一个嗡嗡作响但空空如也的不锈钢冰箱。尤其是那些打印机，体型巨大且令人印象深刻。我幻想自己成为那个装入浆糊并按下按钮的人，启动一个蟹饼或类似东西的打印过程。那种随之而来的如上帝般的感觉。从无到有：蟹肉。但实验室仍处于组装的早期阶段；电缆从天花板上垂下，等待着尚未交付的设备。在一段时间内，没有人能打印出蟹饼。

当希尔怀克（Shirwaiker）和我走回他的办公室时，我们讨论了当天令人震惊的头条新闻：就在我从纽约州北部的家中前往北卡罗来纳州的途中，有消息称 Believer Meats 正被 Gray Construction 起诉，索赔 3400万美元，后者正是为其在威尔逊（Wilson）建造那座庞大工厂的公司。Believer 最近违约，未能向 Gray 支付一笔 2200万美元 的分期款项。也许我早该预料到这一切：在最初的热情之后，我在 Believer 的联系人海瑟·哈德森（Heather Hudson）在我出发前的几天里就对我采取了冷处理。当我跟进询问关于剪彩仪式——我的金票！——的可能性时，她仅表示：“我们的工厂剪彩仪式似乎无法与你的时间表同步。”

我询问希尔怀克这一切意味着什么。Believer Meats 是贝佐斯中心（Bezos Center）的合作伙伴，此外还有许多其他初创公司。人造肉行业氛围融洽，存在一种友好的协作文化。因此，我原以为他会有某种内部消息。但希尔怀克和我一样惊讶。他认为工厂已经非常接近开业，员工只需要打开灯并启动鸡肉培养槽即可。他告诉我，目前还没有人知道 Believer 发生了什么。该公司能否生存尚不明确。

在我离开贝佐斯中心之前，希尔怀克向我介绍了 Gartner 炒作周期（Gartner Hype Cycle）的概念。对我来说，这个词听起来像是一个陈旧的概念，是由某位经济学家或教授在 20 世纪中期发明的框架。但并非如此：它是由一名叫杰基·芬（Jackie Fenn）的女性在 1995 年提出的，她当时就职于 Gartner 咨询公司。根据该公司制作的一段 YouTube 视频，其目的是帮助你——视频假设你是一位精明的投资者——“了解一项创新的真实风险与机遇，从而避免过早采用、过早放弃、过晚采用或坚持过久”。

希尔怀克向我展示了一张图表来做说明。x 轴是时间，y 轴是可见度。该周期始于“创新触发期”（Innovation Trigger），此时一项新技术在巨大的轰动中被推出，随后随着兴奋感的增加，曲线向上弧形攀升至“期望膨胀峰值”（Peak of Inflated Expectations）。但这种上升必然伴随着剧烈的下跌，因为投资者意识到实际操作起来将多么困难

将这项创新商业化。随后是沿着“启蒙之坡”（Slope of Enlightenment）较为平缓的攀升，此时第二代和第三代产品相继出现，直到最后，我们抵达“生产力高原”（Plateau of Productivity），即该技术进入缓慢且低调的发展阶段。如果说波斯特（Post）的汉堡是“创新触发点”，那么我问希尔怀克（Shirwaiker），我们现在处于什么位置？他指了指图表中间那个深邃的谷底：幻灭期（Trough of Disillusionment）。

在离开校园之前，我再次尝试联系海瑟·哈德森（Heather Hudson）。我告诉她我就在附近，问是否应该“顺便拜访”，仿佛 Believer 的设施是一家位置便利的咖啡馆，而不是一家位于偏僻地区的肉类工厂。我立即收到了一封自动回复，称她的电子邮箱账号已不再启用。然后我想，管它呢，决定开车前往威尔逊（Wilson），那里距离罗利（Raleigh）大约四十五分钟车程。我想，我就去看看怎么回事，面对面地和人谈谈，与负责管理工厂的人——甚至可能是哈德森本人——进行某种形式的对质。

北卡罗来纳州的乡村显得极其辽阔、平坦且空旷。地貌几乎没有任何特征；大片大片的虚无在窗外飞逝，随后我看到了工厂。Believer 位于一个松散的制造设施集群之中。为了到达那里，我必须离开一条主干道，那里有一家 Chick-fil-A、一家 Bojangles、一家麦当劳和一家 Best-N-Burgers。有一次，我给闪烁着灯光的车辆让路，原以为那是应急车辆，结果在它经过时才发现，那是一辆拖着肉类熏制炉的皮卡车。我被这些东西包围了。我想起马克·波斯特的预测，即肉类需求很快将超过我们的生产能力。有时，这看起来就像明天就会发生一样。

当我到达 Believer 时，所见之景比我预想的更为凄凉。那里没有一个先是热情、继而困惑、最后恼怒的前台职员，质疑这个没有预约就出现在肉类工厂的人是谁，而是空无一人。设施被废弃了，大门紧锁：在深秋苍白的天空下，那是一个皇家蓝色的立方体，数百万美元的突破性技术被锁在其中。在一个周二的下午，停车场里没有一辆车。我突然产生了一种短暂而疯狂的冲动，想要翻过围栏，但围栏顶端布满了铁丝网——而且，就算翻进去了我能做什么？透过窗户盯着一个空荡荡的大厅看吗？

在这个国家，有一种普遍的感觉，认为一切都是骗局或庞氏计划，而新闻报道进一步强化了这种感觉。新闻报道说，自动驾驶出租车在陷入混乱时，实际上是由菲律宾远程操作的。新闻报道说，那个能扫描血液以检测无数种疾病的神秘发明，是一场定义时代的骗局。新闻报道说，那位誓言要确保人类种族长期生存的加密货币企业家，实际上窃取了客户 80 亿美元 billion 的资金，用来资助他在巴哈马的多人情侣圈（polycule）。站在那个废弃的停车场前，我变得疑神疑鬼，认为实验室培育肉不过是另一个谎言，或者半个谎言，亦或是一场虚张声势。我认为，之所以我如此难以拿到这种肉，是因为它根本不存在。Believer 可能的崩盘令人失望，不仅因为这代表了我们在减少碳排放、增强食品系统以抵御气候崩溃这一追求上的挫折，更因为它似乎证实了我们生活在一个廉价且虚伪的世界，在这里，所谓的进步几乎总是被证明是一场信用诈骗。

在我这次侦察行动后的第二天早晨，更多消息传出：Believer 宣布破产，并将在威尔逊工厂生产出第一根鸡柳之前将其关闭。

我特意安排这次北卡罗来纳州之行，是为了能赶上在北卡罗来纳生物技术中心（North Carolina Biotechnology Center）举办的首届年度植物基与替代蛋白全球论坛。就这样，我发现自己被围在一群信徒之中，而他们的肉类之梦正实时地在眼前崩塌。当地所有的行业参与者都出席了，还有更多的人从世界各地飞来。我们一起坐在 NCBiotech 那铺着单调地毯的演讲厅里参加开幕会议，听着关于国际合作的乐观言论，一个关于挤出机晦涩的笑话，以及对“坐在后排来自昆虫领域的伊恩”的致意，而与此同时，我们心里都清楚，该行业迄今为止最大的一次豪赌刚刚失败了。随着 Believer 公司的破产，我希望从当天的议程中为这个行业挽回一线乐观的曙光——或者，至少能得到一个关于哪里出了问题的诚实评估。

在议程的休息期间，所有人鱼贯而出，聚集在门厅里。我们正处于“幻灭期”（Trough of Disillusionment），但我们也处于八卦的深坑之中。我们处于在礼堂外徘徊并兴奋交谈的沟壑之中。我们处于想要知道到底发生了什么鬼事的深谷之中。我被一群穿着挺括的纽扣衬衫、保暖背心和海军蓝西装外套的男人包围着。在场的女性并不多。在我周围，各种猜测开始四起。

“大约三四年前，疫情之后，有一段时间资金非常容易获得。你只需要准备一份融资演示文稿，风险投资人就会把钱扔给你。”

“他们的投资者名单相当星光熠熠。”

“是啊。但这不能保证成功。”

“他们把大楼盖起来了。大楼已经准备好，就像是，随时可以启动。”

“很可能是清算。再次强调，我们都是在假设。我们根本不知道到底发生了什么。”

“以色列那边肯定会有一些消息。”

随后，我们听到了风险投资人们的发言，他们别无选择，只能正面应对这个消息。“我的意思是，房间里的大象：就在路对面的 Believer Meats 基本上破产了，”来自 Replicator VC 的史蒂夫·西米齐斯（Steve Simitzis）说道，这是一家投资早期食品科技公司的公司。“我没有关于此事的具体信息，但我推测，围绕尚未实现规模化应用的技术来建设工厂，可能是一个原因。”我想，这还用说吗。小组讨论中的风投人士将 Believer 视为一个前车之鉴。不要扩张太快。降低成本。做出消费者真正想吃的东西。所有这些观察都合情合理，甚至显而易见，但事实难道不是风投们自己也向 Believer 这样的公司施压，要求其快速扩张，以便提供他们所追求的回报吗？

下午，我们都试着振作起来，去品尝食品初创公司的产品。终于，我开始采样。我喝了一种起泡桃茶。我立刻没看出创新点在哪里，于是我询问那个分发罐装饮料的年轻人。他说，这应该是很清爽的。比如跑步之后你可以喝一罐，而且不会让你呕吐。但奇怪的是，现场没有提供培育肉。研究三角区（Research Triangle）也许是行业中心，但这里似乎没有这种产品。产品可能仍处于原型阶段，或者产品太贵，无法作为样品分发。现场最接近的东西是植物基纯素肉。我尝试了一家名为 The

BE Hive。我尝试了由一家名为 Delight Soy 的公司生产的“某种手撕肉”——这是将它从厨房推出来的那个人的描述。它具有纤维状的质感，呈橙褐色。我还尝试了由一家名为 Juicy Marbles 的公司生产的真菌和大豆基三文鱼替代品。这款产品的味道非常接近三文鱼。周围的人都一致认为，他们在某些方面做对了。令我们惊讶且不安的是，Juicy Marbles 精准地捕捉到了那种鱼腥味。有人评论道，里面可能加了海藻。我们点了点头。是的，大概是海藻。

尽管那块三文鱼立方体的味道不错，但整个体验令人作呕。或者更准确地说，如果你能将味觉与其他感官隔离，它本该很好吃。比如，如果你看不见那块人造鱼肉，感觉不到它在口中的触感，闻不到它油腻的气味，并且如果你不知道它是合成的。这种“认知”增加了一层反胃感。想到他们为了追求逼真，竟然在豆制品中注入一种令人不悦的气味——一种甜腻的海味，就像渔船的货舱一样。

因此，要让这东西变得可口，唯一的方法就是将其置于感官真空且最好是没有语境的环境中体验，或者在头部受到重击、抹除所有相关认知之后再尝试。那样的话，它应该会相当不错。

一月份，在我前往研究三角区（Research Triangle）旅行几周后，一个男人吃了一个鸡肉三明治。实际上他吃了两个：一个是用传统鸡肉做的，另一个是用培育肉肉片做的。在他访问加利福尼亚州 Upside Foods 工厂的一段视频中，他站在一个旋转的鸡细胞大桶旁边。细胞呈泡沫状，呈现出像金宝汤（Campbell's）肉汤那样欢快的黄色。这个男人的名字叫吉米·唐纳森（Jimmy Donaldson），不过他更广为人知的身份是 YouTube 顶流 MrBeast，他认为细胞培育肉具有很多优势。“这些鸡不会得病，”MrBeast 说，“所以你不必担心疾病在农场传播，然后你吃到了生病的鸡。”当需要猜测哪个三明治是哪种肉时，他无法分辨。“老实说我分不出来，”他说，随后猜错了。

在手机上看这段视频时，MrBeast 尝到了那种肉这件事让我感到恼火。站在那桶翻滚的“鸡肉水”旁边的人本该是我。几个月来，我一直试图在东海岸寻找培育肉；我甚至考虑过从新加坡的灰色市场购买。但都没有结果。最终，罗汉·希尔怀克（Rohan Shirwaiker）发给我了一次在湾区举行的公开品鉴会的详情，这次活动由 Mission Barns 主办，该公司是贝佐斯中心（Bezos Center）的另一个合作伙伴。活动地点在 Berkeley Bowl West 超市，该超市此前曾限量销售过该公司的肉丸。

二月的一个周五，我飞往旧金山，然后打车前往 Mission Barns 的办公室。办公室位于 SoMa 区一个荒凉且毫无美感、布满仓库的街区。那里没有多少 Waymo 自动驾驶车疾驰而过，但至少感觉具有足够的工业气息：办公室在楼上，生物反应器在楼下。不过我并没有机会看到它们：当我询问时，对方礼貌地拒绝了我，理由是公司正在搬迁到阿拉米达（Alameda）一个更大的设施中。我感觉到在北卡罗来纳州经历过的某种潜意识里的偏执感再次袭来。在 Believer 公司崩溃之后，Mission Barns 似乎是美国最接近将其产品上架到超市货架的公司之一。去年年底，其培育猪油获得了美国农业部（USDA）的批准。在我访问期间，其产品包括培根、意大利腊肠、肉丸和几种香肠。

比安卡·勒（Bianca Le）是一位笑容可掬、干练的澳大利亚人，时任 Mission Barns 的外部事务负责人。她带我上了公司的三楼办公室，那里的一侧有一个大型厨房。当我们坐在木质岛台旁时，她向我讲述了公司所有培育脂肪细胞的来源：一只名叫“黎明”（Dawn）的约克夏猪。根据公司的营销资料，它目前仍“快乐地自由漫步”在纽约州北部的一个动物保护区里，离我住的地方不远。“黎明”让我想起了多莉羊——一个代表着远超其自身意义的吉祥物。人们倾向于将它想象成一个富有灵魂的生命。

“我能问问‘黎明’是怎么被选中的吗？”我问道，希望能听到关于“黎明”是一个卓越样本的故事，比如它是美国最肥、最快乐、最健康或最聪明的猪。

“是的，坦白说，这个故事没什么意思，”勒说，“纯粹是因为它刚好可用。”

Mission Barns 的培育过程大约需要两周时间。最后，他们会排空生物反应器，直到只剩下脂肪浆液。“它是白色的，半固态的，非常像糊状物，”勒说。随后，这种浆液与植物蛋白结合，制成最终产品，每份产品中动物细胞的含量通常低于 10%。我想弄清楚他们是如何将脂肪从一个容器转移到另一个容器中的，并用手势比划了一个大勺子或铲子的动作，但这一部分是秘密。勒告诉我，公司的最终目标甚至不是销售产品，而是授权该系统本身。

Mission Barns 当时的首席执行官塞西莉亚·张（Cecilia Chang）出现了：又是一位笑容可掬、干练的澳大利亚人。当她加入我们在吧台的交谈时，我询问了公司面临的最大挑战。“能否足够快地降低成本以达到盈利点的进度表，”她说，“技术已经到位，但投资者的时间表非常激进。”张还提到了一道新的障碍：由特朗普的卫生与公众服务部部长小罗伯特·F·肯尼迪（Robert F. Kennedy Jr.）所煽动的对食品科学的不信任。尽管如此，该行业正试图将肯尼迪的“让美国再次健康”（Make America Healthy Again）运动视为机遇而非灾难。毕竟，MAHA 关注的是蛋白质；肯尼迪新的倒置食物金字塔将牛排放在最顶端。张告诉我，虽然该运动广泛鄙视加工食品，但它可能会认可细胞培育肉通常是天然有机且不含抗生素的。我想起了 MrBeast 的那句通俗智慧：“这些鸡不会得病。”

当我们聊天时，Mission Barns 的产品开发与烹饪经理扎卡里·廷代尔（Zachary Tyndall）在平底锅里为我准备了一些肉。廷代尔曾是一名厨师，曾在米其林三星餐厅 Noma 工作过，对于这里的烹饪水平来说，那段学徒经历似乎有些大材小用。他用铲子在锅里翻滚着一颗肉丸。肉的颜色是淡粉色偏米色，像真正的猪肉。他告诉我，这与烹饪传统肉类没有太大区别，不过可能快一点，因为公司的肉丸是预煮的，只需要重新加热。它闻起来很香，像食物，而且确实是食物。这一点我得承认。

我在一只带有雅致斑点的陶盘中接过了我的肉丸。尽管兴奋得近乎狂乱，但我试着让自己冷静一秒钟，客观地审视当下的情景。在距离家乡数千英里之遥的一个阴冷、工业化的办公室里，我正盯着盘子中央的一颗小肉丸。这就是我过去几个月以来以单一目标、坚定决心所选择追求的东西。在所有人的注视下，我用叉子将其切成两半，咬了一口。

味道。味道并不糟糕。它经过了调味，牛至味很重，甚至还有一种辛辣的后劲。在我咀嚼时，所有人都在看着，于是我假装在深思，就像在餐厅里服务员给你端来一杯试饮酒时的样子。“嗯，”我沉思道。我的表情在说：我正在思考品鉴笔记，我正在权衡口感。我还尝了萨拉米香肠，它看起来和普通的萨拉米完全一样。尝起来像咸纸片。带后劲的咸纸片——他们在加入后劲方面做得不错。尽管我尝试过了，但我实在找不到太多话能对张和乐关于这些肉发表评论。我的脑海中浮现出“平淡得毫无冒犯感”这个词。还浮现出“大失所望”这个词。这就是我远道而来的目的？为了吃一样在嘴里感觉像软烂纸板的东西？

“挺好的，”我勉强告诉他们。然后，突然间，恶心感袭来，喉咙深处泛起一股呕吐物的味道。又是“Juicy Marbles”效应。问题不在于风味，也不在于质地，而在于“知情”。那种知情感。想到那个脂肪罐，想到那种黏稠的白色物质。想象着舀取的过程。想到道恩（Dawn），一只被选中的普通母猪，以及提取她细胞的那个过程。早些时候，我以为这种感觉完全是由 Juicy Marbles 那种人造鱼腥味及其固有的虚假感触发的。我希望培育肉会有所不同，因为它毕竟在某种程度上是真正的动物产品。但并没有。如果非要说有什么不同，那就是感觉更糟了。

离开 Mission Barns 后，我在旧金山漫步了两小时，试图平复我的晕船感：在膨胀的期待之峰上升起，又在幻灭的低谷中坠落。也许恶心感与产品无关。也许只是因为禁欲太久，面对任何肉类都会如此。在构思我的培育肉之旅时，我假设这种产品某种程度上是为我准备的：一个信念并不坚定的长期素食主义者。我还假设我十九年的空白记录将成为一项资产。这里没有偏见，只有超然的好奇心。但我错了。它实际上产生的作用是让我脱离了肉类的味道。我真的不记得肉应该是什么味道了。我需要一个对照组。

在联合广场附近酒店对面的一家红酱意大利餐厅里，我坐在吧台前，点了一份配猪肉丸的宽面。当食物端上来时，五颗巨大的肉丸嵌在面条中，分量极其惊人。在我看来——我知道这很不理智——餐厅里的每个人都在看着我，一个单独行动的女人即将面对一大碗肉。我点了一杯红酒，试图进入状态。此时我感到一种幻觉般的恶心，勉强维持着体面。我其实并不想吃那些肉丸。冒着夸张的风险地说，我可能从未如此不想吃某种东西。但除非我这么做，否则我永远不会知道培育肉与真肉有多接近。于是我重复了当天早些时候的步骤。将一颗切半。咬一口。摆出葡萄酒鉴赏家般的严肃神情。

真正的肉丸更浓郁，水分更多。我吃了一颗半，试图回想起培育肉的感觉。它们的味道是否相当接近？哪个更好？屠夫会怎么想？养牛场主呢？美食家呢？一个极度饥饿的人呢？我突然注意到餐厅的一面墙上正无声地投影着一部索菲亚·罗伦的电影。

“对于那些想要理解当今关于‘版权与生成式AI博弈’这一激烈辩论之复杂性的人来说，这是一本必读书。”——阿兰·斯特罗韦尔（Alain Strowel），鲁汶大学

请通过印刷版订购或在 bristoluniversitypress.co.uk / creative-value-chains 以数字形式开放获取。

“一个冷静且具有制度基础的叙述，阐述了公司治理如何支持理性审议，并针对我们一些最棘手的社会挑战取得渐进式进展。” ——豪威尔·E·杰克逊（HOWELL E. JACKSON），哈佛法学院

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我在想，索菲亚·罗伦会对这些人造肉丸怎么看？此时的我感到彻底地迷茫，仿佛在自己的胃里颠簸于一叶扁舟。我试图寻求清晰的答案，结果却比以往任何时候都更加困惑——不仅是对我为何决定做这件事的困惑，更是对整个细胞培育肉项目的困惑。这款产品预想的消费者究竟是谁？

不用说，我没把那一碗肉丸吃完。但我把酒喝光了。

第二天，在湾区对岸的一家大型超市伯克利碗西店（Berkeley Bowl West），我看着几十名顾客排队品尝肉丸。Le解释说，Mission Barns拥有一定的粉丝群体，这些人会关注公司的进展并提前报名参加活动。在这里，一个全新的公众群体在我面前显现：和我一样对培育肉感到好奇的人。他们很年轻，带着一点哥特风。他们是 Z 世代的纯素主义者，戴着唇环，穿着在风中飘荡的宽大黑色裤子。除了这些忠实追随者，人群大多是由因为其他原因恰好在超市的人组成的：周六购物者、带着孩子的父母、穿着运动休闲装的人。这是一个温暖晴朗的二月早晨，是个领取免费样品的好日子。路人们排起队，表现出轻微的兴趣。

之前的品尝活动曾引发抗议。2024年，在佛罗里达州培育肉禁令生效前的一周，Upside Foods举办了“食物自由”快闪活动，在迈阿密的一个屋顶举行品尝会，并将其宣传为对新法律的抗议。来自科勒尔盖布尔斯（Coral Gables）Caja Caliente餐厅的一位厨师制作了配有奇波雷奶油的鸡肉托斯塔达（tostadas），而一群传统肉类狂热者则将一辆面包车停在场馆入口前。面包车上安装了一个巨大的 LED 屏幕，显示着对实验室培育肉的批评。上面写着：缺乏长期健康研究。秘密化学配方。

但在伯克利没有发生类似的事情。泰恩德尔（Tyndall）站在电炉旁，兴致勃勃地在锅里翻滚着肉丸，然后将它们放入小竹托盘中。在分发样品时，我强迫自己再吃了一颗，看看我的反应是否与前一天相同。瞬间，那种“认知感”再次猛烈袭来，但在我周围，人群中传来了低沉的赞许声。几个人耸耸肩告诉我，口感似乎是对的。一个大约两岁的孩子从父亲那里接过一颗肉丸。她开心地吃了起来，像小孩子那样蹦蹦跳跳，没有任何抵触。

一名穿着抓绒夹克的女性走来走去，请品尝者在 iPad 上填写一份调查问卷。她是一名独立研究员，正在为塔夫茨大学（Tufts University）进行一项关于消费者对培育肉接受度的研究。除了科学问题，这是该产品长期成功的最大挑战之一。人们真的想尝试它吗？他们愿意将其纳入饮食吗？根据致力于推广替代蛋白的非营利组织良好食品研究所（Good Food Institute）去年发布的一份报告，只有 18% 的美国人认为细胞培育肉极具或非常有吸引力，近 60% 的人表示他们不太可能或非常不可能购买。兴趣通常随年龄增长而降低，随教育程度提高而增加，这与我自己的观察一致。那些哥特风的大学生对肉丸最感兴趣，但即便如此，他们的赞美也十分克制。没有人说“我爱死它了”或“太棒了”，也没有人宣布这是一个胜利。我没有听到“好吃”这个词。

我发现自己正在与伯克利碗西店（Berkeley Bowl West）的营销与传播经理奇·迪克森（Chi Dixon）交谈。她告诉我，店方很高兴能进这些产品。（去年秋天，他们销售过一批限量版的 Mission Barns 肉丸，一盘八颗的价格为 $13.99。）迪克森引导我经过燕麦片、当地面包和豆类区域，向我展示店方计划在未来摆放培育肉的位置。“就在这儿，”她说，它将被安置在素肉堡和真肉堡之间。在我看来，这似乎是这些产品的必然归宿：冷藏通道中一个冷门的货架，成了“不可能汉堡”（Impossible Burger）一个更古怪的表亲。

培育肉被视为气候变化潜在万灵药的日子早已一去不返。该行业许多最大的参与者——至少是那些还没倒闭的公司——现在正接受在我们的食物系统中扮演一个更谦卑的角色。自从我今年早些时候尝试过其肉丸以来，Mission Barns 宣布了一项新战略：它正从零售转向批发，并开发将植物蛋白与传统猪油相结合的新产品——只有在达到一定规模后，才会用他们自己的培育脂肪来替代。在其他地方，细胞农业被用于创造一些专属的新奇产品，这些产品被描述为“弗兰肯肉”（Frankenmeat）也毫不夸张，其怪异感和稀缺性并非劣势，反而成了卖点。开发出猛犸象肉丸的澳大利亚公司 Vow 还开发了一系列日本鹌鹑鹅肝，其目标是打造不受“自然限制”的肉类。人们可能会问，为什么要这么做？没有真正的理由，除了他们能做到这一点。至少，这感觉是对培育技术更合适的一种利用，也是对资助该技术的生态系统更诚实的反映。“对于如此娇小的鸟类，鹌鹑鹅肝曾是根本不可能实现的——直到现在，”Vow 网站上的文案这样写道。值得注意的是，该公司的营销材料中完全没有提到气候变化、可持续性，甚至没有提到动物福利。

这并不是说工程食品必须具备美德才能证明其存在的合理性。在我离开伯克利碗西店之前，迪克森带我参观了店内的农产品区，那里充满了加利福尼亚州极尽奢华的丰饶。那里一定有二十种长相奇特的蘑菇。她坚持让我带两个相扑柑橘（Sumo Citrus）回家——就是顶部有凸起的那种。相扑柑橘并非天然存在；它们是由日本科学家在 20 世纪 70 年代通过两种柑橘杂交品种培育而成的，旨在生产一种风味更浓、无籽且比现有品种更好卖的水果。

我剥开一个相扑柑橘，在穿过伯克利时吃掉了它。下午天气炎热且多风，但这个橙子甜美、补水且令人清爽。硕大而美味。它的颜色比交通锥浅了一号，分量足以填满手掌。它很完美：一个橙子的完美典范。这简直是个奇迹，它就这样被递到了我的手中。

1 9 7 2

顶级肉类

作者：万斯·布尔杰利 (Vance Bourjaily)

在五年时间里，我亲自饲养了全家人食用的所有肉类，并将其与餐厅及其他家庭供应的肉类进行对比。在我心中，毫无疑问，美国人正以高昂的价格购买并大量食用质量最差的肉类。

关于牛肉，我应该引用烹饪百科全书《拉鲁斯美食指南》(Larousse Gastronomique) 中的话：“最好的肉，尤其是用于烤肉的肉，来自五到六岁、以草饲肥育的阉牛。”但你今晚以及大多数夜晚吃到的牛肉，将来自一只年龄不足两岁、一生几乎没见过多少草的动物。尽管我在管理自己的土地和畜群时，尽可能像个封建领主那样行事，但我仍然无法负担将一只阉牛养到三岁半以后。

土地和饲料价格昂贵，家人需要进食，而且体型巨大的成年动物所消耗的牧场面积与其体型成正比。与此同时，草饲动物的增重速度非常缓慢。我们可以，并且确实在通过几个冬月的干草和谷物饮食，让动物体重再次增加约一倍，而大量的干草则确保了体重不会增加得过快。为了获得精良的肉质，谷物是必不可少的，但其喂养速度足够缓慢，使得脂肪能够分布在所有组织中，而不是简单地在瘦肉上覆盖一层厚厚的独立脂肪层。

在三到四岁时，我们那些以草饲养并经过适当后期肥育的阉牛，能提供极佳的风味、骨架长度，以及既紧实又嫩的肉质——这种肉在烹饪或冷冻前可以承受一定时间的熟成。每一个部位都很好：牛胸肉和肩肉与西冷、后腿肉和肋排一样出色。而菲力牛排（filet mignon）——那些在美国餐厅里价格最高，且风味通常不如优质汉堡肉诱人的肉块——在这里重新找回了其作为顶级美味的地位，而不再是那个令人费解且被过度高估的部位。

我的“恶行”在于：每年我们留下自己想要的阉牛，卖掉其余的。那些被卖掉的牛只有七八个月大，且刚刚

断奶。它们在拍卖会上被卖给经营饲养场的人。因此，我在极小的规模上代表了这条糟糕产业链上的第一个环节——这被称为“牛犊生产模式”（cow-calf operation）。那些被拍卖的阉牛在接下来的四到八个月里被关在饲养场的围栏中，日复一日地被喂食尽可能多的谷物，直到体重达到 900 磅（特级 / Good）、1000 磅（精选 / Choice）或 1200 磅（极佳 / Prime）。

这就是现在的分级制度所代表的一切；曾经，它反映了一头动物是否发育成熟，因此在肉质方面具有实际意义。而现在，它告诉你的唯一信息是这头牛处于“全量喂养”状态多少天——也就是说，它反映的不是动物的真实生长情况，而是它超重到了什么程度。那些主张回归基于烹饪质量的分级制度的人应该放弃这种幻想；如果不改变全国性的饲养体系，你所能做到的最好分级大概是“美国肥”、“美国更肥”和“美国最肥”。

当我的小牛在冬天停止食草时，它们对谷物的耐受力有限，但胃口却无限，就像神经质的孩子对待甜食那样。只有从少量开始，逐渐提高动物的耐受力，才能调整其消化系统，使其能够整天食用谷物而不会简单地因消化不良而生病死亡。

这就是目前的做法。牛被喂养至全量饲料阶段，这是一种极其不自然的饮食，而所使用的谷物种类仅仅取决于饲养场经营者所在地区的作物种植情况。在我们国家的几乎任何地方，除了纯谷物，还会掺入其他东西——例如大豆粉，它含有大量油脂且容易让人发胖，但从肉铺摊主的角度来看，它产生的脂肪颜色很差。一些真正“前卫”的经营者还会使用塑料颗粒，这些颗粒一旦被吃掉就会永久留在胃里，从而抑制动物对粗饲料的食欲。当然，还会添加各种化学物质——有些是为了保护健康，有些是为了刺激生长。但添加剂及其可能产生的影响并非我在此关注的重点。相比于胆固醇水平，我更在意我所吃之物的滋味。

2027年1月7–10日

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特邀嘉宾

加布里埃尔·卡尔沃科雷西、哈尼夫·阿卜杜拉基布 P·斯科特·坎宁安、比利·柯林斯 乔纳森·加拉西、娜塔莉·迪亚兹

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亚德里安·马特杰卡

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玛丽·豪 帕特里夏·史密斯

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教师

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贾梅尔·布林克利

贝丝·阮

玛雅·C·波帕

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关于丑人的痛苦

在丑人节度过的一个周末

作者：巴雷特·斯旺森（Barrett Swanson）

每年九月，世界丑人协会——也被称为“丑人俱乐部”（Club dei Brutti）——都会举办年度节日，既是为了庆祝其成员在相貌上的令人厌恶之感，也是为了选举新任俱乐部主席。这一职位的授予不仅基于外在的难看和乏味的基因，显然还取决于候选人毫无保留的厚颜无耻；因为事实证明，在这场选举竞争中，最重要的不是候选人外貌的糟糕程度，而是他们将自己的丑陋神圣化的意愿，而他们通常通过吹奏小号来表达这一点。成员们穿着不合身的西装，戴着红色和黑色的高顶礼帽——就像劳莱与哈代（Laurel and Hardy）那样褶皱的时装——在皮奥比科（Piobbico）乡村林登树掩映的街道上游行。皮奥比科是意大利中部、亚平宁山脉与亚得里亚海之间的一个小型中世纪村落。虽然游行在周日举行并会敲定今年的选举结果，但今天仍是周六，大部分时间都被大量的酩酊大醉所占据，更不用说那些渴望加入俱乐部的成员的入会仪式了。

此刻，我们正站在如戏剧般灿烂的星光下排队，等待着我们的外貌被无情地评估。排在我身边的是一群醉醺醺的意大利人，我们正徘徊在丑人俱乐部总部的门口，那是一个昏暗的、砖墙结构的建筑，规模不大过一个步入式衣橱。就在我们左手边如童话般的镇中心，一群皮奥比科人正热情地律动着，在一个亮灯的舞台附近跳动，舞台上有一位戴着耳机的年轻 DJ，她本人则在若无其事地随着节奏点头，并且出于某种原因，一直在播放那些令人厌烦的 Top 40 热门金曲。

在洞穴般的总部内部，所有的墙壁都贴满了丑人俱乐部的宣传资料，海报上印着与外貌相关的告诫，例如“美丽是一种如此巨大的痛苦！”或者“一个人的价值不在于他的外貌”。在远处的墙上，另一句格言主张“在爱情面前，丑陋者价值翻倍”；我的翻译告诉我，这并非某种朦胧的贺卡式感伤，而实际上被认为是一种委婉的色情暗示，指的是那些特别不吸引人的人所拥有的著名性能力。

这里还挂着数十幅穿着燕尾服的俱乐部成员的装裱肖像——有眼神涣散、牙齿像南瓜灯一样的绅士，也有表情阴沉、带有希区柯克式神情的女性，更不用说几张戴着高顶礼帽的孩子们的头像了。因为事实证明（没开玩笑），这个俱乐部还有一个针对该村青少年的版本，一个由牙缝宽大、连眉的顽童组成的迷人小议会。“你知道人们总是说没有丑孩子吗？”贝内代塔·阿卢伊吉（Benedetta Aluigi）说道。作为现任俱乐部主席的女儿，以及全球所有“丑人”的事实上的吉祥物，贝内代塔实际上无可争议地很漂亮，而且与年轻时的莫妮卡·刘易斯基（Monica Lewinsky）有着一种微妙的相似之处。“嗯，那不是真的！”贝内代塔说，“有些婴儿就是丑的！但没关系。没关系。让我们把它正常化，好吗？因为也许有一天他们会变漂亮。但也许有一天他们不会。”

巴雷特·斯旺森是《哈珀杂志》的特约编辑，也是《迷失在夏日之地》（Lost in Summerland）的作者。他最近为该杂志撰写的文章《高处与干涸》（High and Dry）发表在 2025 年 2 月刊上。

自 19 世纪 70 年代后期“丑人俱乐部”（Club dei Brutti）成立以来，皮奥比科就以其所谓的丑陋居民而闻名。根据当地的说法，当时镇上充斥着受尽委屈的单身女性，她们的父亲显然非常担心女儿们的婚姻前景，以至于请求他们勇敢的市长启动一项相亲服务，将他们相貌平平的后代与同样相貌平平的单身汉联系起来。在随后的一个半世纪里，该组织蓬勃发展，成员人数已超过三万名。每位成员在加入组织时，其丑陋等级都会经过细致的评估，最终获得以下称号之一：“未定义”、“不足”、“不坏”、“良好”、“优秀”，以及处于这个反向等级制度顶端的 straordinaria，即“非凡”——我想这个称号在颁发时一定伴随着像凡娜·怀特（Vanna White）那样华丽的姿态。到 20 世纪中叶，该俱乐部超越了其婚姻目的，在一位名叫特莱斯福罗·伊亚科贝利（Telesforo Iacobelli，发音为：ee-ah-co-belly）的人的领导下（他在 1963 年使俱乐部复兴），开始提高人们对丑陋者困境的认识。他声称，丑陋者在“外貌崇拜”中受到了不公正的对待。

在总部后面，一位四十多岁的女性尼科莱塔（Nicoletta）——她的胸前紧贴着一个金发幼儿——告诉我，她从青少年时期起就是俱乐部的成员，因为正如她所暗示的，“所有优秀的皮奥比科人都从小加入。”我坦言，作为一名美国人，如此随意地讨论自己的丑陋让我感到一种逐渐累积的不安，仅仅是因为我们将此类类别视为历史性的且具有渗透性的，因此没有理由不将每个人都视为某种程度上的美丽。听到这里，尼科莱塔的脸皱了起来，像一位刚刚不得不忍受属下天真想法的女王。“不，”她说，“自然是不平等的。”

这种观点在一位矮壮的七旬老人身上得到了共鸣，我被告知他叫卡洛（Carlo）。他用一种近乎宗教般的宽容亲切地拍着我的前臂，为我带来了一场关于结构主义语言理论的小型研讨会。该理论认为，语言仅通过二元对立获得意义：“你需要丑陋来欣赏美丽，”他说，“否则你什么也无法理解。”他建议，当你与外貌的现实达成和解后，实际上可以开始培养一套其他的价值体系。“曾经有一段时间，我们的俱乐部经常出现在电视上，但现在社会似乎拒绝了我们的许多声明。所有的时尚，所有的产品——如果你不谈论美丽，你就卖不出任何东西。甚至连食品广告也是如此！好吧，现在我告诉你一些事情，”他凑近我的锁骨，低声说道，“生活中最美味的东西？其实都很丑——包括，你知道的，女人。”他沉溺于这种带有性暗示的隐喻，像兄弟一样用肘部撞了撞我的肋骨，色情地挑了挑深色的眉毛。

为了避免陷入一种局面——即我不得不通过普鲁斯特式的回忆来忍受卡洛各种性经历的描述（他那油腻且咧嘴笑的表情显然对此兴致勃勃），我转向他身边的女人，问她对外貌的想法是否随着年龄增长而改变。她以一段坚定不移的“热爱命运”（amor fati）之曲作答，这是一种在美国很少听到的、令人羡慕的顺从。“你需要接纳自己，”她说，“我通过照镜子并承认自己变老了来做到这一点。这很正常，也没关系。但有些人使用肉毒杆菌，他们失去了自我的一部分。我总是说：首先，你膨胀；然后，你瘪下去。事实就是——岁月流逝，皱纹出现，它们也很美，所以我会带着它们一起走。”

在总部的后方，评估和入会仪式正喧闹地进行着。我很快了解到，丑陋程度的评定可以由任何正式成员执行，在这种情况下，这意味着由三个鲁莽的青少年组成的评审团。

每人都戴着一副闪亮的牙套，穿着一件“丑人俱乐部”（Club dei Brutti）的 T 恤。我看着一名叫毛里齐奥（Maurizio）的五十多岁男子——他黑眼睛，瘦得像只灵缇犬，像是个穷人版的艾德里安·布罗迪——在这一组面无表情的评委面前表演了一个小小的走秀旋转。其中一个男孩沉思地揉着下巴，然后以拍卖员般的速度，将毛里齐奥的缺陷浓缩成一个迅速的“优秀”评级，因为，正如男孩所言，“你真的是真正地丑”。起初，毛里齐奥的姿态垮了下来，他像个被抛弃的查理·布朗一样，沉重地走回等待他的伴侣身边。天呐，我想，这不是我预想的情况。我周围的旁观者们似乎被吓住了，感到心有愧疚，仿佛他们都某种程度上参与了这次伤人的评估。但随后，奇妙的事情发生了。因为原来老毛里齐奥在演戏。他一直在伪装绝望。他那羞愧的姿态很快完全反转，他对着我们露出了一个顽皮的笑容，指着所有的旁观者，仿佛在说：哈，我骗到你们了，伙计！房间里随即爆发出一阵如滑音般连贯的笑声，老毛里齐奥像陷入恍惚一样，兴高采烈地重复道：“我真的是真正地丑！我真的是真正地丑。”

我不再仅仅是面对中年，而是正对着中年的大门，我坦白，在前往“丑人俱乐部”之前的几周里，我开始盘点自己的外貌状况，这是一次关于年龄相关侵蚀的、令人沮丧的小规模清点。虽然人们倾向于告诉我我很英俊——我所说的“人们”是指我的朋友和母亲（这些人要么因为基因纽带，要么因为社交协议，或多或少被强迫要热情地提供这种赞美）——但我仍然注意到了新瑕疵的出现以及盔甲上决定性的裂缝。这部分归因于生活的缓慢敌意——阳光照射和衰老；我那亨利八世式的饮食习惯——但至少同样可以归因于我作为大学教授的工作，其负担和责任如此沉重且极端，以至于我开始像一只喝了六杯马提尼后宿醉的猎犬。

作为一个以多里安·格雷般的速度衰老，并因此周期性地与极端的躯体变形障碍感作斗争的人（我秃顶，脸颊下垂，并且强迫性地节食和运动），我发现自己对“丑人俱乐部”如何挑战或互动于美国的外貌观产生了兴趣，而这种外貌观最近让我觉得令人烦躁且阴险。这一点在与我的学生——不同年龄和性别的、目光聪慧的大学生——交谈时表现得最为明显，他们倾向于对当代的美学观念表达不满。有些反直觉的是，他们中的许多人谴责诸如“身体正向性”（body positivity）之类的东西，他们认为这创造了一种情境：如果你认为自己没有吸引力，你不仅会对自己的外貌状况感到糟糕，而且还会因为这种糟糕的感觉而感到双倍的糟糕。换句话说，在它的掌控下，你不仅缺乏美，还缺乏美德和完整性。

因此，其中一些人开始拥护所谓的“身体中立”（body neutrality），其目的是赞美身体的活动能力和功能性（这在无意中将残障人士置于一个明显的概念真空地带），但即便如此，这在我看来依然奇怪地聚焦于身体。（无需多言，即使是那些认为自己持有进步的“身体中立”观点的学生，往往仍然是健身和美妆博主的追随者，而这些博主将他们以外观为中心的方案包装在“自我关怀”的术语或“健康生活”的修辞之中。）这一切都发生在整形手术率达到历史前所未有高度的时刻，当时我一名十九岁的女学生在公开考虑注射肉毒杆菌，而一名同龄的男学生则在苦行般地追求酮症状态。

然而，在整个关于外貌的混乱局面中，最令人费解的进展或许是一个未被充分认可的现象，学者们将其称为“外貌歧视”（lookism）。大卫·布鲁克斯在《纽约时报》的一篇分量十足的文章中探讨了这一问题，他在文中哀叹我们显然对基于外貌的歧视持有宽容态度：

为什么我们对这种歧视如此淡漠？也许人们认为外貌歧视根植于人性，对此无能为力。也许是因为没有一个“全国丑人协会”在游说以寻求改变。

节日的第二天，我慢悠悠地前往镇中心参加选举的开幕式。

皮奥比科拥有鹅卵石街道和维护得极其完好的建筑，几乎像一个虚构的村庄，在那里，身材苗条的意大利男人默默地清扫着店门前，古老而可爱的祖母们一边晾衣服一边唱歌。我准备与贾尼·阿卢伊吉（Gianni Aluigi）会面，他担任俱乐部主席已有十多年，并同意为我介绍该组织那些古怪的信条。

贾尼是一个身材矮胖、留着像鞋油一样黑的山羊胡的男人，他在俱乐部总部迎接我时，散发出一种不安且像长辈般亲切的活力。他穿着一件印有“丑陋即美德，美丽即奴役”字样 T 恤，点燃了一根新烟，不停地抽着。随后他退回到昏暗的砖墙室内，漫步到投票箱前投下首票，然后有些夸张地宣布，选举现在可以开始了。

在今年的选举中，有六名正式候选人竞选“丑人俱乐部”（Club dei Brutti）主席，他们的照片被排列成类似《布雷迪一家》那样的网格，且每个人都使用自己的幽默绰号。例如，波尔多（Poldo），原名丹尼尔·伊萨贝蒂尼（Daniele Isabettini），自从加入俱乐部以来，他每年都被誉为“意大利最丑男人”。在谈到波尔多的外貌时，其他成员似乎表现出一种漫不经心的恶意：“他确实相当丑，”贝内代塔（Benedetta）说；“我们已经到处寻找了，”贾尼用一种类似波尔什特带（Borscht Belt）式的快节奏口吻说道，“但我们可能找不到任何一个会被我们认为比他更丑的人。”虽然这种直白得近乎粗鲁的坦诚可能会冒犯你的礼貌感，但这种对含糊其辞的厌恶恰恰是“丑人俱乐部”伦理的核心信条之一。与美国倾向于扩大美的定义以涵盖几乎所有事物的做法相反，皮奥比科人试图正视外貌的残酷现实，并希望我们将“丑陋”视为任何其他特征一样去思考——“他有棕色的头发。他有蓝色的眼睛。哦对了，他很丑。”

贾尼告诉我，幽默是实现这种激进的自我接纳的手段。因此，他们会使用这些自贬的绰号；因此，他们会穿着花哨的礼服，戴着滑稽的超大号高顶礼帽。通过兴高采烈地夸大他们自认的丑陋——从而对这个国家崇拜外貌的风气嗤之以鼻——他们试图在面对自身丑陋的审视时剔除其中的毒素，从而为其他的自我定义扫清障碍。我被告知，比如波尔多，就一直勇敢地尝试利用他那可疑的身体特征来获利，不仅试镜电影中流浪汉和杀手反派的角色，还制作年度“最丑男人日历”，大概是模仿那些以消防局肌肉男或哈莱昆封面巨汉为主角的日历。

然而，在所有这些拍腿大笑的欢乐背后，贾尼告诉我，许多人在陷入自杀倾向的抑郁阴霾时曾向俱乐部寻求帮助。他从一个年久失修、吱吱作响的柜子里翻出一大叠凌乱的信件，那是些因年代久远而泛黄的打字机信函，其中几封还附有褪色的黑白肖像照。其中一封写道：

我没有真正的朋友，也没有真正的女性朋友。事实上，我从未有过女朋友。尤其是在女孩面前，我总是显得笨拙……也许这就是为什么我从未经历过“第一次”。我简直就是垃圾……我的走路姿势像个警察……我的眼睛是蓝色且凸出的……我的嘴很小……我如此沮丧，以至于只要闭上眼睛片刻，我就只想死去……

在随之而来的沉默中，我问贾尼他自己是否也曾感到如此绝望。“我的身高确实是个问题，”他说，“在被欺负这件事上，孩子们总是因为我太矮而攻击我。”至于是否还有其他让他感到不安的特征，他指了指自己没有头发的头皮，露出一抹若无其事的冷笑。

就在这时，一件非常奇怪的事情发生了。因为当我脱下我那顶霜色的棒球帽，露出自己光秃秃的头顶时，贾尼并没有按照我的意图——将其视为一种礼貌的、缺乏自信的同情之举——来解读，反而似乎将其解读为某种相貌上的挑战。这解释了为什么他现在猛地卷起衬衫袖子，露出非常浓密的肩毛；而我，似乎在无意中默认了这场跨大西洋“羞耻比拼”的条款，只能无奈地卷起自己的袖子，展示我三角肌上的绒毛。随后，贾尼似乎对我身体缺陷的“惊人程度”感到不悦，他拉起那件“丑人俱乐部”T恤的下摆，向我们展示了两颗可怜且苍白的男性乳头，

而每颗乳头周围都密集地覆盖着一层像羊绒一样柔软的胸毛。让我坦白吧，曾经有一位伴侣在一次本应是性爱过程中充满爱意的温存时刻向我坦承，我的胸肌被深色的胸毛覆盖得如此像狼人，以至于她在内心给我起了一个特殊的卧室昵称，而且没开玩笑，那个昵称叫“掉毛怪”。这就是为什么在“胸毛过剩”这个类别上，我绝不会认输。

最终，我们长时间的露体行为显然在两名旁观者身上引发了一种治疗性的多米诺效应，因为他们很快也陷入了这种同情式的脱衣行为中（卷起袖子，露出光头），促使我们所有人开始以一种无需翻译的默契大笑（在角落里，我的翻译一直带着一种困惑的表情摇着头看着这一切）。此时，我们似乎都通过了某种相貌测试，因为贾尼拍了拍我的后颈，告诉我们，现在是时候办理“丑人俱乐部”的入会手续了。

承认这一点可能很奇怪，但尽管“丑人俱乐部”节（Ugly Club Festival）有着种种古怪的仪式，但在我最初得知这个活动时，最吸引我的却是接纳新成员的入会仪式。也许你会认为这种评估方式是退步的或恶毒的，但很难想象它比我们现在使用的众多技术平台更糟糕——通过这些平台，我们看待彼此的方式已经变成了更加冰冷的评估。我的意思是，在约会软件上，我们中有多少人每天会拒绝数百张面孔？我们中有多少人仍在进行这种下意识的相貌评判？

为了提供一个更令人毛骨悚然的趋势案例，我想邀请你访问 r / truerateme 这个 Reddit 子版块。这里每周有超过三万名访问者，无数的同胞在这里提交不苟言笑的面部肖像，希望能获得大胆的评判。这些帖子（每天都有几十篇新帖）最令人不安的地方在于，每一个请求背后都潜藏着一种毫无幽默感的绝望，一种对坦率评价和建议的悲惨恳求。一个典型的请求来自名为 lil-salami 的 Reddit 用户，他说：“[男18岁] 只是好奇自己在审美上处于什么位置，非常感谢任何指点或评论。”这条消息附带了三张照片，照片中是一个头发蓬乱的年轻人，看起来像蒂莫西·查拉梅。一名用户回复道：“7.5分，尤其是颊部 / 下颌区域、嘴唇和强有力的下巴表现很好，如果眉弓更平一些，你可能会达到8分以上，但即便如此也已经很不错了。”另一位名为 Confused-everyday 的发帖者——她本人美得惊人，简直就是演员普里扬卡·乔普拉的翻版——说道：“[女29岁] 请给出诚实、建设性的批评和建议！……我目前负担不起手术治疗，但希望将来可以！我希望能得到关于 Softmaxxing（软优化）和 hardmaxxing（硬优化）的建议。”

后两个词的词源可以追溯到非自愿独身者（incel）社区的在线地牢。在那里，大多数认为自己在性市场中遭受不公正对待的年轻白人男性会互相建议如何最大化自己的外貌，包括像饮食和运动这样的“softmaxx”方案，以及像激进整形手术这样的“hardmaxx”方案。然而，像 r / truerateme 这样的子版块有趣之处在于，其频繁用户之间展现出的纯粹的熔炉式多样性。发帖者涵盖了所有种族、年龄和性别，既有十八岁的年轻人，也有五十多岁的人。更耐人寻味的是，这里完全缺失了我们通常会将其与 incel 阴暗议程（厌女、愤怒、自我否定、杀人倾向的语言等）联系在一起的修辞，就好像 r / truerateme

换句话说，这个节日旨在呈现一个没有“貌相歧视”问题的世界

用户们承认非自愿独身者（incels）关于外貌的认识论主张——即外貌在很大程度上等同于浪漫价值和职业价值——但并不一定认同这些非自愿独身者扭曲的理想。

回到“丑人俱乐部”（Club dei Brutti）总部，我们再次站在那座宣传圆顶之下，皮奥比科（Piobbico）的居民们成群结队地涌入投票，其中一些人带着严厉的、维多利亚时代的表情观察着我们的评估。我向前走了一步，贾尼（Gianni）开始用一种极其残酷的法医学眼光审视我的脸，这种视觉上的快速扫描既带有戏谑之意，又不失严谨。他从附近一张桌子上抓起一张“丑人俱乐部”会员卡，转身回来，眯起眼睛，歪着头，颇具评估意味地吮吸着左上方的前磨牙。

“巴雷特·斯旺森（Barrett Swanson），”贾尼带着标志性的戏剧感宣布道，“il figlio di cigno”，翻译过来就是“天鹅之子”，这显然已经成了我在“丑人俱乐部”的绰号，“在丑陋程度的评估中，你获得了‘优秀’，因为虽然你非常英俊，但你与我们俱乐部的理念有着惊人的契合。”他把会员卡递给我，并说我余生应当“带着荣誉携带它”。

贝内代塔（Benedetta）和我的翻译发出了零星的礼貌掌声和庆祝的约德尔唱法。贾尼说：“这个周末你们将看到俱乐部的民俗一面，有趣的一面，但它也有文化的一面，因为丑陋的人总是被负面看待，所以，例如，我们希望打击基于外貌的职场歧视。”换句话说，这个节日旨在呈现一个没有“貌相歧视”（lookism）问题的世界。“当人们参加我们的派对时，”贾尼说，“他们看到美与丑共存，一起寻找乐趣，这样我们就减轻了‘丑’的重量。在那一刻，‘丑’是一个被取消的词，不再被考虑。我们必须帮助人们像皮奥比科人那样思考。毕竟，”他说，“我也能成为你们国家人们的参考人物。”

虽然将外貌政治化看起来像是对我们关于身份政治讨论的一种漫画式的夸张，但仍有大量证据表明，一个人的互主体吸引力不仅能决定其社交和浪漫轨迹，还能决定其一生的个人薪酬。甚至在婴儿时期，丑陋就可能引发一系列令人困扰的前景。例如，据证明，被认为丑陋的婴儿的母亲，比那些拥有格伯（Gerber）级别可爱程度的孩子之母更缺乏爱心和关注。尽管我们倾向于将学校视为精英管理主义教条的温室，认为那是个人智能和良好品格可以胜过其他社会因素的熔炉，但事实证明，教师对长相较好学生的学业成果评分更为宽松，而丑陋孩子的打闹和无礼则往往受到更像老古板教师般的严厉惩罚。这种偏见甚至延伸到了刑事司法系统中，事实证明，长相出众的人是不配获得但确实得到了更宽大判决的受益者。而且，如果丑陋的人遭遇事故，他们往往会获得较低的赔偿金。

更不用说外貌丑陋所带来的那些更令人瞠目的阶级影响了。例如，德克萨斯大学的劳动经济学家丹尼尔·哈默梅什（Daniel Hamermesh）发现，在整个职业生涯中，一个不吸引人的人比那些更迷人的同行少赚约 $230,000；而根据斯坦福大学法学教授德博拉·罗德（Deborah Rhode）的说法，约 12 到 16 ％的美国工人认为自己因外貌而受到歧视，这一比例大致相当于报告性别、种族或年龄偏见的人数比例。外貌至上主义（Lookism）甚至影响到了那些理应与外貌衡量标准毫无关系的领域。想想那些拥有偶像般面孔的 NFL 四分卫——比如汤姆·布雷迪（Tom Brady）那普罗米修斯般的颧骨，或者迈克尔·维克（Michael Vick）那像小鹿般浓密的睫毛——他们的收入比那些没那么迷人的同行高出多达 12 ％。（显然，佩顿·曼宁（Peyton Manning）那像 Howdy Doody 一样苍白的面孔，或是德鲁·布里斯（Drew Brees）那像罪犯入狱照般的冷峻，最终对他们赚大钱并没有什么帮助。）

在继续深入探讨之前，我必须承认，在使用“丑陋”和“不吸引人”这类词汇时，我内心感到一种持续的不安。这不仅是因为这些词在历史上被使用的方式带有偏见，还因为它们违背了我们后结构主义的倾向——即认为美与吸引力的问题不过是个体主观意识的问题。

诚然，这种观点很美好，且能满足我们对民主宽容感的自豪感，但在外貌至上主义学者之间，关于什么样的特征被认为是普遍具有吸引力的，其实存在着相当大的共识，即便我们可能会在一个人究竟有多吸引人，或者谁才是最吸引的人这些问题上产生分歧。根据进化心理学家的观点，吸引力有三个基础要素：平均度、对称性和性二型性。有观点认为，“平均”的面部布局标志着一个人的基因多样性，从而表明其对无数病原体具有抵抗力。与此同时，对称性被理论化为一个人在子宫内发育期间承受压力的能力信号，而性二型性则被提出作为免疫强度的标志。换句话说，在这种范式下，吸引力在某种程度上就是一份健康证明。

也许你距离大学最后一门性别研究课程已经过去很久了，但这种美学观点一直受到一群第二波女性主义者的激烈挑战。她们认为，吸引力并非某种为了有利繁衍而产生的生物适应，而是社会建构的怪诞结果；通过这种建构，我们对美和吸引力的直觉定义是由文化决定的，因此倾向于使既有的不公正现象永恒化。然而，虽然某些发色和体型的偏好在历史上具有偶然性这一点似乎无可争辩，但事实依然是，在跨文化和跨种族的各项研究中，存在着支持客观吸引力衡量标准的有力实证证据。例如，在 1991 年发表于《发展心理学》（Developmental Psychology）的一项研究中，学者朱迪思·朗格洛伊斯（Judith Langlois）及其同事收集了一叠照片肖像，并要求一组成年样本对受试者的相对面部吸引力进行评分。当研究人员将这些照片（包括男性、女性、婴儿、黑人和白人的面孔）展示给六个月大的婴儿时，无论性别、年龄和种族如何，婴儿的目光在那些被成年人判定为明显更具吸引力的面孔上停留的时间显著更长。

到目前为止，关于外貌歧视（lookism）的讨论中出现的一个明显悖论应该是：它依赖于对这些客观外貌衡量标准的认可。然而，这类评估与“身体正向”（body positivity）及其意识形态同类项目的目标背道而驰，所有这些项目都希望颠覆、复杂化，或者完全抹除那些——

10 周年纪念版

小说 《爆炸物》（EXPLOSIVES）

吉姆·高尔（JIM GAUER） 著 乔伊·威廉姆斯（Joy Williams） 序

“一部读起来像惊悚小说的文学杰作。”——史蒂文·摩尔（Steven Moore），《威廉·加迪斯》作者

ZEROGRAM PRESS

开启一场极其幽默的狂欢之旅，穿梭于风险投资、胡亚雷斯毒品战争以及墨西哥瓜纳胡亚托神秘之美等世界之间。书读得越深，就越危险。

ZEROGRAMPRESS.COM ——而外貌歧视在法律上正是基于这些定义和评估的。换句话说，两者处于截然相反且互不相让的目的地。最终，声称超越了“丑陋”——或者暗示外貌歧视纯属愚蠢的胡言乱语——会让“丑人”陷入一种没有追索依据的境地，而且更紧迫的是，他们失去了描述自身困境之细微差别的语言。然而，“丑人俱乐部”（Bruttis）通过坚持承认“不吸引人”，为我们提供了一个起点。

到节日第二天，出现了一个问题：为什么这个俱乐部能在皮奥比科（Piobbico）这样一个地方生存至今。我最终与一名意大利女性讨论了这个话题，我称她为米拉贝拉（Mirabella），她是一家德国电视新闻节目的制片人，同样是受命前来报道，为即将播出的一个半小时片段采访“丑人俱乐部”（Club dei Brutti）。

虽然米拉贝拉住在法兰克福，但她在法律上是意大利人，在靠近瑞士边境的阿尔卑斯山沿线长大。当我问她为什么认为“丑人俱乐部”始于意大利时，她说：“在这里，‘必须看起来体面’在某种程度上是一种教条。你必须展现出自己最好的一面。”她指的是一种被称为“bella figura”（良好的第一印象）的禁令，即一种礼仪，如果在意大利被蔑视，可能会导致社交上的灭绝。

直到她搬到德国，才从这些禁令中解脱出来。“你知道有趣的是什么吗？在过去的几年里，我的电视台雇佣了一些长得不好看的主播，我对此感到非常困惑，为什么他们不雇一个有吸引力的人。”对此，她的同事们感到莫名其妙。“他们会说，‘对我们来说，这没有意义。他是个优秀的记者，是个优秀的主播，’而我会说，‘好吧，但这并不意味着你们不能找一个可能同样有吸引力的人！’”然而，她足够自觉，能够探讨这种偏见的来源。“你知道吗？虽然我是在用弗洛伊德的话来说，但我们的超我是由我们的社区塑造的，而作为意大利人的一个特点就是，我根本无法关闭他人对我看法的那部分意识。”

但还没等她继续深入，她的阐释被一个拿着扩音器的小公告打断了。因为俱乐部一年一度的接力赛即将开始。这场比赛被称为“Palio della Damigiana”（酒坛赛），据告知，这是一种在石阶上进行的醉酒迷宫赛。当我们一群人开始在拥挤的道路上蠕动前行时，一件奇怪的事情发生了，因为我开始通过米拉贝拉的“扶手椅心理分析”来审视这座城镇。也许一个让自己承受

在附近城堡的台阶上进行障碍赛，来自皮奥比科各个社区的男子两人一组，显然要扛着一个酒桶穿过一个迷宫般的——幽默的自我抹杀，由此可以让自己从外貌的负担中解脱出来，并因此在某种程度上开始构建一种面向他人的价值观。

然而，当我向克里斯和扎克——这两位本周末与我同行且来自美国的友人——提出这个理论时，他们迅速将其地视为一个乡巴佬的胡思乱想。“我不知道，伙计，”扎克说，“我实际上还没见过一个丑人。我的意思是，如果你本身是个完美的阿多尼斯，那么接纳这种特质是很简单的。”

我们继续向城堡前进，在那里，人群已开始在蜿蜒且令人眩晕的台阶周围聚集。直到抵达后，我才开始意识到扎克的观点是有道理的，因为在我心中，“丑人俱乐部”应该是各种各样样本的混合体，但一个极其讽刺的重复事实是，我们周围几乎每个人都拥有极佳的基因优势——戴着猫眼眼镜、长得像辛迪·克劳馥的女性，以及拥有像加里·格兰特那样颧骨、眉形完美得不公平的绅士。这种匮乏感在遇到贝内代塔时变得更加强烈，她询问我们是否有人想参加比赛。

然而，在我能礼貌地轻笑并亮出拒绝之意之前，克里斯——我必须提到，他基本上是积极主义的典范——就说：“我们参加！”我转头看向他，眼神中充满了恳求。（我已经在想象明天报纸上那些粗体且夸张的头条：两名美国人在年度丑人节期间从城堡台阶上摔下身亡。）“你的鞋怎么办？”我说。他那像弗罗多一样的小脚被塞在一双破旧不堪的勃肯鞋里，但这对他来说显然根本不是障碍。“我光脚走，”他说。“不行！”贝内代塔和我的翻译大喊道，像是一场充满戏剧感的警告二重唱。“我经常光脚，”克里斯说着，做了一个轻蔑的手势，“没什么大不了的。”“但可能有石头，或者可能有玻璃，”贝内代塔说。“我长了厚茧，”他说。“总之，你准备好，”他对我说，并拍了拍我的肩膀，“我要去弄杯‘丑人特调’（Bruttini）。”

在贝内代塔让我们签署了一份免责声明之后——“这是标准流程。比如如果你死了，或者受伤了，那是你的错，等等，等等”——克里斯和我摇摇晃晃地沿着那些像磨牙一样参差不齐的台阶走下去。在台阶底部，一群年轻的意大利男人正喧闹着，他们全部高挑纤细，皮肤呈现出夏末的赭色，看起来非常像刚烤好的旋转烤鸡。此时，他们正在做滑稽的罗基特舞踢腿和幽默的监狱操，大概是比赛开始前的热身运动。与此同时，在克里斯畅饮他的“丑人特调”时，我自己在认真地做中年人拉伸，一些年轻人用几乎不加掩饰的嘲讽目光看着我，偶尔提起衬衫下摆擦拭额头的汗水，不经意间露出了令人心碎的、毫无毛发的搓衣板腹肌。

“你意识到了吧，”我对克里斯说，“我们是这里最丑的混蛋。”

“噢，绝对是，”他说，然后喝光了他那杯香气四溢的“丑人特调”。

比赛以一段约二十五码的冲刺开始，向上攀登的是一个看起来像

该俱乐部相信所有人在精神上都是平等的，认为在外观的琐碎之下，存在着一种共同的尊严

这是一幅埃舍尔风格的画作，描绘着不平整的台阶，顶端是一个发夹弯，参赛队伍在这里很容易要么掉落那口六十磅重的酒桶，要么偶尔发生像本尼·希尔（Benny Hill）喜剧片那样的碰撞。第一名将获得主席的赞赏，外加一根萨拉米香肠和一块金牌。

我提到过吗，石阶两侧大约有几百名观众，当我抬头看时，他们都兴奋地簇拥在城墙周围，满心期待。这群挤在石阶边的观众所营造的心理氛围，就像是邮轮上的送行者。观众的规模之大让我的紧张感增加了三倍，米拉贝拉的出现也是如此——她站在摄像师身边向我们挥手，我想摄像师现在应该是在为我们拍摄特写。

在排队时，有三件事令人印象深刻：1）虽然“丑人俱乐部”（Club dei Brutti）的宗旨是赞美丑陋，但我禁不住注意到，各个年龄段和社交性格的女性在看到这些男性参赛者时，都在眨眼示意并发出惊叹，而这些男性那些符合传统审美标准的特征——漏斗形的躯干和紧致的牛仔裤臀部——正被人们用公开的、贪婪的表情审视和崇拜；2）该节日欢乐氛围的一个显著成分竟然是大量的饮酒，所以如果你因为喝了太多尼格罗尼（Negronis）而眯起眼睛，或许更容易接受自己的外貌；3）当我和克里斯终于被叫到起跑线，此时贾尼开始尖叫道：“耶！美国小伙子们（Ragazzi di Americani）！”时，我们以一种笨拙且像关节炎患者般缓慢的速度攀登城堡台阶，在接近第一个平台时，我们两人都气喘吁吁，满脸通红，而在最后一段痛苦的冲刺过程中，我有

机会观察到我们经过的观众脸上那些模糊的、边缘性的微小戏剧——两个冷艳的女人用听起来很刻薄的意大利语对着我们咯咯笑，一个戴着圆顶礼帽的老人，脸上的皱纹像山核桃一样，还有一群意大利孩子，他们向我们投来微弱的鼓励，仿佛我们真的有可能赢一样。随后我们得到的掌声简短且带有慈善色彩。在奖杯和颁奖仪式上，我们因参与而受到感谢，并两次被误认为来自“BBC的新闻记者”。

就在节日的这个时刻，我突然意识到，“丑人俱乐部”精神内核中最关键的部分是他们相信每个人的精神平等——即在外观的琐碎之下，一种共同的尊严应当同时属于美丽者和丑陋者。当然，我们都口头上支持这个观点，但我们中真正相信它的人有多少？也许我们的怀疑源于我们坚持认为，如果平等是可衡量的，那么，它必须是物质的——也就是说，是身体上的。

例如，米兰大学的道德哲学家弗朗西斯卡·米内尔瓦（Francesca Minerva）主张，“吸引力的基础要素”

（例如对称性、性二态性、健康的皮肤等）应当与那些受文化影响严重的特征（即体型、身高、身体质量指数、发色等）区别对待。对于后一类属性，强调这些审美标准具有历史偶然性的意识提升活动将是有用且恰当的。然而，对于那些例如患有严重面部不对称，甚至仅仅是面相上的小缺陷（如像牛奶罐一样的大耳朵或鹰钩鼻）的人，米内尔瓦和其他学者认为，要么提供工资损失的经济补偿，要么提供补贴的整形手术，最终可能是更便捷的解决方案。

这在你看来可能与优生学惊人地相似，但值得将其置于具体语境中，并记住保险公司已经在为潜在损失支付赔偿金——例如，当一个人遭遇严重的车祸并因此留下损害外貌的疤痕时；而且大多数西方医疗体系已经在进行手术以矫正凸耳或修复唇腭裂。也许最激进且令人心惊胆战的国家资助手术案例来自巴西，那里最近被誉为“手术刀帝国”，其中几家医院为贫困患者提供免费的整形手术，因为外貌与一个人的经济命运之间存在极强的相关性。这样的政策是《黑镜》式道德沦丧和文化退化的体现吗？还是说，这其实是一种冷峻且不加掩饰的承认，承认我们的文化在不可救药的程度上是以貌取人的，因此他们针对那些真正因此受损的人采取了公民层面的应对措施？

当然，这些更激进的改善措施可能会引发一些令人恼火的悖论。毕竟，正如米内尔瓦所暗示的，如果仅向那些被认为极其不具吸引力的人提供整形手术，我们只不过是在重新调整等级制度，将目前那些仅仅是“一般”或“中等”的人置于排名底端，从而为这些人游说手术创造条件。更不用说，正如米内尔瓦所言，我们将成为“……甚至更狭隘的美学标准的共犯”，最终创造一个每个人看起来都一样世界。（作家贾·托伦蒂诺曾提到的“Instagram脸”的盛行，难道不已经是这一现象现实存在的有力证据吗？）

在过去的四十年里，针对健康个体的手术干预呈爆炸式增长，2024年进行了超过3800万次美容治疗，总市值超过590亿美元。在试图解释我们对此认知的剧烈转变时，芝加哥精神分析协会前任主席约翰·E·格多博士提出了一个相当具有挑衅性的观点：美容增强相当于通过一套精神分析疗程来改变客户的心理状态，因为两者都是在尝试对自我进行翻新。

也许你认为这个说法空洞且愚蠢，但我禁不住认为格多博士可能触及了某些真相，他或许在指出我们在多大程度上或多或少地默认了这样一个观点：我们的外貌与我们的价值或性格是不可区分的。不难看出，这种自我观是如何被我们最受欢迎的技术平台所许可并促成的，许多人现在通过这些平台记录生存中的每一个瞬间。英国哲学家海瑟·威多斯以令人难以置信的预见性描述了这种本体论上的转变：

自我现在被嵌入在我们的身体中，渗透在其中，并书写在身体之上。实际上，将身体构建为可塑的、代表自我的或等同于自我的观念如此普遍，以至于那些符合理想标准的人将其视为理所当然，然而这尚未被认为具有重要意义，也没有得到充分的审视。

正是通过威多斯（Widdows）这种独特的视角，即便只是粗略地浏览一下你的 Snapchat 或 Instagram，也会开始觉得既荒诞又像反乌托邦——那些用精华液和面霜粉饰面容的美妆博主，那些示范正确深蹲姿势的健身巨头，以及那些注射儿童血液的抗衰老煽动者。或许我们应该将这些健康领域的“斯文加利”（Svengalis）和肉体部长视为未来历史学家所称的“第五次大觉醒”的代表；这场觉醒坚持认为，最终的启示是肉体的完美，而青春与吸引力是终极的恩赐。如果正如弗朗西斯·福山（Francis Fukuyama）所暗示的那样，治疗师在 20 世纪中叶取代了牧师，实际上成为了我们唯一的精神领袖，那么很有可能在我们当前的时代，影响者（influencers）取代了治疗师，因为我们身体内部的外观和感受，如今已成为我们所有人信奉的日常神学。

在我看来，解决像“外貌至上主义”（lookism）这种心魔的唯一可行方案，既不是采用那种经过过滤的、委婉的套话——“每个人都是美丽的！”——也不是像《阴阳魔界》（Twilight Zone）那样通过补贴手术增强来解决。相反，它首先需要一种不再如此卑劣地以貌取人的文化，一种不再仅仅推销那些失败的自我护理产品，而是真正致力于定义一个“值得去关怀的自我”的文化。无论你如何评价“丑人俱乐部”（Club dei Brutti）哲学中的模糊之处，他们至少在要求我们诚实地面对自己的外貌，并承认：是的，好吧，事实确实如此，我们中的一些人很丑，但这件事对我们有多重要——以及我们能在多大程度上体面地承认这一点——在某种意义上，可能取决于一个存在于外貌之外的自我的构建。正如叶芝（Yeats）所写，灵魂被系在一头垂死的动物身上——它不知道自己是什么。无论我们的补救措施和洗涤仪式如何，时间终将夺走肉体。在那之后，我们还剩下什么？

周日是大日子，一场横跨整个村庄的游行，以及在城镇广场宣布今年选举结果。那些穿着红黑相间高礼帽的“丑人乐队”在表演前正用乐器随意地吹奏着（小号发出湿漉漉的呜咽声，小军鼓发出短促的啪嗒声）。在他们身后是两名来自“曲线骄傲”（Curvy Pride）代表团的成员，他们致力于赞美各种形状和尺寸的美丽；而在他们的左侧，一辆带有可伸缩天窗的香蕉黄色车辆里，坐着的正是意大利最丑的人（Il Piu Brutto dei Italia）——丹尼尔·“波尔多”·伊萨贝蒂尼（Daniele "Poldo" Isabettini）。他此时身着一件单排扣休闲西装，他的眼神让我不由得觉得像屹耳（Eeyore）一样沮丧。此刻，他正与两位意大利小姐（Miss Italias）合影，她们在精心雕琢的发型上戴着王冠，胸前斜挎着选美比赛的绶带。这些意大利小姐没有典型选美选手那种像塑料一样的人造美貌，而是拥有一种令人腿软的美丽，以至于尽管我没打领带，我仍产生了一种奇怪的冲动想要调整领带结。这很难描述。只能说，站在这些女性身边让我觉得自己相形见绌，仿佛她们的靠近将我变成了一个布满疣的小白痴。

在波尔多的车后面，是一队正在表演扭胯舞的巴西舞女。与此同时，俱乐部主席的竞争者之一米尔科·马蒂内利（Mirko Martinelli）在小巷中漫步，叼着一支没点燃的雪茄，以导演般的姿态审视着准备工作。他的胡须规模堪比《鸭子王朝》（Duck Dynasty），并用发带打结成了一个像表演马那样僵硬的辫子。

直到游行开始——以一种缓慢的、像葬礼一样的速度穿过皮奥比科（Piobbico）的街道——我才终于瞥见了现任主席贾尼（Gianni），他在“丑人俱乐部”里的绰号竟然是“那个

“野兽。”他穿着一件亮片红礼服，看起来非常像某种恶魔般的经纪人，一个极其疯狂的马戏团的团长兼宣传员。随着车队开始在林荫大道上缓慢前行，贾尼在敞篷的 Brut Mobile 中向路人挥手——那是一辆眼蓝色的大众汽车，车旁簇拥着两名

穿着得体，打扮得像美国特勤局的成员——想象一下黑西装和太阳镜，想象一下小小的螺旋线耳机——在今天的活动中，他们大部分时间要么在 Brut Mobile 旁慢跑，要么保持立正姿势，头部在人群中来回摆动，带着一副模拟的警觉表情。

关于节日的其余部分，最简练的描述或许是：其基调在场面盛大的政治集会与杂耍娱乐之间徘徊。贾尼站在城镇广场舞台的前方（舞台上方悬挂着一条“丑人节”横幅），宣布选举结果已出，并指示我们将注意力转向对面建筑的一扇窗户。此时，一缕深红色的烟雾从窗中升起，这显然是在戏谑地致敬新教皇的选

举。（但贾尼说，不必担心，因为他们使用的是红烟而非白烟，所以不应被视为亵渎。）

无论如何，站在这个全球唯一的丑人节现场，你禁不住会感觉到，这些意大利人并非仅仅在庆祝自己的丑陋，他们真正地是在践行自己的幽默感。或许，他们那银铃般的笑声正是其真正的社区成就的无可争辩的证据——即建立了一个独立于外貌之外的、复杂且细腻的内在自我。如果我们在美国的对话变得毫无乐趣且过于严肃，或许是因为我们极其错误地将灵魂与表象混为一谈，认为自我不是某种需要培养的东西，而仅仅是某种你拥有的东西。

最终，米尔科·马蒂内利被选为新任俱乐部主席，他像尼克松那样狂喜地高举双臂。观众的反应嘈杂且不一。镇上大多数人给了他热烈的掌声，但贾尼的几个支持者则在竖起大拇指向下地喝倒彩，并大喊着：“政变！”马蒂内利接过麦克风，带着颤抖的真诚说道：“在这个看脸的世界里，我们越来越需要不带偏见或歧视地把握现实，因为，毕竟，丑陋是一种天赋。”

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混沌机器

预测市场与加密无政府主义的胜利

作者：芬恩·布伦顿 (Finn Brunton)

起初，这些电子邮件还很礼貌。一些陌生人就以色列记者埃马努埃尔·法比安 (Emanuel Fabian) 关于 3 月 10. 的伊朗导弹袭击的报道写信给他。他们

芬恩·布伦顿是加州大学戴维斯分校的教授。他最新的著作是《数字现金》(Digital Cash)。

请求澄清和更新：那是导弹，还是导弹拦截器的碎片？法比安回答说，那是导弹，以色列军方以及一段关于贝特谢梅什 (Beit Shemesh) 市巨大爆炸的视频也证实了这一点。更多的消息接踵而至：“你一定搞错了，”信中写道，“你在传播不准确的信息。”

“能否请你在印刷版中澄清，这些实际上是拦截器碎片？”几个小时内，这些消息变得更加紧迫。其中一条消息附带了一张伪造的电子邮件截图，该邮件被冠以法比安之名，声称此次事件并非导弹袭击，他的报道将据此予以修正。

更多消息通过 Discord、X、WhatsApp 传来，甚至有一位同事在朋友的请求下询问法比安是否会修正报道，将爆炸原因改为拦截器碎片。几天之内，他开始收到威胁他及其家人的消息：“在你让我们损失 $900,000 之后，我们将投入不少于这个数额的资金来除掉你，”其中一条消息这样写道。

根据预测平台 Polymarket 的条款，拦截器碎片不计为袭击，而当时有 1400 万美元的赌注押在伊朗是否会在 3 月 10, 袭击以色列上。法比安的报道让他成为了那些在文章主题上押下巨额财富的陌生人的攻击目标。“相信我，”另一条消息警告他，“你不想成为他们的目标。”

法比安的故事是 Polymarket 上试图操纵市场和内部交易的众多案例之一。一笔关于美国将推翻尼古拉斯·马杜罗 (Nicolás Maduro) 的 $32,000 赌注是在特朗普总统宣布此事前几个小时下注的；该赌徒赢得了 $400,000. （一名美国士兵于 4 月因与该赌注有关而被捕。）另一名赌徒因正确识别出 2025 年谷歌前 23 个热门搜索词中的 22 个而赢得了近 100 万美元。（同一用户此前通过预测谷歌 Gemini AI 模型更新的意外发布日期赢得了 $150,000 ）有人在伊朗最高领袖哈梅内伊 (Ayatollah Khamenei) 死亡时间上成功下注，赢得了 $500,000 以上，而他在 2 月 28. 被以色列空袭杀害前不久，该赌注便已达成。另一个人在超级碗 LX (Super Bowl LX) 中场秀开始前几个小时，通过对谁会或不会表演做出 17 次成功猜测，赢得了 $16,000 以上。甚至有一名赌徒据称使用吹风机改变了戴高乐机场记录的温度，从而赢得了一场关于天气的赌注。

Polymarket 的账户与目前另一个主要预测市场 Kalshi 一样，不与个人身份绑定。用户可以使用匿名的加密钱包下注。他们可以创建多个钱包以掩盖内部信息的痕迹：七八个匿名投机者每人猜对一个极低概率的事件，比一个人全部猜对要不那么可疑。许多赌徒使用毫无意义的假名或随机的字母数字字符串作为别名。

匿名性、操纵、利用秘密获利、暴力威胁：这一切在几十年前就已被预言。预测市场的兴起是两个男人的故事——他们是同时代的人，偶尔通信，有着共同的兴趣但愿景截然不同。一个想要制造一台机器来促进对现实的集体理解；另一个则想要制造一台瓦解信任的机器。一个将其设想为有效治理的工具；而另一个

一个期货交易所的乌托邦愿景极具吸引力：它将成为一颗水晶球，刺破不确定性

另一个则是对抗不确定性的武器。预测市场的奇怪悲剧在于，人们普遍认为它们有助于实现前者愿景，但实际上，它们在实现后者方面更为成功。分析这两个人的故事，将帮助我们不仅理解我们是如何走到今天这一步的，而且能理解预测市场的未来将为我们带来什么——以及情况可能会变得多么糟糕。

经济学家罗宾·汉森（Robin Hanson）是以赛亚·柏林（Isaiah Berlin）所称的“刺猬”：一个其全部工作可以用一个宏大想法来概括的人。汉森的想法就是预测市场。这些市场本身并非他的发明。正式的公开投注和赔率制定至少已有几个世纪的历史。人们曾就下一任总统、下一任教皇，以及战争与和平进行投注。金融服务业一直是一个针对相对狭窄话题的、间接且嘈杂的预测市场。如今，大宗商品的供需市场正是基于预测、估算和概率而存在的。（古希腊哲学家泰勒斯曾基于夏季将迎来丰收的预测，在冬季预定了橄榄油压榨机的租赁权。）

汉森的构想是刻意设计新的市场。他将其称为“观点期货”（idea futures）。其目的是将信息和观点收集并综合成一个“相关专家的诚实共识”，从而作为决策的基础。他认为，如果参与者投入资金，那么市场将比单纯的专家辩论产生更准确的未来结果预测，因为人们投注是为了赢，而不是为了合群、讨好他人，或在朋友和同事面前扮演反面角色。正如市场在理论上会为商品达成一个反映众多代理人利益的最优价格一样，对预测的交易可以将研究、观察和信念提炼为可操作的赔率。

其目的恰恰与传统的赌博相反。在传统赌博中，游戏被设计用来掩盖未来，从而在内心培育出一片由偏见和迷信组成的杂草花园——从魔幻思维到确认偏差，再到“赌徒谬误”（即玩家认为，如果轮盘赌连续多次落在黑色上，那么下一次落在红色的概率就会增加）。机会游戏的快感与危险就在于永远无法真正知道接下来会发生什么。尽管投注和交易的结构相似，但观点期货业务的核心在于对洞察力而非无知进行赌博。预测市场的目的是最大限度地减少偏见的影响，并产生一个比我们原本能拥有的更好的未来知识共享模型。与普通市场不同，它可以处理高度专业的话题。（汉森早期举的一个预测市场可以投注的断言示例是：“在普通空间中，电子中微子的静止质量大于 .01eV”的可能性。）

最终，汉森开始将他的思想实验转化为公司和社区内部的实际预测市场：观点期货交易所，即人们可以就事态走向设定赔率的聚合平台。（我持有汉森的一张观点票券，它是 1990 年作为概念验证发行的：大小像大富翁游戏的纸币，详细解释了它预测的内容——到 2025 年 1 月 1 日出现一台具有特定属性的纳米级计算机——以及谁将判定兑现投注赔付的断言是否有效。）最著名的是，汉森帮助美国军方研究机构 DARPA 启动了一个短命的预测市场，专注于地缘政治情报。尽管该市场主要关注预测中东的政治事件，但在 9 / 11 事件后，它在媒体中被定性为“恐怖主义期货”市场，并被布什时代监控计划带来的名誉负担所拖累。

关于思想期货交易所的乌托邦愿景具有极强的吸引力。它将成为一个针对所有未知领域的协作式水晶球，像一道闪电般刺破报道、评论、相互冲突的解读以及宣传所构成的阴云——它描绘的不仅是当下的情绪，更是潜在的事实。汉森早期关于思想期货的著作带有典型的九十年代技术乐观主义色彩（他的研究主题还包括太空生活、将意识上传至计算机，甚至飞行汽车），而他所设想的市场之底层前提是，这些市场不仅能描述这个时髦的未来，还能加速其实现。他关于“诚实共识”论点的潜台词是，专家机构对远见卓识者和大胆想法持有偏见。由于过于沉溺于保护既有模型并追求合群，建制派不公正地对待了诸如人体冷冻（将人类冷冻以待未来复活）和自我复制纳米机器等令人兴奋的课题。思想期货将削弱那些拥有终身教职且持怀疑态度的老物理学家的机构影响力——通过将主流共识所排斥的大胆主张货币化、推广并给予奖励。

这正是像 Polymarket 这样声称直接受到汉森作品启发平台向公众推销自己的基础。诚然，它们允许对体育和娱乐进行投注；诚然，绝大多数奖金被少数玩家瓜分，而流动性则由一群被收割的冤大头提供。但它们确实为政治、技术和企业战略等领域各种事件提供了令人印象深刻的准确赔率。此类市场可以成为在事件发生前衡量其走向的场所。汉森认为，如果其中一部分结果源于内部交易（这在平台上屡见不鲜），那反而更好：你希望内部人士就他们所知的事情进行投注，因为这只会让整体数据更加准确。毕竟，他们才是专家。如果这意味着市场是不公平的，那么，欢迎来到金融世界。虽然每个交易者都想赚钱，但市场的真正目标最终是产生关于尚未发生之事的、可操作的知识：一台能够生成准确世界图景的神奇机器。无论如何，这就是其承诺。

另一封不祥的电子邮件来自 1993 年：“您的名字引起了我们的注意。我们有理由相信，您可能对我们的新组织 BlackNet 所提供的产品和服务感兴趣。”BlackNet 从事的是秘密的货币化业务。它为价值信息的买卖双方提供了一个秘密市场：包括机密情报、技术图纸和商业数据。用户是匿名的，支付通过 CryptoCredits（一种不可追踪的数字现金）进行。“加入我们，”邮件在结尾写道，“参与这项革命性的——且有利可图的——冒险。”

这条匿名信息首次出现在一个“密码朋克”（cypherpunks）的邮件列表中，这是一个由密码学家活动人士和感兴趣的同行组成的松散团体。（汉森就是该列表的通信者之一。）但这条信息在那个晦涩的起点之外传播得极其广泛。它被《连线》（Wired）杂志引用；田纳西州的橡树岭国家实验室据称为此发布了警告公告；联邦调查局（FBI）则将该信息作为潜在威胁进行了调查。

事实证明这是一个骗局，但这个骗局是有目的的。它的策划者蒂莫西·C·梅（Timothy C. May）是一名退休的英特尔工程师，持有极其激进的政治观点，并痴迷于密码学。他自称是“加密无政府主义者”，但他的无政府主义属于美国自由意志主义的那一类，将“摧毁国家”的修辞与种族主义、贪婪以及对现实暴力之兴趣融合在一起。他曾赞许地写道，美国政府的崩溃将导致针对“市中心生育者”的福利制度终结，并幻想使用数字化识别的“种族位”（race bits），以便在线上的白人至上主义团体能够维持种族隔离。但吸引梅研究密码学的不仅仅是隐私的承诺——那仅仅是起点。他规划了一连串事件：始于加密，进而导致“数字货币”和“匿名网络”，随后是“信息市场、黑市”，最终导致“政府崩溃”。BlackNet 既是一个虚构故事，也是一个概念验证，它在技术上提供了一种合理的解释，说明人们如何能以极低的风险，通过出卖公司或国家来安全地发财。

几年后，梅在邮件列表中进一步阐述了其想法的影响。他写道，这个系统将变成一个“间谍市场”，专业人士和业余爱好者都可以参与其中。任何有空闲时间的人都可以监视港口或军事基地上空的领空，并出售关于航班、船只和部队调动的最新信息。任何受雇于科技或制药行业的工程师或化学家，都可以将上个月的药物研发细节或明年的手机型号出售给出价最高的人。医疗专业人员可以出售医疗记录；学生可以出售试卷；助手和工作人员可以出售政治丑闻；任何拥有安全许可的人都可以用此偿还房贷或买一辆新车。对于出卖秘密这种困难且危险的生意——包括寻找买家的挑战，以及对被背叛或被设局诱捕的持续恐惧——BlackNet 将起到像 eBay 之于车库拍卖那样的作用。

尽管他在智能手机出现前数十年就写下了这些内容，但梅的突破与后来体育博彩的应用非常相似：你不再需要开车去赌场，而是随身携带一个赌场。同样，你不需要在迪拜的机场会见特工来靠出卖秘密发财。每个人口袋里都揣着深夜的停车场和装满现金的公文包。

像 BlackNet 这样的信息市场是一种微妙且优雅的对抗机构的武器——但原因可能并非你所想。它摧毁机构并非来自外部，而是来自内部。BlackNet 对加密无政府主义真正的承诺在于将秘密货币化所产生的间接影响。各国、各公司以及各类组织将迅速失去内部信任。泄露秘密对组织有害，但全面的偏执则更糟糕，而这正是 BlackNet 将会产生的后果。任何人都可以方便且匿名地出卖组织，从而在机构内部制造一种由猎巫行动、战略性谎言、美人计和“仅限知情者”封锁构成的自身免疫性疾病。在梅的密码朋克通信者中，最理解这一点的是 WikiLeaks 的创始人朱利安·阿桑奇（Julian Assange）。

2006, 年，阿桑奇写了两篇论文草稿，概述了他自己的愿景。在《作为治理的阴谋》（Conspiracy as Governance）中，BlackNet 从另一个角度被解读：他没有将其作为向潜在间谍推销的广告，而是分析了这样一个系统会对充满潜在叛徒的组织产生什么影响。阿桑奇所说的“阴谋”，并非指像光明会、波希米亚丛林或 QAnon 那样的东西。他指的是任何向公众保密的团体封闭运作；他的例子包括民主党和共和党。他寻求一种普遍有效的反阴谋策略，一种瓦解其运作能力的方法，并且他认为自己已经找到了。

你可以通过泄密来摧毁信任，从而使任何组织都“无法充分理解并控制其环境中的力量”。（至关重要的一点是，他的重点不在于黑客：黑客是局外人，且至少在理论上是可以防御的。）在这种情况下，匿名性变得更为重要，因为与那些愿意公开表态的泄密者——比如爱德华·斯诺登或丹尼尔·埃尔斯伯格——相比，未知的泄密者能引发更大的恐惧。阿桑奇想要的不是一个能够抵御攻击的坚固系统，而是一个被搅得乱七八糟、陷入绝望的冲突之中，且充斥着怀疑、谴责和清洗的系统。披露秘密所带来的公众尴尬和名誉损害仅仅是附加奖励。

无论如何，攻击者都赢了。如果有人为了钱而背叛秘密，那么这些秘密的出售就揭露了精英机构内部的人都在为私利而行动，试图利用内部职位获利。如果有人基于原则而背叛，那么这些秘密本身大概率就是令人不齿的。其结果是，组织会将攻击转向内部，试图在公众失去信任的同时遏制危机。

对于梅来说，一个将秘密货币化并摧毁信任的市场，仅仅是一个更大规模的机构破坏机器的一个组件，这是一个旨在将政府融化为液体加密无政府状态的纵火装置。这必然涉及他所谓的“令人厌恶的市场”。起初，这些仅仅是便捷、匿名的数字现金和合约所带来的逻辑结果之一：一个为寻求“清除政治人物”的杀手提供的招聘板。但梅正在摸索某种规模更大的东西。“想象一下，建立一个‘匿名基金’来为这样一次暗杀筹集资金，”他写道，“有趣的可能性。”

这一想法由加密无政府主义者詹姆斯·道尔顿·贝尔在 1996 年的思想实验《暗杀政治》中具体化。与梅一样，贝尔曾是英特尔的工程师，一名密码朋克，梅将其与汉森一起认定为密码朋克邮件列表的“核心贡献者”。贝尔进一步完善了 BlackNet 模型。如果市场上出售的信息是一个单一且极具价值的数据点，比如一名政治人物可能死亡的确切日期，会怎样？明智的做法是选择一个死亡预测关联着巨额赏金的个体，对其死亡日期下注，实现该预测，然后领取奖金。实际上，这将是对暗杀进行众筹，许多参与方对此感兴趣，但没有人下达直接指令。由市场决定，参与者可以通过——字面意义上的——开枪来获胜。

贝尔的模型比这种简单的账目计算更复杂、更精巧；例如，它提供了一种方式来确保杀手能领取奖励，并在行凶后才揭晓日期，以免目标人物简单地在那一天躲在掩体中。但其底层前提非常直接，且具有某种残酷的清晰度：一个谋杀版的 Kickstarter，其首批目标将是那些阻碍纯粹法外之地的政治人物。

加密无政府主义者的计划和方案中有一个共同点，即某种鲁布·戈德堡式的繁琐。从轮廓上看，这些是为无面、无首领且无处不在的间谍活动和暗杀而设计的优雅的“邦德反派机器”，是偏执噩梦和随机暴力的素材。然而，在细节上，它们具有一种令人扫兴的、滑稽的不切实际感，就像邦德反派的秘密基地一样：一群穿着连体衣的走狗开着高尔夫球车在火山下四处穿梭。这些系统如果实施正确是可以运作的；它们的摇摆不定并非技术问题，而是社会问题。加密无政府主义的所有项目都涉及一种难以置信的人类投入程度。讽刺的是，在使用极少数人能理解的晦涩工具、由匿名陌生人建立的工具，去实施大规模犯罪，且在获得报酬并将其从加密支付转换为法定货币的过程中还需要经过几个额外的复杂步骤时，这其中反而涉及了过多的信任。

理论上，一个执行完美的 BlackNet 或 WikiLeaks 将是不可战胜的。但现实世界充满了摩擦与错误。人们会变得懒惰，重复使用密码、假名或加密钱包。他们会向朋友或爱人坦白或吹嘘。丝绸之路（Silk Road）是一个受 May 理念启发并以比特币交易的加密匿名在线黑市，它在 FBI 的打击下被关闭，而这一切始于该网站管理员罗斯·乌尔布里希（Ross Ulbricht）的一次粗心错误。（乌尔布里希在 2015 年被判定七项重罪成立，并于 2025 年 1 月获得了特朗普的总统赦免，以此作为换取自由意志主义阵营选票的利益交换。）

即便你无法识别秘密的出售者，你也可以尝试识别并打击买家，从而提高市场需求端的成本。购买一些被盗的工业信息（例如明年的 iPhone 设计）是一回事，而让整个工程部门在不被任何人察觉的情况下利用这些信息则是另一回事。间谍活动依然是一门关于外部攻击（黑客攻击）以及个人招募与关系的生意。而雇佣杀人则是一个充满悲喜剧色彩的领域：人们试图寻找某人来杀死配偶或竞争对手，结果在这个过程中却被假装成杀手的青少年勒索。这些系统需要的是一种更为轻量化且直观的机制。

匿名预测市场完美地满足了这一需求。利用内部信息进行赌博是一个任何人都能理解的简单概念。我们都知道如何作弊：押注于一个你已经知道的结果，操纵比赛。而当事情不顺心时，你可以调整决定赌注结果的数据——例如，通过威胁记者的生命来强迫其更改报道。

相比于一个由买家寻找卖家、结构复杂的加密市场，这是一种更安全、更简单的秘密变现方式。而且，这也是一种更好的将某人的死亡变现的方式。即便在技术上你无法就“死亡日期”进行赌博，但有一种万无一失的方法可以赢得关于某人是否会在 2028 年竞选公职的赌注。对预测进行赌博并不会创造一个零售工业间谍活动的商业模式，但这一事实反而使其在实现 BlackNet 的目标方面更加有效。让每个人都成为潜在的间谍或刺客，仅仅是通过经济激励从内部和外部摧毁机构的一种权宜之计。如果你的计划是扼杀信任——在新闻业中、在组织内部以及在公众意识中——那么最好的方法不是建立一个复杂的秘密经纪人集市，而是启动一个匿名的公共预测市场。

如今存在的预测市场并非汉森（Hanson）愿景的实现，而是 May 愿景的实现。它们没有协调专家意见，反而带来了不确定性和不信任。谁在利用已知信息获利？谁可以被信任？这个故事是假的吗？事实上，这一切是真的吗？由于扭曲的激励机制，一个旨在让关于现状的信息和关于未来的知识变得更透明的系统，反而让世界变得更加晦暗且动荡。创造诚实共识的梦想现在像一种酸液，一种瓦解协调能力的溶剂。我们最终面对的是一个制造冲突的系统，一台产生混乱的机器。

九月索引来源

九月索引来源 1,2 Ashok Gadgil, University of California, Berkeley; 3 世界卫生组织欧洲区域办事处（丹麦哥本哈根）；4,5 国际能源署（巴黎）；6,7 Gallup（华盛顿）；8,9 皮尤研究中心（华盛顿）；10,11 Jenna Russell（马里兰州大学公园市）；12 Damien Charlotin（巴黎）；13,14 Maxim Topaz, Columbia University (New York City); 15,16 François Keck（苏黎世）；17,18 Inside Higher Ed（华盛顿）；19,20 皮尤研究中心；21, 23 Rebecca Fielding-Miller, University of California, San Diego; 24,25 Harper's research; 26 人口、难民和移民局（华盛顿）；27 国际难民援助项目（纽约市）；28, 30 Human Rights Watch（纽约市）；31 ProPublica（纽约市）；32 美国德克萨斯州北区联邦地区法院（沃斯堡）；33 《迈阿密先驱报》；34, 37 New World Wealth（约翰内斯堡）；38,39 瑞银（苏黎世）。

对我而言，词语几乎在自我提议

内在语言依然是一个精准与古老故事的奇迹，其中

重新上演。随之而来的是，几乎所有的一切在没有阳光的情况下也被照亮，除了你所在的地方。没错！这种内在语言在我的爱、愤怒或笑声中闪光。尤其是失眠，使其像夏季的洪水一样膨胀。其中还包含着我爱过的人们的声音，他们的音色或语调，

借来的伤口

一场内战，一本畅销书，以及一场分裂法国的审判

作者：凯尔·柏林（Kyle Berlin）

1999年12月31日之夜，当世界在庆祝新千年的诞生时，一个名叫 Aube（取自法语中的“黎明”）的虚构五岁女孩被遗弃在死路之中——伊斯兰激进分子冷酷地杀害了她的家人，并割开了她的喉咙。她的父母在阿尔及利亚北部的一个小山村里养羊，他们以及她深爱的姐姐法蒂玛（Fatima），与一千名村民一起在那个夜晚被屠杀。

七个月后，2000年7月26日，在阿尔及利亚北部一个偏远的山村里，一个名叫 Saâda（取自阿拉伯语中的“幸福”或“喜悦”）的真实六岁女孩被遗弃在死路之中——伊斯兰激进分子冷酷地杀害了她的家人，并割开了她的喉咙。她的父母是牧羊人，她的五个兄弟姐妹也在那个夜晚被屠杀。家族中只有另一名成员幸存了下来：Saâda 的哥哥 Aïssa，他在袭击中也受了重伤。

虚构的 Aube 被送往附近城市雷利赞（Relizane）的一家医院，由一名雷厉风行、好斗的律师卡迪贾（Khadija）照顾，后者后来成为了她的养母。真实的 被送往当地医院治疗喉部大面积撕裂伤，随后被转至奥兰（Oran）附近的一家医院，由包括扎希亚·门图里（Zahia Mentouri）医生在内的专家团队治疗，门图里医生是一名雷厉风行、好斗的儿科医生，后来成为了她的养母。

Aube 和 都被飞往巴黎进行气管切开术并安置插管，这使得她们余生必须通过管子呼吸，导致她们基本失声且无法进食固体食物。当她们说话时，发出的是一种类似唐老鸭声音的喉音嘶哑声。

成年后，Aube 和 都会留在奥兰，定居在海尔亚斯明（Hai El Yasmine）社区 C 栋的一套四楼公寓里。Aube 最终会开一家美发店，经常用彩色围巾遮住脖子上的疤痕和管子。 会开一家美容院，也经常用彩色围巾遮住脖子上的疤痕和管子。两人都纹了身——这在阿尔及利亚女性中很罕见，因为伊斯兰教禁止纹身——这些纹身明确指向她们遭受的袭击： 在上背部纹了一对长翅膀，中间是一个字母 C，象征她的母亲谢里法（Cherifa）；Aube 在锁骨下方纹了一颗星，代表她被杀害的姐姐；在大腿上各纹了一条鱼，代表她被杀害的父亲；在耻骨上方纹了一匹马，代表她被杀害的母亲。

然而，只有 会在 2015 年开始拜访一名名为艾莎·达杜（Aïcha Dahdouh）医生的精神科医生，以面对摧毁她家庭的屠杀创伤。

多年来， 与她的精神科医生建立了一种起初是友好、后来几乎像家人一样的纽带；达杜医生成了某种像大姐姐和珍爱的姨妈的结合体，尤其是当 与养母发生冲突时（这种情况经常发生）。当她们用法语交流时（通常是通过短信），达杜医生和 会使用非正式的称呼“tu”。两人都有年幼的儿子，孩子们后来相识，一起玩耍，并一起过夜。

最终，萨阿达·阿尔巴内（Saâda Arbane）的故事引起了达杜博士第二任丈夫的注意。他是一位著名的作家，也是阿尔及利亚政府的激烈批评者，名叫卡梅尔·道德（Kamel Daoud）。道德一直在寻找一种方式来写一部关于阿尔及利亚内战的小说，他将这场战争描述为“不仅在世界其他地方，甚至在阿尔及利亚人自己之中也鲜为人知”。道德希望他的小说能最终打破围绕这场血腥恐怖冲突的禁忌，而阿尔及利亚政府曾竭力掩盖这场冲突——那是一场充斥着失踪、酷刑、轰炸和暗杀的肮脏战争，夺走了数万名阿尔及利亚人的生命，其中大多数是平民。“每个人对内战都有自己的版本，”他在接受采访时说道，“因为战争本身就是对真实的攻击……当我写完小说，告诉我的女儿时，她说：‘但事情真的是那样发生的吗？’”2023年夏天，道德被流放到法国，在灵感的迸发下，他在短短几个月内写完了新小说的手稿——他将初稿命名为《Joie》（法语中“喜悦”的意思），这个标题本没什么特别的，直到它被翻译成阿尔及利亚阿拉伯语：saâda。

当这部小说于2024年8月出版时，封底将虚构的叙述者描述为：“一名年轻的阿尔及利亚女性……[她的]悲剧刻在她的身体上：颈部的一道伤疤和被摧毁的声带。”这部最终以《Houris》为题出版的小说在第一年销售了超过四十万册，并获得了龚古尔文学奖（Prix Goncourt），使作者在法国文学史上的地位与马塞尔·普鲁斯特、西蒙·德·波伏娃和米歇尔·韦尔贝克等往届获奖者并列。就在龚古尔奖颁发几周后，阿尔巴内决定公开，起诉道德及其出版商，理由是“侵犯隐私”（atteinte de la vie privée），她声称奥布（Aube）的故事实际上就是她的故事，从头到尾完全一致：大屠杀、插管、呼吸管、喉部的嘶哑声、色彩鲜艳的围巾、象征性的纹身、美容院，以及那位强势、好斗且极其成功的养母——甚至连精确的

他将草稿命名为《Joie》，在法语中意为“喜悦”，若非将其翻译成阿尔及利亚阿拉伯语的“Saâda”，这个名字本并无特别之处

她颈部那道永远无法愈合的伤疤的形状和大小（从一只耳朵到另一只耳朵，横跨17厘米）。

1998年初，二十七岁的达乌德受《奥兰日报》（Le Quotidien d'Oran，一家阿尔及利亚的法语报纸）派遣，前往报道在斋月第一天发生在一个名为哈德·谢卡拉（Had Chekala）的小村庄里的恐怖大屠杀。1月5日，达乌德发表了一篇文章，首次记录了那场恐怖事件：

在一户人家里……我们发现一名父亲被铁丝反绑在身后，喉咙被割断，他的五个女儿也同样如此。

没有任何孩子因为太小而能幸免于这场残暴。根据达乌德的报道，一名九个月大的婴儿被 égorgé——法语中意为“被割喉”——但由于切口不够深，竟然“奇迹般地”幸存了下来。

“他们甚至割断了一个1岁婴儿的喉咙，”他写道，“传闻说，那个小东西死的时候，唇边带着微笑。”在句子的最后一个分句中，达乌德使用了法语词 sourire（“微笑”）的常规含义——对于被殉难的无辜者，传闻赋予了其最后一张满足的、浪漫化的图像。然而，随着时间的推移，sourire 将开始获得一种新的、更阴森的含义。在2024年8月为了宣传《胡里》（Houris）的出版而接受的一次采访中，达乌德解释了死者的图像如何影响了他：“被斩首头颅的微笑一直困扰着我，”他告诉《观点》（Le Point）杂志的采访者，这是一本右翼中心主义的新闻杂志，他在那里撰写一个受欢迎的每周专栏。“那不是微笑，而是一种惊愕的咧嘴笑，凝固在永恒的一瞬，注视着一台并不存在的电视机。”这里的图像无论多么恐怖，仍然是可以识别的：sourire 依然是一种面部表情。但在《胡里》中，sourire 将经历最后一次隐喻性的转变。“我做了气管切开术，”奥布对她尚未出生的孩子说，“这样我才能再次呼吸，外科医生画了一个恶魔般的微笑，以便将我的头重新连接到脖子上。21年来，我一直带着这个让人们哑口无言的僵笑（rictus）。”

在《胡里》中，奥布感觉自己是在反向生活，她碎片化的记忆本能地将她带向袭击发生时的消失点。由于身体残缺且遭受创伤，她被“将另一个生命带到这个世界上”的想法所折磨。对于奥布来说，生命的象征被颠倒成了死亡的象征；就这样，她承载着那位小说家的印记——小说家在当天亲眼看到，被屠杀者脸上的最终表情并非平静，而是恐怖。

当年轻的达乌德从屠杀现场返回并向《奥兰日报》提交报道时，他的编辑弱化了标题，并将死亡人数从一千（达乌德和一名同行记者通过亲自清点尸体核实的结果）改为“几十人”。根据达乌德的说法，他的编辑仅仅是

图片来源：本塔拉（Bentalha）公墓，1997 © Pascal Parrot / Sygma / Sygma via Getty Images；一名男子看着大屠杀的残骸，1997 © AFP via Getty ；一座公墓，1997 © Scott Peterson / Liaison / ；一名女性讲述大屠杀的经过，1997 © AFP ；一名亲属在大屠杀中被杀的女性，本塔拉，1997 © Hocine Zaourar / AFP ；被屠杀城镇梅拉哈（Mellaha）的居民，1997 © AFP

文集： 随笔、诗歌、 访谈 迈克尔·弗里德（Michael Fried） 野物：悲伤的地理学 芭芭拉·万斯布罗（Barbara Wansbrough）

生成的河流： 卢卡斯·萨马拉（Lucas Samaras）的 生平与时代 迈克尔·斯卡菲达斯（Michael Skafidas）

商店 Kongensgade 23

Soren Ulrik Thomsen

不要独自去 邮局 Stelios Koulogou 完整故事 Chips Hardy & Oscar Grillo

ERIS Press，由哥伦比亚大学出版社发行，在所有精品书店均有销售

简直不敢相信：“他们一直对我重复说：一千人死亡，这不可能。” 此外，阿尔及利亚政府也施压要求不对真实的死亡人数公开；当《世界报》（Le Monde）在1月 6 日报道这场大屠杀并将死亡人数定为 412, 人时，阿尔及利亚内政部长宣布该数字“完全错误”，实际上只有78人被杀。据达乌德（Daoud）称，直到十年后，真实的数字才被承认。

内战期间，阿尔及利亚的新闻业是一门血腥的生意——每位记者都是战地记者，记者及其家人和爱人经常成为阿尔及利亚政权以及伊斯兰激进分子的目标，遭到骚扰和暗杀。后者希望在向平民散布恐怖的同时，向世界隐瞒这种恐怖带来的真实后果。对于达乌德来说，内战是他作为作家的第一个突破口：

我就像巴尔扎克笔下的一个角色，天真，一个来到大城市的村民，完成了学业，不想回到村庄那无休止的琐碎日常中。报社当时在大量招聘 [记者]，因为很多记者被杀了。只要你出现，你就会被雇佣。我去调查这些大屠杀的现场，尽管我对这个职业一窍不通…… 此外，还有一种“真实的毒药”。在战争时期，新闻业携带这种特殊的毒药，当你从战壕中回来时，其他一切似乎都是虚假的。当你前一天还走在尸体之上时，你怎么可能回去当一名高中教师或完成学业？

当然，关于“真实的毒药”的问题在于，就像所有药物一样，它最终会失效。当它失效时，达乌德就像在他之前许多有野心的记者一样，开始寻找更强烈的刺激：小说。

去年九月一个凉爽的早晨，我在巴士底广场（Place de la Bastille）的一家咖啡馆会见了萨达·阿尔班（Saâda Arbane）的法国律师威廉·布尔东（William Bourdon）。根据他的讲述，法律争论并不难理解：布尔东及其律所主张《Houris》从一开始就不是一部虚构作品，而达乌德的律师以及其出版商加利玛出版社（Éditions Gallimard）的律师则主张，这部小说完全是虚构的，与萨达·阿尔班的生活几乎或完全没有关系。本案的核心是“纯虚构”的概念，即定义为完全源自想象的创作作品。

从实际角度来看，这起在巴黎提起民事诉讼的案件，其赌注相对较小：布尔东的律所请求 200,000 欧元的损害赔偿（后增加至 800,000 欧元），并要求在小说未来的所有版本中插入一段文字，以证明法院支持其客户的裁定。相对于达乌德和加利玛出版社通过该书销售可能赚取的数百万欧元来说，这几乎微不足道，而且无论结果如何，这本书都没有被下架的危险。真正的损害将是对达乌德名誉的打击，玷污他作为同代人中领先的异见人士和作家的形象。

[...OMITTED...]

至于布尔东，他是法国律师界一代才俊中典型的才华横溢且易怒的审判律师——这类律师通过追究种族灭绝狂的责任、保护勇敢的举报人免受国家迫害，从而开创出辉煌的国际职业生涯；与此同时，他们偶尔也会基于“在民主制度中，即使是最糟糕的人也值得拥有优秀的法律顾问”这一原则，为独裁者的儿子提供辩护。1995年，布尔东在法国成功起诉了温塞斯拉斯·穆涅希亚卡（Wenceslas Munyeshyaka），这名卢旺达神父被指控共谋屠杀数百名图西族难民，而他本人竟将这些难民亲手交给胡图族民兵，后者随后对其进行了强奸和屠杀。1998年，他代表三个法国家庭在法国对皮诺切特提起诉讼，这些家庭中具有法籍-智利血统的成员在独裁统治期间失踪。而在2015年，布尔东被召集前往莫斯科会见一名叫爱德华·斯诺登的年轻举报人，以帮助他寻找一个安全的避难所。

接手萨达·阿尔巴内（Saâda Arbane）的案件在某种程度上确实符合他长期以来的一种执念，即强权对弱者的剥削。但阿尔巴内的案件有所不同，这并非一个关于企业渎职、非法监视或国家支持的杀戮故事，而是一个关于个人背叛的故事。这就是我希望与他交谈的原因——像布尔东这样地位的律师接手此类案件不仅仅是为了赢。他还想以此表达某种观点，将某些议题推向国家议程。

在我们的交谈中，布尔东强调了此案受媒体驱动的性质——达乌德和加利玛尔出版社都暗示，阿尔及利亚政府可能在一定程度上对阿尔巴内决定公开真相负有责任——同时，他将自己塑造为故事中唯一一个没有私心的参与者。

“我能说的是，”他告诉我，“我当了四十五年律师，我的生活足够充实。我参与这个故事是因为这个年轻女性极其令人信服，我认为捍卫她是我的职责。我们绝不能低估这些攻击的暴力程度，这一点至关重要。”虽然我不怀疑他的真诚，但我发现这种情况经常发生，阿尔巴内的辩护者们在语义上产生了一种滑移：他们迅速地从指责达乌德将阿尔巴内生活的细节作为《胡里斯》（Houris）的基础（这一点很明显他确实这么做了），转而暗示他某种程度上与故事核心的屠杀和苦难有关。在法律陈述书以及采访中，布尔东的律所将达乌德的行为描述为“掠夺”（pillage），这显然是为了让人联想到杀戮发生时的情景。为了进一步加强效果，他们还加入了“捕食”（prédation）这个词：如果不能将达乌德抹黑为她身体残疾的共犯，也许他们可以用 #MeToo 的方式来攻击他。

我认为这过于激进且没有必要——法国的言论自由保护并不像美国那样绝对，事实上，有充足的法律先例支持阿尔巴内的诉讼，其中一些案件的基础事实对被告而言甚至没那么不利。但只有在布尔东完全坦诚的情况下，这才是没有必要的：在我看来，他想在公众舆论的法庭上赢得这场官司，而这取决于他在多大程度上能将原告塑造为殉道者，将自己塑造为她的英雄捍卫者，就像他以前做过很多次那样。问题在于，达乌德不是温塞斯拉斯·穆涅希亚卡或皮诺切特；事实上，对于许多阿尔及利亚人和法国人来说，他是一个英雄，因为他挑战并揭露了那些恰恰像布尔东的“臭名昭著的客户”一样的人所犯下的罪行。对于布尔东来说，这

阿尔班的故事并非关于企业渎职、非法监视或国家支持的谋杀，而是关于背叛

正是这种被违背的公众信任。

布尔东告诉我，针对达乌德的指控是“一个典型的恶意之例”。“他把自己塑造为一个正直的人，与其人道主义承诺相称。[但]如果说成为政权反对者、成为人道主义者就是正直的保证，那这件事就显而易见了。但这并不是掩护——它不是一张能赋予一个人豁免权的通行证。”说到这里，布尔东停顿了一下，然后改变了方向。“他是通过他的妻子行动的，”他继续说道，“阿尔班向她的精神科医生交付了双重信任。是的，这是一个被残害、受损……遭受了沉重创伤的女性，她向她的精神科医生倾诉，并与其建立了亲密的个人关系，这本身就已经是一个伦理问题。然后她发现，在她不知情的情况下，她所说的一切都被‘回收’了。”

我同意这是一个严重的职业失职案例——这个案例完美地说明了为什么精神科医生不应该与病人成为朋友——但这感觉像是一种转移话题。毕竟，在布尔东针对达乌德和加利玛出版社（Gallimard）提起的侵犯隐私诉讼中，艾莎·达杜（Aïcha Dahdouh）并未被列为被告。然而，达杜在阿尔及利亚的一项刑事指控中被点名，理由是违反了医患保密协议，这对她和她的丈夫来说都是一个严重得多的威胁。2023年，部分由于阿尔及利亚国家安全部门的威胁，达杜和达乌德永久定居法国。如果他们回去，很可能会被监禁，且极不可能获得公正的审判；他们可能会被带到法庭，但无法获得正义。

然而，对于布尔东来说，结果有点混乱：这起案件无疑是新闻，并且将继续占据头条，但天平稍微向达乌德倾斜，因为达乌德拥有数十年来建立的强大声誉，并且有一个每周都能发声为自己辩护的平台。我想到了那句关于不要与那些按桶购买油墨的人（指媒体巨头）起冲突的老话；这句话似乎正是为像布尔东这样的人准备的。

我问他如何看待这样一个事实：在其他情况下，他可能会为像达乌德这样的人辩护，而不是起诉他。他轻蔑地笑了一下，仿佛这种事情是不可能的，然后告诉我，他实际上确实曾为一名阿尔及利亚政府的反对者辩护，那人曾是特种部队的一名少尉，写了一本关于“黑色十年”（la décennie noire）的书，许多阿尔及利亚人将内战称为此名。在21世纪初，书中具有煽动性的主张在法国和阿尔及利亚都引起了巨大的丑闻，当时军队和伊斯兰激进分子所犯下的暴行尚未成为常识。布尔东告诉我，该作者被一名阿尔及利亚将军起诉诽谤，该将军为军队辩护，否认谋杀、酷刑和腐败的指控。然而，布尔东不记得那名少尉的名字了，我觉得这既令人惊叹又有点滑稽。为这么多正直的人辩护到无法将他们全部区分开来，那是怎样的感觉？

几周后，我与哈比比·苏艾迪亚（Habib Souaïdia）交谈，他就是布尔东提到的那位前客户，也是《肮脏的战争》（La sale guerre, 2001）的作者。这是一本关于“黑色十年”的非凡第一手记录，作者是一名从内部目睹了那台地狱般的死亡机器的士兵，他说，那些是恐怖分子。我看到上校们冷酷地暗杀仅仅是嫌疑人的人。我看到军官们将伊斯兰同情者拷打致死。

当我们交谈时，我告诉苏艾迪亚，在读完《肮脏的战争》（La sale guerre）后，我怀疑我们是否能真正确定是谁杀害了萨达·阿尔巴内（Saâda Arbane）的一家人。作为回应，他给我讲了一个类似寓言的故事，用以说明普通阿尔及利亚人经常被困在其中的致命虎钳的双重压力：“一个老故事是关于经过这里的第三组人，他们是伪装成伊斯兰分子的士兵。他们蓄胡须，穿着长袍（djellabas），携带恐怖分子通常使用的枪支。‘恐怖分子万岁！’老人大喊，‘伊斯兰教万岁！’然后，士兵们逮捕了他。他们对他说，‘我们是士兵，而你是恐怖主义的支持者。’他们殴打他，然后在灌木丛中将其杀害并抛尸于此。在他们经过村庄后，他们心想，‘如果他

因抗命被监禁四年，随后逃往法国，并在那里流亡了二十多年。

“我看到战友将一名十五岁的孩子活活烧死，”苏艾迪亚在书的序言中写道。

我看到士兵屠杀平民，并将这些罪行推给那些

在山上养了几只羊的人——他是个牧羊人，就在那里，当一些士兵经过时，他说：‘军队万岁，军队万岁，阿尔及利亚万岁！’于是士兵们走过，挥挥手，继续前行。第二天，一群蓄胡须的恐怖分子抵达，[老人说]：‘伊斯兰教万岁！恐怖分子万岁！’但最讽刺的部分是，然后他们会认为，整个村子肯定也都是这样的人。这就是成百上千，乃至成千上万的人被杀害、被处决或被绑架的方式。”

苏艾迪亚的故事始于八十年代末，当时阿尔及利亚进行了一次短暂且灾难性的多党民主实验。在1989年通过新宪法之前，阿尔及利亚是一个一党制的社会主义国家，在很大程度上仍由民族解放阵线（FLN）的前革命者管理，这些人曾在1954年至1962年那场血腥的八年独立战争中将法国人驱逐出去。虽然在此期间成立了涵盖各种意识形态光谱的政党，但最受欢迎的是伊斯兰救国阵线（FIS），该党呼吁按照从沙特阿拉伯和埃及的伊玛目，以及刚从阿富汗前线返回的圣战分子那里引进的严格、传统主义的伊斯兰教形象，对阿尔及利亚社会进行激进的重塑。

当时，超过一半的阿尔及利亚人口年龄在15岁到24岁之间，支持FIS成为了反叛的一种时尚象征，甚至在那些如果该党上台，其自由最可能受到限制的年轻人之中也是如此（对于女性，是学习和工作的自由；对于男性，是抽烟和喝酒的权利；对于两者，是婚外性行为的权利）。穿着短裙的女性前往投票站为FIS投票，而FIS承诺要禁止短裙。年轻男性投票给FIS，然后出入夜总会和水烟吧，而FIS承诺要关闭这些场所。

12月，议会选举第一轮举行，FIS获得了47%的选票，远超FLN——这一结果足以让FIS在议会中占据多数席位，无论第二轮结果如何。1992年1月11日，阿尔及利亚总统沙德利·本杰迪德（Chadli Bendjedid）辞职，导致后续选举暂停。3月，政府正式解散了FIS。

同年晚些时候，阿尔及利亚政府通过了一项法律，禁止“以任何形式”加入或参与恐怖组织。该法律被用于将数千名伊斯兰救国阵线（FIS）的同情者或被推定为同情者，关押在位于撒哈拉沙漠的集中营中。苏艾迪亚目睹了军队如何清洗那些被指控具有伊斯兰主义倾向的军官。（在某些情况下，仅仅是因为祈祷过于频繁就足够被定罪，不久后，军队营房内的清真寺也被禁止。）许多与 FIS 没有效忠关系的军官和平民感到别无选择，只能加入“maquis”（游击队）——换句话说，就是躲进山中成为“恐怖分子”。就这样，政府在客观上帮助制造、维持甚至鼓励了它声称试图打击的恐怖主义。

随着冲突的拖延，政府与“恐怖分子”（les terroristes）之间的界限变得越来越模糊。割喉（Égorgements）很快成为了伊斯兰武装分子实施屠杀的标志性手段，而这种战术随后也被军队特种部队的某些单位所采用，这些单位被指派去执行苏艾迪亚所称的“le sale boulot”（脏活）。

恐怖是这场战争的通用语言，一种随着时间推移而演变为目的本身的手段

在军官之间，他们开始开玩笑地将阿尔及利亚政权称为“协会”（la société）——比如，“协会今天在搞什么？”——这是“恐怖分子培训协会”（la société pour la formation des terroristes）的简称。我对“黑色十年”（la décennie noire）了解得越多，就越容易想起伏尔泰关于神圣罗马帝国的那句著名讽刺：它既不神圣，也不是罗马的，更不是一个帝国。例如，那些在哈德谢卡拉（Had Chekala）屠杀了上千人，并杀害了虚构人物奥布（Aube）一家以及真实人物萨达（Saâda）一家的伊斯兰激进分子，那些阴森的人物？他们很有可能既不是特别的伊斯兰主义者，也不是特别的激进分子。事实上，根本无法确定他们是否就是伊斯兰激进分子。

出于意识形态和实际原因——阿尔及利亚军队经常拖欠工资——许多士兵和军官选择逃兵，转而与他们曾经所属的军队作战。而在另一边，一些伊斯兰杀手小队实际上是伪装的阿尔及利亚特种部队，而另一些则由“真正的”伊斯兰激进分子组成，但其中潜伏着阿尔及利亚情报部门的间谍。

在平民百姓中，双方被分别称为“白昼之国”（l'état du jour）和“黑夜之国”（l'état de la nuit）。在评论达乌德 2004 年出版的著作《噢，法老》（Ô Pharaon）时，阿尔及利亚政治学家拉胡阿里·阿迪（Lahouari Addi）写道：“被两个每十二小时交替出现的状态所夹击，民众不知道该效忠于谁：是效忠于黑夜之狼，还是白昼之豺。”对于普通阿尔及利亚人来说，“恐怖分子”本质上是一个毫无意义的称谓。恐怖是这场战争的通用语言，一种随着时间推移而演变为目的本身的手段。

在我们的交谈中，苏艾迪亚（Souaïdia）对达乌德持非常批判的态度：他认为这位作者在揭露真相方面太迟了，而且大多数记者在战争期间都满足于鹦鹉学舌地重复政府的口径，即所有暴行都是由伊斯兰一方实施的。苏艾迪亚问我，为什么“（达乌德）试图在今天，在 2025 年，唤起人们对阿尔及利亚所发生之事的意识，而他本应该在 2001, 2003, 2004, 2005 年就这么做？”

且不论达乌德当年已经在无数的专栏和文章中写过这场内战，我认为这种批评忽略了一个重要的背景：苏艾迪亚是在流亡期间撰写并出版其著作的，而达乌德则留在阿尔及利亚，在冲突正式结束后的数十年里一直从事记者工作。《小时》（Houris）的题词之一，就摘自敌对行动正式结束之后通过的和解法案，该法案授予了伊斯兰战士特赦，并禁止

任何通过其声明、著作或任何其他行动，利用或工具化这场国家悲剧的伤口，以攻击阿尔及利亚民主人民共和国的机构、削弱国家、诋毁以尊严服务于国家的官员之荣誉，或损害阿尔及利亚国际形象的人。

违规者将被处以三至五年的监禁。正是这部法律——和解法案第46条——被用来禁止《Houris》在阿尔及利亚销售，并阻止加利玛尔出版社（Gallimard）参加2024年阿尔及尔国际书展（这是阿尔及利亚规模最大的图书节）。类似的法令也被用于指控数百名其他作家、记者、电影制作人和反政府活动人士，其中许多人被关押多年而未受审判。诚然，《Houris》本身是在流亡期间写成的，但我认为小说家不应为激发小说灵感的事件与小说创作之间的时间差负责。虚构文学并非新闻报道；新闻价值无法拯救一部糟糕的小说，而一部优秀的小说可能会在它所描述的事件发生数十年甚至数个世纪之后才被写就。

当我向苏艾迪亚（Souaïdia）询问关于萨阿达·阿尔巴内（Saâda Arbane）的案件时，他指出双方都将她工具化了。“卡梅尔·达乌德（Kamel Daoud）利用了这个年轻女人的故事，”他说，“而政权则利用[她]来攻击卡梅尔·达乌德。”尽管苏艾迪亚比任何人都清楚成为国家支持的抹黑行动目标的滋味——例如，他与达乌德都被阿尔及利亚媒体指责为领取法国和以色列的薪水——但他似乎对他（达乌德）的困境没什么同情心。部分原因是苏艾迪亚觉得达乌德在收割他的劳动果实；在他看来，正是他揭露的真相为达乌德的虚构创作打开了大门。但这同时也是一个关于团结悖论的精妙例证：你与他人遭受的苦难越是精准地一致，就越不容易激发同情之情。

对于达乌德来说，这恰恰赋予了虚构文学探索人类经验所有方面（尤其是最黑暗部分）的使命。“如果我们谈论[集中]营，并且必须在酷刑执行者的故事和受害者的故事之间做出选择，本能会推动我们讲述受害者的故事，”他说。

“而文学则推动我们讲述酷刑执行者的故事，因为酷刑执行者拥有选择权。”这是一个迷人的视角，在我阅读《Houris》时，有时希望达乌德本人能采取这种视角。然而，这部小说是一个永久受害者的证词，一个被彻底困在创伤之中，以至于除了这件事之外无法思考和谈论任何其他事情的人。

也许事实仅仅是，文学只能缓慢地、直线地从受害者的视角转向酷刑执行者的视角。例如，2006年的龚古尔奖（Prix Goncourt）授予了乔纳森·利特尔（Jonathan Littell）的《仁慈者》（The Kindly Ones），该书由马克西米利安·奥（Maximilien Aue）叙述，他是一名党卫军军官，以一种类似阿甘的巧合，出现在第二次世界大战中许多最恐怖且具有历史意义的场景中：奥斯威辛、斯大林格勒、巴比亚尔大屠杀。尽管该书在大屠杀发生六十年后出版，但仍成功在法国引发了重大争议，而法国在承认其在将数万名犹太人驱逐到纳粹死亡营中所扮演的积极角色方面进展极其缓慢。因此，也许还需要几十年的时间，才会出现某个敢于尝试的年轻阿尔及利亚作家，用某种声音——比如那些无法分辨谁是“真正”恐怖分子、谁是伪装者的游击队战士之口——为我们写一部宏大的喜剧小说。但目前，在一个坚持其虚构之物为现实的政权下——一方面禁声受害者，另一方面让酷刑执行者逍遥法外——达乌德坚持真相的做法或许蕴含着某种智慧。

达乌德的律师提交的法律卷宗，一定是我读过的最奇怪、最非凡的文件之一。在辩护状中，达乌德的律师本杰明·莫伊桑（Benjamin Moisan）和雅克琳·拉丰-海克（Jacqueline Laffont-Haïk）详尽地列出了一份“反向历史”，针对萨阿达·阿尔巴内（Saâda Arbane）的律师坚持认为是从其生活中“窃取”的每一处灵感进行了反驳。根据达乌德律师的说法，胡里斯（Houris）的屠杀并非灵感来自阿尔巴内家人的惨剧，而是来自达乌德年轻时作为记者亲眼目睹并报道的哈德·谢卡拉（Had Chekala）屠杀。虚构角色奥布（Aube）和现实中的萨阿达的家人都在偏远山区拥有小农场，这是否属实？或许如此，但达乌德的家人也是如此，他们属于一个名为贝尼·欧拉格（Beni Ouragh）的柏柏尔部落，其成员分布在包括哈德·谢卡拉在内的许多小村庄中。虚构的奥布和现实中的萨阿达都做过气管切开术并插入了导管，这是否属实？是的，但在为小说做研究期间，达乌德观看过纪录片，片中那些被割喉（égorgés）的阿尔及利亚人同样插入了导管。奥布和萨阿达都住在奥兰的海尔亚斯敏（Hai El Yasmine）社区，这是否属实？嗯，达乌德也曾住在那里。

此外还有一个关于兄弟姐妹数量的巨大差异（虚构的奥布只有一个姐姐，而阿尔巴内有六个兄弟姐妹），我最初将其归结为剧作家为了叙事流畅而精简人物的意愿。然而，在法律辩护状中，达乌德的律师指出，阿尔及利亚电视台在2018年播出过一部纪录片，讲述了两姐妹在“黑色十年”（la décennie noire）期间被“带入深山”的故事——这是他们被绑架的口语表达方式。虽然她们的故事在一个重要方面与胡里斯的故事有所偏差——在小说中，奥布目睹了姐姐被杀——但我禁不住注意到，达乌德是从这部电影中借用了奥布的姐姐的名字“法蒂玛”（Fatima）。

至于身体残缺，虽然虚构的奥布和现实中的萨阿达确实都在法国接受了先进的手术，试图永久覆盖导管并恢复正常的进食和呼吸功能——尽管这些尝试最终都失败了——但达乌德本人也对割喉（égorgement）的生理影响进行过医学研究。例如，他发现由此导致的失语症极难治愈，且仅发现过一个成功的案例：2010年一名加利福尼亚女性经历的一场长达18小时的手术，这在小说中被奥布的养母提及，作为建议奥布尝试同样手术的理由。

达乌德的律师引用了达乌德接受《新观察者》（Le Nouvel Obs）采访的内容，该采访发表于2024年9月——换句话说，远在阿尔巴内公开指控之前。在律师引用的段落中，达乌德解释了作为小说家他对奥布这个角色的着迷：“她 [elle] 是这个即便遭受了却无法诉说的故事真正的隐喻化。”然而，以下是该问答的完整记录：

采访者：你的女主角奥布，她的脖子被刀刻成了一个恐怖的微笑，她失语了，通过导管呼吸，但她与腹中的女儿保持着内心对话。这个角色是由某个真实的女性启发而来的吗？

达乌德：是的，我认识一个带着导管的女人，但她 [elle] 并不是唯一被残害的人，因为割喉是伊斯兰主义者的惯用手段。这个意象在我心中触发了一些强有力的东西，而我此前一直不知道如何表达。它 [elle] 是这个即便遭受了却无法诉说的故事真正的隐喻化。

当我第一次读到这段引语时，我立刻意识到，达乌德的律师与阿尔巴内的律师之间的争论焦点在于这个女人的身份。达乌德的律师主张这个“她”（elle）是指奥布，而同样引用这段文字的阿尔巴内的律师则主张是指萨阿达。然而，他们都错了——或者在任何情况下，他们都误读了这段文字的含义——而原因在于语法。在法语中，名词分阴阳性，因此代词必须遵循其先行词的性别——所以，当达乌德说“elle était la métaphorisation réelle de cette histoire”（她 / 它成为了这个故事真实的隐喻化）时，他所指的“elle”并不是一个女人。事实上，它的先行词是“image”（图像），这是一个阴性名词。达乌德想要表达的是，这些被残害女性的图像启发了他：既包括他所认识的那个女人（显然是指萨阿达·阿尔巴内）的图像，也包括许多以同样方式被残害的女性的图像。双方律师都在争论达乌德灵感的来源或来源地是否可以被精确地识别，但大多数小说根本不是这样运作的。小说家并非直接从生活（无论那意味着什么）中汲取素材——他汲取的是生活的图像，然后根据自己的才华和气质将其塑造。小说是一个故事，而不是一份笔录。它拥有的是角色，而不是真实的人。

尽管如此，这并不是达乌德在采访中直接承认该角色

双方律师均主张可以确定达乌德灵感的来源，但小说并非如此运作

奥布（Aube）的灵感来自一个具体的人。当作家埃里克·福托里诺（Éric Fottorino）询问这个女人是否“真实存在”时，达乌德回答道：“Bien sûr”（当然），随后迅速转向书中另一个看似是小说虚构但实际上是真实的部分：

有人告诉我，将我的小说背景设定在一家面对清真寺的理发店是非常具有象征意义的，仿佛这是小说家的艺术手法……但事实上，这家面对清真寺的理发店确实存在，就在我家拐角处！

在《胡丽》（Houris）出版前后的采访中，达乌德似乎非常渴望确立其虚构作品的真实性；小说中的每一个轶事，他都能提供一个对应的故事，要么是他亲眼目睹，要么是他亲耳听闻。虽然我确信这在一定程度上是为了证明他对内战现实的掌控力，但我认为这同时也是一种自我辩护，以应对关于他为了自身利益而挪用一名年轻女性故事的指控。

然而，在同样的采访中，我也注意到，一些阿尔巴内（Arbane）的律师坚持认为是从她生活中窃取的细节，根据达乌德的说法，完全来自另一个不同的来源——例如奥布的纹身，阿尔巴内坚持认为那是基于她自己的纹身。达乌德告诉福托里诺：

我是由祖母抚养长大的，她身上布满了祖传的纹身，她从未向我解释过其中的含义。对我来说，起初这就像法语一样：文字被纹在纸上的每一个地方，但我无法理解我读到的词句。我一直觉得，身体与作品集（body of work）是同一回事。

在这里，我们可以看到同样的逻辑：它将一名被屠杀婴儿唇上的天使般微笑，转化成了被肢解的奥布颈部上潦草地写着的“sourire diabolique”（恶魔般的微笑）。根据法国法律，你不需要证明一个人的生活中的每一个细节在某部作品中都有直接的对应物。只要该人物被认为具有“可识别性”即可。很多关键点似乎都取决于这个词。对谁而言是可识别的？对原告的家人？她的亲密朋友？还是她的熟人？

在接受左翼新闻媒体 Mediapart 采访时，阿尔巴内解释说，她收到了数十条来自人们的消息，这些人是在听说这部小说后找上她的，因为他们认为她已经同意成为达乌德书中的主角。有些人甚至问她收了多少钱。这触及了本案的核心。尽管双方的大量法律辩论都集中在小说中某些细节的来源上，但阿尔巴内的论点实际上取决于她、达赫杜（Dahdouh）与达乌德之间的私人关系。根据阿尔巴内的说法，达乌德及其妻子多次请求允许在书中讲述她的故事，但阿尔巴内每次都拒绝了。根据阿尔巴内的养姑以及她的一位亲密朋友提供的证词，第一次请求发生在 2021 年，当时达赫杜邀请阿尔巴内去咖啡馆，并提议让她丈夫写一本关于她生活的小说。随后，达赫杜请求阿尔巴内的养母门图里（Mentouri）代表其养女授予许可，同样被拒绝。2024 年 9 月 22 日，达赫杜给阿尔巴内发了一条短信，内容为：“女主角怀孕了，她把孩子称为‘我的胡丽’，她的故事在某种程度上与你相似。”

10月30日，达杜和阿尔巴内最后一次在奥兰见了一面。根据阿尔巴内以及她的丈夫和养姑姑的证词，达杜做出了最后的努力，提出让阿尔巴内分享这部小说的电影版权收益。阿尔巴内的律师将这些努力定性为恶意行为，但我并不这么认为。如果你希望写一本书，除了请求许可，你还能以什么方式切入这个主题？在我看来，阿尔巴内的律师是想让达乌为达杜的“原罪”买单，而这个原罪就是与她的当事人建立了亲密的私人关系。但这从一开始就是恶意吗？如果达乌在没有请求许可的情况下直接写了这本书，从伦理角度来看会更好吗？显然不会。尽管如此，针对他的法律诉讼将会弱得多。事实上，他被起诉是因为他起初是以诚意行事，并且留下了证据，包括一本献给阿尔巴内的小说副本，上面写着这样一段题词：“我们的国家经常被勇敢的女性所拯救。你就是其中之一。带着我的钦佩：卡梅尔。”

在阿尔巴内的指控公开后的几个月里，媒体报道沿着政治分界线清晰地分成了两派：像《Mediapart》和《解放报》（Libération）这样的左翼出版物重点报道阿尔巴内，而像《费加罗报》（Le Figaro）和《观点》（Le Point）这样的右翼出版物则支持达乌。左翼倾向于淡化或忽视达乌的小说在阿尔基利亚遭受审查的事实。就像阿尔巴内的律师一样，左翼也希望将个人背叛置于首位。而在右翼，个人背叛的故事被淡化或忽视了——保守派报纸满足于关注达乌作为阿尔及利亚最著名的异见人士的身份，以及阿尔及利亚国家媒体如何利用阿尔巴内的主张，来转移人们对该政权惯于监禁和迫害异议人士这一糟糕习惯的注意力。

报道所揭示的是，这个故事在很大程度上不过是巴黎精英阶层两个不同派系之间长期战争中的又一次小规模冲突。如果说威廉·布尔东代表了激进左翼，那么达乌的律师雅克琳·拉丰-海克则代表了亲商业右翼的利益。（拉丰-海克的一位同事告诉我，他们已经“证明了这些指控完全缺乏任何事实或法律依据”。）当拉丰-海克接手达乌这个客户时，她正处于对前总统尼古拉·萨科齐腐败裁决提出质疑的过程中。达乌本人与总统埃马纽埃尔·马克龙是朋友，马克龙在掌权时承诺推行某种法国式的“第三条道路”政治，但现在被视为一名传统的中右翼政客，一个经过少量表面更新的萨科齐。在定居法国前不久，达乌曾在阿尔及利亚与马克龙共进晚餐，搬迁后他又在总统府与他共进午餐。正是这种亲密关系，在一定程度上解释了为何达乌会遭到左翼人士如此猛烈的攻击，因为这些人对马克龙的总统任期感到深切失望。（在达乌获得龚古尔奖后，阿尔及利亚国家媒体指责马克龙干预了评奖，将奖项交给他的老友。）

我访问了伽利玛出版社（Gallimard）的办公室，那里是巴黎精英阶层的另一个堡垒。在那里，我与著名的法籍摩洛哥作家塔哈尔·本·杰隆（Tahar Ben Jelloun）进行了交谈。1987年，本·杰隆凭借小说《神圣之夜》（The Sacred Night）获得了龚古尔奖，他同时也是享有盛誉的龚古尔奖评审委员会（Académie Goncourt）的成员，而该委员会正是选出《胡里斯》（Houris）作为获奖作品的机构。“当关于卡梅尔·达乌德（Kamel Daoud）的故事[传出]时，”他告诉我，“法国国内出现了一些抱怨，因为人们认为卡梅尔·达乌德相当偏右，或者认为他在玩一种‘看似偏右’的游戏。”他对《Télérama》以及他撰稿多年的《世界报》（Le Monde）等传统媒体中他认为带有偏见的报道感到失望。“在我看来，”他说，“《世界报》已经变得左倾，而且内部有些人正试图借此清算旧账。”

对于本·杰隆来说，这场诉讼仅仅是围绕该奖项而展开的狂欢活动的另一个方面。这个奖项经常将一些无名作家的职业生涯推向文学界的顶峰——其中一些人此前的小说销量仅为数百本，或最多几千本。“每一次龚古尔奖都会伴随一场丑闻，”他说，“涉及的资金如此之多，总会有故事产生。当然，还总会有离婚。总是如此。我想大概五分之六的情况都是这样。”

2025年5月，在审判第一次听证会的次日，伽利玛出版社出版了达乌德的一本名为《有时必须背叛》（Il faut parfois trahir）的小册子。这是一篇优美的散文，论证充分且充满了历史和文学引用，探讨了背叛在叙事上的必要性：

有时，背叛即是揭示，是澄清，是敢于尝试，是爱，是珍视，是涉足未知。我是个叛徒吗？我敢于希望如此。

当我向布尔东（Bourdon）展示这段文字时，他挥手将其摒弃。“Ça, c’est du tralala（这不过是花言巧语），”他宣称。这是他的表达方式，意指这不过是另一道烟幕，是为了掩盖对阿尔巴内（Arbane）所造成的个人伤害。但达乌德的论点是，背叛是许多伟大故事中不可或缺的一部分，而且在有人敢于说出不可言说之词、做出不可思议之事之前，我们的集体历史无法前行。当然，那些类比非常宏大——普罗米修斯、撒旦——但我并不确定这仅仅是简单的掩饰。以一种迂回的方式，我反而认为这是一种忏悔。

在散文的末尾，达乌德引用了博尔赫斯的短篇小说《犹大的三个版本》，在故事中，人类真正的救世主不是耶稣，而是那个通过背叛耶稣而促成了钉十字架（从而促成了复活）的人。达乌德的诋毁者希望将他永远定格在这次背叛行为中，让这一时刻完全且永远地定义他，但他的论点是，新生活的宣告——一种新的救赎可能性，一种与上帝或彼此之间的新关系——绝不会凭空出现（ex nihilo）。首先必须发生一次背叛：

没有背叛，就没有人性，没有被偷走的苹果，没有禁果，没有耳语，没有对上帝的拒绝。叛徒刺破了这种一致性，刺破了这个共同的躯体，并将其裸露。

在法国，人们对这段话的主要解读是：这仅仅是对异见者的辩护，以及为了救赎其人民而背叛国家的必要性。但如果你读出字里行间的深意，我认为其中还包含着另一条信息，一个针对特定单一听众的秘密诉求。阿尔巴内接受了八年的心理治疗，而且据她自己所述，在所有这段时间里，除了达胡（Dahdouh），她几乎没有告诉过任何人导致她毁容的背景情况。达乌德是否在主张，无论这次背叛多么痛苦，它或许能通过强迫阿尔巴内面对所发生的一切，赋予她一种新生活的可能性，一种不再围绕在她所遭受的恐怖苦难之上的生活？“我是唯一一个幸存下来并保留痕迹的人，”阿尔巴内在接受 Mediapart 采访时说，“是阿尔及利亚唯一一个带着导管的人。”

阿尔巴内坚持认为她的创伤具有唯一性；而达乌德则强调其普遍性。在报道这个故事的过程中，我多次感到自己在两者之间摇摆。当我倾向于达乌德时，是因为在我看来，如果让小说家在虚构作品中讲述真相时需承担法律责任，最终将导致司法公正的扭曲；今天保护萨阿达·阿尔巴内隐私的同一部法律，明天就可能被用来恐吓和禁言那些想要探索自己遭受他人侵害之痛苦的作者。在我看来，任何撰写关于乱伦、性侵甚至种族灭绝的小说的人，在同样的法律解释下，都可能因侵犯隐私而被起诉。（4月，奥兰的一个法院以违反第46条为由，缺席判处达乌德三年监禁，这极有可能使他的流亡成为永久性的。）

而当我倾向于阿尔巴内时，我特别想到了关于她精神状态的一段令人心碎的记录。那是2001年由一名儿童精神科医生记录的，当时七岁的阿尔巴内在巴黎的一家医院接受气管切开术，由该医生治疗。那时，她的家人被屠杀仅过去了六个月，尚不清楚她对那次事件记得多少。有一天，精神科医生发现她拿着一本阿拉伯语书籍，书中讲述的是很久以前血腥征服的故事。正如该医生所写：

这些画面往往令人难以忍受。她翻页，当看到人们（尤其是女性）被铺在地上时，她会停下来。她用手指着那些似乎与她认为自己经历过的事情相吻合的场景。这本书是由一个我们尚未找到的人交给她的，而且对方在这么做时没有与团队中的任何人讨论。

阿尔巴内甚至在回答我发给她的一个问题清单时告诉我——就在这里，她找回了她的微笑（sourire）。这是最不可思议的事情——在一家法国医院里，一本阿拉伯语的插画书几乎像魔法一样被塞到了这个小女孩手中，让她能够开始面对所发生之事的可怕真相。这样也许随着时间的推移，她能开始痊愈。

慢一点，我们正漂浮在这里！

为了他们的缘故，请安全航行，减缓航迹波浪。

SILKWORMS

Reincarnation in Beijing

By Long Ling

由乔纳森·弗林特（Jonathan Flint）译自中文

那家餐厅还在。街道两旁停满了车，所以我不得不把车停在一个街区之外。我手里拿着一根五英尺长的杆子，塑料袋里装着一把剪刀。那是2019年的春天，关于我要去哪里唯一的线索是多年前发布在互联网上的：“西三环花园桥西北角，一家餐厅北边有两棵桑树。”

餐厅两边的建筑已经重建，北边现在开了一条新路。路两旁种满了北京随处可见的杨树。四月下旬，杨树的花像白色的绒毛一样覆盖了整座城市，出现在桌上、地板上和床底下，让人眨眼、打喷嚏并咒骂。杨树叶在路灯下摇曳。我没有看到任何桑树。

我在路上走来走去，犹豫地寻找着，直到引起了一名身穿制服的保安的注意。他是在附近办公室值班，从水泥台阶上的一次性餐盒和筷子来看，他刚吃完晚饭。他没什么事可做，只能看着马路对面餐厅进出的人。

“嘿，你找什么呢？”他用河北口音问我。我微笑着说：“你知道附近有桑树吗？我儿子养了一些蚕，但桑叶用完了。那些虫子快饿死了。”

我儿子为了一个以“轮回”为主题的艺术项目在喂蚕。蚕并不是他的首选。起初，他自豪地给我看了一幅他画的毛泽东肖像。这幅画分为两部分：左边是穿着灰色中山装的毛泽东，背宽，发型独特；右边是穿着西装打领带的毛泽东，头发整齐地分缝，让人想起习主席。我儿子向我挑战道：“你觉得这个怎么样？精神轮回。”面对这个愤怒的青少年，我不知道该说什么，但他的美术老师说了：“最重要的是，你得平安毕业，所以不要找麻烦。”沮丧之下，我儿子征求我的建议：“我能记录一个生命从出生到死亡再到重生的过程吗？”我不确定地建议道：“比如养蚕？”我以前养过，因为在我小时候，蚕是小学生中很常见的宠物。令我惊讶的是，他迷上了这个想法。他开始背诵所有中国学生都熟悉的关于蚕的成语和诗句：结茧自缚，蚕不吐尽丝不死……这可以成为他艺术项目的一个好主题。我们决定养蚕。

启动这个项目很简单；毕竟在中国，几乎任何东西都可以在网上买到。他在淘宝（中国最大的在线购物平台）上买的养蚕套装花费了20元（不到3美元），包含100颗蚕卵、一个塑料便当盒（用作孵化器）、一根鹅毛（用于清扫和移动幼蚕）、一磅桑叶，并且免运费。我们将蚕卵放入便当盒，将便当盒放在阳台上。一周后，我听到儿子惊呼：“快！它们孵化了！”我们把桑叶从冰箱里拿出来，切成细条，喂给那些逗号形状的小虫子。有60多只孵化了出来。

蚕宝宝会定期地“睡觉”。我儿子每隔一天观察它们并拍照。每次他的反应都一样：“天呐，这么大。”他看起来有点厌恶。最终，它们长得太大了，我不得不将它们转移到鞋盒里。在蚕脱了两层皮后，它们变成了白色，头部变得圆润。我害怕昆虫，但我慢慢开始觉得蚕并没有那么可怕。看着它们啃食叶子的边缘，让我想起另一个成语——“蚕食”（cán shí），指连续地、一点一点地侵占，在中国教科书中经常用来描述 19 世纪下半叶西方帝国主义如何强迫清政府开放中国。那些帝国主义者像蚕一样缓慢地吞噬，或者像吃西瓜一样将资源切割并吞掉。

这些蚕被养在我租的公寓里那个狭小的卧室中，公寓就在我儿子学校附近。来自城市各地的家庭住在楼上和楼下，原因都一样：为了让孩子能住在学校附近。为了避免单程一个半小时的通勤，我支付着高昂的费用住在一个破旧的老社区里，住在一栋建于 70 年代的公寓中，那房子小到除了两间卧室外几乎没有空间。

夜晚，鞋盒里几十只蚕啃食桑叶的沙沙声，唤起了我童年时在祖父母家养蚕的记忆。我的家乡周围曾是一个著名的丝绸产区，我的祖父母用六英尺宽的竹盘养蚕。我的姑姑们在青少年时期被委以重任，照顾数以千计在茂密厚实桑叶上大快朵颐的白色幼虫，她们必须在半夜起床，向盘中撒入更多叶子。这项传统在近半个世纪前消失了。

第一包一磅重的桑叶很快就被吃完了。我在网上订购了更多，但两天后，冰箱里只剩下几片叶子，快递员还没到。我联系卖家，对方回答说：“噢，包裹被退回了，因为北京正在举行一个大型会议。很多快递都暂停了。我不知道什么时候能补发。”我这才意识到，我订购的两瓶沙拉酱还没到，一封来自新加坡关于签证申请的信件也尚未收到。

卖家说得对：“一带一路”国际合作高峰论坛正在这座城市举行。准备工作在几个月前就开始了，随之而来的是北京人生活中常见的干扰。我们已经习惯了在共产党会议、国际峰会、天安门广场阅兵以及外国政要访问期间，出现街道封闭、工厂停产、驾驶限制以及互联网访问限制。我们很兴奋能拥有那一两周的“APEC 蓝”——这种现象最早在 2014 年秋季被观察到，当时在亚太经合组织会议期间，北京天空的颜色明显改善。但我没料到，蚕的命运竟然与此类事件联系如此紧密。

蚕在鞋盒里摇晃着头部，寻找桑叶。在北京很难找到桑叶，因为“桑”这个词在中文里是不吉利的。中文里的“桑”（sāng）与“丧”（sàng，指葬礼或哀悼）的发音相似。自古以来，人们就认为在自家门前种桑树是不吉利的。当我在网上看到描述环路上有两棵树的旧帖子时，我怀疑它们是否还在那里。但现在，保安确认它们确实存在；他见过它们。

他领着我走向那些树，树干粗壮，树身高耸，大概有五十多年历史了。由于园丁高效的修剪，最低的树枝离地六英尺。绿色的和红色的桑葚散落在树下，毫无疑问，这会让该街区的环卫工人抱怨不已。我举起长杆，试图触及最低的树枝。正当我思考如何将叶子拉下来时，一名戴着红袖章的老妇人向我走来。我的心紧了一下。她是不是所谓的“朝阳群众”或“西城大妈”？

“朝阳群众”、“西城大妈”、“海淀网友”和“丰台劝说者”是北京人所称的北京“四大神秘组织”。（朝阳、西城、海淀和丰台是该市的四个区。）当警方宣布逮捕帮派成员、诈骗犯或其他嫌疑人时，新闻中经常提到：“据朝阳群众举报，”或“根据西城大妈提供的信息……”“大妈”是指一群在文化大革命期间处于青少年或二十多岁时期的老年女性，她们具有许多共同特征，例如相信中国中央电视台的新闻报道，并且充满热情地热爱祖国。有些人是从办公室工作岗位退休的；另一些人是从外省来照顾孙辈的。她们热爱广场舞，并以在购买蔬菜和衣服时极力讨价还价而闻名。许多人不遗余力地保护社会主义中国和中国共产党。几年前，一名外国游客在北京街头拍摄视频时，被几名戴着红袖章的大妈拦住并审问。那天雾霾非常严重，大妈们把游客带到了派出所，因为她们解释说，“他试图通过拍摄我们的空气污染来诋毁中国。”

如果这位戴袖章的大妈指控我破坏公共财产，我家的蚕今晚就要挨饿了。但相反，她只是简单地问我是否在采桑叶。“我可以告诉你，这棵树上的桑葚可以很甜，”她说，“我儿子小时候，我们就采这些树上的果子吃。虽然小，但很甜！”大妈向我讲述了关于这两棵树的旧故事。“幸运的是，当他们拓宽这条路时，这些树没在路中间，所以工人们留下了它们。这里没剩下多少老树了。”

我在树下走了一圈。虽然我的长杆能触及树枝，但末端的铁丝太软，而树枝太强，无法勾住并拉下来。保安看到我失败了，过来帮我。“跳起来！你肯定能跳起来够到吧？”但我够不到。他后退几步，向树跑去，跃起用一只手抓住了最低的树枝：“快，抓住它！我得赶紧回去。如果经理看到我这么做，他会罚我的。”

当我走回车里时，塑料袋里鼓鼓囊囊，装了足够一周使用的叶子。我感到一种充实感和满足感。采集桑叶这种奇怪的经历，让我想起小时候一包糖果带给我的那种突然的快乐。我在微笑，脸上的肌肉放松了。

桑树离我们住的地方很远。每次往返都是一段漫长而疲惫的旅程。然后有一天，我的丈夫宣布，他在我们主要居住的公务员社区里，在距离我们大楼 650 英尺范围内发现了一棵桑树。

这个社区建于 21 世纪初，由 15 栋建筑组成，居住着两千多户家庭。和其他人一样，我们是根据职级、教育程度和工龄被分配到一套公寓的。我们的房产是以公务员保障房政策规定的补贴价格购买的，前提是严禁出租和转售。公寓楼并不完全相同。1、2、3 和 4 号楼是红砖结构，高六层。从 5 号楼起，其余建筑则是 28 层高的灰色混凝土塔楼。

我丈夫发现的那棵桑树就在部长楼前。整个社区被高大的砖墙围住，而四栋砖结构的部长楼周围还额外设有铁栅栏，并配有两个巨大的钢制出入口大门。那里有近两百名部长和副部长，这种高级政府和党政官员的聚集程度在北京是独有的。其他省市只有几十名部长级干部。

一支武装士兵小队负责保护该院落。军官们都是二十多岁的男性，穿着笔挺的军装。站岗时，他们目光直视前方，看起来和天安门广场上的卫兵一样精神。相比之下，塔楼的安保人员几乎全是来自其他省份的农民工。他们的月薪较低，穿着廉价的制服，年龄跨度从 18 岁到 50 岁以上不等。他们经常弓着背，双手在身后交叠，看着铁栅栏另一侧的年轻士兵交接班。

部长院落里总是很安静。夜晚，这些漂亮的平板建筑内部很少亮灯；每栋楼的 12 个单元中，只有一两个亮着灯，这意味着大多数拥有此处房产的人住在城市的其他地方。

能被晋升到足够高的级别从而搬进部长社区是极其困难的。而且，仅仅为了摘几片桑叶，就在武装士兵的注视下通过钢门也绝非易事。那棵树生长在铁栅栏之外，距离我的触及范围仅六英尺。它浓绿的叶子看起来水分充足，由于阳光充足且园丁精心照料，桑葚已经变红了。

我想到了两种可能的获取叶子的方法。第一种，正如俗话所说，是“找关系”。我丈夫二十多岁时曾担任一名高级官员的秘书，那位官员现在已经退休，在部长社区有一套公寓。我们想知道是否可以告诉警察我们要去拜访这位老领导。但我们得知他及其家人并不经常住在那里。如果我们被发现是在摘叶子而不是拜访他，或者如果被要求打电话给部长让我们进门，那将是一件尴尬的事。我丈夫知道，请求他人帮忙必须是为了大事，而这并不包括采集桑叶的许可。

第二种方法是寻求“大妈”们的帮助。两千户人家住在一起，总有一大群这样的女性。每天早晨，整个小区都被改编自二十年前流行歌曲的重复性舞曲所笼罩。扬声器传出的声音极具穿透力；即使你住在二十层，关上窗户也无法隔绝噪音。一两个年轻时受过训练的女性领舞，三十或四十名大妈排成直线或圆圈。她们的动作有时像体操，有时像民间舞，有时像功夫，有时像迪斯科。她们每天如此，同时在议论邻居的八卦。

我的婆婆就是这类老年女性的典型，人们说她们“先随夫，后随子”。她来自南方省份的一个村庄，不识字，只说当地方言。像她这样的女性来到北京，与子女同住。虽然不会说普通话，但我的婆婆交到了几个朋友，成了她的“好姐妹”。她们大多数人都住在像我们住的这种塔楼里，只有一位我称作袁太太的女性除外，她住在部委大楼里。

袁太太的头发染成了黑色并烫了卷，白皙的皮肤被小心地遮蔽在阳光之外，衣着考究。她的品味明显高于我的婆婆和其他大妈。很长一段时间里，我无法猜测袁太太为什么愿意花时间陪伴塔楼里的这些老年女性。她的背景不简单。她是个亿万富翁！我们之所以知道这一点，是因为袁太太曾来找在法律部门工作的我丈夫，就一起针对她企业的诉讼寻求法律咨询。

在退休之前，一家钢铁公司聘请她担任销售员。她的任务是为国家和省级的重大建设项目销售钢材。与普通员工不同，她领取佣金。她卖了多少？她不透露。后来这家钢铁公司破产了，她的老板后悔支付了那些佣金。他将此诉至法院要求追回款项，声称这并非“工资”，而是高达两亿多元人民币（约三千万美元）的“隐形贿赂”。对于每月收入六七千元的普通公务员来说，如此巨额的数字令人震惊。因为我们不想卷入任何涉及袁家及其复杂案件的闲话，我丈夫敦促他的母亲与她保持距离。但当我的婆婆听说我们想弄到铁栅栏里面的桑叶时，她主动提出请袁姐帮我们采些叶子。“不行！不要！”我们说。我和丈夫被吓到了。我们绝不会请求一位拥有两亿元的部委夫人帮我们摘几片桑叶。这种人情是我们不愿欠的。

“一带一路”论坛现在结束了，随之而来的配送暂停期也结束了。在我再次下单之前，一名快递员敲开了我的门，递给我一个纸箱。包裹的地址是我们的公寓，收件人是我丈夫。我疑惑地打开它。里面有五个塞满大绿桑叶的袋子，重约六磅。我在淘宝上的订单已被退款并取消；而我丈夫从不网购。

这么多叶子。虽然它们并不贵，但还是有人特意寄给了我们。会是谁？我们没有与社区邻居讨论家庭生活的习惯。交流仅限于在走廊和电梯里互相问候。为了安全起见，大多数公务员已经学会不在社交媒体上发布内容。作为资深的公务员和党员，我们认识许多因为“轻率言论”而受到警告或处分的同事。那么，发件人是怎么知道我们养蚕的？他或她又是怎么知道我们家庭住址的？

当我的丈夫回家，站在塞满桑叶袋的冰箱前时，他的表情变得很不自然。严禁向公务员赠送礼品，但界限在哪里往往很难把握。收到一瓶酒、一包茶或一些纪念品依然很常见。但礼物会让人们警觉和紧张。我们不知道某些贪官是如何在公寓里收集并隐藏两亿元现金的，但我们确实有同事因为被匿名举报参加由商人买单的晚餐而受到处分。一个来源不明的包裹，无论里面装的是什么，都是可疑的。

我想我的丈夫大概知道是谁寄的包裹以及为什么要寄。但我没有追究这件事。很多年前，有人告诉我，公务员妻子最好且最安全的做法就是不要有好奇心。生活已经足够令人精疲力竭，很久以前我就失去了提出尴尬问题的兴趣。

那些叶子如此光亮，让我之前采摘的那些显得死气沉沉、黯淡无光。从蚕的角度来看，我觉得这五袋叶子让我成了百万富翁。我拿了一把剪刀，从其中一袋里挑出最鲜嫩的叶子，剪掉边缘、茎干和深黄色的斑点，只留下最美味的部分。很难想象，就在昨天，我还得定量分配叶子，将每一片都剪成小块，以免浪费。现在，我体会到了那种一夜暴富的感觉。

但蚕失去了胃口。它们嗅了嗅新鲜的桑叶，在空中焦虑地扭动着身体寻找。它们正接近短暂生命的终点，准备结茧。无论桑叶是肥是瘦，是买来的、采来的还是赠送的，对它们来说都已经失去了吸引力。蚕吐丝，不停地将丝线交织在一起。丝线半透明，变成了闪亮的茧：纯净、洁白且坚实。又经过一周的沉寂，茧中孵出了一只蛾，接着又是另一只，它们立即寻找伴侣交配。随后，雄蛾死去，雌蛾产卵，然后也随之死去。

它们生活过的盒子现在一片狼藉。白色的茧被撕破，沾染着黄褐色的分泌物。干枯的桑叶和蚕粪在底部堆积，现在与死蛾的尸体混在一起。数以千计的卵覆盖在鞋盒的内壁上。生与死纠缠在一起，像一个曾经繁荣但如今荒废的社区。我的儿子记录下了这一幕，他一遍又一遍地重复着：“我的天呐。我的天呐。”我们是否见证了轮回？

全年你所需的所有谈资。

五个故事

作者：戴安娜·威廉姆斯 (Diane Williams)

觉醒 (THE QUICKENING)

一抹泡沫般的景观绿植指明了方向，那是她打算前往的方向——她抱着她的纸箱——她不应该再次见到她的丈夫，她也不想见到。

但她还是大声说道：“我就知道！你在在这儿！”

戴安娜·威廉姆斯是文学年刊《正午》(NOON) 的创始人兼编辑。她的第十二部短篇小说集《我喜欢雷克斯》(I Liked Rex) 将于本月作为 NYRB Classics 的原著出版。

她数了数，在第五大道的鹅卵石步道上，有十只鹅在闲逛，外加她的丈夫；当这些鹅到达公园入口时，这支队伍单排进入——她的丈夫排在队伍最后，勉强跟上了它们的步伐。

这种粗俗的博关注手段，女人这样想着，此时一个放在推车上的华丽壁炉架挡住了她的视线——这同样是一个粗俗的博关注手段。

看到一个男人从公寓楼低矮的装饰围栏后面偷花并递给他的小女儿时，她尖叫道——“小偷！”

这个女人觉得尖叫让自己失去了尊严，她在弯曲的双臂中将那个略重的纸箱左右挪动，希望自己能表现得比实际情况更好。

“他走了！”邮局的一位顾客告诉她，指的是不在岗的职员。“他回后方去了，得走很长时间才能回来。他已经走了很久了。”

“帮我个忙，”女人说，“我等不了。告诉他，我说了再见。”

当她抱着那件未寄出的包裹紧贴胸口离开时，好几个人注意到了她的行踪。

她的鞋子实物更美。她的裙子由柔软的丝光人造丝面料制成，带有缎面光泽。她穿着一件全撑裙衬裙，让裙摆呈现出一种令人愉悦的丰盈感。

从侧面看，她头转向观众，看起来像是一个驯服的家庭女性类型，试图在这座港口城市的氛围中融入——在东区，从第五大道到东河，在第40街和第110街之间。

最伟大的体验

他说，离开时就像是用四肢在地上爬行一样。

他竟然听她的，这简直是个奇迹——当她说他必须离开时，房子没有被烧掉。

他现在依然活得很好，与她分开居住——度假，知道自己喜欢什么。

事实上，在参观法国的一个洞穴时，他不得不四肢着地。

待在洞穴里真的没什么好受的。他必须爬过岩架，以便从岩架侧面滑下去。

洞穴壁画附近的地面倾斜得十分危险，以至于他为了不掉进水里，双腿在努力支撑中不停地颤抖。

在本章的某个时刻，我们应该试着去理解这些人，就像我们可以对他们说——我们一直在谈论你们。介意我们问几个问题吗？

我们确实知道，他的前妻经常等待会见朋友或陌生人，对娱乐充满热情，但更多时候倾向于单调的生活。

她确实喜欢风从窗户和纱门吹进来的感觉——也喜欢那种平静的质感——以及夜晚最终降临时的黑色、蓝色和金色。

她的房子，曾经也是他的，由砖块和燧石建成，位于一条沿运河延伸的宽阔道路的起点。

关于这座房子的更多细节——恰如其分地，它处于一个毫无遮蔽的位置。

还能揭露什么？ 这里有他们过去一次家庭午餐场景的片段，其中很可能突显了其中一方类似这样的话——别对我指手画脚！

根据坚持进行这段叙述的戴安·W（Diane W.）的说法，他们吃的是蛋黄酱鸡蛋三明治。

这可能是一个关于性邂逅的故事。

但难道这不能是一个关于詹姆斯·扎维斯托夫斯基（James Zawistowski）曾经如何亲吻他的妻子，如何虔诚地继续那样做的故事吗？——关于他很久以前在某个时刻，感觉是多么地无拘无束、轻快自在？——关于在婚姻之初，某个男人感觉像个快乐的孩子，没有那么大的压力。

曾有这样一个男人。乐园的丧失在不断发生。

而他的妻子确实好几次真诚且深情地看着他，而他将一只手放在她的肩上——诸如此类的事情。

取悦全世界

至于故事的第一部分：他肯定对他那种做爱的方式感到自豪。如果是我，我也会。我的做爱最终总是枯燥乏味。

但有一天，为了让我满意，我希望能够弄明白，并再次想起在性爱方面极具天赋的埃尔斯金（Erskine），他依然是我衡量标准的基准。

他很清楚该怎么做，包括他的动作以及每次动作之间微妙的时间间隔。

开始第二部分：在用餐中途，埃尔斯金将身体覆盖在一名女性身上，她是他的座友，而她当时正在撕扯着一块面包。

我听人说过，对于一个不害怕男人的女人来说，生活是简单的，而她大概就是那种讨厌孤独的人。

他们移到了地板上，而他则专注于那个狭小的开口，其边缘自然地隆起。

他似乎在浪费体力，但这就是埃尔斯金，我知道他是阴茎永恒勃起的。

仿佛为了让自己变得锐利，他紧紧抓住她——这对他在内，以及对任何人——我想，是对在场的每一个人来说，都令人兴奋。

在盛有热巧克力酱冰淇淋的节日玻璃郁金香碟中，碟边带有凹槽。

此外，我们可以尽情欣赏奶酪和啤酒，熟透的水果，蔬菜和鱼类，饼干和蛋糕。

我可以说，巨大的感激与学习是我参加这次宴会的基石。

惊人特写

她经常觉得自己像她的地毯绒毛一样布满坑洼（在被沉重的桌椅腿压平的地方）——因为她曾一度承受着关于配偶最私密的认知之重。

那些认知刻得足够深。而现在，配偶不在了。

她本人也足够沉重，经常能发现她在吃零食。

最近她一直在晚餐时间用餐，吃着一只小动物的大部分，用刀决定适合叉子夹取的肉块形状和尺寸——锐角、直角——一个不等边三角形。

你可能会说关于她的描述已经足够了——但我们很好奇，因为她通常采取一种叉腰的姿势——仿佛带着自信！

没有人捕捉到她的幽默感，她自己也没有。

然而偶尔——在别人说完几乎任何话之后——她会捏住鼻子，用鼻音宣布：“我想你觉得这很有趣！”

这里发生了什么？她生活在一起的齐彭代尔椅，那件费城高柜——这些都没什么有趣的。

高脚钟面色阴沉。在她看来，小型羽管键琴的琴键更像是不咬人的牙齿，只是被来回按压。

她那件奖杯般的丰裕之角腿沙发——那又怎么说？她到底怎么看待它？它是否在不必要地装腔作势？

她渴望能对这根木棍产生某种完全优雅的想法。

全球顶尖眼霜——《奥普拉杂志》的“精选”产品

云雀

派克姐妹走过，她们看起来多么忙碌——扭动着，唱着歌。

她们的坐立不安和喧闹似乎永无止境——当她们经过“九重天”和“Zink高级餐厅”时，她们在我的视线中停留的时间比我想象的要长。

但很快，一辆掀背车吸引了我的注意，以及一件带有大号淡紫色条纹蝴蝶结衣领的衬衫。

“怎么会这样？看看你！”当我到达时，母亲惊呼道。

我在她家里随心所欲地走动——走向那架背靠墙壁、我不常弹奏的小型羽管键琴，但这次我弹了。

它的回应起初令人不安，但事实上，我惊讶地听到我的旋律有所提升。

“我能为你做什么？”母亲在我走进厨房时说，“——老一套，”她正在洗西兰花。“为每个人服务！”

我的姐姐向那张没有餐具的桌子点点头。她正在撕开——剥——玉米。

在一个大盘子里，我发现了一个可以吃的奶酪面包。

“你要整盘吗？”母亲问道，同时她将一个锅从炉灶上拖下来，将其内容物倒入垃圾桶。

她短暂地站在水壶里一些凄惨的花朵旁，那些花的状态完全无法修饰——它们显然感到很屈辱，在为自己感到悲哀。

我的叔叔穿着他的百慕大短裤很快出现了。他是那个从不认同母亲所说任何话的人——但这次他告诉她：“我明白你的意思。”

在他离开前将手掌合在一起，他声称母亲做了一顿美味的餐点。

那天晚上我睡得很香，第二天我像往常一样向东北方向出发。

在我身边，孩子们在人行道上跳跃。他们跳得很高，仿佛他们许下了誓言——我承诺永远快乐。

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八月谜题 解答

“疯狂拼布” 注释

注：* 表示字母易位词

ACROSS: 1. pale*-onto-logy; 10. anecdotes*; 11. adored*; 12. germs, first letters in reverse; 13. equals, two mngs.; 15. [sh]addup; 16. burial ground*; 17. t[ackle]-Y(p[unt]-if)Y; 19. 0-lives; 23. g(r[ethinking])ot to; 25. massage*; 27. mid-w(if)e, pun; 28. [excessive]e-tuil(tion]; 29. [e]roti[c]; 30. pored, homophone; 31. E[instein]-ternal*; 32. asses-s[teroids]; 33. Dry-sdale*; 34. le[v]er.

DOWN: 1. P-ageboy $^{}$ ; 2. ane(U)rism $^{}$ ; 3. c[reature]-ease; 4. on-site, homophone, on sight; 5. tata[m'l]; 6. sol(i)d; 7. road plow $^{}$ ; 8. [P]eggy; 9. d[a]ys-fun-ction $^{}$ ; 14. I-slanders; 18. yard-bird; 20. dot-file; 21. I'm-pose; 22. assure $^{*}$ ; 23. GI-gues[t]; 24. foe[s]-tal[k]; 26. appal, homophone; 27. men-d[oe]s.

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新书推荐

作者：丹·皮彭布林（Dan Piepenbring）

虽然不想自吹自擂，但我认为自己应该很擅长给核试验起代号。在1946年至1992年期间，在美国组织开展的原子弹测试“射击”（shot，业内称呼）中，无论是植被茂盛的马绍尔群岛还是荒芜的内华达州，其代号都极其荒诞，例如“Buster-Jangle Baker”、“Upshot-Knothole Grable”、“Grommet Frijoles-Espuela”以及“Nougat Des Moines”。这些名称在设计之初就是为了毫无关联。正如记者乔恩·埃尔斯（Jon Else）在《法兰西平原：原子弹的兴衰》（FRENCHMAN FLAT: THE RISE AND FALL OF ATOMIC BOMBS，Belknap Press 出版，$29.95）一书中所解释的：“射击命名的语言是一种‘反语言’，刻意不赋予其意义……旨在切断与测试目的之间的任何联系。”尽管许多美国人能想起“三位一体”（Trinity）——这是由 J. 罗伯特·奥本海默根据约翰·多恩的一首十四行诗命名的首次射击——但很少有人能记得像“Aqueduct Whiteface-A”这样的名字，它在乔治·H·W·布什政府期间在尤卡平原（Yucca Flat）爆炸。每个武器实验室都有自己的命名方式。有一段时间，国防核能局（Defense Nuclear Agency）阿尔伯克基设施的走廊里放着一个“给核弹起名”的盒子，员工可以将建议投进去。科学家们从鱼类名称和家庭成员等平庸的事物中寻找灵感。

当我们谈论国家的核态势时，指的就是这个吗？给核弹起一个毫无意义的名字，跳入兆吨级差距的深渊，跳起威慑的双人舞——所有这些都需要对荒诞之举行同样的最高礼节。埃尔斯写道：“我采访过的每一位核武器开发人员和测试人员都提到了这个地狱般的悖论：为了确保全球和平，他们必须制造绝不能被使用的炸弹，同时又要以某种方式证明他们愿意使用这些炸弹。”他们的行为就像“神话中的 oozlum 鸟，在越来越小的圆圈中飞行，直到除了飞进自己的屁股里之外无路可走”。然而，战争之主们恰恰在寻找这样荒凉的地方。在五十年代初，原子能委员会（AEC）主席将内华达州的沙漠平原描述为“扔旧剃须刀片的好地方”时，很明显该委员会打算在那里扎根。这个“银色之州”约 1,300 平方英里的地方构成了内华达测试场（NTS），在接下来的四十年里，这里发生了不少于 928 次核爆炸。这些爆炸使地貌变得磨损且带有辐射——但这正符合这里的场景设定。一名住在 NTS 附近的内华达州居民告诉埃尔斯：“你不会在这里死去；你只是干枯了，然后被风吹走。”

然而，风中的许多东西被证明是致命的。阴森的放射性尘埃云导致下风向数千人患上癌症。附近一个牧场的一名女孩回忆起来自 AEC 的“迷人小伙”偶尔会顺道来测试她家的牛奶和蔬菜；那些男人拒绝了她姐姐提供的曲奇饼干和蛋糕。远至圣路易斯的儿童，其乳牙中含有令人担忧水平的锶-90。政府开始怀疑，战后的消费机器能否在齿轮中混入一些放射性沙子而依然生存。究竟谁能承受住世界末日，之后他们又去哪里买玉米片？

科学家们必须查明真相。法兰西平原（Frenchman Flat）得名于一个被严重破坏的干涸湖床，这里发生了 NTS 历史上一些最具破坏性且极其诡异的事件。普里西拉（Priscilla）是那里的一次单次射击，发生在

“铅锤行动”（Operation Plumbbob）构成了埃尔斯（Else）这本书中令人震惊的核心部分。他是一位灵活的作家，对暴行与讽刺有着同样的敏锐洞察。在1957年6月“普里西拉”（Priscilla）核弹爆炸之前，政府邀请民防专家在现场搭建了复杂的模拟城镇。在热浪中闪烁的是一片由砖块、铝材和玻璃建成的房屋与圆顶建筑绿洲，车库里停着福特汽车，客厅里摆着电视机，储藏室则由国家罐头协会（National Canners Association）慷慨地填满了物资。塑料模特——男人、女人、婴儿——穿着J.C. Penney的衣服，而该品牌在拉斯维加斯的门店后来在橱窗中展出了这些被烧焦的时尚服饰。“试验场的工人偷偷地给一些父母模特脱了衣服，并将他们摆成在进行性行为的姿势，”埃尔斯写道。

但即便在栩栩如生的姿势中，合成皮肤也无法提供准确的数据。尽管有许多真实的人志愿站在核爆半径内，但军方在“普里西拉”试验中选择了使用猪，因为“它们的皮肤和短毛与人类相当”。700多头猪在密苏里州被专门培育并用卡车运来。其中一些被费力地强行穿上制服，被给予反射绝缘层，或覆盖在厚厚的保护霜中。五头猪被安置在机枪掩体中。在37千吨的威力下，“普里西拉”大约是广岛“小男孩”威力的两倍。据称该弹头是以一名性工作者命名的（妓院在NTS边界外大量激增），它被悬挂在700英尺高的氦气球上。一份1979年解密的报告描述了炸弹爆炸时动物们所遭受的博什式（Boschian）折磨。那些没有被立即烧成灰烬的动物则死于灼伤、玻璃碎片伤或辐射病。

距离美国最后一次大气层核试验已经过去了60多年，距离最后一次地下爆轰也过去了30多年。我们的核武库目前拥有约4,000件武器，低于1967年31,255件的峰值。这当然是好消息——但正如埃尔斯所指出的，停止试验意味着我们的领导人们从未亲眼目睹过核爆炸。他们可能不知道，一名观察试验的将军当时尿了裤子；不知道距离爆心约两英里的士兵看到了自己手上的骨头；或者不知道据说有一名精神失常的上校在最后一次地面爆轰后的几个月里，一直住在法兰西平原（Frenchman Flat）的一个掩体中。（如果奥本海默能拍成电影，为什么那个人不能？）

相反，领导人们可能意识不到一名物理学家所描述的那种“难以置信的快感”：“如果你喜欢鞭炮、炸药和性，那么你一定会爱上氢弹。”据称，另一人利用镜子聚集数英里外爆炸产生的热量来点燃他的帕尔马尔（Pall Mall）香烟。随着对核毁灭的直观记忆逐渐消退，而末日之钟向午夜悄悄逼近，我们最好记住那根香烟，以及那位将军弄脏的裤子。奥本海默的兄弟弗兰克（Frank）同样是曼哈顿计划的科学家，他坦承，直到广岛被摧毁才将他从存在主义的沉睡中惊醒。“我不知道为什么，”他曾告诉埃尔斯，“但在那之前，我想我从未真正思考过那些被压扁的人们。”

在那些“被夷为平地的人们”之中，就有一个名叫渡边初次郎（Chojiro Watanabe）的人，他是一名对广岛地下犯罪世界掌控力极强的雅库扎（yakuza）头目。根据安德鲁·兰金（Andrew Rankin）所著的《雅库扎：日本地下世界400年史》（YAKUZA: A 400-YEAR HISTORY OF THE JAPANESE UNDERWORLD，Basic Books出版，售价32美元）一书，渡边的死亡使这座本已陷入黑暗的城市进一步陷入无法无天的状态，他的继任者们为了争夺供应链、街头市场和赌场的控制权而相互倾轧——这堪称是对危机利用的极致体现。武装抢劫和枪战变得司空见惯。失业且广受轻视的日本士兵加入帮派以赚取快钱。他们不再愿意听从命令，而是任由最暴力的冲动肆虐，有时还借助甲基苯丙胺（冰毒）的力量。在随后的地盘争夺战中，一名头目被刀砍掉了一整条手臂。人们为了争夺从港口清理未爆炸炸弹的丰厚劳务合同而大打出手。

到了50年代中期，广岛在某些人眼中成了“黑帮之城”。他们从旭日（Asahi）的妓院中收取保护费，这些妓院在战争期间关闭，但现在为占领军提供“慰藉”。据说，其中一家妓院拥有日本所有这类肉欲之所中首批安装的镜面墙壁和天花板。

雅库扎的历史呈现出一种永无止境的贪婪污迹。事实上，这种延续数百年的敲诈勒索、皮条活、华丽的纹身、暗杀以及仪式性的断指，有时会显得有些单调。德川幕府时期的犯罪生活在某些方面与薪水族时代的犯罪生活并无二致。17世纪被称为“歌舞伎者”（kabuki-mono）或“歪曲之人”的暴徒们，通过骚扰店主、殴打他人以及在滴入自己血液的清酒杯上起誓，来摆脱和平时期的沉闷。他们自诩为侠义之士、准武士，但在私下里却采用诸如“三虫”、“疙瘩”和“屎弓”之类的绰号。

幕府的法令显然禁止使用此类绰号，同时也禁止携带超长剑、超短剑，禁止穿着丝绸织锦、穿着盔甲，禁止燃放烟花、蓄不修边幅的胡须以及举行强人比赛，但这一切似乎都无济于事。更好的办法是让他们干活——例如，看守江户的“游廓”（pleasure quarters），或者经营纸牌游戏。他们还喜欢灭火，尽管志愿者消防队内部经常发生斗殴。当大火燃烧时，黑帮消防员家族会为了谁有权将其扑灭而争吵。“每个消防队都有自己的旗手，”兰金写道，“在火灾期间，旗手会爬到火势最猛的建筑顶端，疯狂地挥舞旗帜。”

美国记者达雷尔·贝里根（Darrell Berrigan）——在兰金相当生动的描述中，他是一个“年轻、不安分且是同性恋者”的人——在一系列关于战后日本腐败的煽情文章中，帮助在西方普及了“雅库扎”这个词。雅库扎本身并不总是认同这个词，该词起源于一种类似于百家乐的游戏中一手必输的牌（八-九-三，ya-kuza）。与黑手党不同，雅库扎家族将部分业务公开经营，并且长期维持着强大的公共关系部门。他们会在海啸后提供帮助，资助孤儿院，或创办武术馆；一名“组长”（oyabun）建立了一个名为“东亚友好协会”的辛迪加，其本质上就像一个共同利益是敲诈勒索的志趣团体。“我们需要成为那种人们能够爱上的暴徒，”一名组长说道，显然并非在开玩笑。另一名组长听起来像个廉价家具销售员，他坚称警察曾责备他以危险的折扣销售商品：“这破坏了社会秩序，”警察说。这是我听过最愚蠢的话。

雅库扎（Yakuza）长期以来一直通过不透明的官僚体系，为其杀戮与掠夺的嗜好洗白。他们的投资组合多样得令人心惊：企业勒索、演艺经纪、强行破罢工、权力寻租、付费交易、帕青哥游戏厅、相扑、人口贩卖、挪用政府补贴。凭借如此之多的收入来源，难怪会激发像《雅库扎组》（Yakuza gumi）这类书籍的创作。有些组织起初是神户码头上的职业介绍所，后来涉足领域之广，以至于警方曾将其比作“百货公司”；其成员规模虽现已稳步下降，但曾一度膨胀至四万人，呈现出一种《财富》500强首席执行官们也会感到熟悉的规模不经济。在六十年代大阪的一家夜总会里，一名斋藤家族的底层成员提到自己的身份以威胁另一人，对方回答道：“我是斋藤，你个白痴。”

通过成功的演讲与倾听克服商业障碍的技术。山口组的成员——

一些犯罪学家认为，强大的黑帮存在有时反而会让社会更加守法。因此，我们或许可以审视有组织犯罪中“有组织”的部分——它既僵化又无形，像是一个由愤怒青年组成的缓冲地带，吸收着周围文化的禁忌能量。尽管雅库扎的计划极其精巧，但其中许多手段对于任何看过《黑道家族》（The Sopranos）的人来说都并不陌生。托尼的家族和住吉会（Sumiyoshi-kai）都涉足了垃圾运输业，不过后者走得更远：他们运输核废料。

“如果说日本并非绝对的乐土，但在我看来，它是我能找到的最接近‘莲花之地’的地方，”诗人埃德温·阿诺德（Edwin Arnold）在1889,年写道，显然他从未被东道主敲诈或捅过刀。（雅库扎倾向于不对外国人出手，除非对方是竞争对手或反对卖淫。）阿诺德的这种迷恋产生了深远影响；他是少数研究诗人芭蕉的西方学者之一，并且为了向英语读者介绍俳句，他有时将其称为日本的“诗意格言”。这使他成为了圣人还是罪人，由读者决定。

在《俳句：现代世界如何爱上日本短诗》（HAIKU: HOW THE MODERN WORLD CAME TO FALL IN LOVE WITH SMALL POEMS FROM JAPAN，耶鲁大学出版社，$35）一书中，诗人罗伯特·克劳福德（Robert Crawford）追踪了这种被一家报纸称为“小人国抒情诗”的轨迹。这种由十七个音节组成的诗体冲向了现代主义，为我们带来了埃兹拉·庞德（Ezra Pound）对“物”的“直接处理”、威廉·卡洛斯·威廉姆斯（William Carlos Williams）的手推车，以及大量关于月亮的绝美意象。为什么是月亮？遮蔽对于俳句至关重要。地球上生命的完整记录都可以隐藏在月亮之后，只露出其新月的尖角。柯蒂斯·希登·佩奇（Curtis Hidden Page）写道，俳句最终“赋予了语言中的所有词汇，以及所有主题、风格和人物，在诗歌共和国中的完整公民权”。联合国第二任秘书长达格·哈马舍尔德（Dag Hammarskjöld）写过一首关于高潮的俳句，而艾米·洛威尔（Amy Lowell）可能是第一个打破该形式限制的美国诗人：

爱是一场游戏——对吗？ 我想它是一场溺水： 黑柳与星辰

更令人惊讶的是理查德·赖特（Richard Wright），他在去世前将八百多首俳句排序，并将手稿交给了一家出版社。开头是：

我并非任何人： 一轮红色的秋日落日 夺走了我的名字。

但这些只是特例。我想说：俳句太民主了。相比之下，六节诗（sestina）则提供了一种极其必要的准入门槛。虽然一份 1939 年名为《祝你更有力量》（More Power to You）的小册子没有点名提到俳句，但它问道：“你是否曾经想过写一首诗？”随后便开始赞美这种简短的“文字图画”是实现这一目标的“直接且令人满意的方式”。这正触及了问题的核心。一家英国文学评论刊物曾赞助过一场 1899 年的俳句比赛，鼓励参赛者尽可能展现“日式的轻盈与优雅”；其获胜作品关于“春之眼睑”的描写虽还算得体，但瞬间就从我的脑海中消失了。

克劳福德的历史记录中充斥着这样的提醒：大多数俳句“如今鲜有人读”、“很难称得上是伟大的诗歌”，或者是由那些“未能成为重要现代主义诗人”的人所写。即便是在这种细腻形式面前，重量级人物也会显得局促。关于艾伦·金斯堡的俳句，克劳福德写道：“有一种随机性。其中一首俳句简直就是在写拍蚊子拍没拍中。”他所谓的“扁平化问题”继续困扰着英语实践者。这就像是用 CGI 拍摄车祸现场与真正开车冲下悬崖之间的区别。那些学习日语的该形式追随者将会发现难以想象的宝藏——据说是这样。传闻一份名为《山口组新报》（Yamaguchigumi Shinpo）的黑道内部杂志中包含了一些俳句。目前，该杂志尚未被翻译。

奥尔巴尼的荷马：威廉·肯尼迪如何找到他的创作基调

作者：卡西亚·博迪 (Kasia Boddy)

本篇随笔讨论：

威廉·肯尼迪著，《奥尔巴尼三部曲》(The Albany Trilogy)。美国图书馆 (Library of America) 出版。768 pages。$40.

在威廉·肯尼迪的小说《腿》(Legs) 开篇仅两句话，我们就得知帕基·德莱尼 (Packy Delaney) 只剩下四颗牙齿，而弗洛西 (Flossie) 的肝脏里有蟑螂。他们正在谈论他们的好友“骨头” (Bones) 曾不小心绊倒在杰克·“腿”·戴蒙德 (Jack "Legs" Diamond) 的尸体上，导致“裤子屁股上沾满了血”的那次经历。杰克的头部中了三颗子弹，但由于他之前曾四次在枪击中幸存，人们很难相信他已经死了。他的脸完好无损，只有后脑勺被炸飞了。讲述这个故事的人是杰克的律师马库斯·戈曼 (Marcus Gorman)。在加入这个团伙之前，马库斯喜欢阅读拉伯雷，以此来分散注意力，摆脱生活中那种“惊人的”乏味。但杰克和其他人则为他提供了现实生活中“巨人般”的激情。

卡西亚·博迪在剑桥大学教授美国文学。

这不仅是对《腿》的完美引入，也是对纽约州奥尔巴尼——或者更准确地说，是对肯尼迪在随后的七部小说中创造的那个具有狂欢色彩的城市版本的完美引入。肯尼迪笔下的奥尔巴尼是一个充满活力且暴力的场所，是黑帮、台球骗子、流浪汉、腐败政客和舞女的温室。他的作品记录了这座城市在两个世纪里的增长与衰败，逐条街道，逐个十年，将城市生活的细节提升到了神话的高度。“我面对哪怕一个街角，”肯尼迪在谈到自己的创作方法时曾说，“也会从中浮现出一种原型式的以及历史性的语境，用以审视那里树木和电线杆的变迁。”

肯尼迪出生于1928年，现已接近九十九岁，他的职业生涯始于一名报纸记者。他的那一代人或许是最后一批相信报社而非 MFA（艺术硕士）项目才是小说家最佳训练场的人，并且相信只要能完成抽屉里的那本书，每个记者都会选择跳槽（正如杰克·伦敦笔下的马丁·伊登所言，“先做雇佣工作赚收入，之后再创作杰作”）。西奥多·德赖塞 (Theodore Dreiser) 回忆道，那个“巨大的、喧闹的”编辑部教会了他如何高效写作并赶在截止日期前完稿，而每日与“生活粗粝事实的万花筒般接触”帮助他摆脱了“道德主义的陈词滥调”。肯尼迪的问题在于他过于崇敬文学，以至于据他自己所述，他早期的虚构写作尝试往往显得死板且“沉重”。新闻编辑部的经历将这种倾向剔除了。他告诉一名采访者，“综合报道的不确定性”让他接触到了那些极少符合整洁情节或象征主义的生活：

警讯故事、灾难报道、政治新闻，以及与一些古怪人物的采访——比如一个穿着尾灯横跨蒙大拿州走遍全国的家伙，或者一个拥有完美赛马获胜系统并想让全世界都知道，但因为运气不好而破产的赌徒。

肯尼迪的三部小说——《腿》(1975)、《比利·费兰的最伟大比赛》(Billy Phelan's Greatest Game, 1978) 和《铁草》(Ironweed, 1983)——最近被美国图书馆结集出版为《奥尔巴尼三部曲》。这些小说体现了他作品中最优秀且最独特的部分。肯尼迪从未停止相信小说激发思考和挑战现状的力量，但新闻业教会了他，当这种形式植根于真实的自然主义细节、日常对话的生动节奏以及适量的幽默时，效果最好。其结果是一种不羁且令人愉悦的混合体：一部由都市新闻编辑撰写的现代主义小说。

肯尼迪一生的大部分时间都住在奥尔巴尼。他在该市的爱尔兰北端长大——或者用他的话说，是在那里被“塑造”的。他曾是耶稣圣心教堂的祭坛童子，就读于基督兄弟学院和附近的劳登维尔方济各会学校锡耶纳学院。和许多同学一样，肯尼迪曾考虑过成为一名神父。但他也接纳了世俗文化：漫画、电影和亵渎神明的现代小说。后来，他的父亲和叔叔引导他进入奥尔巴尼酒吧、台球室和保龄球馆这些充满男性气息的娱乐世界。

肯尼迪自认为将成为下一个戴蒙·朗恩，大学毕业后，他在奥尔巴尼以北约50英里的《格伦斯福尔斯邮星报》担任体育记者。1950年被征召入伍后，他在佐治亚州和德国的军队报纸上工作了几年。他后来回忆道，在那里他真正地“一头扎进了文学”，沉浸在菲茨杰拉德、多斯·帕索斯、斯坦贝克和阿尔格伦的作品中。肯尼迪吹嘘说，到他离开军队时，他已经能够“像托马斯·沃尔夫那样描述厨房冰箱里的东西”，并且能“像福克纳那样让一个句子绕街区跑一圈”。回到奥尔巴尼后，他厌倦了“报道又一次圣帕特里克节游行，又一起斧头谋杀案”，于是于1956年搬到波多黎各，在那里成为了《圣胡安之星报》的创始执行主编。

他很快意识到，相比于圣胡安，他能以更强的信念写关于奥尔巴尼的内容。起初，他仅在想象中回到家乡。他开始起草一部小说，并将其中几个章节交给在波多黎各教授工作坊的索尔·贝娄。贝娄对肯尼迪将底层社会的闹剧、人类的脆弱与精湛的风格相结合的方式产生了共鸣。肯尼迪后来回忆道，贝娄“非常、非常地鼓励他”。1963年，在父亲病重后，肯尼迪回到了奥尔巴尼及其当地的《时代联盟报》，成为了“一名兼职新闻工作者和全职（有志于成为）小说家”。他撰写欧洲艺术电影评论、关于当地各个社区历史的文章，以及一个关于当代无家可归者的系列报道。所有这些都将成为他小说的养分。

他的野心在增长。肯尼迪现在考虑写一部“关于奥尔巴尼的大小说”。他设想的是类似于《尤利西斯》那样作品——詹姆斯·乔伊斯笔下的都柏林画像，他希望这部作品“如此完整，以至于如果这座城市有一天突然从地球上消失，可以通过书页将其重建”。但肯尼迪的奥尔巴尼版本将涵盖两个世纪，而非仅仅一天，描绘

内战、资本主义的增长、移民、禁酒令、大萧条以及许多其他事件。他想象了一群历史人物与“一大群神父、修女、赌徒、黑帮、母亲、妓女和劳工，包括我的父亲”混在一起——所有人“永恒地一次又一次地演绎着他们的命运”。这个奥尔巴尼将是一个“神奇的地方”，让国家故事和地方故事同时变得“可见”。他给自己写了一则笔记：“投入十年时间来创作这本书。”

然而，最终肯尼迪妥协于“一部中等篇幅的小说，然后是另一部，再另一部”。第一部出版的作品是《油墨车》（The Ink Truck），大致基于1964年《时代联盟报》的一次罢工，但还没有后来成为其成熟作品特征的地形特异性。这部作品是远离新闻业的一次“刻意跳跃”，是一部充满谜题和狂欢的幻觉式伪史诗。他将其寄给了当时担任 Dial Press 出版社主编的 E. L. 德克托罗。肯尼迪对新旧左翼之间代际关系的兴趣，以及他对三十年代抗议小说的荒诞主义解读，使他成为了德克托罗欣赏的那类作家。

《墨水卡车》（The Ink Truck）于1969年出版，获得了一些好评，但肯尼迪当时已经在重新思考他想在小说中实现的目标。他的下一部作品《腿子》（Legs）在尝试将寓言主义植根于历史事实方面走得更远。这部小说以二十年代和三十年代初为背景，可以看作是一种修正主义版本的《伟大的盖茨比》，通过马库斯·戈曼的视角，讲述了走私者兼黑帮分子杰克·“腿子”·戴蒙德最后的几个月。按照典型的后现代风格，菲茨杰拉德在小说中有一个短暂的醉酒客串，在一条远洋邮轮上与杰克相遇。但肯尼迪用残酷的暴力、大量的性描写以及许多出人意料的幽默（尤其是关于杰克的部分），取代了菲茨杰拉德那种幻灭的浪漫主义。每个认识他的人都有一个关于他的故事。弗洛西认为杰克能跑赢兔子，能同时系好两只鞋，并且能“只需打个响指”就开灯。帕基回忆起杰克如何派他的狗去取一件毛衣，“那只该死的狗站起来，走到大厅，按下电梯按钮，上了

杰克的套房并吠叫，休伯特·马洛就让它进去了。”当狗没有回来时，有人开玩笑说也许它是去看新的《林丁丁》电影去了。不，杰克说：“它已经看过了。”

肯尼迪借鉴了盖茨比的策略，让主角的一名随从来讲述故事。但或许是因为，正如肯尼迪曾说过的，尼克·卡拉威“很少做任何事”，所以他觉得菲茨杰拉德的叙述者“很无聊”。相比之下，马库斯很容易从一个“窥视者”转变为杰克犯罪行为的“帮凶”。起初只是偶尔的“小规模道德崩溃”，很快升级为走私、伪证，以及马库斯几乎无法让自己承认的“一次准强奸之行”。杰克教会了他关于生活的什么？“不开机关枪是多么无聊。”

这部小说最引人注目的一点是，角色们对于黑帮在美文化中所处位置的深刻自觉。杰克搜寻每一部关于黑帮世界的电影、书籍和报纸文章。他是在“关注自己的职业”，同时也在关注自己神格化的阶段。正如马库斯所言，“杰克一生都在想象自己的名声，而现在名声在想象他。”马库斯并不是第一个指出黑帮将自己塑造为美国梦纯粹产物的人——“从芬·麦库尔到杰西·詹姆斯，再到霍拉肖·阿尔杰”——但他异常敏锐地察觉到了他们在腐败政治体系中所扮演的角色。在某个时刻，他思考如果自己竞选国会议员是否能更多地了解美国生活。他推论，在那里，他可能会学习到“初步的伪善是如何转化为爱国主义、国家政策和法律的”。然而，杰克教会了他更有价值的东西：如何成为一个“贪婪但有操守的人”——也就是说，如何以一种“心理负责的方式”承认自己的邪恶。马库斯在四十多年后讲述这个故事时认为，杰克为“现代城市政治黑帮提供了一个祖辈范式”，尽管他很快指出，并非所有人都达到了杰克的高标准。以理查德·尼克松为例：他可能是爱尔兰裔美国人，但完全没有杰克的魅力。更关键的是，正如马库斯观察到的，他的恶行唯独未能“赋予邪恶一种神话维度”。

奥尔巴尼为《腿子》的高潮提供了背景，但在肯尼迪的下一部小说《比利·费兰的最伟大比赛》（Billy Phelan's Greatest Game）中，这座城市才真正成为主角。“穿着鞋的纯粹能量”，“穿着衬衫的纯粹掌控”，比利是一个小规模的投机分子，认为自己可以按照自己的规则行事。他精通“爵士乐、博彩、赛马盘口和棒球”，并试图与除此之外的一切保持“距离”。他的个人准则与其说是犯罪准则，不如说是体育精神：他信奉避免告密、打小报告和成为傻瓜。比利没有意识到的是，在真正的博弈——由这座城市的政治大佬们主导的博弈——中，这一切是多么微不足道。

这部小说设定在1938年秋季，探讨了生活在这样一个城市意味着什么——在这里，“美国爱尔兰人，在耶稣的帮助下，凭借着占人口40%的规模”而“日益强大”。更具体地说，奥尔巴尼处于一个特定家族的控制之下。在小说中，麦考尔兄弟统治这里已有十七年；而在现实生活中，由丹·奥康奈尔领导的奥康奈尔家族——肯尼迪后来将他描述为“穿着宽松裤子、戴着棕色三英寸宽檐软呢帽的耶稣基督”——一直控制着当地的民主党机器直到七十年代。奥康奈尔家族的影响力远不止于简单的贿赂和操纵选票。正如肯尼迪后来在的一篇文章中所写：

政治等级制度决定了生活方式：工作，工作的延续，没工作时的救济金，没救济金时的贷款，社区的安全……以及在营业时间后经营酒吧或偷偷开设纸牌局的权利。

违背老板的意愿就意味着被“抛入永恒的黑暗”。这就是比利·费兰的《最伟大的游戏》（Greatest Game）所讲述的故事。

就绑架故事而言（情节基于丹·奥康奈尔侄子被绑架的真实事件），并没有发生太多事情。小说将读者浸没在“百老汇的喧嚣”中，浸没在夜城（Nighttown）的俱乐部和餐厅里，在那里，赌徒、调酒师、妓女和记者们达成交易，互相嘲讽或大打出手，然后继续各自的行程。以富特斯·奥布莱恩为例，他是一位“退休的杂耍艺人，曾在当地的黑脸秀上演唱乔尔森的曲调”，现在与比利一起玩五张牌抽签：

没人像他那样。他是比利多年的酒友，总能弄到钱。富特斯也懂得如何生存。他曾告诉比利，有一次他醉了四天，醒来时身无分文且脏兮兮的，急需刮胡子。他叫来邻居的孩子，给了他五分钱，那是富特斯仅有的现金。让他去土耳其人的杂货店买一片剃须刀片。孩子买回来后，富特斯刮了胡子。然后他清洗并晾干了刀片，将其折回包装纸中，再次叫来那个孩子并告诉他，把这个还给土耳其人，告诉他刚才拿错了。告诉他奥布莱恩先生不想要剃须刀片，他想要一支雪茄。结果孩子真的带回了一支雪茄。

每个人和每个地方都配备了充足的轶事和回忆。随着小说的推进，这些碎片逐渐累积，一个完整的社会世界随之浮现，那是一片由个人关系和记忆交织而成的丛林。

与《腿》（Legs）一样，《比利·费兰》讲述的是神话构建的力量。正如杰克必须依赖律师编造的难以置信的法庭叙事一样，比利的命运也取决于一个名叫马丁·多尔蒂的报社记者（兼失败小说家）所编造的离奇故事。比利不愿违背自己的荣誉准则，拒绝为麦考尔家族充当线人——这就是他在其“最伟大的游戏”中采取的冒险举措。但他严重低估了这些“日夜掌控一切的爱尔兰裔美国权贵”。麦考尔家族立即确保比利被禁止出入他常去的地方，并被“标记为卑劣之徒”。似乎没有回头路了，直到马丁编造了一个离奇的故事，称比利直觉感应到了绑架者的行踪：他声称比利是一个现实生活中的先知，“被魔法触碰过”。麦考尔家族不知为何信了这套说辞，允许比利回归他的生活，继续担任台球厅和保龄球馆的“低端大师”，那是“镇上唯一的宇宙”。

对于为什么马丁费心要将一个“简单的傻瓜塑造成一个英雄式的流浪汉”这个问题，小说给出了一个乔伊斯式的答案。马丁因为自己的儿子也被“抢走”了——在这种情况下是被天主教神学院抢走的——而感到愤怒，于是他像布鲁姆一样，在寻找一个替代品。与此同时，比利生命中的大部分时间都生活在“父亲缺失的不可逃避之存在”中。然而，在小说接近尾声时，他发现自己正与替代者和原主一起共进晚餐。他失踪已久的父亲弗朗西斯·费伦回到了镇上，接了一份麦考尔家给的工作——帮人登记投票，每单五美元。在进行到第二十一单时，他被逮捕了。比利保释了他并敦促他回家。弗朗西斯拒绝了。

但在《铁草》（Ironweed）——肯尼迪的下一部小说，其中出现了部分相同角色，且他一直将其视为自己的最佳作品——中，弗朗西斯接受了邀请。《铁草》的时间线与《比利·费伦》重叠，虽然它保留了前作中一些奔放的胡言乱语，但其文风要阴郁且抒情得多。它还更自信地步入了魔幻现实主义。《铁草》以弗朗西斯在圣艾格尼丝公墓祭拜家人之墓开篇，而他并未意识到死者正试图与他交谈。其中有他的幼子，孩子在“婴儿般的崇高感中安息，散发出一种由早夭诱发的高光……他既不美丽也不完美……而是一种难以言表的绝妙存在”。弗朗西斯哭泣并祈祷，然后抬头看向天空，那里有“一大片洁白的羊毛云，亮得刺眼，在东方的天穹中由南向北移动，如同一股灿烂的羊毛奔涌而来，温暖了这一天”。但这种氛围并未持久。几章之后，我们看到弗朗西斯在朋友的浴室里，闻着自己“恶臭的裆部”，伸手拿肥皂去清洗他那些“结痂的孔窍、缝隙和隐秘的褶皱”。这是同一本书吗？以真正的乔伊斯风格，《铁草》既想要象征主义，又想要自然主义，将天穹之顶的高雅语言与身体污垢的直白细节并置。

弗朗西斯已经“流浪”了二十二年，他为自己在系列致命事故中所扮演的角色而感到羞愧至极：他的父亲在穿过轨道迎接他时被迎面而来的火车撞死；他在给婴儿换尿布时，幼子从他手中滑落；在1901年的奥尔巴尼有轨电车罢工期间，他扔出的一块石头砸死了一名罢工破坏者。“我的罪疚是我唯一剩下的东西，”弗朗西斯想，“如果我失去了它，我就毫无立场，毫无作为，毫无存在。”

不同的人，有不同的生存准则。但肯尼迪再次揭示了这种准则的不足。首先，弗朗西斯并非罪疚的唯一拥有者。他的妻子告诉他，婴儿的死亡也是她的错——她没有把尿布系好。而且，正如他最终意识到的那样，在他击碎那个工贼头颅的那一天，世界上还有许多其他“力量”在“起作用”。弗朗西斯成了另一个神话的受害者，这个神话是由马丁的父亲爱德华·多尔蒂兜售的。爱德华写了一出戏，将弗朗西斯的行为框架化为一名“神圣战士”的行为，将其塑造成最新的凯尔特“解放者”，旨在帮助“拿着铲子的帕迪挺起脊梁，爬出他的战壕”。但无论是带着自豪还是罪疚地关注“自己的右手”，都没有帮助弗朗西斯理解针对联合牵引公司的罢工情况，也没有让他理解国民警卫队的参与。弗朗西斯了解到，这场罢工真正的“疯狂”之处在于让“穷人对抗穷人，让一个种族、一个阶级陷入内斗”。《铁草》往往被解读为一个关于个人救赎的故事，但它也是一本政治之书，是对金钱与权力、劳动生活与无家可归，以及工会和福利供应被摧毁的陈述。这是一个关于三十年代的故事，也是关于它创作年代——八十年代的故事。问题不仅仅在于身处“杂草丛中”（Francis大多数夜晚在那里睡觉），而在于被当作一株杂草对待，即便正如书名所暗示的，这株杂草以“茎干强韧”而著称。

肯尼迪大约用了七个月时间写完了《铁草》（Ironweed）。维京出版社（Viking Press）在阅读了一百页后买下了这部作品，但随后一名编辑表示，出版社对出版一本“关于流浪汉的书”的前景产生了顾虑。随后，该手稿被送往另外十二家出版社，但均无结果。没有人认为这部小说能赚到钱。

肯尼迪说，在那一刻，他“跌入了谷底”。但随后，就像在他自己的小说中一样，机遇介入，而“世界发生了翻天覆地的变化”。1981年夏天，肯尼迪前往佛蒙特州为《时尚先生》（Esquire）采访他曾经的老师索尔·贝洛（Saul Bellow）。贝洛刚刚读完《比利·费兰》（Billy Phelan）；肯尼迪向他解释了自己的处境。于是，贝洛给维京出版社的科克·史密斯（Cork Smith）写了一封信，告诉他这正是在犯一个“严重的错误”。他写道，让《比利·费兰》的作者没有出版社是“令人不齿的”。（贝洛后来淡化了自己的作用，简单地声称自己只是指出一个显而易见的事实：在一个经常供应“冷粥”的文学世界里，肯尼迪才是“真正的热点”。）在诺贝尔奖得主背书的承诺下——贝洛的推荐语夸大了这部小说的神话特质，将弗朗西斯描述为“出自冰岛或爱尔兰史诗的人物类型”——维京出版社决定再次给这本书一次机会。但这意味着必须认真对待贝洛提到的肯尼迪所启动的更大计划。史密斯安排在出版《铁草》的同时，重新发行《腿》（Legs）和《比利·费兰》。肯尼迪此前并未将这三部小说视为一个统一的整体。多年后他回忆道：“对我来说，这只是接连写的一本书接一本书。但科克把它变成了一部三部曲，并将整件事变成了一场盛事。”

这场盛事被证明起到了决定性作用。《铁草》的评论同时也成为了对肯尼迪早期小说的重新评估：例如，评论家乔治·斯塔德（George Stade）在《纽约时报》上坦承，虽然他之前并不喜欢《腿》和《比利·费兰》，但“我现在非常喜欢这两部小说，就像我喜欢《铁草》一样”。肯尼迪获得了普利策奖、美国国家图书评论家协会奖以及麦克阿瑟奖金。《墨水卡车》（The Ink Truck）被重新发行，肯尼迪卖掉了他的下一部小说《奎因之书》（Quinn's Book）以及《腿》和《比利·费兰》的电影版权；弗朗西斯·福特·科波拉邀请他参与《棉花俱乐部》（The Cotton Club）的创作。（肯尼迪改编的《铁草》电影于1987年上映；他甚至在片中客串。）中奖的不止是肯尼迪。奥尔巴尼——正如肯尼迪在关于这座城市的散文集《噢，奥尔巴尼！》（O Albany!）的副标题中所写，它是这座“政治巫师、无畏族裔、显赫贵族、辉煌无名之辈和被低估的无赖之不probable之城”——也得到了极大的推动。肯尼迪用一部分麦克阿瑟奖金建立了后来成为纽约州作家学院（New York State Writers Institute）的机构，1984年，这座心怀感激的大都市为他举行了一场全市规模的庆祝活动。州长马里奥·库莫（Mario Cuomo）宣布，奥尔巴尼已经“找到了它的荷马”。

肯尼迪随后又写了五部小说，主要讲述费兰、奎因和多尔蒂家族之间相互交织的生活，时间跨度从19世纪40年代到20世纪60年代末。那里

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HP 在一部小说到下一部小说之间没有递进感；一部小说中的主要角色在另一部中会以次要人物的形式再次出现。节奏也各不相同。《Legs》的行动跨度为一年半；《Ironweed》仅聚焦于三天；《Quinn's Book》则探讨了十五年。肯尼迪将这些小说称为“相关系列”、“一张网”，甚至称其为他最初计划撰写的“一本书”。但他更倾向于（且似乎最准确的）术语是“周期”（cycle），因为其效果在很大程度上既是向前推进，也是向后回溯。1996年，当前三部小说再次重印时，肯尼迪附加了一篇序言，读起来像是对该周期演变过程的记录——只不过这些书的作者被认定为比利·费兰的侄子丹尼尔·奎因。序言以奎因在酒吧买另一轮酒结束。

会有多少读者完成整个周期？我们在阅读巴尔扎克、左拉和福克纳的作品时，不大多也是挑挑拣拣吗？而且，我们将前三部小说视为三部曲，还是如肯尼迪所描述的那样，仅仅将其视为他宏大计划中的一个“三人组”（trio），这真的重要吗？在某些方面，这三部作品有一种奇特的统一性——全部设定在经济大萧条时期，全部以风格鲜明的叛逆者为主角。在《Billy Phelan》中，麦考尔兄弟构成了“奥尔巴尼自己的三位一体”，而马丁进行了一次“三马盘算”，并询问一个给了他两条无法刊登之陈述的消息源：“我们要不要尝试三个？”《Ironweed》有一段来自但丁的题词，其情节跨越三天，期间弗朗西斯反思了他爱过的三个女人。他曾是一名职业三垒手，在回忆那些日子时，他想到了由“一只手、一只手套、一个球”组成的“三位一体护身符”。以此类推。

另一方面，这些小说中一个较为频繁出现的洞见是：成为人类意味着是不完整的。弗朗西斯掉了好几颗牙，还失去了“右食指的三分之二”。比利投球得 299 分，距离完美比赛仅差一分。“比利·费兰准备好迎接完美了吗？”叙述者问道。他当然没有。尽管肯尼迪热爱玩弄符号和神话，但“持续性”才是他真正的主题，也是他的方法。他在 18 岁时收到了第一封拒信（来自《科利尔杂志》）且“没有因此而死”——由此诞生了一种“对任何事物皆可重写”的持久信念。故事可以重写；城市和生活亦然。

在《The Ink Truck》中，肯尼迪引用了约瑟夫·坎贝尔的评论，称“我们能做的没有任何事，除了……被彻底肢解，然后重生”。然后，他可能会补充道，我们将再次被彻底肢解。随着“自身的空洞”不断增加，杰克·戴蒙德更新了他“对惩罚、死亡和诅咒的脆弱性”。杰克处于“初期的死亡状态”，比利·费兰亦然，他带着依然留在身上的“印记”回到夜城；弗朗西斯·费兰亦然，尽管他已被家庭浴室中“神圣”水龙头的水洗净。新牙可以从商店购买，美貌是“可复活的”，但他妻子围裙上的污渍依然存在，而弗朗西斯的双手再次准备着施加并承受“世界的伤口”。

谜题

是的！是的！

作者：理查德·E·马尔特比（Richard E. Maltby Jr.）

纵向 8, 21, 28, 和 37 的条目有一个共同点：在注意到横向 18, 21, 36, 和 39 的情况下，每一个都被允许 1 Across。

线索答案包括六个专有名词和两个外来词。6D 和 52A 的条目是变体；13D 和 33D 较为罕见。一如既往，对线索进行心理上的重新标点是解题的关键。上个月谜题的答案见第 69 页。

横向

1. （见说明）(2, 4, 4, 1, 4)
2. 对消费者而言尚可，但可能会被掩盖 (6)
3. 仅为了一个目的而拥有腐败公司的支持 (2, 3)
4. 来自一部六十年代音乐剧的歌曲 (3)
5. （见说明）(5, 5)
6. 直升机将联邦特工送至迪凯特郊区 (5)
7. 这里的视野极佳，但显示出漏洞，逐渐消亡 (8)
8. （见说明）(8)
9. 航天飞机显示以英尺为单位的测量值 (5)
10. 如果你熟悉门道，一点点厚颜无耻就是一项立法组成部分 (5)
11. 谁改变了方向？(3)
12. 早晨的第一件事，狼吞虎咽地吃幸运符麦片 (7)
13. 为所谓的社交活动提供肋排 (5)
14. 投球，可能也像 1 横向那样！(3)
15. 我的糟糕篮球赛？别让我开始吐槽！(4)
16. （见说明）(10)
17. （见说明）(5, 5)
18. 为一个糟糕的食客采用纳米气泡 (6)
19. 折返，面对面，遭到抨击 (3, 3)
20. 出租车的品质，也许？听起来像其他 1 横向那样！(3)
21. 更血腥，但处于合法权利之内 (5)
22. 非常成功且更酷，这家伙正在制造电视机 (8)
23. 绰号，被剥离公司名称，被安置在草丛中 (5)
24. 淫秽的作品是否只是随风飘荡 (7)
25. 听起来像鱼，但它是法国人的关键 (3)
26. 夏洛特，在这一分钟，进入街道 (5)
27. 绝妙的家伙，但据报道违反了许多诫命？(7)

纵向

1. 切掉贝果的外圈确实需要胆量 (4)
2. 飞碟引发争论，但没有结论 (6)
3. 为博物馆物品预留的工作 (6)
4. 措辞得体的狄更斯式名字——这让你想起什么了吗？(4)
5. 约翰·列侬在最具有存在主义色彩时将皇家法令带回美国！(6)
6. 浪漫的间奏？听起来像某些东西毫无进展！(5)
7. 地球集会完全覆盖了主题 (6)
8. （见说明）(4)
9. 医生佩戴的手表——它们有起有伏 (9)
10. 战车在绿地周围赛跑 (7)
11. 不同类型的等级制度首领 (6)
12. 异端搅乱了灵长类动物 (5)
13. 据说能找到国王和女王的列表 (5)
14. 海中水仙的名字 (5)
15. （见说明）(4)
16. 翻修的牧场房屋（洛杉矶，非常感谢）——他会接纳你 (9)
17. 简短的律师损害了他的案件 (8)
18. （见说明）(7)
19. 在《奥本海默》的开头重新拍摄——这是神话的素材 (3, 4)
20. 尼克斯队（Knicks）的支持者，例如？见排名被削减 (7)
21. 北欧女神，面对可怕的审判，去世了 (7)
22. 裁判采用被拒绝者 (7)
23. （见说明）(6)
24. 时髦的地方是令人毛骨悚然的新奇事物的种子 (6)
25. 接管能源？它需要一座塔 (5)
26. 关于连接可能答案的提示 (5)
27. 脱衣扑克很容易在顶部脱落时引发笑声 (4)
28. 穿过 wikiwiki？它永远飞不起来 (4)

发现

地球（太阳最终可能并不会将其吞噬）被计算出含有 110 亿亿公里的丛枝菌根真菌。河流的重新蜿蜒可以减缓洪水，而白云石石灰抹灰的使用时间比此前认为的至少早七千年。2012 年，加利福尼亚州的高强度火灾超过了低强度火灾，导致山火烧毁的森林面积平均比 1985 年多出 30 倍；此外，格陵兰岛的夏季现在也会发生山火，而在其海岸附近发现了一个新的桡足类动物科。金星上一个持续存在的 6,000 公里宽云前由硫酸蒸汽组成。黑洞则可能是引力星（gravastars）。宇航员的膝盖在轨道上停留 18 天后似乎不受影响，而电影中的地质学家大约有三分之一的死亡率。

微塑料在四分之三的英国狗粮和刺猬粮中被发现，在伊朗乌尔米亚的街道灰尘中被发现，以及在土耳其乔鲁姆市采集的所有埃及秃鹫食团中被发现；微塑料在空气传播时会促使大气变暖，正沉积在土耳其的高山积雪中，在雅鲁藏布江沿岸被季风冲刷，在阴茎和睾丸的肿瘤组织中比在非肿瘤组织中更普遍，可以通过电子舌在水中被尝出，或许能被工程化的火烈鸟喙过滤，并可能在白内障手术期间进入眼球，但似乎不会在红蚯蚓体内累积。来自丁腈和乳胶实验手套的颗粒可能会导致微塑料研究中出现假阳性结果。

物理学家得出结论，在美国众议院竞选中，超过 180 万美元 的竞选支出会加剧极化，但并不影响选举结果。使用 Instagram 可能会干扰内部和外部身体体验的整合。在铁器时代苏格兰被埋葬的一名女性被发现大脑被移除，且长骨被削成尖点；而一名在尚希-阿达德一世围攻并征服卡布拉（Qabra）时的受害者被发现面朝下趴在一个石盆上。迪亚曼蒂纳断裂带被发现包含一个 530 万年前的鲸鱼坟场。考拉数量的下降早于人类的到来。西非雄性黑猩猩多年来一直在向特定的树投掷石头，同时发出喘息叫声并敲击支撑根；而玩触摸屏游戏的日本猕猴则偏好中等程度的不确定性。鸟类自慰不需要干预；雌性山雀更倾向于与认知能力出众的雄性进行配偶外性行为；而鸽子的地磁方向感位于肝脏中。采集蜜蜂更喜欢含有畸形翅病毒的糖水。所有现存倍足纲目进化历史的编目工作现已完成。以色列科学家通过将白光垂直于地面放置，诱导原本独居的等足类动物进行大规模的圆形行走，其中一些随后被蜈蚣吃掉。在人工环境下饲养的咸水鳄在释放后不会尝试返回繁殖中心。冲绳附近的海洋生物学家回收了一个绍兴酒瓶，里面有一只在瓶中长大的螃蟹。

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HARPER'S MAGAZINE/SEPTEMBER 2026

The Lost Dream of Lab-Grown Meat

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A WEEKEND WITH THE UGLIEST PEOPLE IN THE WORLD

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HARPER'S

M A G A Z I N E

FOUNDED IN 1850 / VOL. 353, NO. 2116 SEPTEMBER 2026 HARPERS.ORG

Letters Laboratories of Democracy Easy Chair All the Change in the World

2 Lindsie Rank, Anne MacLachlan

5 Thomas Frank

Harper's Index 9

Readings Flight of the Muse The Crocfather I Do Remember About Face The Matthew Page Method Close Second Person And ...

11 Robert Frost George Boedecker Jr. Rudy Wilson it's TMZ in the DMZ for South Korean troops a patented new approach to bathroom hygiene Graham Foust Hulda Guzmán, Scott Kahn, Maria Lax, and a shell-shocking rule change for cephalopods

Report 23 WHERE'S THE BEEF? Erin Somers The lab-grown-meat revolution that wasn't

31 Vance Bourjaily

Letter from Italy 33 REGARDING THE PAIN OF UGGOS Barrett Swanson A weekend at the Ugly People Festival

45 Finn Brunton

Criticism 50 BORROWED WOUNDS Kyle Berlin A civil war, a bestseller, and the trial that divided France

Memoir 62 SILKWORMS Long Ling Reincarnation in Beijing

Fiction 67 FIVE STORIES Diane Williams

Reviews 71 NEW BOOKS Dan Piepenbring ALBANY'S HOMER Kasia Boddy How William Kennedy found his beat

Puzzle 79 Richard E. Maltby Jr. Findings 80

Cover illustration by Timo Lenzen

HARPER'S MAGAZINE

LETTERS

John R. MacArthur, President and Publisher

Editor CHRISTOPHER CARROLL Executive Editor MATTHEW SHERRILL Deputy Editor WILL STEPHENSON Managing Editor WILL AUGEROT Senior Editors JESS BERGMAN, CHARLIE LEE, JONATHON STURGEON Art Director KATHRYN HUMPHRIES Deputy Managing Editors MEGAN EVERSHED, LAKE MICAH Washington Editor ANDREW COCKBURN Poetry Editor BEN LERNER Associate Editors MAYA PERRY, BECKY ZHANG Deputy Art Director MARIA DUBON Assistant Editors CLARISSA FRAGOSO PINHEIRO, JASMINE LIU, NOAH RAWLINGS, IONA TAIT Production Manager and Designer CHLOE ARNOLD Editorial Interns ELEONORE CATTLE, NICO TAYLOR, TESS WAYLAND, MILES ZAUD Art Interns SELIN HO, JANE PIERCE Contributing Editors ANDREW J. BACEVICH, KEVIN BAKER, TOM BISSELL, MICHAEL W. CLUNE, JOSHUA COHEN, JOHN CROWLEY, WES ENZINNA, TANYA GOLD, GARY GREENBERG, JACK HITT, FREDERICK KAUFMAN, GARRET KEIZER, MARK KINGWELL, RAFIL KROLL-ZAIDI, BARRY C. LYNN, RICHARD MANNING, CLANCY MARTIN, DUNCAN MURRELL, RACHEL NOLAN, LAUREN OYLER, VINCE PASSARO, JAMES POGUE, FRANCINE PROSE, ELLEN ROSEN Bush, JEFF SHARLET, CHRISTINE SMALLWOOD, ZADIE SMITH, REBECCA SOLNIT, MATTHEW STEVENSON, BARRETT SWANSON, JOHN EDGAR WIDEMAN Contributing Artists VICTOR J. BLUE, LISA ELMALEH, BALAZS GARDI, PEP MONTSERRAT, MATT ROTA, NICOLE TUNG, TOMAS VAN HOU TRYVE Contributing Designer SHEILA WOLFE LEWIS H. LAPHAM, Editor (1976–1981, 1983–2006)

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In Memoriam

We at Harper's Magazine are saddened by the recent death of our contributing editor Edward Hoagland (1932–2026), whose essays for the magazine included “Americana by the Acre” (October 1970) and “Last Call” (May 2010). He will be deeply missed.

Laboratories of Democracy

In “Republican Machines” [Letter from Florida, July], Ann Manov is right to resist the suggestion that Republican-led higher-ed reforms, including civic centers, are inherently censorial. Still, what happens when reform efforts, from the right or the left, try to turn universities into instruments for producing a specific kind of American?

Manov reports that her search for evidence of censorship spawned by reform efforts did not uncover much “spicy” material. She cites the federal district court’s dismissal of lawsuits against Florida’s Senate Bill 266 that allege censorship. Yet censorship takes hold before lawsuits are filed; it causes people to trim syllabi, cancel assignments, pull readings, and decide that the safest course is silence. In my work advocating for the free-speech rights of students and faculty, I’ve seen firsthand the suppression of speech that results when officials mold college education in accordance with partisan ideals.

Just this year, Pensacola State College defunded a student magazine for publishing LGBT-related stories because they were believed to violate Florida's Stop WOKE Act, and Texas A&M ordered a professor to take Plato excerpts and content about race and gender out of his philosophy course. But the examples that worry me most are those we never hear about. Legal scholars call this a “chilling effect," and courts have recognized its harms since at least 1952.

At their best, civic centers teach the habits that make free speech usable: reading charitably, arguing fairly, tolerating discomfort, changing one's mind, understanding dissent. But free speech flourishes only when reform prepares students for democratic life—not when it propagandizes them to partisan ends.

Lindsie Rank Philadelphia

Manov has written a sly piece illustrating the tensions surrounding conservative civic centers. But she not only discredits such centers—she undermines the humanities writ large by suggesting that U.S. higher education is not fit for purpose. This is wrongheaded.

Manov asserts that the culture wars died down with the Supreme Court's Harvard admissions decision. Hardly: racism continues to surge on campuses, universities are limiting diversity, equity, and inclusion initiatives under federal pressure, and pro-Palestine protests have led to standoffs between students and administrators. In this context, idealizing a conservative past rooted in European traditions cannot ground the dialogues that sprout from the diversity of American society. Indeed, culture-war contests in no way diminish the power of the humanities to understand the human condition or their power to shape inquiry.

Manov also ignores the unique heterogeneity of American institutions, which provide access to almost all who wish to receive an education. Despite current trends, the United States still enrolls nearly twenty million postsecondary students, 73 percent of whom study at public institutions. In recent decades, humanities enrollment has dropped, and higher education has gone from being largely perceived as a public good—Pell Grants covered up to 80 percent of college expenses in the Seventies—to a private commodity. The dysfunction Manov presents is not ungrounded, but she underestimates the vitality of the American higher-education system and its capacity to serve all students.

Anne MacLachlan Berkeley, Calif.

Ann Manov responds:

In the course of reporting my article, I interviewed several scholars of academic freedom. As I learned, the conservative-education movement has jeopardized a norm dating to the American Association of University Professors' 1940 Statement of Principles: unfettered faculty independence in research and teaching. In its July 7 decision in Pernell v. Lamb, the United States Court of Appeals for the Eleventh Circuit upheld an injunction against the Stop WOKE Act on First Amendment grounds. But legislation like SB 266 may prove more resilient. That law created civic centers and limited which courses can receive general-education credits, restricting concepts including certain criticisms of Israel. In Austin v. Lamb, a federal district court found that the First Amendment confers no constitutional right to general-education approval for professors' courses. Because "gen-ed" status translates into enrollment and funding, laws like SB 266 offer a potent strategy for states to exert control over curricula. I repeat an irony from my article: "academic freedom" is a rallying cry both against such laws and for them.

I acknowledge in my article that the idealized colleges of our early history served a tiny percentage of the population, and that the Founders' vision of an educated populace has no doubt been furthered by mass higher education but hindered by the astonishing cost of attendance. Given our information environment, determining how to preserve literacy will be of the utmost importance.

THE LAMP THE SEVEN DEADLY SINS

FREDRIK DEBOER on PRIDE JOSHUA COHEN on GREED ZENA HITZ on LUST B. D. MCCLAY on ENVY SAM KRISS on GLUTTONY A. E. STALLINGS on WRATH OTTESSA MOSHFEGH on SLOTH

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EASY CHAIR All the Change in the World By Thomas Frank

Competitive magnificence is the main aesthetic principle of modern presidential libraries. From the rectilinear sprawl of the George W. Bush Presidential Center to the elevated glass box of Bill Clinton's edifice, each new entrant is required to outdo its predecessors in price, grandness, and architectural spectacle. The second principle, almost as important, is that with each successive presidential center, the vanity function of these facilities increasingly overshadows their research function. Technically, the institutions I am describing are quasi-public; they exist in order to catalogue the records of the executive branch and make them available to researchers. But what they have in fact become are ever more ostentatious monuments to the man in question, would-be Lincoln Memorials built by the would-be Lincoln himself. Each one features a museum of the years in which he occupied the Oval Office, and each describes history in a manner that only the most committed partisan would accept as legitimate.

The Obama Presidential Center, which opened in June, is the latest contestant in this derby, and it duly bests its predecessors in all the important ways. It cost some \$850 million to build, which, when adjusted for inflation, is roughly twice the outlay for Bush's library in Dallas, nearly three times what was spent on Clinton's in Little Rock, and more than forty times what was spent on the Harry S. Truman Library in Independence, Missouri. Truman's library, completed in 1957, is a single modest story; the Obama Center, on the other hand, is dominated by a 225-foot tower, a contoured granite block with a passage from an Obama speech spelled out in concrete letters around the top—by which I mean not one or two memorable phrases but a full 103-word passage from a speech, an excerpt so long and in letters so large that it takes nineteen lines (more than eighty-three feet, roughly the height of an eight-story building) to render in full.

Despite its text-inflected architecture and its staggering price tag, the Obama Center is, in fact, not a presidential library at all: it houses no official presidential records for researchers to dig through. Those are stored in a National Archives facility somewhere in suburban Maryland. With this magnificent granite chunk, in other words, the vanity side of postpresidential structures has finally and totally eclipsed the research side. Instead of archives, the Obama Center features beautiful landscaping, a restaurant and bar, an athletic center, and up in the tower an Obama museum that trumpets what is flattering to its subject and omits what is not.

The location of the Obama Center was a matter of some controversy during the planning process. It now stands in Chicago's Jackson Park, on a site once occupied by the World's Columbian Exposition, a world's fair held in 1893. And like that legendary convening, with its neoclassical palaces displaying Gilded Age advances in engineering and electricity, the Obama Center has a didactic and high-minded purpose: it aims to instruct us in the science of change, a pedagogy every bit as central to elite self-understanding today as were progress and the Beaux-Arts to the right-minded gentlemen of the fin de siècle.

I intend no insult when I use the word “elite”; it is the only word that accurately represents the dazzling list of names one finds on the Obama Center’s donor wall. In the fifty-million-dollars-and-up category we find Jeff Bezos, of Amazon and the Washington Post; Connie Ballmer, the wife of a former Microsoft CEO; Brian Chesky, the CEO of Airbnb; TWG Global, an AI-focused holding company; a foundation associated with the private-equity billionaire Glenn H. Hutchins; and a mystery donor identified as Anonymous.

These patterns persist in the more densely populated donor categories: tech and private equity, multibillionaires and dynastic wealth; great foundations and the biggest of big corporations. Eric Schmidt and Sean Parker are there, as are Microsoft and the Gates Foundation. Ken Griffin, a financier who supports conservative causes, shows up in the 1-to-9.9-million-dollar category, along with the personal foundation of the Walmart heiress Alice Walton and the Walmart Foundation itself. There is a robust contingent from the philanthropy world, a number of athletes and celebrities, and a generous sampling of names from the Fortune 500. Had this presidential center been constructed thirty years ago, Donald Trump himself would probably have been on board.

What unites all these oligarchs and dynasts, all these monopolists and employers of lobbyists, is their interest in advancing a very particular interpretation of history. It goes like this: "ordinary people" can make "extraordinary change." I take these words from the wall text in the museum section of the Obama Center, but transmitting this message of uplift and people power is really what this complex is all about. The museum has a series of interactive exhibits entitled IMAGINE YOUR IMPACT that urge you to consider things like “collaborat[ing] with your community to make change.” There’s a famous Obama quote in huge metal letters that greets visitors on the fifth floor: I’m ASKING YOU TO BELIEVE. NOT IN MY ABILITY TO BRING ABOUT CHANGE—BUT IN YOURS.

Fifteen years ago, conservatives used this sort of anodyne sentiment—then as now one of Obama’s favorite modes—to spin nightmares about our “radical” president and how he intended to “socialize” America. Others, like me, brushed it off because we came to see Obama as a moderate’s moderate, a would-be Blue Dog Democrat, a man who honored norms, precedent, and incrementalism to a self-sabotaging degree. This man was no progressive, we would realize: he was a fan of the New York Times columnist Thomas Friedman; chose Larry Summers as his principal economic adviser; and longed to strike a “grand bargain” with the Republicans in Congress. (Cuts to Social Security and Medicare in exchange for tax increases, for those who don’t remember.)

To judge by the Obama Center, however, one might wonder whether those right-wingers were on to something after all. Summers and the pursuit of a “grand bargain” are not mentioned in the museum; they have been removed from the official account. But Rules for Radicals is sold in the gift shop. And the museum does describe—at length and in some detail—the history of left-wing protest in America. Exhibit after exhibit carries visitors to the unavoidable conclusion that Barack Obama was somehow the bearer of the sacred flame of reform, the heir of the Progressives, the women’s-suffrage movement, the New Deal, the civil-rights movement, the various upheavals of the Sixties, the Eighties Chicago mayor Harold Washington, and pretty much any other left-wing insurgency you can think of. He was, the museum suggests, the most progressive president anyone could possibly hope for.

Powerful institutions cloaking themselves in the trappings of radicalism has been a familiar phenomenon ever since the nation's corporations, foundations, electric utilities, and intelligence agencies decided a while back that they needed to depict themselves as intersectional warriors against colonialism and white supremacy. But here the stratagem indicates something more meaningful. After all, Obama's presidency began on a note of overwhelming triumph, with a huge electoral majority and a Nobel Peace Prize, and it ended with the unthinkable: Trump in the White House and the Democratic Party in tatters across the country. What went wrong? What do the center's many invocations of radicalism tell us about the Obama years and how to interpret them?

No presidential museum addresses its subject's failures squarely, of course, and this one is no exception. In its exhibit on the 2008–09 financial crisis, it does not discuss why the president didn't do more to punish fraud in high places or rescue beleaguered homeowners. There is little discussion of the fate of the public option in the universal-health-care debate. Obama's persistent failure to get tough with the Republicans in Congress is not addressed, nor is his incredible naïveté about the supposed beneficence of international trade and Silicon Valley.

But the museum does give an answer to all these questions, if only by implication, and it is that progressivism has certain built-in limits. If you believe in democracy and in ordinary people, as Obama so clearly did, you simply cannot ask for more than what he accomplished.

Consider, once again, Obama's many inspiring invocations of the power of ordinary people. In a surprising number of instances, this message comes with a tacked-on corollary that the president has far less power than we think he does. It is not Obama's “ability to bring about change” that we are to believe in, remember, but our own. “The change we need doesn't come from Washington,” Obama said in his acceptance speech at the Democratic National Convention in 2008. “Change comes to Washington.” He said it again in his speech on the fiftieth anniversary of the march in Selma—the speech from which the words on his tower were taken. Solving problems, he said, “is work for all Americans, not just some.” He continued:

Our democracy is not the task of Congress alone. Or the courts alone. Or even the president alone.... The single most powerful word in our democracy is the word “we.” “We the people.” “We shall overcome.” “Yes we can.”

These may be noble sentiments, but think about them from a different angle and you realize they are also a form of evasion. It is somehow up to us, not the president, to get working and get it done. We, the public, have to earn our change by staying eternally mobilized or deserving of it in some way. We have to “make him do it,” as the popular liberal saying from 2009 had it. For progressive groups to use that line to raise money is one thing. For administration officials themselves to repeat it, as Vice President Joe Biden once did, is an excuse.

“I don’t believe in nostalgia,” Obama said at an event for former staffers the day before his presidential center opened. “Because I think nostalgia implies this sentiment that there’s this thing in the past that was somehow golden and better but is unattainable now, and it lets us off the hook because it makes us feel like, well, that was wonderful, but now this is the reality and there’s not much we can do about it.” And yet despite its hooray-for-hope messaging, Obama’s museum is, in fact, a nice warm bath in precisely the sentiment he meant to deny.

With its emphasis on the early years of the Obama saga—the inspiring 2008 campaign, the great achievement of electing the first black president, the glorious history of reform—the Obama Center invites us to relax into comforting memories of the days when we were led by a brilliant, elegant, and youthful man who talked movingly about change and hope. Since then, the world has fallen apart, but here the visitor can remember what it was like before the country’s descent into idiocy and hate—that golden moment when it seemed like all things were possible.

I mentioned before that the Obama Center has a bar: a full, functional, and stylish one at that. Few postpresidential facilities offer this particular amenity; after my tour of the building, I longed to perch myself at its polished-stone counter, sip from a big glass of bourbon, look out over beautiful Jackson Park, and reminisce about 2008, the only time in my life I have voted for a presidential candidate enthusiastically and without reservations. What a chump I was.

Unfortunately, the bar wasn't open that day. But later on, in an Irish pub on Chicago's North Side, I caught up with one of my friends from back in the day, a man who wound up going to Washington with Obama and then spent about eight years of his life serving in the federal government. For him, the nostalgia was mixed with a strong dose of bitterness. Back in 2009, it felt like it was the New Deal all over again, he recalled. He told me about the administration's ambitious but never realized plans in its earliest days and remembered how his bosses would shoot down ideas that were even slightly creative, out of fear of transgressing the iron rules of norms and precedent. With no small anger he told me about an initiative the administration advanced to help kids in underfunded schools that backfired in a catastrophic but totally predictable way. And he said this: the Obama Center is a privately funded monument to President Obama that is built in the wrong location according to the wrong design; it is, he told me, “insanely wrong in every way.”

Meanwhile, back in Washington, a different president plans grandiose structures across the capital, built according to his demented interpretation of neoclassical style. In his heart, however, Trump is more a man of carnival than of didactic uplift: he consorts with porn stars, depicts himself dumping shit on his critics, and stages UFC matches beneath the Claw on the White House lawn.

How the nation was persuaded to choose this crude bigot over the handpicked successors of the high-minded Obama is a mystery too painful for the principled to unravel.

Obama and Trump seem like cosmic opposites: the tasteful and the vulgar; the respecter of norms and the smasher of precedent; the reluctant president and the would-be tyrant who will stop at nothing.

But there is a common thread if we look closer. Both men are celebrities who headed up popular movements that turned out, when challenged, to be as thin as a coating of ice on a windshield. They are both men of image, and in both cases the image is a sort of phony populism. Obama's salutes to “ordinary people” were not much more sincere than Trump's shout-outs to the “forgotten man.” Both presidents have proved themselves able stewards of the age of inequality, rescuing banks or cutting taxes as the moment requires. Trump's presidential library, which will be built in Miami, will surely surpass Obama's in both price and ostentation.

Both men have chosen to decorate their trademark towers with words. In Obama's case, it's the noble phrases from his speech at Selma, wrapped around the top of his stately building. These words are visible from everywhere in the neighborhood but at the same time almost impossible to read—fragmentary bits of prose signifying nothing more than generic high-mindedness floating freely in the sky. Trump's words, of course, are glaringly legible and are always the same: his name, TRUMP, in big, shiny letters, glued to the side of his ninety-two-story tower next door to the Wrigley Building, overlooking the Chicago River, where it can be gawked at by tourists and truck drivers alike.

These mighty men and their plutocratic populism: it is their world now, not ours, and sometimes it feels as though all that is really left to us ordinary people are futile gestures. One beautiful day this June, I caught the CTA's number 6 bus outside the Obama Center and rode it from the South Side to its terminus in the Loop. A boisterous group of teenagers had got on somewhere along the way, and we all exited together at Wacker Drive. One of the bunch walked out into the teeming sidewalk across from Trump Tower, held her middle finger up before the president's proud name, and snapped a picture of it with her iPhone.

"A MODERN-DAY TOCQUEVILLE, RICHARD NORTH PATTERSON MARSHALS AN IMMENSE AMOUNT OF RESEARCH TO SHOW, INCISIVELY AND READABLY, WHY WE ARE NOW IN DANGER OF LOSING OUR DEMOCRACY. . . REQUIRED READING FOR ANYONE WHO CARES ABOUT THE FUTURE OF DEMOCRACY IN AMERICA." —MAX BOOT, AUTHOR OF REAGAN: HIS LIFE AND LEGEND

TRIPWIRES

15 TWENTY-FIRST-CENTURY EVENTS THAT UNDERMINED AMERICAN DEMOCRACY—AND HOW TO RECLAIM IT

1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTELLING AUTHOR

RICHARD NORTH PATTERSON

"TRIPWIRES ANSWERS THE TWO MOST IMPORTANT QUESTIONS THAT FACE THE UNITED STATES IN THIS PERILOUS MOMENT OF RISING AUTHORITARIANISM: HOW DID WE GET HERE? HOW DO WE ESCAPE IT? IT'S A TOUR DE FORCE OF HISTORY AND POLICY THAT WILL MAKE YOU MORE HOPEFUL FOR THE FUTURE." —NEERA TANDEN, CEO, CENTER FOR AMERICAN PROGRESS

ON SALE 9/1/26

REDEFINE LEATHER: PICK APPLE OR OTHER VEGAN LEATHER

CAYLEE COWAN FOR PETA

HARPER'S INDEX

Estimated number of excess deaths in India caused by a single day of extreme heat : 3,400

Caused by five consecutive days of extreme heat : 30,000

Minimum number of heat-related deaths in Europe since 2022: 200,000

Estimated increase, in terawatt-hours, in annual worldwide electricity demand by 2030 for air-conditioning: 640

For data centers : 529

Portion of Americans who say they would oppose the construction of a nuclear power plant in their area: 1/2

Who say they would oppose the construction of a data center : 7/10

Ratio of ChatGPT users who are men to users who are women : 1:1

Of Grok users who are men to users who are women : 3:1

Percentage of short stories written by ChatGPT whose plots are driven by gossip and rumor : 64

Of those written by humans : 44

Minimum number of U.S. court cases in which filed documents were found by a judge to contain AI-hallucinated content: 1,180

Chance that a biomedical research paper contained at least one citation for a nonexistent source in 2023:1 in 2,828

Last year: 1 in 458

Percentage change in the frequency of em dashes in ecology journals between 2021 and 2025: +202

In the frequency of semicolons : -58

Average number of seconds allotted per question on the SAT in 1926, the year of the test's introduction: 18

Today : 82

Estimated number of NIH grants canceled as a result of federal efforts to combat anti-Semitism : 668

Portion of the affected researchers who were Jewish : 1/5

Factor by which black researchers were overrepresented in politically targeted NIH grant terminations: 3

Minimum number of times Donald Trump has referred to individuals as “low-IQ” in public statements since 2016:139

Percentage of those statements that were directed toward black people : 66

Number of refugees admitted to the United States between October 2025 and July 2026: 7,730

Estimated percentage of these refugees who were white South Africans: 95

Number of individuals who died in ICE custody during the Biden Administration : 26

During the first Trump Administration : 50

During the first eighteen months of the second Trump Administration : 54

Factor by which the number of lawsuits pertaining to unlawful ICE detentions has increased over the past year: 48

Minimum number of total years in prison to which individuals protesting ICE facilities have been sentenced: 450

To which individuals convicted for involvement in Jeffrey Epstein's sex-trafficking ring have been sentenced: 20

Estimated number of the world's millionaires who relocated to a new country in 2015:64,000

Who did so last year: 142,000

Rank in 2025 of the United Arab Emirates as a relocation destination for millionaires: 1

Of the United States : 2

Estimated number of millionaires created in the United States last year : 441,078

Estimated portion of the world's new millionaires that this figure represents : 1/2

Ingeborg Bachmann THE COMPLETE STORIES

Amparo Dávila BEHIND THE GATE
Hiroko Oyamada GARDEN

PERFECTING THE SHOT
MATHIAS ÉNARD Translated by Charlotte Mandell
Solvej Balle ON THE CALCULATION OF VOLUME
Mathias Énard PERFECTING THE SHOT

THE WAX CHILD Olga Ravn
Helle Helle HAFNI SAYS
Olga Ravn THE WAX CHILD

Keith Ridgway DOONEEN

Vladimir Nabokov NIKOLAI GOGOL

READINGS

[Epistles] FLIGHT OF THE MUSE

From The Letters of Robert Frost, Volume 4, which was edited by Robert Bernard Hass, Henry Atmore, Donald Sheehy, and Mark Richardson. The book will be published this month by Harvard University Press. These letters were written after the death of Elinor Frost, his wife.

To Bernard DeVoto March 21, 1938

ELINOR DIED LAST NIGHT MUST SEE YOU WHEN I COME NORTH SOON.

ROBERT. DEVOTE.

To Bernard DeVoto April 12, 1938

Well, Bennyvenuto:

I expect to have to go depths below depths in thinking before I catch myself and can say what I want to be while I last. I shall be all right in public, but I can't tell yet how I am going to behave when I am alone. She could always be present to govern my loneliness without making me feel less alone. It is now running into more than a week longer than I was ever away from her since June 1895. You can see how I might have doubts of myself. I am going to work very hard in May and be on the go with people so as not to try myself solitary too soon.

I suppose love must always deceive. I'm afraid I deceived her a little in pretending for the sake of argument that I didn't think the world as bad a place as she did. My excuse was that I wanted to keep her a little happy for my own selfish pleasure. It is as if for the sake of argument she had sacrificed her life to give me this terrible answer and really bring me down in sorrow. She needn't have. I knew I never had a leg to stand on, and I should think I had said so in print.

All the same I believe a lot of mitigating things, and anything I say against the universe must be taken with that qualification. I always shrank from hearing evil of poor little Edgar Allen [sic] Poe and my reason was when I come to search it out of my heart, that he wrote a prose poem out of those lovely old lines.

Stay for me there I will not fail To meet thee in the hollow vale.

What is more he used a cadence caught from that “Exequy” to make the whole of his poem “The Sleeper.” Never mind that he couldn’t be tender without being ghoulish. You have to remember he was little Edgar Allen Poe.

We are to have a funeral over the ashes I bring home at Johnson Chapel, Amherst College, at three o'clock in the afternoon of Friday, April 22. Perhaps I wish a little that my friends who can easily will come. I don't know how you feel about such things. I am uncertain. Of course there is no question of her honor. You and I and others will take care of that in more important ways won't we?

Ever yours Robert

To George Roy Elliott April 13, 1938

Dear Roy and Alma:

I am coming back to Amherst on Tuesday or Wednesday for some more of the finalities I haven't yet learned to accept with the flesh.

Otto and Ethel have asked me to their house since I don't seem to want to see the inside of my own. It will be good of you if you will do as you said about John, Irma, and Jack. I wish the whole family could be together, but we can be later. I shall probably wander round among them for a while till I can decide who I am now, and what I have to go on with. Some of the old ambitious resolutions may come back to me in some form. The danger will be that they may too openly concern her. Pretty nearly every one of my poems will be found to be about her if rightly read. But I must try to remember they were as much about her as she liked and permitted them to be. Without ever saying a word she set limits I must continue to observe. One remark like this and then no more forever.

Faithfully yours

Robert

To Robert Hillyer

April 14, 1938

Dear Robert:

There will be funeral services over the ashes I bring home in an urn at Johnson Chapel, Amherst College, on Friday, April 22, at three in the afternoon. There will be no bearers since bearers are not needed. But it would give me poetic comfort if one or two or three of my closest and most poetic friends were seen near

[Rule]

ADVERTISING GUIDANCE SYSTEM

From a rule proposed by the Department of Defense and published in June in the Federal Register. If finalized, the rule would govern contracts related to the Pentagon's recruitment advertising.

The proposed solicitation provision requires the offerer to certify that the offerer does not:

(1) Rate or rank news or information sources for the factual accuracy of their content;

(2) Provide ratings or opinions on news or information sources regarding misinformation, bias, adherence to journalistic standards, or ethics; or

(3) Acquire or use any service that provides any ratings, rankings, or opinions described in (1) or (2).

me in this hour of great finality. Will it be possible for you to come? To ask you is I know to put more pressure on you than I have any right. Forgive it to the state of mind I am in. Poetic comfort seems more than anything else I have left.

Ever yours

Robert

To Louis Untermeyer

May 16, 1938

Dear Louis:

You have lived a lot of life since I said goodbye to you at the door of this hotel and so have I. I went out and did a thousand dollars' worth of lecturing last week on purpose to see if it wouldn't improve my symptoms to overwork and to see also how much on a pinch I can hope to earn a year when I am cut off from Amherst College. Fifty-two times a thousand is fifty-two thousand. Drop two weeks for vacation in the mountains at Concord Corners and it still comes to fifty thousand, which is in a painfully high bracket for these days or for a poet for any days. But it would be as a moralist rather than as a poet I would be pilloried there.

I don't know myself yet and won't for a long time, if I ever do. I am so quickened by what has happened that I can't touch my mind with a memory of any kind. I can't touch my skin anywhere with my finger but it hurts like a sad inspiration. In such like condition I spent all of yesterday packing deadly personal things in the desolated house on Sunset Ave. My strength went out of me to the last drop and then Carol carried me back to the house in South Shaftsbury. I feel as a tree that has lost its whole surrounding forest by bad forestry. I've got to have someone to complain to. I promise not to trouble you with the private very much more. Carol stood by me all day like a good boy. He has got himself together. He didn't know what to do those first days.

I read your new book with admiration for your teaching skill. Your range and exactness of knowledge show that you should have been a scholar. A book like this shows you should have been a teacher. Don't leave farming for any length of time to be either. All the same I wish you could have spared two or three years for an exhibition of your powers at some university.

One more short tour (de force) and I shall be free to tend to one or two things in New York and Boston and then free to go home to Vermont. I shall be Freedom itself

© SCOTT KAHN. COURTESY THE ARTIST AND DAVID ZWIRNER

Fall into Winter, a painting by Scott Kahn, whose work is on view this month at David Zwirner, in New York City.

I have much to talk about with you.

Ever yours R.

To Lesley Frost March 1, 1939

Dear Lesley:

I am home at 88 Mt. Vernon Street. Somehow mixed with my own recent mail I found this letter of Elinor's. I suppose you must have given it to me when I was away from my desks and files and I must have put it into one of my traveling bags with the confusion of letters and manuscripts I always carry around. It belongs to your early days at Wellesley. My, my, what sorrow runs through all she wrote to you children. No wonder something of it overcasts my poetry if read aright. No matter how humorous I am I am sad. I am a jester about sorrow. She colored my thinking from the first just as at the last she troubled my politics. It was no loss but a gain of course. She was not as original as I in thought but she dominated my art with the power of her character and nature. I wish I hadn't this woeful suspicion that toward the end she came to resent something in the life I had given her. A propos of somebody else entirely Hervey Allen remarked the other day in his elderly wisdom that you never know what a woman is laying up against you. It seems to me now that she was cumulatively laying up against me the unsuccess of the children I had given her. She was a person of the soundest realistic judgment. But here I think she was radically wrong for once. She failed to see she wasn't giving you the time she patiently gave me. You are coming out all right in your way. Irma will come out all right, too. A way will be found to put Carol on his feet. You'll see.

But today I had a shock that was sympathetic with the way Elinor would have taken what I heard on the telephone when I called up

© THE ANONYMOUS PROJECT/LEE SHULMAN. COURTESY GALERIE CLÉMENTINE DE LA FÉRONNIÈRE, PARIS
A photograph from the Anonymous Project, by Lee Shulman, a selection of which is on view through November in the exhibition No Place Like Home, at Fotografiska, in Berlin.

John at Hanover. While I was lost in my travels so I couldn't be reached anyway Irma was discovered to be suffering with a large tumor and operated on at the Hanover hospital. That was last Friday. Everything went off all right and she should be at home tomorrow with a prospect of better health than she has had. I don't suppose you realized there had been anything very wrong with her. I knew she was rather worse than she used to be. Be sure to write her a good encouraging letter. She'd like to know I told you how Larson had been bragging about John. That is I guess she would. It can't be that what a woman lays up against a man is his success out where she can only imperfectly share it. Mind you I don't care if she does. I am prepared for any sadness in the structure of the universe. Go out and get all your own success. But do it coolly and deliberately without importunate haste. Keep well, look well. A woman has to look well. You have the basic good looks to build on. In one way and another I keep hearing of you as having made your place in Washington.

I begin a series of five lectures in your old birth town tomorrow night. My subject will be “the success of a poem.” My second subject will be “four poets and a half”—meaning Emerson, Longfellow, Bryant, Poe, and Sill.

For me a great deal of letters lately. What?

Affectionately Papa

[Memoir] THE CROCFATHER

By George Boedecker Jr., from Croc: How I Invented the World's Most Popular Shoe, Became a Massive Success, and Almost Destroyed Myself—in 15 Easy Lessons, which will be published this month by HarperCollins Leadership.

I partied with Fleetwood Mac, delivered pizza to Joe Montana, kidded around with Robin Williams. I have three-star generals on speed dial. I raced cars at the Charlotte Motor Speedway. I was in the witness-protection program, more or less.

I've enjoyed the company of more beautiful, intoxicating women than I can count. One thing I can count: I've been around the world twenty-eight times.

I live at crazy speed, but I'm still here. And with all those accomplishments, there are ... things. Other things. Of course there are. How could there not?

I lost so many friends. Though death, I get—unavoidable. But the ones who turned their backs? Or altered the story? Or hopped off the gravy train because they felt they were owed more gravy? Or got all holier-than-thou? One of my friends banned me from all his restaurants, including some favorite Boulder hangouts. To be fair, that rejection I deserved.

The love of my life and I have not been together for decades.

The woman I was most serious with, post-Elizabeth, once joined a lawsuit against me.

Maybe the success of Crocs and the prestige and notoriety and especially the crazy money had something to do with my nearly destroying myself. I can't help but think of the roulette wheel of life: I wanted a good boat shoe—simply that—so I walked into a Tommy Bahama store in Miami and asked if they had what I wanted. They did not. Thanks, Tommy. If the answer had been yes, I might never have created Crocs. You would be reading something else right now.

It was the year I became the milk thief.

Back when milk was delivered to your door, I stole from the porches and side entrances of customers on my paper route who were away on vacation.

I realize that's more than breaking rules—and in fact, it's breaking the law. Hear me out, though. I couldn't afford it myself. I was hungry. The milk would have gone bad.

Some of it I drank. The entrepreneur in me got the bright idea to simply give some of my stash to Scott, one of my older brothers, in exchange for him not beating me up. I used the bottle caps to get a discount at the movies. I returned the empties to the owners' porches so they could get the nickel for the return. It's not as if I didn't understand fairness.

They had no idea that I was the one stealing their milk. They knew me only as an enterprising, disciplined paperboy.

I didn't just break rules. I made up my own. When we were in San Francisco, the 49ers football team was king. They won several Super Bowls in the years I was there, and there were many stars—first and foremost, Joe Montana, the quarterback; but also Ronnie Lott, the future

Hall of Fame cornerback; Steve Young, the future star quarterback; Roger Craig, the great running back; and Dwight Clark, the wide receiver who made “The Catch.” I knew where they all lived—that sounds creepy, but everyone in the Bay Area pretty much knew where their football heroes lived—and they weren’t far from one of my stores. I’d delivered pizzas to some of their homes before, so my next idea wasn’t all that far-fetched: whenever the 49ers played out of town, that Sunday I would deliver pizzas to a couple of players’ homes, where their wives and children and friends were almost certainly gathered to watch the game on TV. No one had ordered the pizza. I showed up right before game time with several pies.

"I'm sorry, we didn't order this."

“Well, someone did, and it’s all paid for, tip included. Here you go.”

And of course they took it, because who turns down hot pizza and cold drinks that show up right before kickoff on Sunday? For free?

At Domino's, from the early Eighties to the late Nineties, we outworked everyone, and we out-enjoyed them, too, Joel and me. It wasn't a competition exactly. It was How much life could you suck out of life? Okay, maybe it was a competition, because I wasn't going to let anyone beat me at having a good time. I wanted anyone else's best moment of the year to be a Tuesday afternoon for me.

We had the coolest clientele. We had a regular contingent of gay customers who thought Joel was cute and hoped they could persuade him out of being straight. Occasionally they had it in for me too. For some of the men, their type was almost anyone. Joel and I might be out in the Domino's car on delivery—two guys in their twenties in Domino's uniforms—and guys would yell at us from their cars, nice cars. And when I started making serious money and drove around in my red convertible, I got even more of that. Not a lot of restraint then.

Everyone was doing drugs in the late Eighties, or at least it seemed that way. Powder cocaine if you were rich, smokable crack if you were poor.

San Francisco was a snowstorm. Probably most of America, too.

Scotty knew chemistry, but I knew fashion. And I knew something was going on here. It was sometime between midnight and 3 AM in the Caribbean, and I was the only person awake on the boat.

Still, I knew this was heading in the right direction. I drilled some holes in the top to let the foot breathe (more on that later). There was no mirror nearby but I'm pretty sure a light bulb was floating above my head.

A shoe. A boat shoe, actually. A very weird-looking shoe, one that looked different from every other kind of shoe, but one I was sure boat lovers would wear if we could figure out a way to make it. When we got to shore, Scotty and I found a plastic clog in a hardware store and started drilling it, seeing if it would support holes and not scuff surfaces.

Nope. It did not do what we needed.

I did not realize that pursuing this idea would explode in our faces over and over and over—literally.

In Boulder, after finishing a round of golf at the club, I was met by U.S. Marshals who told me they needed to bring me back to San Francisco to testify at the murder trial of the two men alleged to have killed Sonny.

[Notice]

The men were on trial for murder in the first degree. During the proceedings, marshals guarded the place I was staying. I thought it was overkill—these criminals seemed like petty thieves, maybe crack fiends, who had gotten in way over their heads. Plus, I didn't see how my testimony would be the determining factor—but at one point I left the courtroom to go get some booze, and when I passed a young man toward the back, I could see him sketching a picture … of me. In the form of a WANTED poster.

GIMME SHELLTER

Ve, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, are amending the definition of “shellfish” in the Code of Federal Regulations (CFR) by removing the phrase “having a shell” and adding specific taxa. This amendment will clarify that squid, cuttlefish, octopus, and other cephalopods are included within the regulatory definition of shellfish. Section 10.12 defines “shellfish” as “any species of mollusk having a shell,” a formulation that reflects historical terminology rather than contemporary biological classification or modern commercial use.

From an amended rule of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service that was published in June in the Federal Register.

For my safety, leading up to my testimony, I was moved to a different residence four times. Elizabeth and the kids were back in Colorado, staying someplace no one knew about, so I wasn't worried about that.

Cephalopods—including squid, cuttlefish, octopus, and nautilus—are mollusks but are characterized by either an internal shell, a reduced shell, or no shell at all. Similarly, cephalopods are members of the Cephalopoda family, which includes ammonites, characterized by a flat-coiled spiral shell. As a result, the current regulatory definition has created ambiguity as to whether cephalopods qualify as shellfish for purposes of wildlife importation, exportation, declaration, inspection, and enforcement under 50 CFR parts 10, 14, and related provisions.

In practice, this ambiguity has led to inconsistent treatment of cephalopod products at ports of entry, confusion among regulated entities, and unnecessary regulatory burden on importers, exporters, and enforcement personnel.

Both men were convicted of first-degree murder. Never mind that they were going away for a very long time. I was done with Domino's.

Lerrying us back and forth were the boat captains, both of whom I'd hired. Timmy and Oli were colorful enough—they were both high-seas sailors who, in their younger days, had smuggled weed and firearms all over, from the South Pacific to the United States. They had faced down pirates in the South China Sea. Their biggest pickup was a shipment of weed from Thailand, transported to Da Nang, Vietnam, and paid for in rice. The boys sailed into Da Nang Harbor at night, then moored to a giant tanker in a Russian naval base. Guys loaded the shipment onto their boat once lots of hands had been greased. And then Timmy and Oli sailed east across the Pacific to America, a three-month voyage. When they got spotted and pursued down the Pacific Coast, a connection they had cultivated in the States told them where the Coast Guard was and how to evade them. They figured their contact must himself have been in the Coast Guard. Whenever they were near, Timmy and Oli would vanish farther out to sea for a couple of days, then come back in somewhere else. They were fearless twentysomethings then, doing one monthlong trip after another, a genuine adventure. They moved to Europe to lie low for a few years after that.

I have seventeen fucking homes," I said. The fact that most of those homes were being lived in by others, including numerous family members, friends, and several people who couldn't afford to live elsewhere, was beside the point, at least at the moment.

The cop asked if the address was my primary residence. “That’s the only one you fucking need,” I said, thinking I was being constructive.

I then told the police officer how I came to be at that spot at that time, roughly 5:30 PM. I told him that my girlfriend had driven us there from a benefit at 11:30 the night before. He looked suspicious about the timing, so I confirmed that, yes, it had all started at 11:30 PM. My girlfriend and I had gotten into an argument, I told the officer, which prompted her to pull over, exit the Porsche, and run off.

Since even I, in my condition, could tell that the story sounded suspicious, I amended it, saying, in fact, we'd driven to the area at 11:30 AM. That seemed more credible. But I stuck to my claim that I had most certainly not been driving, which was also unlikely to hold up since the witness who had called in the complaint had reported someone napping in the driver's seat.

The cop then quizzed me about my girlfriend and her whereabouts. I told him she was a singer and “really fucking famous.” I asked him if he was familiar with Taylor Swift.

“I am,” he said.

"It's Taylor Swift," I said.

To this day I have never met Taylor Swift.

chest and back. They flashed in the dark, like small colored lights. I put my fingertip over the place on my chest where I saw it. I touched there, and I knew it was from her.

I was seven and a half. I remember seeing the outside of the icebox while I was inside it. It looked so alone there in the huge green yard with our awareness hidden inside it. I remembered the oranges that were always on top of the icebox at our house, soft, round, and orange-smeared-looking in my mind. Ned cried against me. The tiny light spot on my chest lit up his face, to see him by, one more time.

He remembered our daddy when he got his finger cut off that day when it snowed. He was cutting kindling for a fire. It was rare that it snowed in Mississippi. He had to cut the wood thin. It was orangish. The snow wouldn't usually last very long, only sometimes overnight. We cut out paper men and hung them in the heat just above the flames. We tortured them to talk about things.

[Fiction] I DO REMEMBER

From The Red Truck, by Rudy Wilson, which will be reissued this month by Cash4Gold Books.

I Ned died a year ago. We got inside an old icebox down by the creek near the little woods. Ned was six; he was small. The door closed with a metal click. We had Southern accents; we talked in the dark.

"There's no light in here," Ned said. "I want to get out now."

“We can’t,” I said. “We’ll have to wait till they find us. Mom’ll come soon. She’ll find us.”

We were in there for over an hour, whispering, quiet and close. We were naked inside our clothes, inside a white box, curled up. The thin rubber seal held the light and the air away from us.

We waited. Ned told me some of his animal dreams, his dreams about wings. He had pictures of wide-winged birds in crayon, in his room. He said, “I had wings once. A long time ago, before I was me, like I am now.”

I listened without answering. I felt I had always been myself.

I was there in the white darkness. Then I felt a mark, two marks, even with each other on my

[Twofer] ABOUT FACE

From a South Korean surgery-clinic advertisement that reads, from the top left, “Loyalty!” (a South Korean military greeting); “We say a man should have good-looking ‘eyes and nose,’ Sir!”; “Eye + Nose Plastic Surgery”; “Soldier 2-Procedure Combo”; along with the price, 1,584,000 won. An increasing number of South Korean soldiers are undergoing plastic surgery. Translated from the Korean by Yuna Chang.

Sickness as a Wonderful Part of It, a painting by Hulda Guzmán, whose work is on view this month at Turner Contemporary, in Margate, England.

"They'll be talking soon," I said to Ned.

We knew they didn't know. And when they didn't talk, they burned. The little men curled up, black. They screamed for their friends, and for their wives and children, and for themselves. They never wanted to die.

Daddy missed and hit his index finger with the hatchet. I saw him see it. I think at first it didn't hurt him. He saw the bone all the way through and the finger muscles. Then the blood pumped out. He grabbed it and held it to his chest. He clamped his teeth down and drew his lips back. He looked to Ned, who had seen. Ned's eyes were wide-open and brown. Daddy said, "Go get Mom. Hurry." The blood dripped on the snow on the ground by his knees.

"He fell to his knees, Billy-Billy. He held his hand like he didn't want to see it. His face got white. And sad. Mom came and helped him. He cried. Daddy cried."

© HULDA GUZMÁN. COURTESY THE ARTIST AND ALEXANDER BEROGRUEN, NEW YORK CITY. BENEDICTA M. BADIA COLLECTION

We rested on each other's shoulders as the air got used up. I felt separate from my body. My head felt grainy. I thought of her; I almost felt a hand in mine. Maybe it was Ned's. When the air started to be breathed twice, and three times, Ned passed out. My head felt like it could pop. I closed my eyes. I saw faces, like they knew something about me I didn't. Then I heard yelling and pushing forward. My heart pounded. I felt that I looked like an old man. I felt something darker than the darkness I was already in come closer. I yelled to Ned, but he was gone.

“Don’t die,” I said to myself. I saw the green yard behind our house so full of air. I opened my eyes as wide as I could. “Don’t die, Billy-Billy,” I said.

When the icebox was open, Ned tumbled out dead. He had a purple face from no air.

I was alive. I had bigger lungs.

I was in a tired, dreamy state for days afterward. My brain got heated up. I got caught in a nightmare: the man walked down the road, looking at the sky, feeling good. He looked at his feet in his old shoes. He stepped one more step—and fell in a hole. He climbed out and ran down the road to a friend's house—but he fell in another hole. Then he got out and went down the road to where the fat people live—and he fell in another hole. The dream in one of those holes were men with beards and with blood on their faces. They were all dead. I was in there, too. Someone was on top of me and had their arms around me. I struggled but they squeezed harder. I had someone's long hair in my mouth. I screamed and no one could hear.

Then it changed: I went deeper into darkness, where there was no air, where there were no people.

The sweat poured out of me; it was cold. Mama K said I cried out in my sleep. I woke up. I had been to the center of the earth.

"To the core," I said. "It's under the meadow, under the ground, and under that, deep down in the middle, it's smooth. It's made of iron. It was solid, but inside it, deep, is the oldest air in the world. I got to breathe it in, so I could live. That made me older than anyone alive."

My parents nodded at me. They shook their heads. "That's all right, Billy-Billy. That's okay. You slept awhile and had some dreams."

"They weren't dreams," I said. "It was real."

I looked up at them from my bed. The bed was high up off the floor. We had wooden floors with floor heaters in them, like flat grilles where the heat came through. I fell and cut a hole in my leg on one once. The sunlight came through the window. There were white curtains blowing a little behind my head. I turned and looked out the window at the green outside. It was good to be awake again.

My parents were standing and watching. Mama K sat in the corner of the room in her wicker chair. Her eyes would close from time to time for minutes at a time. Something was in my mind. It felt like a spoon. There was a shape in my head like that. I thought, Like a spoon.

I felt my thumbs were as big as the room, easily filling it up, and then it was so

"Honey," my mother said. She had Northern eyes. "Ned's buried, in the cemetery. At the Masonic Home, next to Aunt Stiva."

"In the ground?" I asked.

“Well, yes, he’s in the ground. We had to put him in the ground. He’s in something, though—in a coffin.”

She looked to me like her whole face had been hit by a big screen, making tiny dents over it—like a big flyswatter.

"We would have waited for you—but we didn't know. We had to go ahead." Mama K opened her eyes; I heard her whisper something to herself.

“He shouldn’t be in the ground,” I said. “How can he move or go anywhere like that?”

And I thought, It was just like it was in the icebox. I saw it again, standing huge. It got mixed up in my mind with the gravestone that would be at his place. I imagined the neighborhood kids drawing on the icebox door. NED IS DEAD. AGE SIX. HE STOPPED BREATHING INSIDE.

I remembered a day with my father and Ned and me, a day in the park where the white ducks walked in their green grass. We walked up near the merry-go-round. Ned and I had new crew cuts and new sunglasses. The ducks were so white. They crawled with orange feet and the sky was blue.

filling it up, and then it was so tiny at the same time. My mouth felt fuzzy. I felt I had been here before. Not here, not with these people or in this house or as a boy lying in a big white bed, but had been before. Then I lost it, I forgot what it was, and I was me, Billy-Billy. I still felt the spoon, but now softer, like it was watching me from a great distance.

I looked at Mama K's closed eyelids, old closed eyelids.

Her in the wicker chair.

It was summertime.

I felt her arms resting on its hard lines.

"Where's Ned?" I asked.

“Bless his little heart,” I heard Mama K say.

She was holding on to her chair with her spotted hands. She had white hair. It used to be red.

“Ned’s gone, Billy-Billy,” said my father. “We’ll never see him again.”

“Don’t say that,” said my mother.

“I remember,” I said. “I know. But where is he now?”

[Patent] THE MATTHEW PAGE METHOD

From U.S. Patent No. 12648600 B1, which was issued in June by the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office. The patent, assigned to Matthew Page of Russellville, Tennessee, describes a method for keeping one's pants from making contact with the floor while one sits on the toilet.

That morning we made a record for my mother in a studio. My dad held me up to the sun. He looked at me. The bright yellow was blocked by my new round head. He looked at my face. He held me.

His fingers were thick and he put me up on the wooden horse that had a painted face, and the hard, flowing, gray mane, and I rode. I looked for him at the curves. I had one hand free. I saw him through the darkened sunglasses that made everything look sharp and blue at the edge. He watched me. He stood there, strong, with his legs apart some. Ned was on another horse; now he was gone.

“You need to rest, son. You must need more rest,” my father said. “Mama K will stay with you. Me and your mom will be in our room if you need us.”

I could see how he was just like me, hurting, with that cut-off finger, and his son out there in the ground. I didn't say anything to him. He said something to Mama K when he left that I couldn't hear, but I thought I heard the word "Jesus."

There crops up, once, a hostile fact in your mouth—the hostile fact of your mouth—though it's not so much that, but that a friendly fact breaks down, and that you paste, paint, and pin your average grin all over that frown, while pushing away, then picking back up, then putting the below-mentioned phone off and on again, your staring blurring the closest things, effectively turning every tic into a high sign, when, at last, your card goes through, and you follow all your data out the door and amble home a bit too tipsy for rhythm, a crude and airy weirdness buoyed by themes and motifs in flames, the day, as each one takes one, fun as sin—there's lust in its hours!—your voice, once more, without force, and then, as if it never left, the taste of mask leaks back, and as for the sky, you're sure that that blue's been there forever, blue being the business end of reverence and all, while in that phone of yours, scores of elements squirm to afford you two sights—the first, the shoulder of an oriole in flight; the next, the swollen cores of particles.

After Ned was gone, I was with Mama K. She read to me. She listened to me read aloud. She said it was good. She shook her head up and down. "You read good, honey. I love to hear your nice voice." Then she told me about Jesus some more and how He likes children.

I said, “How come I’ve never seen Him, or even felt Him close if He takes care of kids?”

[Poem] CLOSE SECOND PERSON

By Graham Foust, from Close Second Person, which will be published this month by Flood Editions.

I liked Jesus' name. He seemed tall, white. I pictured Him on the water in the wind. I tried to remember if He had been with us in the icebox.

"He's in your heart," Mama K said. "Deep inside, where it's quietest. It's a different kind of seeing. It's a presence. If you don't feel it, it's okay, because He's there anyway. He loves you no matter what you do."

“No matter what?” I said.

"He loves you no matter what," Mama K said. "He can't help Himself."

I thought of people and their souls, like outlines, filled with colored lights, like Christmas lights, blinking on and off.

I said, "Are you gonna die soon, Mama K?"

She said, “I don’t know, Billy-Billy. I can’t say. Why don’t we take a walk down to the home and you can ride on the wheel—you can go round and round and round.”

Mama K was looking at me. She was a large woman. I felt she saw me as very small, a little person with a little soul, a small piece of something, the only piece left for her in this world. Her teeth were big and square. They were like the painted boards in the new room where my mother and father slept, away from us.

Mama K held my hand, and we walked down the road to where the dirt began. The road was littered with old paper cups and junk. Ned and I used to dig up metal things from under the clay. I once heard Mama K laughing about us digging up the missing orphans from the dirt road and Mom had said it was awful and Daddy had that glassy look and was nodding his head; they were all holding cold drinks on the screened-in porch. Usually we just found old bolts and one time a little colored top that still spun.

The children that lived at the home were almost never seen by me. But back behind the home was the cemetery with the narrow paths going in between the graves. I knew that Ned was in one, under the ground, by himself. I thought it would be interesting if two people were ever buried together in one box, two people who really liked each other.

I wanted to move the wheel to just over his grave so it could turn around and churn him up, pull him back so he could ride and keep hold this time.

Photographs by Maria Lax from the series Stray Sod, which was on view last month at La Sena Gallery, in Los Angeles. A book of the same title was published in June by Setanta Books.

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WHERE'S THE BEEF? The lab-grown-meat revolution that wasn't By Erin Somers

On August 5, 2013, a man and a woman ate a burger. Not just any burger: a world-historical burger, made from cattle cells grown in a lab by Mark Post, a professor of vascular physiology at Maastricht University in the Netherlands. The burger had taken two years to produce and cost \$330,000, money furnished by the Google co-founder Sergey Brin. Now it was being tasted in public for the first time at Riverside Studios in London, at an event attended by two hundred members of the press and livestreamed to thousands.

To make this particular burger, Post had extracted stem cells from the shoulder muscle of a living cow, then cultivated them in plastic containers filled with a nutrient-rich supplement called fetal bovine serum, which is derived from cow fetuses. The cells eventually became twenty thousand strands of tissue, which in turn be-Erin Somers is the author of the novel The Ten Year Affair. She lives in Beacon, New York.

came a single, five-ounce patty. Post believed that beef produced this way had the potential to dramatically reduce greenhouse-gas emissions and slow climate change. Raising cattle for consumption requires massive amounts of land and water—and massive amounts of feed grown at a high environmental cost. He projected that global demand for meat would soon outstrip our ability to produce it the old-fashioned way, at which point our food systems would become unsustainable. But that didn't have to mean a mass recalibration of our consumption habits or a global shift away from red meat. Post and his team had found another way.

Standing at a blond-wood island on an otherwise empty soundstage, Post lifted the kind of stainless-steel cloche usually found on a room-service cart to reveal his creation. The raw patty sat in a petri dish on a bare plate, where it shone wetly under the studio lights. With the ITV London anchor Nina Hossain presiding, a Cornish chef named Richard McGeown panfried the burger in sunflower oil and butter for two volunteer tasters: Josh Schonwald, the Chicago-based author of The Taste of Tomorrow: Dispatches from the Future of Food, and Hanni Rützler, an Austrian nutrition scientist. So precious was this meat that they were given just the one burger to share between them. It was served deconstructed, alongside a sesame-seed bun, lettuce, and tomato—showmanship to sell the burger a bit, give it context. The patty itself was reddish brown, flat, and perfectly circular. When Schonwald and Rützler cut it, the burger did not bleed.

The two of them ate with forks and knives, passing the plate, sawing off thoughtful bites. Chewing slowly. Afterward they rendered their verdicts. "I would say it is somewhere on the spectrum between a Boca Burger and McDonald's," Schonwald told a reporter from NBC. "The absence of fat makes a big difference. It has the texture, which I was not expecting. It was like an animal-protein cake." Rützler noted the burger's blandness to a reporter from Science. "There is room for improvement here," she said. At the end of the event, roughly \$150,000 worth of burger remained uneaten. But none of this stopped Post from predicting that meat cultivated in a lab would become a consumer product within the decade.

The event—the theatrical reveal, the PR spectacle—triggered a kind of gold rush. One hundred and forty companies sprang up in six continents, trying to replicate what Post had done with beef across a range of other species: chicken, pork, fish, even quail. Investment to the tune of \$3 billion flooded into the sector. True believers claimed that cellular agriculture would not only fight climate change and global food insecurity but also slow the spread of zoonotic disease and antibiotic resistance. A company called Upside Foods touted its plans to “set the new standard for meat” and to “make meat a force of good in the world.” A company called Vow created an enormous woolly-mammoth meatball, though no one was allowed to eat it, since the DNA came from a fossil and the company didn’t know whether it was actually fit for human consumption. The think tank RethinkX predicted that cultivated meat would decimate the U.S. beef industry by 2030, reducing demand for the conventional variety by a whopping 70 percent. As the organization wrote, “We are already on the cusp of the deepest, fastest, most consequential disruption in food and agricultural production since the first domestication of plants and animals 10,000 years ago."

And yet, despite the frenzy, the meat itself never arrived. The challenges were numerous. There was the exorbitant up-front cost of building manufacturing facilities and the daunting amounts of energy required to run them. There was the difficulty of producing sufficient quantities of the stuff, at a price point low enough for people to buy. There was the lack of a highly skilled workforce trained to operate the new technology. There were rounds and rounds of inspections by the Food and Drug Administration and the U.S. Department of Agriculture. There was even, occasionally, the unwanted appearance of rodent DNA in product samples, which happened to the companies Upside and Eat Just. After peaking in 2021, investment began to fall off. In 2023, the industry raised a measly \$177 million.

But it wasn't only venture capitalists who had started to grow skeptical of cultivated meat. The technology soon became a target of conservatives. The state governments of Florida, Alabama, Mississippi, Indiana, Montana, Nebraska, and Texas moved in quick succession to legislate against cultivated meat, passing laws that banned its sale, production, or both. Governor Ron DeSantis made a media event out of signing the Florida law, posing for pictures in front of a blood-stained cutting board piled high with steaks. "Take your fake lab-grown meat elsewhere," he said. "We're not doing that in the state of Florida." In 2024, the industrial biotech consultant Joel Stone told the New York Times that, if he had to put odds on it, the likelihood of the industry's producing even 10 percent of the meat supply in the foreseeable future "would be zero." Today, cultivated meat is available for purchase at just one store in the world: Huber's Butchery in Singapore, where customers can buy packages of lab-grown chicken shreds from a manufacturer called GOOD Meat.

These developments were inconvenient for me, a person who became obsessed with the prospect of tasting cell-grown meat just as the possibility of ever doing so seemed to recede before my eyes. I was enthralled by the story of the meat, which seemed to contain so much of what defined this era of American life: dubious techno-optimism, bombastic culture-war posturing, carnival oddities like the mammoth meatball. It presented a snarl of competing motives, a mix of altruism and cold-blooded striving for capital (nothing can ever exist just for the common good; it has to make someone a billionaire). There was also the fact that I had been a vegetarian for almost twenty years.

The last meat I ever ate was a hot dog at Shea Stadium in 2007. I don't remember how it tasted—probably like every other hot dog I had eaten before. I washed it down with an exorbitantly priced but very cold Budweiser in one of those metal bottles. I quit eating meat after that, not because the hot dog had been disgusting but because I didn't like the sensation of the inevitable bad bite, the periodic tangle with gristle or tendon or bone. Then my abstention grew into habit, and the habit was reinforced by other concerns: the catastrophic environmental consequences of industrial meat production; the creeping doubt, as I grow older, that I'm necessarily higher in the cosmic order than a chicken or a cow. But cultivated meat raised a compelling question. If you could subtract some of the downsides—make meat less destructive, engineer away its aesthetic flaws—what reason would there be not to eat it?

This question had begun to feel moot as the potential of cultivated meat grew less and less promising. But just when it seemed as though Post's vision would never be realized, encouraging news emerged out of a surprising place: North Carolina. In May 2024, when many of his peers were fleeing the sector, Jeff Bezos granted \$30 million through his Earth Fund to establish the Bezos Center for Sustainable Protein at North Carolina State University, an initiative dedicated to developing "dietary proteins that are environmentally friendly, healthy, tasty and affordable." The donation cemented the state's status as a new global center of the cultivated-meat industry. The Bezos Center would join the

North Carolina Biotechnology Center, an economic-development organization for the life sciences in Research Triangle Park.

On the commercial side of things, Believer Meats, an Israeli company producing cultivated chicken, had recently broken ground on a 200,000-square-foot manufacturing plant in Wilson, North Carolina. The plant would be the largest cultivated-meat facility in the world—capable, the company claimed, of producing twenty-one million pounds of engineered chicken per year.

Last fall, Believer received a “No Questions” letter from the FDA, indicating that the agency did not encounter safety concerns in its inspection of the facility. “We are proud to be commercializing in this state, creating high-quality manufacturing jobs and enabling us to realize our vision to lead food innovations that care for the planet,” said Believer’s then CEO, a man named (for real) Gustavo Burger, in a press release celebrating the milestone. I got in touch with the company shortly after. In a Zoom meeting with Heather Hudson, Believer’s chief product and growth officer, and Rodrigo Lavall, from sales and marketing, the two dangled the possibility of a ribbon-cutting ceremony. They could tentatively plan something and invite me down to visit.

The whole thing felt a bit Wonka-ish. No one from the press had been allowed inside the factory yet. Only a few professionals in the field had even toured it. Why should I get the golden ticket? But I tried not to question my good fortune. Excited by the prospect of exclusive access, I started planning a trip to the Triangle. If lab-grown meat had a future, I might find it there. Maybe, I thought, I'd even get to taste it.

On a mild day in early December, I arrived at NC State's sprawling campus, home to some forty thousand students. I expected it to be lively, teeming with kids, but it was eerily dead. Rohan Shirwaiker, the friendly, bespectacled director of the Bezos Center, met me in a pristine building where I didn't see a single student. Everyone, he explained, had gone home for the holidays.

Shirwaiker is an industrial engineer whose research interests run the gamut from cellular agriculture to the 3D printing of human tissue. With the supremely patient demeanor of a professor used to answering repetitive questions from the uninitiated, he walked me through a PowerPoint presentation about the center's work. It began with a technicolor image of a charcuterie board and a Winston Churchill epigraph from his 1931 experiment in future-casting, "Fifty Years Hence": "We shall escape the absurdity of growing a whole chicken in order to eat the breast or wing, by growing these parts separately under a suitable medium." Shirwaiker then clicked through to an infographic of a burger illustrating the center's mission. The bun was RESEARCH + DEVELOPMENT, ENGAGEMENT + OUTREACH, WORKFORCE

IF YOU COULD SUBTRACT SOME OF THE DOWNSIDES—MAKE MEAT LESS DESTRUCTIVE—WHAT REASON WOULD THERE BE NOT TO EAT IT?

DEVELOPMENT, and INTERDISCIPLINARY TEAMS. The lettuce was MATERIALS, PROCESSES, and SYSTEMS. The meat was PLANT-BASED, CELL-CULTIVATED, and FERMENTATION-MADE. The plate was PUBLIC-PRIVATE PARTNERSHIPS. The cheese was nothing.

The Bezos Center aims to address, as its website puts it, the “critical barriers and gaps” still dogging cultivated meat. The process has changed as the industry scales up. It’s no longer Post laboring over a single burger in his lab for years at a time. Cultivation now takes place in sterile factories that look more like breweries, with cells grown not in culture dishes but in giant, stainless-steel bioreactors. Producers have also moved away from feeding the cells with fetal bovine serum, which is expensive and requires harvesting cow blood from slaughterhouses (not exactly a good look for a cruelty-free alternative meat product). The industry now relies on what is referred to as “serum-free media,” or SFM, proprietary compounds that vary from company to company. Still, the basic science remains the same: in one typical version of the process, stem cells are harvested from a living animal via needle biopsy, then nourished in solutions containing glucose, vitamins, fats, minerals, proteins, and amino acids, which are swished around inside a reactor to ensure an even diffusion of nutrients. In these conditions, the cells divide, multiply, and differentiate just as they would inside an animal. They are ready for harvesting when they reach the desired density: roughly within two to eight weeks, depending on the species being cultivated.

But what also remains is one of the industry's fundamental challenges. You cannot simply grow a steak—yank it out of the reactor and slap it on the table at Peter Luger—because a steak contains multiple

kinds of tissue. At the moment, muscle and fat can only be cultivated separately, and typically they do not form solid matter but a semisolid slurry that must be taken from the reactors, washed, combined with other ingredients for flavor and texture, and extruded or 3D-printed into some-

thing you'd recognize as meat: a burger or a nugget or a meatball or a fillet. Some companies are trying to circumnavigate the slurry stage by building scaffolding inside reactors for cells to cling to, producing a firmer product. (Certain types of cells don't like floating in a tank all free like that. Tissue, I'm told, wants to adhere to bone.)

The cost of all this has come way down since Josh Schonwald called Post's burger an “animal-protein cake,” thanks to the isolation of starter cells with rapid doubling rates and breakthroughs in SFM that have made the process faster and more efficient, trends that scientists claim will only continue. But right now, cultivated meat is far more expensive than the real thing. At Huber's, in Singapore, the ominously named GOOD Meat 3, which contains only 3 percent chicken cells, retails for \$5.62 per four-ounce serving. Meanwhile, chicken at my local ShopRite, containing 100 percent animal cells, starts at \$3.49 per pound.

After the PowerPoint, Shirwaiker took me on a tour of the Bezos Center's brand-new protein lab, which was still being set up. It was spacious and filled with light, lined with 3D printers and a humming but empty stainless-steel fridge. The printers in particular were huge and impressive. I entertained a fantasy of being the person to load in the slurry and press the button, initiating the printing of a crab cake or something. The godlike feeling that might accompany that. From nothing: crab. But the lab was still in the early phases of assembly; cables dangled from the ceiling, waiting for equipment that had yet to be delivered. No one would be printing a crab cake for a while.

As Shirwaiker and I walked back to his office, we discussed the day's shocking headline: while I was traveling to North Carolina from my home in upstate New York, news broke that Believer Meats was being sued for \$34 million by Gray Construction, the firm that built its hulking factory in Wilson. Believer had recently defaulted on an agreement to pay Gray an installment of \$22 million. Maybe I should have seen it coming: after her initial enthusiasm, Heather Hudson, my contact at Believer, had ghosted me in the days leading up to my trip. When I followed up about the possible ribbon cutting—my golden ticket!—she said only, “It doesn’t look like our factory ribbon cutting will be aligned with your timeline.”

I asked Shirwaiker what all this meant. Believer Meats is a partner of the Bezos Center, along with many other startups. The cultivated-meat industry is collegial; there is a culture of amicable collaboration. So I expected him to have some kind of insider knowledge. But Shirwaiker was as surprised as I was. He thought that the plant was so close to opening that the staff just needed to turn on the lights and boot up the chicken vats. No one knows yet what happened at Believer, he told me. It's unclear whether the company will survive.

Before I left the Bezos Center, Shirwaiker introduced me to the concept of the Gartner Hype Cycle. To me, it had the ring of an old concept, a framework invented in the mid-twentieth century by an economist or a professor. But no: it was formulated in 1995 by a woman named Jackie Fenn, who worked at the consultancy firm Gartner. Its purpose, according to a YouTube video made by the company, is to help you—a savvy investor, the video assumes—“understand the real risks and opportunities of an innovation so you can avoid adopting something too early, giving up too soon, adopting too late, or hanging on too long.”

Shirwaiker showed me a chart to illustrate. The x-axis was time, and the y-axis was visibility. The cycle begins with an Innovation Trigger, when a new technology is introduced to great fanfare, then arcs upward toward the Peak of Inflated Expectations as excitement mounts. But this rise is inevitably followed by a dramatic fall, when investors realize how difficult it's going to be to actually

I BECAME PARANOID, STANDING IN FRONT OF THE ABANDONED PARKING LOT, THAT CULTIVATED MEAT WAS JUST ANOTHER LIE

commercialize the innovation. Later comes a gentler climb up the Slope of Enlightenment, when second- and third-generation products emerge, until, finally, we reach the Plateau of Productivity, the slow, unflashy development of the technology. If Post's burger was the Innovation Trigger, I asked Shirwaiker, where were we now? He circled the deep valley in the middle of the chart: the Trough of Disillusionment.

Before leaving campus, I tried Heather Hudson again. I let her know that I was in the area and asked if I should “stop by,” as though the Believer facility were a conveniently located coffee shop rather than a meat factory in the boonies. I immediately received an auto-response that her email account was no longer active. Then I thought, Fuck it, and decided to drive out to Wilson, about forty-five minutes from Raleigh. I’ll go see what’s up, I figured. I’ll talk to someone face-to-face, have some sort of confrontation with a person overseeing the plant—maybe even Hudson herself.

Rural North Carolina felt enormous, flat, and empty. The landscape was almost featureless; huge swaths of nothing streamed by, and then I hit factories. Believer was located among a loose cluster of manufacturing facilities. To get there, I had to turn off a main strip containing a Chick-fil-A, a Bojangles, a McDonald's, and a Best-N-Burgers. At one point, I yielded to the flashing lights of what I thought was an emergency vehicle, only to find, as it passed, that it was a pickup truck towing a meat smoker. I was surrounded by the stuff. I thought of Mark Post's prediction that demand for meat would soon outstrip our ability to produce it. Sometimes it seems that this will happen tomorrow.

What I found when I got to Believer was grimmer than I expected. Not a chipper-then-confused-then-annoyed desk clerk wondering who this was showing up at a meat factory without an appointment, but no one at all. The facility was deserted, gated: a royal-blue cube under a pale late-fall sky, millions of dollars of groundbreaking technology locked inside. There wasn't a single car in the lot on a Tuesday afternoon. I was struck with the brief, demented urge to scale the fence, but it was topped with barbed wire—and what was I going to do, anyway? Stare through the windows into an empty lobby?

There is a widespread feeling in this country that everything is a hoax or a Ponzi scheme, and this feeling is only reinforced by the news. The news that self-driving taxis, when they become confused, are actually operated remotely from the Philippines. The news that the mysterious invention that could scan your blood for any number of disorders was an era-defining scam. The news that the crypto entrepreneur who pledged to secure the longtime survival of the human race was actually stealing \$8 billion of his customers' money to fund his polycule in the Bahamas. I became paranoid, standing in front of the abandoned parking lot, that cultivated meat was just another lie, or a semi-lie, or a bluff. That the reason the meat was so difficult to get my hands on was that it did not exist. The possible implosion of Believer was disappointing not just because it represented a setback in the quest to reduce our carbon emissions and fortify our food systems against climate collapse, but because it seemed to confirm that we live in a cheap, mendacious world, where what passes for progress almost always turns out to be a confidence game.

The morning after my reconnaissance mission, more news broke: Believer was declaring bankruptcy and would shutter the factory in Wilson before it printed a single chicken strip.

I had timed my trip to North Carolina to coincide with the first annual Global Forum for Plant-Based and Alternative Proteins, held at the North Carolina Biotechnology Center. This was how I found myself cloistered among the faithful as their meat dreams unraveled in real time. All the local industry players were in attendance, and more had flown in from around the world. We were sitting together in NCBiotech's blandly carpeted lecture hall for the opening session, listening to optimistic remarks about international collaboration, an opaque joke about an extruder, a shout-out to "Ian in the back from the insect side," all the while knowing that the industry's biggest gambit yet had just failed. With Believer gone bust, I hoped to salvage a glimmer of optimism for the industry from the day's proceedings—or, at the very least, an honest assessment of what had gone wrong.

During a break in the program, everyone filed out and congregated in the atrium. We were in the Trough of Disillusionment, but we were also in the divot of gossip. We were in the furrow of hanging around outside the auditorium talking excitedly. We were in the ravine of wanting to know what the fuck had happened. I was surrounded by guys in crisp button-ups and thermal vests and navy-blue blazers. There were not a ton of women present. All around me speculation began to fly.

"There was a time about three or four years ago, post-pandemic, the money was so easy to come by. All you had to do was put a pitch deck together, and VCs would throw money at you."

"They have a pretty star list of investors."

"Yeah. That doesn't guarantee a success."

"They got the building up. The building is ready to, like, turn on."

"It's probably gonna be a liquidation. Again, we're all assuming. We don't know what the heck's going on."

"There's got to be some news out of Israel."

Later, we heard from venture capitalists who had no choice but to address the news head-on. "I mean, elephant in

the room: Believer Meats just down the road basically went out of business," said Steve Simitzis, from Replicator VC, a firm that invests in early-stage food-tech companies. "I don't have any information about it, but I would speculate that building factories around technology that isn't ready at scale is probably a cause." Well, duh, I thought. The VCs on the panel saw Believer as a cautionary tale. Don't scale too quickly. Lower costs. Make something consumers actually want to eat. All these observations were sensible, even obvious, and yet wasn't it also the case that the VCs themselves had pressured companies like Believer to expand rapidly in order to provide the returns they sought?

In the afternoon, we all tried to rally for a tasting of products by food startups. At last, I was sampling things. I drank some kind of fizzy peach tea. It was not immediately obvious to me what the innovation was, so I asked the young guy handing out

the cans about it. It's supposed to be refreshing, he said. Like after a run you can drink one and it won't make you puke. Curiously, though, there was no cultivated meat on offer. The Research Triangle may be an industry hub, but the product did not seem to be available here. The product was still a prototype, or the product was too expensive to give out as samples. The closest thing on hand was plant-based vegan meat. I tried wheat-based turkey and wheat-based pepperoni from a company called The

BE Hive. I tried “some kind of pulled meat,” as the person wheeling it out from the kitchen described it, from a company called Delight Soy. It had a stringy texture and was an orangish brown. I tried a fungi-and-soy-based salmon substitute from a company called Juicy Marbles. This one was very close to tasting like salmon. They’d gotten something right, everyone around me agreed. To our wonder and dismay, Juicy Marbles had nailed the fishiness. Probably algae in there, someone remarked. We nodded. Yes, probably algae.

The experience was nauseating, though the cube of salmon tasted good. Or rather, it would have tasted good if you could isolate taste from the other senses. Like, if you didn't see the morsel of fake fish, or feel it in your mouth, or smell its oily smell. And if you didn't also know that it was synthetic. The knowing added a layer of queasiness. The idea that they'd infuse soy with an unappealing smell for verisimilitude—a cloying, marine smell, like the hold of a fishing boat.

So all it would take for this thing to be palatable would be to experience it in a sensory vacuum and preferably context-free, or immediately after a blow to the head that wipes out everything you know about it. Then it would be pretty nice.

In January, a few weeks after my trip to the Research Triangle, a man ate a chicken sandwich. He ate two, actually: one made with conventional chicken and one made with a cultivated fillet. In a video of his visit to the Upside Foods factory in California, he stands next to a vat of swirling chicken cells. The cells are foamy, the cheerful yellow of Campbell's broth. The man's name is Jimmy Donaldson, though he's known more widely as the YouTube sensation MrBeast, and he thinks that cell-grown meat has a lot of advantages. "These chickens don't get diseases," says MrBeast. "So then you don't have to worry about a disease spreading on the farm and then you eating a sick chicken." When it's time to try to guess which sandwich is which, he can't do it. "I honestly can't tell," he says, before guessing wrong.

Watching the video on my phone, it irked me that MrBeast had tasted the meat. That should have been me standing next to the churning chicken water. For months I'd been trying to find cultivated meat on the East Coast; I had even considered buying it from Singapore on the gray market. Nothing panned out. Finally, Rohan Shirwaiker sent me details for a public tasting in the Bay Area held by Mission Barns, another partner of the Bezos Center. It would take place at the supermarket Berkeley Bowl West, which had previously sold a limited run of the company's meatballs.

On a Friday in February, I flew out to San Francisco and cabbed over to the Mission Barns office, which was located in SoMa, on a desolate and unlovely block of warehouses. Not many Waymos swooping by out there, but at least it felt appropriately industrial, with the office upstairs and bioreactors below. Not that I got to see them: when I asked, I was gently rebuffed with the excuse that the company was in the process of moving to a larger facility in Alameda. I felt the ambient paranoia I'd experienced in North Carolina start to kick in again. After the collapse of Believer, Mission Barns seemed like one of the American companies closest to having its products on grocery-store shelves. At the end of last year, it received USDA approval for its cultivated pork fat. At the time of my visit, its products included bacon, pepperoni, meatballs, and a couple varieties of sausage.

Bianca Le, a smiley, put-together Australian and the then head of external affairs at Mission Barns, took me up to the company's third-floor office, which contained a large kitchen on one side. As we sat at the wood island, she told me about the origin of the cells for all of the company's cultivated fat: a single Yorkshire pig named Dawn who was still, per the company's marketing materials, "happily roaming free" in an animal sanctuary in upstate New York, not far from where I live. Dawn reminded me of Dolly the Sheep—a mascot for something much larger than herself. One wants to picture her soulful.

"Can I ask how Dawn was selected?" I said, hoping to hear something about Dawn as a superior specimen, the fattest, happiest, healthiest, smartest pig in America.

“Yeah, honestly, it’s not that interesting of a story,” said Le. “It’s just that she was available.”

The Mission Barns cultivation process takes about two weeks. At the end, they drain the bioreactors until they are left with just the fat slurry. “It’s white, it’s semisolid, it’s really pasty,” Le said. That slurry is then combined with plant protein to create the final product, which typically contains less than 10 percent animal cells per serving. I tried to understand how they got the fat out of one container and into the next, miming a large scoop or shovel, but this part was a secret. The company’s ultimate goal, Le told me, wasn’t even to sell products but to license the system itself.

Mission Barns' then CEO, Cecilia Chang, appeared: another smiley, put together Australian. As she joined us at the counter, I asked her about the biggest challenges the company faces. "The timeline on being able to get costs down fast enough to get to a point of profitability," she said. "The technology is there, but investors have really aggressive timelines." Chang also mentioned a newer hurdle: the distrust of food science stoked by Trump's secretary of health and human services, Robert F. Kennedy Jr. Still, the industry was trying to look at Kennedy's Make America Healthy Again movement as an opportunity rather than as a disaster. After all, MAHA is focused on protein; Kennedy's new, inverted food pyramid features steak at the very top. And although the movement broadly disdains processed foods, Chang told me, it may appreciate that cell-cultivated meat is usually organic and antibiotic-free. I recalled the lay wisdom of MrBeast: "These chickens don't get diseases."

As we chatted, Zachary Tyndall, Mission Barns' product-development and culinary manager, prepared some meat for me in a skillet. Tyndall is a former chef who once worked at the three-Michelin-star restaurant Noma, an apprenticeship that seemed unnecessary for the level of cooking involved here. He used a spatula to roll a single meatball around in a pan. The meat was a pale, pinkish beige, like real pork. It's not that different from cooking conventional meat, he told me, though maybe a little bit quicker, since the company's meatballs are precooked and only need reheating. It smelled savory, like food, and indeed, it was food. I'll give it that.

I received my meatball on a tastefully speckled earthenware plate. Though nearly delirious with excitement, I tried to zoom out for a second and glimpse the situation with objectivity. I was looking at a single small meatball in the middle of a plate in a chilly, industrial office thousands of miles away from home. This was what I had elected to pursue over the course of months with single-minded determination. With all eyes on me, I used the fork to cut it in half and took a bite.

The taste. The taste was not terrible. It was seasoned, oregano-heavy. It even had a kick. Everyone was watching as I chewed, so I feigned deep consideration, the way you do when the waiter brings you a sample of wine at a restaurant. "Hmm," I mused. I am contemplating the tasting notes, my face said. I am weighing the mouthfeel. I tasted the salami too, which looked exactly like regular salami. It tasted like salty paper. Salty paper with a kick—they're good about putting in the kick. I could not find much to say to Chang and Le about the meat, though I tried. The phrase "blandly inoffensive" came to mind. The word "anticlimax" came to mind. This was what I had come all this way for? To eat something that felt like mushy cardboard in my mouth?

"It's good," I managed to tell them. Then, suddenly, the nausea hit, a taste of vomit in the back of my throat. It was the Juicy Marbles effect again. The problem was not the flavor, not the texture, but the knowing. The Knowing. Knowing about the fat tank, about the sticky white substance. The envisioning of the scoop. The knowing about Dawn, an ordinary pig who was available, and the extraction process that took her cells. Earlier, I'd thought this feeling was triggered entirely by Juicy Marbles' ersatz fish odor, by its inherent artificiality. I hoped it would be different with the cultivated meat, which was, in the end, an actual animal product, at least in part. But no. If anything, it was worse.

After I left Mission Barns, I walked around San Francisco for two hours trying to quell my seasickness: up into its peaks of inflated expectation, down into its troughs of disillusionment. Perhaps the nausea was not related to the product. Perhaps it was just meat, any meat, after so long an abstention. In conceiving my cultivated-meat journey, I'd assumed this product was kind of for me: a longtime vegetarian with loosely held convictions. I had also assumed my nineteen-year clean slate would be an asset. No biases here, just detached curiosity. But I was wrong. What it had actually done was put me out of touch with the taste of meat. I couldn't really remember what it was supposed to taste like. I needed a control group.

At a red-sauce Italian restaurant across the street from my hotel near Union Square, I sat at the bar and ordered tagliatelle with pork meatballs. When my food arrived, there were five large meatballs nestled into the pasta, a truly conspicuous portion. It seemed—irrationally, I know—that everyone in the restaurant was looking at me, a woman alone about to go in on a giant bowl of meat. I ordered a glass of red wine to try to get in the spirit. I was psychedelically nauseous at this point, barely holding it together. I didn't really want to eat the meatballs. At the risk of exaggeration, I've maybe never wanted to eat something less. But I would never know how close the cultivated ones came to the real thing unless I did it. So I followed the same process from earlier in the day. Cut one in half. Took a bite. Affected the seriousness of a wine connoisseur.

The real meatballs were richer and wetter. I ate one and a half and tried to draw up the sensation of the cultivated ones. Did they taste reasonably similar? Which was better? What would a butcher think? A cattle rancher? A gourmand? A very hungry person? I suddenly noticed a Sophia Loren movie that was being projected silently onto a wall of the restaurant.

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What, I wondered, would Sophia Loren think of the fake meatballs? I was really unmoored now, rocking on a boat inside my own stomach. Seeking clarity, I came away more confused than ever—not just about why I had decided to do this, but the entire project of cell-grown meat. Who was the imagined consumer of this product?

I didn't finish my bowl of meatballs, needless to say. But I did finish the wine.

The next day at Berkeley Bowl West, a large grocery store across the Bay, I watched a couple dozen customers line up to taste the meatballs. Le explained that Mission Barns has a fan base, people who follow the company's progress and register for events in advance. Here, a new contingent of the public revealed itself to me: my fellow cultivated-meat-curious. They were young and slightly goth. They were Gen Z vegans with lip rings and huge black pants that flapped in the wind. Aside from these devotees, the crowd was made up mostly of people who happened to be at the grocery store for other reasons: Saturday shoppers, parents with kids in tow, people in athleisure. It was a warm and sunny February morning, a good day for a free sample. Passersby queued up, mildly interested.

Previous tastings had drawn protesters. In 2024, the week before the Florida cultivated-meat ban went into effect, Upside Foods hosted the Freedom of Food pop-up, a tasting on a Miami rooftop that was pitched as a protest of the new law. A chef from Caja Caliente, a restaurant in Coral Gables, made chicken tostadas with chipotle crema while a group of conventional-meat zealots parked a van in front of the venue's entrance. The van was affixed with a huge LED screen displaying criticism of lab-grown meat. NO LONG-TERM HEALTH STUDIES, it read. SECRET CHEMICAL FORMULAS.

But nothing like that happened in Berkeley. Tyndall stood at a hot plate, gamely rolling the meatballs around a pan and placing them into small bamboo trays. As the samples were distributed, I made myself eat another one to see if my reaction would be the same as the day before. Instantly, I was clobbered by the Knowing, but around me, muffled sounds of approval rose from the crowd. A few people told me, shrugging, that the texture seemed right. A child, maybe two years old, accepted a meatball from her dad. She ate it happily, bobbing around like little kids do, with no objection.

A woman in a fleece jacket walked around asking tasters to fill out a survey on an iPad. She was an independent researcher conducting a study on consumer acceptance of cultivated meat for Tufts University. After the science, this is one of the biggest challenges to the product's long-term success. Do people actually want to try it? Do they want to incorporate it into their diets? According to a report published last year by the Good Food Institute, a nonprofit dedicated to promoting alternative proteins, only 18 percent of Americans find cell-cultivated meat extremely or very appealing, and almost 60 percent say they are somewhat or very unlikely to buy it. Interest typically decreases with age and increases with educational attainment, which tracked with my own observations. The goth college students were the most excited by the meatballs, but even they were muted in their praise. No one said “I love it” or “Hell yeah” or declared it a triumph. I did not hear the word “yum.”

I found myself talking to Chi Dixon, Berkeley Bowl West's marketing and communications manager. She told me that the store was excited to stock these products. (When they sold a limited run of Mission Barns meatballs in the fall, they were priced at \$13.99 for a tray of eight.) Dixon guided me past the granola and local bread and legumes to show me where the store planned to stock cultivated meat in the future. "It's on the nose," she said, but it would go right between the veggie burgers and the real ones. To me, this seemed like the inevitable destination for these products: a niche shelf in the refrigerated aisle, the Impossible Burger's quirkier cousin.

The days of cultivated meat as a possible panacea for climate change are long gone. Many of the industry's biggest players—the ones still in business, anyway—are now embracing a more modest role in our food system. Since I tried its meatballs earlier this year, Mission Barns has announced a new strategy: it is pivoting from retail to wholesale and developing new products that will combine plant protein with conventional pork fat—to be replaced by their own, cultivated fat only once they've achieved a certain scale. Elsewhere, cellular agriculture is being used to create exclusive novelty items that could be fairly described as Frankenmeat, whereby their freakiness and limited availability are not liabilities but rather the selling points. Vow, the Australian company behind the mammoth meatball, has also developed a variety of Japanese quail foie gras as part of its objective to craft meats “unconstrained” by “the limits of nature.” Why, one might wonder? No real reason, except that they can. This, at least, feels like a more fitting use for cultivation technology and a more honest reflection of the ecosystem that has financed it. “From a bird so petite, a quail foie gras was simply impossible—until now,” reads the copy on Vow’s website. Notably, the company’s marketing materials make no mention of climate change, sustainability, or even animal welfare.

This isn't to say that engineered food needs to be virtuous to justify its existence. Before I left Berkeley Bowl West, Dixon gave me a tour of the store's produce section, which was filled with the inordinate splendor of California. There must have been twenty varieties of crazy-looking mushrooms. She insisted I take two Sumo Citrus oranges—the ones with the bump on top—back home with me. Sumos aren't naturally occurring; they were created in the Seventies by Japanese scientists who crossbred two citrus hybrids in a bid to produce a more flavorful, seedless fruit that might sell better than existing varieties.

I peeled a Sumo and ate it as I walked through Berkeley. The afternoon was hot and windy, but the orange was sweet, hydrating, refreshing. Enormous and delicious. It was one shade paler than a traffic cone, with a palm-filling heft. It was perfect: a perfect example of an orange. A miracle, really, how it had just been handed to me.

1 9 7 2

PRIME MEAT

By Vance Bourjaily

There is no question in my mind, after five years of raising all the meat my family eats and comparing it with what is served in restaurants and other homes, that Americans buy, at high prices, and eat, in incredible quantities, the worst-quality meat possible.

What I should say about beef is in Larousse Gastronomique, the encyclopedia of cookery: "The best meat, especially for roasts, comes from five- to six-year-old, grass-fattened oxen." But the beef you'll eat tonight and most other nights will come from an animal aged less than two years that never saw much grass in his life. Operating as much as possible like a feudal lord with regard to my own lands and herds, I have nevertheless not yet been able to afford to keep a steer going past the age of about three and a half.

The land and feed are expensive, the family gets hungry, and the big, well-grown animal uses pasture in proportion to his size. At the same time, the weight gain for an animal on grass is very slow. We can, and do, put on about the same amount again with some winter months' diet of hay and grain, the great quantities of hay assuring that the weight won't go on too quickly. The grain, which is necessary for nicely finished meat, goes in slowly enough that the fat will be distributed all through the tissues and not be simply a thick, separate layer covering scrawny meat.

At three to four, our steers, raised on grass and properly finished out, give us flavor, length of bone, and meat that is both firm and tender, meat that can take a certain amount of aging before it is cooked or frozen. Every cut is good: the brisket and chuck no less than the sirloin, round, and ribs. And filet mignon, those chunks of meat that in American restaurants cost the most and generally have a flavor somewhat less pleasant than that of good-grade hamburger—regains here its stature as the supreme morsel, not the puzzlingly overrated one.

My villainy is this: each year we keep out the steers we want for ourselves and sell the rest. Those we sell are seven or eight months old and have recently

been weaned. They are sold at auction to men who operate feedlots. Thus I represent, on a very small scale, the first link—it's called a cow-calf operation—in the bad chain. Those auctioned steers spend the next four to eight months in pens in the feedlot, fed all they will eat of grain, day after day, until they reach the weight of nine hundred pounds (Good), a thousand pounds (Choice), or twelve hundred (Prime).

That's all the grading system is any longer; once, it reflected whether an animal had matured properly, and therefore it meant something in terms of meat quality. Now all it tells is how many days he's been on “full feed”—that is, not what his true growth is, but how grossly overweight he is. Those who advocate a return to a grading system based on culinary quality should give up opium; the best you could do, without changing the national rearing system, would be U.S. Fat, U.S. Fatter, and U.S. Fattest.

When my calves come off grass for the winter, they have a limited tolerance for grain but unlimited appetites for it, rather like the way neurotic children can be with regard to sweets. Only by starting with small amounts and gradually building up the animal's tolerance can his digestive system be so adjusted that he can eat grain all day long without simply getting sick and dying of indigestion.

So this is what is done. The cattle are nursed onto full feed, a monstrously unnatural diet, and the kind of grain used simply varies with what crops happen to be raised in the feedlot operator's part of the country. In almost any part of our country, there will be other things mixed in besides straight grain—soybean meal, for example, which is very oily and fattening but makes a poor-colored fat from the standpoint of the polltaker in the butcher shop. Plastic pellets, which stay permanently in the stomach once eaten and thus curb the appetite for roughage, are used by some really progressive operators. Various chemicals are added, of course—some to protect health, others to stimulate growth. But the additives and their possible effects are not my concern here. I am more interested in the savor of what I eat than in cholesterol levels.

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REGARDING THE PAIN OF UGGOS

A weekend at the Ugly People Festival

By Barrett Swanson

Every September, the World Association of Ugly People—also known as the Club dei Brutti—holds its annual festival, both to celebrate its members' physiognomic repellence and to administer an election for the new club president, an appointment conferred not only for outer unsightliness and lackluster genetics but apparently also for the candidate's full-throated shamelessness, for it turns out that what matters most in this electoral contest is not the grievousness of the candidate's appearance but rather their willingness to lionize their ugliness, which they usually communicate with the tootings of a trumpet. Clad in ill-fitting suits and red and black top hats—like the rumpled couture of

Laurel and Hardy—the members of the Club dei Brutti parade through the linden-lined streets of rural Piobbico, a small medieval hamlet in the central part of Italy, between the Apennine Mountains and the Adriatic Sea. While the parade takes place on Sunday and will consecrate this year's election, today is still Saturday, which has mostly been given over to loads of sodden carousing, to say nothing of the inductions of the aspiring club members.

Right now, we are standing in line under a melodrama of starlight and are waiting to have our appearances mercilessly assessed. With me in line is a horde of sozzled Italians, and we're loitering near the door of the Club dei Brutti headquarters, a dim, brick-walled structure no bigger than a walk-in closet. In the fairy-tale town center over to our immediate left, clusters of Piobbicoans are grooving with enthusiasm, pulsating near a lit stage with a young headsetted DJ, who herself is head-bobbingly stoic and who for some reason keeps blasting noisome Top 40.

Inside the cavernous headquarters, all the walls are tessellated with Club dei Brutti propaganda, posters emblazoned with appearance-related exhortations such as TO BE PRETTY IS SUCH A SUFFERING! OR THE VALUE OF A MAN

Barrett Swanson is a contributing editor of Harper's Magazine and the author of Lost in Summerland. His most recent article for the magazine, “High and Dry,” appeared in the February 2025 issue.

IS NOT HIS APPEARANCE. On the far wall, another adage contends that WHEN IT COMES TO LOVE, THE UGLY IS WORTH DOUBLE, which, as my interpreter tells me, is not a gauzy Hallmark sentiment but is actually supposed to be sort of euphemistically prurient and refers instead to the renowned sexual prowess of the especially unattractive.

There are also dozens of framed portraits of tuxedoed club members—walleyed gentlemen with jack-o’lantern dentition or dour-mouthed women with Hitchcockian expressions, to say nothing of several headshots of top-hatted children, for it turns out that (no kidding) there’s a version of this club for the youth of this village, a winsome little parliament of gap-toothed, unibrowed urchins. “You know how people always say that there’s no such thing as an ugly child?” Benedetta Aluigi says. Daughter to the current club president and a de facto mascot for all Bruttis everywhere, Benedetta is actually inarguably pretty and bears a ticklish resemblance to a young Monica Lewinsky. “Well, that’s not true!” Benedetta says. “Some babies are ugly! But that’s okay. That’s okay. Let’s normalize it, no? Because maybe someday they will be pretty. But maybe someday they won’t.”

Piobbico has been known for its supposedly hideous citizens ever since the late 1870s, when the Club dei Brutti was first established, and when, as local wisdom has it, the town was surfeited with downtrodden spinsters, whose fathers were apparently so worried about their daughters' matrimonial futures that they petitioned their intrepid mayor to start a matchmaking service, connecting their homely offspring with similarly plain-featured bachelors. In the intervening century and a half, the organization has bloomed to include over thirty thousand members, each of whom, upon their entrance into the organization, will have their echelon of ugliness painstakingly assessed, culminating in the reception of one of the following designations: "not defined," "insufficient," "not bad," "good," "excellent," and finally, at the top of this inverted hierarchy, straordinaria, or "extraordinary," a pronouncement I imagine is given with a Vanna White-type flourish. By the middle of the twentieth century, the club had transcended its conjugal ambitions and under the aegis of a person named Telesforo Iacobelli (pronounced: ee-ah-co-belly), who resuscitated the club in 1963, began to bring awareness to the plight of the ugly, who were, as he alleged, unfairly disadvantaged by the cult of appearance.

At the back of the headquarters, one fortysomething woman named Nicoletta—who has a towheaded toddler barnacled to her torso—tells me that she’s been a member of the club since she was an adolescent because, as she suggests, “all good Piobbicoans join when they’re still children.” I confess that as an American I feel a certain accretive uneasiness in so casually discussing one’s ugliness, if only because we see such categories as historicized and porous and so there’s no reason we couldn’t regard everyone as some gradation of beautiful. At this, Nicoletta’s face crumples, like a queen who’s just been made to suffer the naïveté of her vassal. “No,” she says. “Nature is not equal.”

It's a sentiment that gets echoed by a squat septuagenarian man whose name, I am told, is Carlo. While kindly patting my forearm with ecclesiastical forbearance, he treats me to a little colloquium on the linguistic theory of structuralism, which posits that language only obtains its meaning through binary oppositions: "You need the ugly to appreciate the beauty," he says. "Otherwise you don't understand anything." He suggests that having reconciled yourself to the realities of your appearance, you can actually begin to foster a program of other values. "There was a time when our club was on television a lot, but now society seems to refuse all our many statements. All the fashion, all the products—if you don't speak about beauty, you don't sell anything. Even the advertisements for food! Okay, but now I will tell you something," he says, leaning into my clavicle and speaking sotto voce. "The best-tasting things in life? They're actually ugly—including, you know, the women." Reveling in this priapic innuendo, he elbows my ribs fraternally and waggles his dark eyebrows with lustful connotation.

Hoping to avoid a situation in which I'm made to grimace through a Proustian recollection of Carlo's various sexual experiences, which his unctuous, grinning expression seems unambiguously game for, I turn now to the woman next to him and ask if her thoughts on appearance have changed as she's gotten older. She responds with an aria of an unbudging amor fati, a kind of enviable resignation not heard much in the United States. "You need to accept yourself," she says. "I do this by looking in the mirror and acknowledging that I got older. It's normal, and it's okay. But there are people who use Botox, and they lose pieces of themselves. I always say: First, you swell. Then, you deflate. Here's the thing—years pass, wrinkles arrive, and they are nice, too, so I will take them with me."

At the back of the headquarters, evaluations and inductions are boisterously under way. I soon learn that ugly assessments can be executed by any standing member, which in this case means a trio of brash teenagers.

Each wears a set of glinting braces and a Club dei Brutti T-shirt. I watch as one fiftysomething man named Maurizio—who is dark-eyed and whippet-thin, a poor man's Adrien Brody—performs a little runway spin for this squad of unsmiling judges. One of the boys rubs his chin contemplatively, and then, with an auctioneer's velocity, distills Maurizio's deficits to a swift "excellent" rating, "because," as the boy alleges, "you are really and truly ugly." At first, Maurizio's posture deflates, and he plods back to his waiting partner like some sort of jilted Charlie Brown. Jesus, I think, this is not what I was expecting. The onlookers around me seem cowed and guilty, as if they were all somehow complicit in this wounding evaluation. But then something wonderful happens. Because it turns out that old Maurizio was stunting. He'd been feigning desolation. His shamefaced posture soon utterly reverses, and he offers us an impish grin, pointing at all the onlookers, as if to say, Ha, I got you, man! The room now explodes with a glissando of laughter, and old Maurizio repeats gleefully, as though in a trance, “I’m really and truly ugly! I am really and truly ugly.”

No longer simply facing middle age but squarely on its doorstep, I confess that in the weeks leading up to my trip to the Club dei Brutti, I had begun to take stock of the status of my appearance, a dispiriting little inventory of age-related erosion. While people tend to tell me that I'm handsome—and by “people” I mean my friends and mom (persons who, either by genetic ties or social agreement, are more or less forced to brightly extend this offer)—I had nevertheless taken note of the arrival of fresh blemishes and decisive chinks in the armor. Partly this was owing to those slow hostilities of living—sun exposure and aging; my Henry VIII-type diet—but it was at least equally attributable to my job as a university professor, whose burdens and responsibilities were so onerous and extreme that I'd begun to resemble a hound dog with a six-martini hangover.

As someone who was aging with a Dorian Grayish velocity, and who has thus periodically struggled with extreme feelings of dysmorphia (I'm bald, have drooped cheeks, and diet and exercise compulsively), I found myself interested in how the Club dei Brutti was challenging or interacting with American views of appearance, which had lately begun to strike me as vexing and insidious. This was most glaringly apparent during conversations with my students—bright-eyed collegians of various ages and genders—who tended to speak disapprovingly of contemporary notions of beauty. Somewhat counterintuitively, many of them pilloried things like “body positivity,” which they felt created a scenario in which, if you considered yourself to be unattractive, you not only felt bad about the status of your appearance but then also felt doubly bad for feeling bad about it. In other words, in its clutches, you not only lacked beauty but also virtue and wholeness.

As a result, some of them were embracing what's called “body neutrality,” which was intended to celebrate mobility and functionality (which unwittingly left disabled folks in an obvious conceptual bardo), and which nevertheless still struck me as curiously body-focused. (It should go without saying that even those students who considered themselves to be progressively body neutral tended to remain subscribers to fitness and beauty influencers, who couched their own appearance-centric regimens within either the idiom of self-care or the rhetoric of wellness.) All this was occurring at a moment when the rate of plastic surgery was historically

unprecedented, when one of my nineteen-year-old female students openly considered Botox and when a same-aged male student as-cetically pursued ketosis.

And yet perhaps the most brow-furrowing development in the whole looks-related swivet was an underacknowledged phenomenon that scholars were calling “lookism,” an issue that had been taken up by David Brooks in a meaty New York Times article in which he be-moaned our apparent tolerance for discrimination based on appearance:

Why are we so blasé about this kind of discrimination? Maybe people think lookism is baked into human nature and there's not much they can do about it. Maybe it's because there's no National Association of Ugly People lobbying for change.

On the second day of the festival, I trundle down to the town center for the election's opening ceremony.

What with its cobblestone streets and immaculately kept buildings, Piobbico almost seems like a fictional village, where svelte Italian men wordlessly sweep their storefronts and ancient adorable grandmothers sing while pinning up laundry. I'm supposed to meet up with Gianni Aluigi, who's been the club president for more than a decade and who's agreed to give me a primer on the group's oddball tenets.

A short, pudgy man with a shoe-polish goatee, Gianni greets me at club headquarters with a restive, avuncular energy. He wears a T-shirt emblazoned with the phrase UGLINESS IS A VIRTUE. BEAUTY IS SLAVERY and lights a fresh cigarette, which he puffs locomotively. Retreating now into the dim, brick-lined interior, he saunters over to a voting booth to cast the inaugural ballot and then announces, somewhat

grandiloquently, that the election can now commence.

In this year's election, there are six official candidates for Club dei Brutti president, whose pictures have been arranged in a Brady Bunch-type grid and all of whom go by their own jocular monikers. There is, for instance, Poldo, a man whose real name is Daniele Isabettini, who has been heralded the Ugliest Man in Italy for as many years as he's been a member. When speaking about Poldo's appearance, the other members seem sort of cavalierly malicious: "He is in fact quite ugly," Benedetta says; "We've been searching high and low," Gianni says, with a kind of Borscht Belt patter, "but we will probably not find anyone whom we would consider uglier." While this brass-tacks candor may offend your sense of etiquette, this sort of allergy to equivocation happens to be one of the central tenets of the Club dei Brutti ethic. Contrary to the American tendency, which has been to broaden the definition of beauty to encompass more or less everything, the Piobbicoans are trying to countenance the brute realities of appearance and want us to think about ugliness as we would any other feature—“He has brown hair. He has blue eyes. And, oh yeah, he is ugly.”

Gianni tells me that humor is the expedient to this radical self-acceptance. Hence the deployment of these deprecatory epithets. Hence the garish tuxedos and comically oversize top hats. By gleefully playing up their self-professed hideousness—and thus thumbing their noses at their country's cult of appearance—they are attempting to take the venom out of reckoning with one's ugliness and thus clear the way for other self-definitions. I'm told that Poldo, for instance, has been intrepidly trying to capitalize on his dubious physical distinction, not only by auditioning for movie roles as hoboes and slasher villains but also by producing an annual Ugliest Man Calendar, presumably styled after those that feature your typical firehouse beefcake or your Harlequin-cover Goliath.

And yet for all the thigh-slapping hilarity, Gianni tells me that many people have reached out to the club in the murk of suicidal depression. Rummaging through an elderly, squeaking cabinet, he unearths a whole ream of disheveled correspondence, typewritten letters jaundiced with agedness, several of which have been appended with faded, black-and-white portraits. One reads:

I don't have any real friends nor any real female friends. In fact, I've never had a girlfriend. Especially with the girls, I am awkward in their presence.... Maybe this is why I never had my "first time." I'm literally garbage.... I walk like a policeman ... my eyes are blue and protruding ... my mouth is very slight.... I'm so despondent that if I close my eyes for a moment, I only wish to die ...

In the resultant silence, I ask Gianni whether he himself has ever felt similarly disconsolate. “I did have a problem with my height,” he says, “and when it came to bullying, the kids would always get on me for being very short.” As to whether there are any other features about which he still feels insecure, he points to his hairless scalp and gives an insouciant smirk.

At this point, something very strange happens, because when I proceed to doff my frost-colored ball cap and thereupon expose my own glabrous baldness, Gianni doesn't interpret this as I had intended—a decorous little olive branch of unconfident commiseration—but instead seems to interpret it as some sort of physiognomic challenge. This explains why he's now jerking up his shirtsleeves to reveal very thick shoulder hair, and I, who seem to have somehow wordlessly assented to the terms of this transatlantic shame-off, can do nothing but hoist my own shirtsleeve to uncertain my deltoid's fur. In turn, Gianni seems miffed by the impressiveness of my body's deficits and pulls up the waistline of his Club dei Brutti T-shirt, exhibiting for our inspection two sadly pallid man paps,

each of which is densely sweatered with a cashmere of his chest hair. Let me go ahead and admit that one time a romantic partner, during what were supposed to have been those loving horizontal assurances that attend a round of coitus, confessed to me that my pectoral muscles were so lycanthropically covered with very dark chest hair that she'd been internally referring to me with a special bedroom moniker, which was, apparently, no kidding, "the shedder." This is why I'm not about to be outdone in the category of overgrown chest hair.

In the end, our protracted exhibitionism has apparently provoked in two bystanders a kind of therapeutic domino effect, because they themselves are soon succumbing to their own commiserative undressing (pulling up their shirtsleeves and unchatting their bald heads), prompting us all to start laughing with untranslated understanding (in the corner, my interpreter has been watching all of this with a kind of headshaking puzzlement), at which point it seems that we've all passed some sort of physiognomic test, because Gianni now claps me on the back of the neck and tells us that it's time for our Club dei Brutti inductions.

It might be strange to admit, but for all the eccentric rituals of the Ugly Club Festival, the one I found most enticing, upon first learning of this event, was the ceremony for inducting the aspiring club members. Perhaps you will find such an evaluation to be retrograde or vicious, yet it's hard to see how it's any worse than all our many tech platforms, through which we've now come to regard one another with even chillier forms of assessment. I mean, how many of us on dating apps will reject hundreds of faces a day? How many of us still engage in such knee-jerk physiognomy?

For an even more hair-raising example of this trend, I'd invite you to hit up the r/truerateme subreddit, which has over thirty thousand weekly visitors and where legions of your fellow citizens will submit unsmiling facial portraits, all with the hope of procuring brazen judgment. What is so especially upsetting about these posts—dozens of new ones every day—is the humorless desperation that animates each request, a kind of woeful supplication for frankness and recommendations. One characteristic entreaty, coming from a Reddit user named lil-salami, says, “[M18] just curious on where I stand aesthetically and any pointers or comments would be greatly appreciated,” a message that is accompanied with a trinity of pictures featuring a shaggy-haired young man who looks like Timothée Chalamet. One user replies: “7.5 particularly good buccal/jaw area, lips and strong chin, flatter brow ridge would make you 8+ potentially but still.” Another poster, named Confused-everyday, who herself is fist-bitingly pretty, an unequivocal dead ringer for the actress Priyanka Chopra, says, “[29f] honest, constructive criticism and advice please!... I cannot afford surgical treatments currently but hopefully can in the future! I'd appreciate both Softmaxxing and hardmaxxing advice.”

The etymology of these latter terms can be traced back to the online dungeons of the incel community, where mostly young white men who consider themselves to be unjustly disadvantaged in the sexual marketplace will advise one another on maximizing their appearance, with “softmaxx” solutions like diet and exercise and “hardmaxx” solutions like drastic plastic surgery. What’s interesting about something like the r/truerateme subreddit, however, is the sheer melting-pot diversity among its frequent users. Posts come from all races, ages, and genders, people as young as eighteen and as old as their late fifties. More interesting still is the utter lack of rhetoric we’d otherwise associate with the incels’ grim agenda (misogyny, rage, self-abnegation, homicidal language, et cetera), as if the r/truerateme

IN OTHER WORDS, THE FESTIVAL IS MEANT TO SERVE AS A VISION OF A WORLD WITHOUT THE PROBLEM OF LOOKISM

users acknowledge the incels' epistemic claims about appearance—that it's more or less tantamount to romantic and professional value—without necessarily embracing the incels' skewed ideals.

Back at the Club dei Brutti headquarters, we once again stand below the dome of propaganda, while flocks of Piobbicoans stream in to do their voting, some of them watching our assessments with stern, Victorian expressions. I step forward, and Gianni begins to scrutinize my face with a keenly brutal forensics, an ocular once-over that is as playful as it is rigorous. Snatching a Club dei Brutti membership card from the surface of a nearby desk, he turns back, squints, and tilts his head, sucking rather appraisingly on his upper left bicuspids.

“Barrett Swanson,” Gianni announces, with characteristic theatricality, “il figlio di cigno,” which translates to “the son of the swan” and which has now apparently become my Club dei Brutti cognomen, “in your evaluation of ugliness, you receive ‘excellent,' because while you are very handsome, you have an amazing relationship with the ideas of our club." He hands me my membership card and says that I should "carry it with honor" for the rest of my life.

There's a smattering of polite clapping and celebratory yodels from Benedetta and my interpreter. Gianni says, "This weekend you will see the folkloristic side of the club, the fun side of it, but there's also the cultural side, because the ugly are always seen in a bad light, and so, for instance, we wish to fight workplace discrimination on the basis of one's appearance." In other words, the festival is meant to serve as a vision of a world without the problem of lookism. "When people come to our parties," Gianni says, "they see beauty and ugliness together, having fun together, so we remove the weight of the ugly. ‘Ugly’ in that moment is a word that is canceled, that is not considered anymore. We must help people think in the way that people from Piobbico think. After all,” he says, “I can be a figure of reference for the people of your country, too.”

While the politicization of one's appearance may seem like a cartoonish exaggeration of our conversations around identity politics, there is nevertheless a substantial body of evidence that suggests that a person's intersubjective attractiveness can determine not only their social and romantic trajectories but also their lifetime individual compensation. Even in infancy, ugliness can spawn a whole host of bothersome prospects. For instance, mothers of putatively ugly infants have proven to be less affectionate and attentive than the mothers of children who possess a Gerber-level cuteness. And even though we tend to regard schools as hothouses for our meritocratic doctrines, kilns in which a person's intelligence and good character can trump other social factors, it turns out that teachers grade more leniently the scholastic output of better-looking students and that the horseplay and insolence of ugly children tends to get punished with more schoolmarmish rigor. This prejudice extends even to the criminaljustice system, where attractive people have proven to be the undeserving beneficiaries of more merciful forms of sentencing. And if ugly individuals are the victims of an accident, they tend to receive less-favorable compensation.

This is to say nothing of the more eye-popping class-based ramifications of having an ugly appearance. For instance, the University of Texas labor economist Daniel Hamermesh has found that over the course of one's career, an unattractive person earns around \$230,000 less than their more alluring counterparts, and according to the Stanford University law professor Deborah Rhode, around 12 to 16 percent of American workers believe that they have been discriminated against on the basis of their appearance, a figure that is roughly equivalent to the proportion of people who report gender, racial, or age-related bias. Lookism even factors into disciplines that supposedly have nothing whatsoever to do with the metrics of appearance. Consider that NFL quarterbacks with heartthrobbish facial features—Tom Brady's Promethean cheekbones, say, or Michael Vick's Bambiesque eyelashes—earned as much as 12 percent more than their less-fetching counterparts. (Evidently, Peyton Manning's whey-faced Howdy Doodyness or Drew Brees's mug-shotish stoicism have done little in the end to help them bring home the bacon.)

Before we go any further here, I need to acknowledge the unremitting queasiness I feel using terms like “ugliness” and “unattractiveness,” not only because of the prejudicial ways these words have been used throughout history but also because they run counter to our post-structuralist tendency to see questions of beauty and attractiveness as nothing more than matters of individual subjectivity.

Surely this is nice and flatters our sense of democratic broad-mindedness, but there happens to be a fairly large consensus among lookism scholars about what sorts of features are considered to be universally attractive, even if we might disagree about how attractive a person is or who exactly might be the most attractive person. According to evolutionary psychologists, there are three foundational elements of attractiveness: averageness, symmetry, and sexual dimorphism. It's been suggested that an “average” facial arrangement signals a person's genetic diversity and thus indicates a resistance to a myriad of pathogens. Symmetry, meanwhile, has been theorized to signal one's ability to withstand stress during in-utero development, while sexual dimorphism has been proposed as a marker of one's immune strength. In other words, under this paradigm, attractiveness is more or less a certificate of wellness.

Maybe it's been a while since your last gender-studies course in college, but this view of beauty has been vociferously challenged by a host of second-wave feminists, who suggest that attractiveness isn't some biological adaptation toward favorable reproduction but the grotesque consequence of social construction, via which our visceral definitions of beauty and attractiveness are culturally determined and thus tend to perpetuate already extant injustice. And yet while it seems inarguable that preferences for certain hair colors and body types are historically contingent, the fact remains that in both cross-cultural and cross-ethnic studies there exists compelling empirical evidence for objective barometers of attractiveness. For instance, in a 1991 study published in Developmental Psychology, the scholar Judith Langlois and her colleagues collected a sheaf of photographic portraits and asked a sample of adults to rate the subjects' relative facial attractiveness. When the researchers presented these photographs to six-month-old infants, photos which included the faces of men, women, babies, black people, and Caucasians, their gazes lingered significantly longer upon those faces that the adults had deemed as decisively more attractive, regardless of the question of gender, age, and race.

It should be clear by now that one obvious paradox that emerges in the discussion about lookism is that it depends upon an acknowledgment of these objective measures of appearance. And yet these sorts of evaluations run counter to the project of body positivity, as well as those of its ideological cognates, all of which want to subvert, complicate, or altogether erase the very definitions and assessments

10 $^{TH}$ ANNIVERSARY EDITION

NOVEL EXPLOSIVES

JIM GAUER Foreword by Joy Williams

"A literary masterpiece that reads like a thriller." Steven Moore Author of William Gaddis

ZEROGRAM PRESS

Take a fiendishly funny joyride through the worlds of venture capital, the Juárez drug wars, and the mysterious beauty of Guanajuato, Mexico. The deeper into the book you go, the more dangerous it gets.

ZEROGRAMPRESS.COM upon which instances of lookism would be legalistically based. They are, in other words, at unswerving cross-purposes. In the end, claiming to be beyond “ugliness”—or suggesting that lookism is just so much fatuous nonsense—puts the “ugly” in a situation where they have no grounds for recourse and, perhaps more pressingly, no language to describe the nuances of their predicament. And yet, the Bruttis give us a starting point by insisting on unattractiveness.

One question that emerges by the second day of the festival is why exactly this club has endured in a place like Piobbico. It's a topic that I end up discussing with an Italian woman I'll call Mirabella, who works as a producer on a German TV news show, and who is also here on assignment and is covering the Club dei Brutti for an upcoming half-hour segment.

While Mirabella lives in Frankfurt, she's legally Italian and grew up along the Alps not far from the border of Switzerland. When I ask her why she thinks the Club dei Brutti started in Italy, she says, "It is kind of a dogma that you have to look well here. That you have to put your best self forward." She's referencing the injunction known as the bella figura, or the good first impression, decorum which, if flouted in Italy, can lead to social extinction.

Only when she moved to Germany was she released from these injunctions. “You know what’s interesting? During the last few years, my network has hired anchors who aren’t good-looking, and I would be so confused that they didn’t hire someone attractive.” In response, her colleagues were flummoxed. “They would say, ‘To us, this has no meaning. He’s a good journalist, he’s a good anchorman,’ and I would say, ‘Well, that doesn’t mean you couldn’t have found someone who was maybe also attractive!’” And yet she’s self-aware enough to explore the derivation of this bias. “You know something? And here I’m speaking with Freud’s words, but our superegos are shaped by our communities, and one thing about being Italian is that I simply can’t turn off what other people think of me.”

But before she can go any further, her exegesis is interrupted by a little bullhorned announcement. Because the club's annual relay race is set to get under way. The race is called Palio della Damigiana ("Jug Run"), which, as we've been told, is a sort of intoxicated rinth of stone steps. As a herd of us starts trudging peristaltically through the heavily crowded roadways, a strange thing begins to happen, because I begin to see this town through Mirabella's armchair psychoanalysis. Perhaps a community that subjects itself to

steeplechase up the steps of the nearby castle, where duos of men from Piobicco's various neighborhoods will apparently carry a wine vat up a labyhumorous self-effacement can thereupon release itself from the burdens of appearance and thus somehow begin to construct other-directed values.

And yet when I hazard this theory to Chris and Zac—my two Stateside friends who are joining me this weekend—they swiftly disregard it as the musings of a bumpkin. “I don’t know, man,” Zac says. “I haven’t actually seen an ugly person yet. I mean it’s easy to embrace this ethos if you’re a well-completed Adonis.”

Onward toward the castle, where a crowd has started to coalesce around the windingly vertiginous steps. Only upon our arrival do I begin to countenance the force of Zac's opinion, because contrary to my conception of the Club dei Brutti as a commingling of variegated specimens, one poundingly recurrent irony is that pretty much everyone in our immediate vicinity is of fulsome genetic advantage—Cindy Crawford look-alikes in pairs of cat-eye glasses and unfairly eyebrowed gentlemen with cheekbones like Cary Grant. It's a feeling of insufficiency that only gets intensified when we run into Benedetta, who asks if any of us would like to join in the competition.

And yet before I can chuckle decorously and brightly decline her offer, Chris, who, as I need to mention, is basically a paragon of gungho-ism, says, “We’ll do it!” I turn now to look at him with wide beseeching eyes. (I’m imagining tomorrow’s newspapers’ boldfaced, exuberant headlines: TWO AMERICANS TUMBLE FATALLY DOWN CASTLE STEPS AT ANNUAL UGLINESS FESTIVAL.) “What about your shoes?” I say. His Frodo-ish tootsies are housed within a pair of decrepit, elderly Birkenstocks, which apparently for him is hardly at all a stumbling block. “I’ll go barefoot,” he says. “No!” Benedetta and my interpreter yell, a duet of theatrical caution. “I go barefoot all the time,” Chris says, with a little pshawing gesture. “It’s no big deal.” “But maybe there are stones or maybe there is glass,” Benedetta says. “I’ve got thick calluses,” he says. “Anyways, you get ready,” he says to me and chucks me on the shoulder. “I’m gonna get a Bruttini.”

After Benedetta makes us sign an indemnifying waiver—"It's pretty standard. Like if you die, if you get hurt, it's your fault, et cetera, et cetera"—Chris and I jigglingly one-two down the ragged, molar-looking steps, at the base of which is a rampage of young Italian men, all of whom are tall and thin and have late-summer sienna tans, their skin looking rather a lot like fresh-cooked rotisserie chicken. Right now, they are doing parodic little Rockette kicks and jocular prison-yard aerobics, presumably as calisthenics before the start of this competition. Meanwhile, while Chris quaffs his Bruttini, I myself am doing earnest middle-aged stretching, which some of the younger dudes watch with barely concealed derision, occasionally hoisting their shirt hems to wipe away their brow sweat, which reveals heartbreaking little glimpses of their hairless washboard stomachs.

“You do realize,” I say to Chris, “that we are the ugliest fuckers here.”

“Oh, absolutely,” he says, then downs his fragrant Bruttini.

The race starts with a twenty-five-yard jaunt up what looks like an

THE CLUB BELIEVES IN THE SPIRITUAL EQUALITY OF ALL, THAT BENEATH THE FRIVOLITIES OF APPEARANCE IS A COMMON DIGNITY

Escher drawing of uneven steps, at the top of which is a hairpin turn where teams are prone to either dropping the sixty-pound wine vat or else sometimes succumbing to Benny Hill-type collisions. First prize gets complimenti from the president, plus a salami and a gold plaque.

Did I mention that flanking the stone staircase are maybe several hundred spectators, and when I look up, they are all huddled around the ramparts in giddy anticipation? The throng of them pressed against the stone steps has the same sort of psychic ambiance as well-wishers at a cruise ship. The sheer size of this audience has tripled my nervousness, as does the sight of Mirabella, who waves down at us while standing next to her cameraman, whom I'd have to imagine is now coming in for our close-up.

Standing in line, three things are striking: 1) while the Club dei Brutti's ministry involves celebrating the ugly, I can't help noticing that women of all age levels and social temperaments are lash-batting and hubba-hubba-ing at the sight of these male contestants, and that their conventionally attractive features—their funnel-shaped torsos and pertly denimed bottoms—are being both appraised and adulated with openly carnivorous expressions; 2) a salient ingredient of the festival's conviviality turns out to be copious amounts of drinking, and so maybe it's easier to accept your appearance if you're slit-eyed from Negronis; and 3) when Chris and I finally get called to the starting line, at which point Gianni starts shrieking, "Yay! Ragazzi di Americani!" we proceed to climb the castle steps at a dumpy, arthritic velocity, both of us wheezing and red-faced as we approach the first landing, and during the course of the last anguished stretch, I have

occasion to watch the smeary, peripheral microdramas of the spectators' faces we pass—two frostily pretty women giggling at us in vicious-sounding Italian, an old man in a porkpie hat whose face is creased like a pecan, plus a squadron of Italian children who all hurl bantam encouragements

at us as though we could possibly win this. The applause we receive afterward is terse and philanthropic. During the trophy and awards ceremony, we're thanked for participating and are twice misidentified as “the newsmen from BBC.”

It's at this point in the festival that it occurs to me that the most crucial part of the Club dei Brutti ethos is their belief in the spiritual equality of every human being—that beneath the frivolities of appearance, a common dignity should belong to both the beautiful and the ugly. We all give this idea lip service, of course, but how many of us actually believe it? Perhaps our incredulity is owing to our insistence that if equality is to be measurable, well, then, it must be material—which is to say, physical.

For example, the University of Milan moral philosopher Francesca Minerva has contended that the “foundational elements of attractiveness”

(e.g., symmetry, sexual dimorphism, healthy skin, et cetera) should be addressed differently from those characteristics that are heavily influenced by the culture (i.e., physique, height, body mass index, hair color, et cetera). For those latter attributes, consciousness-raising campaigns that underscore the historical contingency of these beauty standards would be both useful and appropriate. And yet for those individuals who, for instance, suffer from grievous facial asymmetries or even just physiognomic peccadilloes (like milk-jug ears or an aquiline nose), Minerva and other scholars believe that either economic compensation for lost wages or subsidized cosmetic surgery may end up being the more expedient solution.

This might strike you as distressingly similar to eugenics, but it is worth putting this in context and remembering that insurance companies already pay out claims for prospective losses when an individual, say, gets in a seismic car accident and thereupon suffers from an appearance-tarnishing scar, and that most Western health-care systems already perform surgeries to pin back protruding ears or repair cleft lips and palates. Perhaps the most radical and hair-raising example of state-sponsored surgery comes from Brazil, which has been recently hailed as “the empire of the scalpel” and where several hospitals offer poor patients free access to plastic surgery because appearance correlates so strongly to one’s economic destiny. Is such a policy a Black Mirror-ish instantiation of moral perversity and cultural degradation? Or is it rather a steely-eyed, no-bullshit acknowledgment of the extent to which our culture is irreparably appearance-centric and so they’ve fostered a civic response to those who are actually hurt by it?

Of course, some irksome paradoxes could emerge from these more drastic ameliorations. After all, as Minerva has suggested, by extending plastic surgery only to those individuals who are considered inordinately unattractive, we would simply be rejiggering the hierarchy and putting those who are currently just “so-so” or “average” at the bottom of the rankings and thus create the conditions for those people to lobby for surgery. This is to say nothing of the fact that we would become, as Minerva puts it, “accomplices [to] … even narrower standards of beauty” and end up creating a world in which everyone looks the same. (Isn’t the preponderance of “Instagram Face,” as the writer Jia Tolentino once called it, already compelling evidence of the reality of this phenomenon?)

Over the past forty years, surgical intervention for healthy individuals has gone through the roof, with over thirty-eight million cosmetic treatments performed in 2024, with a total market value of over fifty-nine billion dollars. In trying to account for the precipitous shift in our thinking about this, the former president of the Chicago Psychoanalytical Society, a Dr. John E. Gedo, has rather provocatively contended that cosmetic enhancement is equivalent to altering a client's headspace through a course of psychoanalysis, inasmuch as both are attempts at refurbishing the self.

Perhaps you regard this statement as vapid and stupid, and yet I can't help thinking that Dr. Gedo might be onto something and is perhaps pointing out the extent to which we have more or less acquiesced to the idea that our appearance is indistinguishable from our value or our character. It's easy to see how this view of self has been both licensed and enabled by our most popular tech platforms, through which many of us will now document every blink of our existence. Heather Widdows, a British philosopher, has described this ontological shift with unbelievable prescience:

The self is now embedded in, suffused through, and written on our bodies. Effectively the construction of the body as malleable and representative of, or equated with, our selves is so ubiquitous that it is taken for granted by those who fall under the ideal, and yet this has not yet been recognized as significant, nor has it been sufficiently interrogated.

It is through the particular curvature of Widdows's perspective that even a cursory survey of your Snapchat or Instagram begins to sort of seem both grotesque and dystopian—the beauty influencers who varnish their miens with serums and creams, the fitness Goliaths who model the proper way to squat, the antiaging demagogues who inject their children's blood. Perhaps we should regard these wellness Svengalis and corporeal ministers as the representatives of what future historians will call the Fifth Great Awakening, which insists that the final revelation is the perfection of the body, that youth and attractiveness are the ultimate dispensation. If, as Francis Fukuyama has suggested, therapists replaced pastors in the middle of the twentieth century, becoming in effect our only spiritual leaders, it may well be that our own present era has replaced therapists with influencers, since how we look and feel inside our bodies has now become the daily theology by which we all abide.

To my mind, perhaps the only viable solution to a bugaboo like lookism is not adopting the squeegeed vocabularies of euphemistic doublespeak—"everyone is beautiful!"—nor is it the Twilight Zone-type subsidization of surgical enhancement. Instead, it would begin first with a culture that wasn't so despicably appearance-centric, one that, instead of just hawking products of unsuccessful self-care, would actually work to define a self to care for. Whatever else you want to say about the muzziness of the Club dei Brutti's philosophy, they are at least asking us to come by our appearances honestly and admit that, yes, okay, it's true, some of us are ugly, but the extent to which that matters to us—the extent to which we can acknowledge that honorably—may in some sense depend upon the construction of a self that lies outside of our appearance. The soul, as Yeats writes, is fastened to a dying animal—it does not know what it is. Whatever else our remedies and ablutions, time itself will come for the body. After that, what of us is left?

Sunday is the big day, the village-spanning parade, plus the town-square announcement of the results of this year's election. The Band of Uglies—who are dressed interchangeably in red and black top hats—are toodling with their instruments in advance of the performance (the wet sob of a trumpet, the curt patter of snares). Behind them are two members from the Curvy Pride delegation, who are committed to venerating gorgeousness in all shapes and sizes, and to their left, in a banana-yellow vehicle with a

retractable sunroof, is none other than Il Piu Brutto dei Italia, Daniele "Poldo" Isabettini, who is currently bedecked in a single-breasted lounge suit and whose eyes can't help striking me as Eeyorishly despondent. Right now, he's posing for photos with a duo of Miss Italias, who themselves wear tiaras on their lushly sculpted hairdos, plus beauty-contestant sashes draped crosswise over their chests. The Miss Italias don't have the plasticine good looks of your typical pageant contestant but are instead of such knee-buckling prettiness that, even though I'm not wearing a tie, I feel a weird impulse to adjust the knot of my tie. It's difficult to describe. Enough to say that standing in proximity to these women makes me feel unlovely by comparison, as though their nearness has reduced me to a wart-stippled little cretin.

Behind Poldo's car is a phalanx of Brazilian showgirls performing hip-swiveling gyrations. Meanwhile, Mirko Martinelli, one of the contend-

ers for club president, ambles around the alleyway, gnawing on an unlit cigar and appraising the preparations with a directorial disposition. His beard is of Duck Dynasty proportions and has been knotted with a hair tie into a crunchy show-horse braid.

It's only when the parade starts—moving through the streets of Piobbico at a sluggish, funereal speed—that I finally catch a glimpse of the incumbent president, Gianni, whose Club dei Brutti nickname turns out to be “the

Beast." In a sequined red tuxedo, he looks rather a lot like some sort of diabolical impresario, the ringleader and hype man for an especially deranged circus. As the parade of cars starts inching down the boulevard, Gianni waves at passersby from the drop-top Brut Mobile, an eye-blue Volkswagen that itself is flanked by two men who

are dressed spiffily up like members of the Secret Service—think black suits and sunglasses; think little wire-coiled earpieces—and they spend most of today's events either jogging beside the Brut Mobile or standing at parade rest, their heads oscillating across the crowd with mock expressions of vigilance.

Perhaps the most expeditious thing to say about the rest of the festival is that it hovers tonally between a well-attended political rally and vaudeville entertainment. Standing at the front of the town square's stage, which itself is overhung with a Festival of the Ugly banner, Gianni announces that the election results are in and instructs us to turn our attention to a window in the building opposite, from which now emerges a swizzle stick of crimson-colored smoke, which is obviously a tongue-in-cheek homage to the elec-

tion of a new pontiff. (But don't worry, Gianni says, because they are using red smoke instead of white, so it should not be considered blasphemous.)

In any event, standing at the world's Ugly People Festival, you can't help getting the sense that far from simply celebrating their ugliness, what these Italians are really doing is enacting their good humor. And it may well be that their peals of silvery laughter are indisputable evidence of their true communal achievement—of establishing a complex and nuanced internal self apart from their appearance. If our conversations in the United States have become joyless and self-serious, it is perhaps owing to our egregiously misguided conflation of our soul and our surface, to our thinking that a self is not something you cultivate but something you merely have.

In the end, Mirko Martinelli is elected the new club president, and he hoists his arms triumphantly with Nixonian

exultation. The reaction from the audience is garrulous and mixed. Most of the town offers him a fulsome dose of applause, but a couple of Gianni's partisans are booing with their thumbs down and hollering, "Coup d'état!" Martinelli claims the microphone and says, with trembling earnestness, "In this world of appearances, there is an increasing need for us to hold on to reality, without prejudice or discrimination, for, after all, it is a gift to be ugly."

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THE CHAOS MACHINE

Prediction markets and the triumph of crypto-anarchy

By Finn Brunton

At first, the emails were polite. Strangers wrote to the Israeli journalist Emanuel Fabian about his reporting on an Iranian missile strike on March 10. They were

Finn Brunton is a professor at the University of California, Davis. His most recent book is Digital Cash.

requesting clarification and an update: Was it a missile or the fragments of a missile interceptor? It was a missile, Fabian replied, as confirmed by the Israeli military and a video of the massive explosion in the city of Beit Shemesh. More messages came: You must be wrong, they read. You are spreading inaccurate information.

Could you clarify in print, please, that these were in fact interceptor fragments? Within hours, the messages became more urgent. One was accompanied by a screenshot of a forged email, credited to Fabian, claiming that the incident had not been a missile strike and that his story would be corrected accordingly.

More messages arrived over Discord, X, WhatsApp, and even from a colleague who had been asked by a friend to see whether Fabian would correct his story to say that the explosion had been caused by interceptor fragments. Within a few days, he started receiving messages that threatened him and his family: “After you make us lose \$900,000 we will invest no less than that to finish you,” one read.

Fourteen million dollars were riding on whether Iran would strike Israel on March 10, and interceptor fragments didn't count as a strike, according to the terms on the prediction platform Polymarket. Fabian's reporting put him in the crosshairs of strangers who had wagered fortunes on the subject matter of his article. "Believe me," another message warned him, "you don't want to be their target."

Fabian's story is one among many examples of attempted market manipulation and insider activity on Polymarket. One \$32,000 bet on the U.S. ousting of Nicolás Maduro was placed mere hours before President Trump announced it; the bettor collected \$400,000. (A U.S. soldier was arrested in April in connection with the wager.) Another bettor won nearly a million dollars for correctly identifying twenty-two out of twenty-three of Google's top search terms for 2025. (The same user previously won \$150,000 by predicting the surprise release date of an update to Google's Gemini AI model.) Someone won more than \$500,000 with a successful bet on the timing of the death of Ayatollah Khamenei, Iran's supreme leader, shortly before he was killed by an Israeli air strike on February 28. Another won more than \$16,000 by making seventeen successful guesses about who would and would not perform in the Super Bowl LX halftime show, hours before it would begin. One bettor even allegedly used a hair dryer to change the temperature being recorded at Charles de Gaulle airport to win a bet about the weather.

Polymarket accounts, like those on the other major prediction market of the moment, Kalshi, are not tied to one's identity. A user can place bets using an anonymous crypto wallet. They can create multiple wallets to hide the signature of insider knowledge: seven or eight anonymous speculators each getting one improbable guess correct is less suspicious than one person nailing them all. Many bettors use nonsensical pseudonyms or random strings of letters and numbers for their aliases.

Anonymity, manipulation, profiting from secrets, threats of violence: all of this was predicted decades ago. The rise of prediction markets is the story of two men—contemporaries and occasional correspondents—with shared interests and profoundly different visions. One wanted to build a machine to encourage a collective understanding of reality; the other a machine to dissolve trust. One envisioned a tool for effective governance; the

THE UTOPIAN VISION OF A FUTURES EXCHANGE IS COMPELLING: IT WOULD BE A CRYSTAL BALL, LANCING THROUGH UNCERTAINTY

other a weapon against it. The strange tragedy of prediction markets is that they are widely thought to facilitate the former vision but are better understood as succeeding at the latter. Analyzing the stories of these two men will help us understand not only how we got here but what the future of prediction markets holds for us—and how much worse things could become.

The economist Robin Hanson is what Isaiah Berlin would call a hedgehog: someone whose work can be understood as a single grand idea. Hanson's is prediction markets. These are not in themselves his invention. Formalized open betting and oddsmaking are at least several centuries old. People have bet on the next president and the next pope, on war and on peace. The financial-services industry has always been an indirect and noisy prediction market for relatively narrow topics. Markets exist for the supply and demand of commodities today on the basis of forecasts, estimates, and probabilities. (The ancient Greek philosopher Thales secured the hire of olive-oil presses in winter based on his prediction that there would be a bumper crop in summer.)

Hanson's concept was to design new markets deliberately. He called them “idea futures.” Their purpose was to gather and synthesize information and opinion into an “honest consensus of relevant experts,” which could then be a basis for making decisions. If participants put money on the line, he argued, a market would produce more accurate predictions of future outcomes than expert debate alone because people would bet to win rather than to fit in, curry favor, or act the contrarian with friends and colleagues. Just as a market will theoretically arrive at the optimal price for a good that reflects the interests of many agents, trading in predictions could distill research, observation, and belief into actionable odds.

pose was to be precisely the opposite of conventional gambling, in which games are designed to obscure the future and therefore cultivate a weedy inner garden of biases and superstitions, from magical thinking to confirmation bias to the "gambler's fallacy" (wherein a player believes that a roulette wheel landing repeatedly on black, say, will raise the odds that the next spin will land on red). The pleasure and peril of games of chance lie in never really knowing what comes next. Despite the structure of bets and trades, the point of the idea-futures business is to gamble on insight rather than ignorance. The prediction market's purpose is to minimize the effects of bias and produce a shared model of future knowledge that is better than what we would otherwise have. Unlike normal markets, it could handle highly specialized topics. (One of Hanson's early examples of a claim on which a prediction market could bet was the likelihood that "the rest mass of the electron neutrino is greater than .01eV in ordinary space.")

Eventually, Hanson began turning his thought experiments into actual internal prediction markets for companies and communities: idea-futures exchanges, aggregators wherein people could lay odds on where they saw things going. (I have one of Hanson's idea coupons, issued as a proof of concept in 1990: it's the size of Monopoly money and explains in detail what it predicts—the existence of a nanometer-scale computer with particular properties by January 1, 2025—and who will judge the validity of claims to collect payouts on the bet.) Most famously, Hanson helped launch a short-lived prediction marketplace for DARPA, the U.S. military's research arm, focused on geopolitical intelligence. Though largely concerned with predicting political events in the Middle East, it was characterized in the media as a “terrorism futures” market after 9/11 and dragged down by the reputational burden of Bush-era surveillance programs.

The utopian vision of a futures exchange for ideas is a compelling one. It would be a collaborative crystal ball for anything unknown, lancing through the cloudy uncertainty of reporting, punditry, competing interpretations, and propaganda like a bolt of lightning—a portrait not just of present sentiment but of potential facts. Hanson's early writing about idea futures has the particular flavor of Nineties techno-optimism (his subjects also included living in space, uploading your mind to a computer, even flying cars), and the underlying premise of his markets was that they would not only describe this groovy future but accelerate its creation. The subtext of his “honest consensus” argument was that expert institutions are biased against visionaries and big ideas. Too invested in protecting its models and fitting in, the Establishment had unfairly treated exciting subjects like cryonics (humans being frozen for future revival) and self-replicating nanomachines. Idea futures would undermine the institutional clout of skeptical old physicists with tenure—monetizing, promoting, and rewarding bold claims discouraged by mainstream consensus.

This is the basis on which platforms like Polymarket, which claims Hanson's work as a direct inspiration, have sold themselves to the public. Sure, they enable bets on sports and entertainment; sure, the great majority of winnings are collected by a small set of players, with liquidity supplied by an army of suckers. But they do indeed provide impressively accurate odds about a whole variety of events across the worlds of politics, technology, and corporate strategy. Such markets can be a place to gauge what will happen before it does. If some of this is the result of insider trading—which is rife on the platform—so much the better, Hanson argues: you want the insiders to be betting on what they know, because that only makes the overall data more accurate. They are the experts, after all. If it means the market is unfair, well, welcome to the world of finance. While each trader may be out to make money, the true goal of the market is ultimately to produce actionable knowledge about what has yet to happen: a magic machine that generates an accurate picture of the world. That's the promise, anyway.

Another ominous email, this one from 1993: “Your name has come to our attention. We have reason to believe you may be interested in the products and services our new organization, BlackNet, has to offer.” BlackNet was in the business of monetizing secrets. It offered a covert marketplace for buyers and sellers of valuable information: classified intelligence, technology schematics, and business data. Users were anonymous, with payments conducted in CryptoCredits, a form of untraceable digital cash. “Join us,” the email concluded, “in this revolutionary—and profitable—venture.”

This anonymous message first appeared on a mailing list for “cypherpunks,” a loose crew of cryptographer-activists and interested fellow travelers. (Hanson was one of the list’s correspondents.) But the message circulated far beyond that obscure starting point. It was quoted in Wired; Oak Ridge National Laboratory in Tennessee supposedly put out an advisory warning in response; the FBI investigated the message as a potential threat.

It turned out to be a hoax, but it was a hoax with a point. Its architect, Timothy C. May, was a retired Intel engineer with unstintingly extreme politics and a devotion to cryptography. He called himself a “crypto-anarchist,” but his anarchism was of the American libertarian variety, which fuses smash-the-state rhetoric with racism, greed, and an interest in real-world violence. He wrote with approval that the collapse of the U.S. government would result in the end of welfare for “inner-city breeders” and day-dreamed about using digitally identifying “race bits” so that online white-supremacist groups could maintain racial segregation. But what attracted May to cryptography was not only the promise of privacy—that was just the starting point. He laid out a chain of events: it began with encryption, which would lead to “digital money” and “anonymous networks,” then “information markets, black markets,” and, finally, the “collapse of governments.” BlackNet was both a fiction and a proof of concept, a technically plausible explanation for how you could securely get rich selling out a company or a country with minimal risk.

May teased out the implications of his idea on the mailing list a few years later. This system would become, he wrote, an “espionage market” in which professionals and amateurs alike could participate. Anyone with spare time could surveil a harbor or the airspace above a military base and sell updates on flights, ships, and the movements of troops. Any engineer or chemist employed in tech or pharmaceuticals could sell to the highest bidder the details of last month’s drug discovery or next year’s phone models. Health-care professionals could sell medical records; students could sell exams; aides and staffers could sell political dirt; anyone with security clearance could pay off their mortgage or buy a new car. For the difficult and dangerous business of selling secrets—the challenge of finding a buyer, the constant fear of getting betrayed or entrapped—BlackNet would do what eBay did for the garage sale.

Though he was writing decades before the advent of the smartphone, May's breakthrough resembled the later application of sports betting, wherein, rather than having to drive to the casino, you carry one with you. Likewise, you don't need to meet an operative in an airport in Dubai to make your fortune selling secrets. Everyone has the late-night parking garage and the briefcase full of cash in their pocket.

A marketplace for information like BlackNet is a subtle and elegant weapon against institutions—but not for the reasons you may think. It destroys them not from without but from within. The true promise of BlackNet for crypto-anarchy lay in the indirect effect of monetizing secrets. Countries, corporations, and organizations of all kinds would swiftly lose internal trust. Leaking secrets is bad for an organization, but comprehensive paranoia is worse, and that is what BlackNet would have produced. Anyone could sell out, conveniently and anonymously, creating an institutional autoimmune disease of witch hunts, strategic lies, honey traps, and need-to-know lockdowns. The cypherpunk correspondent of May’s who understood this best was Julian Assange, the founder of WikiLeaks.

In 2006, Assange wrote two drafts of a paper outlining his own vision. In “Conspiracy as Governance,” BlackNet is understood from the other side: rather than a sales pitch to prospective spies, he offered an analysis of what such a system would do to organizations filled with potential turncoats. By “conspiracy,” Assange does not mean something like the Illuminati, Bohemian Grove, or QAnon. He means any closed operation of a group that keeps secrets from the public; his examples include both the Democratic and Republican Parties. He sought a generally effective anticonspiratorial strategy, a way to dismantle their capacity to function, and he believed he had found it.

You can make any organization “unable to sufficiently comprehend and control the forces in its environment” by destroying trust through leaks. (Crucially, his emphasis is not on hackers: hackers are outsiders, and they can, at least in theory, be defended against.) In this case, anonymity matters still more, because in contrast to leakers willing to take public stands—like Edward Snowden, say, or Daniel Ellsberg—unknown leakers can cause even more fear. What Assange wanted was not a system hardened against attacks, but one tied in knots, hopelessly conflicted and filled with suspicion, denunciations, and purges. The public embarrassment and reputational harm of the disclosed secrets would just be a bonus.

Either way, the attackers win. If one betrays secrets for money, their sale reveals that people within elite institutions are out for themselves, looking to profit from insider positions. If one betrays on principle, the secrets were presumably reprehensible in the first place. The consequence is that organizations turn their attacks inward, trying to contain the crisis even as the public loses trust.

For May, a marketplace for monetizing secrets and destroying trust was only one component of a larger machine of institutional destruction, an incendiary device that would melt governments into liquid crypto-anarchy. This would necessarily involve what he called “abhorrent markets.” At first, these would be merely one of the logical outcomes of easy, anonymous digital cash and contracts: a job board for hit men seeking “the liquidation of politicians.” But May was feeling his way toward something even bigger. “Imagine for a moment an ‘anonymous fund’ to collect the money for such a hit,” he wrote. “Interesting possibilities.”

This was fleshed out by the crypto-anarchist James Dalton Bell in his 1996 thought experiment “Assassination Politics.” Like May, Bell was a former Intel engineer, a cypherpunk whom May identified as a “core contributor” to the cypherpunk list alongside Hanson. Bell refined the BlackNet model further. What if the information for sale on the marketplace were a single, exceptionally valuable data point, like the exact day a politician might die? The smart play would be to pick an individual whose death prediction is associated with a large bounty, place a bet on the date of their death, fulfill that prediction, and collect the pot. In effect, this would crowdfund assassinations in which many parties were interested but no one gave any direct orders. The market decides, and participants can take their—literal—shot to win.

Bell's model was more complex and sophisticated than this simple accounting; it provided a way, for example, to ensure the assassin would collect their reward and to conceal the date until after the deed was done, so that the target would not simply spend that day in a bunker. But the underlying premise was straightforward and had a certain brutal clarity: a Kickstarter for murder, whose first targets would be political figures who stood in the way of pure lawlessness.

Something common to the plans and schemes of crypto-anarchists is a certain Rube Goldberg fussiness. In outline, these are elegant Bond-villain machines for faceless, leaderless, pervasive espionage and assassination, the stuff of paranoid nightmares and stochastic violence. In detail, though, they have the deflating comical impracticality of the Bond villain's lair: all those jumpsuited flunkies driving golf carts around under the volcano. These systems, correctly implemented, could work; their ricketiness is not technical but social. Crypto-anarchy's projects all involve an implausible degree of human commitment. Ironically, there would be too much trust involved in using obscure tools few people understand, tools set up by anonymous strangers, to commit massive crimes for which several additional complex steps would be needed to get paid and to convert that crypto payment into legal tender.

In theory, a perfectly executed version of BlackNet—or of WikiLeaks—would be impossible to defeat. But the real world is filled with friction and mistakes. People get lazy, reusing passwords or pseudonyms or crypto wallets. They confess or brag to friends or loved ones. Silk Road, an encrypted, anonymous online black market that was inspired by May's ideas and conducted in Bitcoin, was taken down by the FBI after a chain of events that began with a single sloppy mistake on the part of Ross Ulbricht, the website's administrator. (Ulbricht was convicted on seven felony counts in 2015 and received a presidential pardon from Trump in January 2025, in a quid pro quo for votes from the libertarian bloc.)

Even if you can't identify sellers of secrets, you can try to identify and crack down on buyers, raising the cost from the demand side of the market. It's one matter to buy some stolen industrial information—next year's iPhone design, for example—and quite another to have your whole engineering division make use of it without anyone catching on. Espionage remains a business of outside attacks—hacking—and of personal recruitment and relationships. Assassination-for-hire is the tragicomic domain of people looking for someone to kill a spouse or a rival but getting blackmailed by teenagers pretending to be hit men in the process. What these systems needed was a much more lightweight and intuitive mechanism.

Anonymous prediction markets fit the bill perfectly. Gambling on insider knowledge is a straightforward concept that anyone can grasp. We all understand how to cheat: betting on an outcome you already know, rigging the game. And when things don't go your way, you can adjust the data on which a bet will be decided—by threatening the life of a journalist to change their reporting, for example.

It's a safer and easier way to monetize secrets than a convoluted cryptographic marketplace of buyers seeking sellers. And it's a better way to monetize someone's death. Even if you can't technically gamble on a dead-by date, there's one surefire way to win a bet about whether someone will be a candidate for public office in 2028. Gambling on predictions does not create a business of retailing industrial espionage, but this fact makes it only more effective at realizing the goals of BlackNet. Making everyone a potential spy or assassin was only an expedient way to destroy institutions internally and externally through financial incentives. If your plan was to kill trust—in journalism, within organizations, and in the public consciousness—the best way to do it would not be to build some complicated bazaar of secret brokers, but to launch an anonymous public market for predictions.

The prediction markets that exist today are not the fulfillment of Hanson's vision; they are the fulfillment of May's. Rather than coordinating expert opinions, they deliver uncertainty and distrust. Who's cashing in on what they know? Who can be trusted? Is this story fake? Indeed, is any of this for real? Because of perverse incentives, a system intended to make information about the present and knowledge about the future more transparent has made the world more opaque and volatile. The dream of creating an honest consensus now works as a kind of acid, a solvent dismantling the capacity for coordination. What we're left with is a system for producing conflict, a machine for generating chaos.

September Index Sources

September Index Sources 1,2 Ashok Gadgil, University of California, Berkeley; 3 World Health Organization Regional Office for Europe (Copenhagen, Denmark); 4,5 International Energy Agency (Paris); 6,7 Gallup (Washington); 8,9 Pew Research Center (Washington); 10,11 Jenna Russell (College Park, Md.); 12 Damien Charlotin (Paris); 13,14 Maxim Topaz, Columbia University (New York City); 15,16 François Keck (Zurich); 17,18 Inside Higher Ed (Washington); 19,20 Pew Research Center; 21–23 Rebecca Fielding-Miller, University of California, San Diego; 24,25 Harper's research; 26 Bureau of Population, Refugees, and Migration (Washington); 27 International Refugee Assistance Project (New York City); 28–30 Human Rights Watch (New York City); 31 ProPublica (New York City); 32 U.S. District Court for the Northern District of Texas (Fort Worth); 33 Miami Herald; 34–37 New World Wealth (Johannesburg); 38,39 UBS (Zurich).

moi, des mots se proposent pour presque

langue intérieure demeure une merveille de précision et d'histoires anciennes qui y

se rejouer. Et avec elle, tout, ou presque, s'éclaire sans soleil, sauf l'endroit où tu te trouves. Vrai ! Cette langue intérieure s'illumine quand j'aime ou dans la colère ou dans le rire. L'insomnie surtout la fait gonfler comme une crue d'été. Il y a aussi dedans les voix des personnes que j'ai aimées, leur timbre ou leur ton,

BORROWED WOUNDS

A civil war, a bestseller, and the trial that divided France By Kyle Berlin

On the night of December 31, 1999, as the world was celebrating the birth of a new millennium, a fictional five-year-old girl named Aube—from the French for “dawn”—had been left for dead, her throat slit by Islamist militants who had come, in cold blood, to murder her family. Her parents, who raised sheep in a small mountain village in northern Algeria, as well as her beloved older sister, Fatima, were massacred in the night, along with one thousand of their fellow villagers.

Seven months later, on July 26, 2000, in a remote mountain village in northern Algeria, a real six-year-old girl by the name of Saâda—from the Arabic for “happiness” or “joy”—was left for dead after having her throat slit by Islamist militants who had come, in cold blood, to murder her family. Her parents, who were shepherds, as well as five of her brothers and sisters, were massacred in the night. Only one other member of the family managed to survive: Saâda's brother Aïssa, who was also gravely injured in the attack.

The fictional Aube was taken to a hospital in the nearby city of Relizane, where she was cared for by Khadija, a hard-charging, combative lawyer who would become her adoptive mother. The real Saâda was taken to a local hospital for treatment of a large laceration across the entirety of her larynx, then taken to another hospital near Oran, where she was treated by a team of specialists including Dr. Zahia Mentouri, a hard-charging, combative pediatrician who would become her adoptive mother.

Both Aube and Saâda were flown to Paris in order to undergo tracheotomies and the placement of cannulas that would force them to breathe through tubes for the rest of their lives, rendering them mostly mute and unable to eat solid foods. When they did speak, it was in a kind of glottal croak that would be compared to the voice of Donald Duck.

As adults, both Aube and Saâda will remain in Oran, settling in the neighborhood of Hai El Yasmine, in an apartment on the fourth floor of a Building C. Aube will eventually open a hair salon, and will often cover the scar and tube in her neck with colorful scarves. Saâda will open a beauty parlor, and will often cover the scar and tube in her neck with colorful scarves. Both get tattoos—rare for women in Algeria, since Islam prohibits them—that make explicit reference to the attacks they suffered: for Saâda, a set of long wings across her upper back with the letter C in the middle, to symbolize Cherifa, her mother; for Aube, a star underneath her clavicle to represent her murdered sister; a fish on each thigh to represent her murdered father; and a horse just above her pubis to represent her murdered mother.

Only Saâda, however, will begin, in 2015, to visit a psychiatrist, one named Dr. Aïcha Dahdouh, in order to confront the trauma of the massacre that destroyed her family.

Over the years, Saâda will form a bond with her psychiatrist that is at first friendly and later almost familial; Dr. Dahdouh will become something like a cross between an older sister and a treasured aunt, especially when Saâda is in conflict with her adoptive mother, as she often is. When addressing each other in French, as they usually do by text, Dr. Dahdouh and Saâda will use the informal tu. Both have young sons, who will come to know each other, play together, have sleepovers.

Eventually, Saâda Arbane's story will come to the attention of Dr. Dahdouh's second husband, a famous author and fierce critic of the Algerian government named Kamel Daoud, who has been looking for a way to write a novel about the Algerian Civil War, which he characterizes as "little known, not just in the rest of the world, but even among Algerians themselves." Daoud hopes that his novel will finally shatter the taboo around a bloody and horrific conflict that the Algerian government went to great pains to conceal, a dirty war of disappearances, torture, bombings, and assassinations that claimed the lives of tens of thousands of Algerians, most of them civilians. "Everyone has their own version of the civil war," he tells an interviewer, "because the war itself is an attack against the real.... When I finished writing the novel, I told my daughter about it and she said, 'But is that what really happened?" Exiled to France in the summer of 2023, Daoud, in a burst of inspiration, will write the manuscript of his new novel in a matter of months—he titles the first draft Joie, the French word for "joy," which would be unremarkable except for its translation into Algerian Arabic: saâda.

When the novel is published in August 2024, the fictional narrator is described on the back cover as: “a young Algerian woman … [whose] tragedy is marked on her body: a scar on her neck and vocal cords that have been destroyed.” The novel, which is ultimately published under the title Houris, goes on to sell more than four hundred thousand copies in its first year and win the Prix Goncourt, cementing its author's place in French literary history alongside such previous winners as Marcel Proust, Simone de Beauvoir, and Michel Houellebecq. Just a few weeks after the Goncourt is awarded, Arbane decides to go public, suing Daoud and his publisher for atteinte de la vie privée ("invasion of privacy"), claiming that Aube's story is in fact her story, from soup to nuts: the massacre, the cannula, the breathing tube, the glottal croak, the colorful scarves, the symbolic tattoos, the beauty salon, the hard-charging, combative, remarkably successful adoptive mother—even the precise

HE TITLES THE DRAFT JOIE, FRENCH FOR “JOY,” UNREMARKABLE IF NOT FOR ITS TRANSLATION INTO ALGERIAN ARABIC: SAÂDA

shape and size (seventeen centimeters across, from ear to ear) of the scar on her neck, the one that will never heal.

In the opening days of 1998, at twenty-seven years old, Daoud was sent by Le Quotidien d'Oran, a French-language Algerian newspaper, to cover a horrific massacre that had taken place in a small village called Had Chekala on the first day of Ramadan. On January 5, Daoud published an article that gave a firsthand account of the horror:

In one home ... we found a father with his hands bound behind his back with wire, whose throat had been slit, as well as his five daughters.

No child was too young to be spared the savagery. According to Daoud's reporting, a nine-month-old baby was égorgé—the French word for “having one’s throat slit”—but managed “miraculously” to survive, because the cut was not too deep.

“They even slit the throat of a 1-year-old infant,” he wrote, “and rumor has it that the little thing died, with a smile on its lips." In the sentence's final clause, Daoud uses the French word sourire ("smile") in its usual sense—upon the martyred innocent, rumor has bestowed a final, romantic image of contentment. Over time, however, sourire will begin to acquire a new and more sinister meaning. In an interview that Daoud gave in August 2024 to publicize the release of Houris, he explained how the images of the dead had affected him: "The smile of decapitated heads haunted me," he told an interviewer for Le Point, the right-of-center newsmagazine where he writes a popular weekly column. "Not a smile, but rather a grin of astonishment, fixed in an eternal instant, watching a television that doesn't exist." The image here, however horrific, is still recognizable: the sourire remains a facial expression. In Houris, however, the sourire will undergo a final metaphorical transformation. "I underwent a tracheotomy," Aube tells her unborn child, "so that I could breathe again, and the surgeons drew a diabolical smile in order to reattach my head to my neck. For 21 years I have carried this rictus that makes tongues go silent."

In Houris, Aube has the sensation of living in reverse, her fragmented memories bearing her instinctively toward the vanishing point of the attack. Mutilated and traumatized, she is tortured by the thought of bringing another life into the world. For Aube, the symbols of life have been turned upside down, into symbols of death; in this way, she carries the mark of the novelist who saw that day with his own eyes that the final expressions on the faces of the massacred were not of peace, but of terror.

When the young Daoud returned from the site of the massacre and filed his story for Le Quotidien d'Oran, his editor softened the headline and changed the death toll from one thousand—which Daoud and a fellow reporter had verified by counting the bodies themselves—to “a few dozen.” According to Daoud, his editor simply

Source images: Bentalha cemetery, 1997 © Pascal Parrot/Sygma/Sygma via Getty Images; a man looks at the wreckage of a massacre, 1997 © AFP via Getty Images; a cemetery, 1997 © Scott Peterson/Liaison/Getty Images; a woman recounts the events of a massacre, 1997 © AFP via Getty Images; a woman whose relatives were murdered in a massacre in Bentalha, 1997 © Hocine Zaourar/AFP via Getty Images; residents of the massacred town of Mellaha, 1997 © AFP via Getty Images

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Soren Ulrik Thomsen

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ERIS Press, distributed by Columbia University Press and available wherever fine books are sold

could not believe it: “They kept saying to me: a thousand dead, that’s impossible.” There was also pressure from the Algerian government to keep the true death toll from becoming public; when the massacre was reported on January 6 in Le Monde, which put the death toll at 412, the Algerian interior minister declared that the number was “completely false” and that, in reality, only seventy-eight people had been killed. According to Daoud, it would take ten years before the true figure was acknowledged.

Journalism in Algeria during the civil war was a bloody business—every reporter was a war correspondent, and journalists, as well as their families and loved ones, were often targeted, harassed, and assassinated by both the Algerian regime and the Islamist militants who wanted to strike terror into the civilian populace while also hiding from the world the true consequences of that terror. For Daoud, the civil war was his first break as a writer:

I was like a character out of Balzac, naïve, the villager who had come to the big city, who has finished his studies, who doesn't want to return to the interminable routine of the village. The newspapers were recruiting a lot [of reporters] because a lot of journalists were being killed. If you showed up, you were hired. I went to investigate the sites of these massacres, even though I knew nothing about the profession.... There was also the drug of the real. In times of war, journalism carries this exceptional drug, everything else seems false when you're coming back from the trenches. How can you be a high school teacher or finish your studies when the day before you've walked over cadavers?

The thing about the drug of the real, of course, is that, like all drugs, it eventually wears off. When it did, Daoud, like so many ambitious journalists before him, went in search of something stronger: fiction.

On a cool morning last September, I met with William Bourdon, Saâda Arbane's French lawyer, at a café on the Place de la

Bastille. The legal arguments, as he recounted them, were not so difficult to understand: Bourdon and his firm argued that Houris was not a work of fiction to begin with, while Daoud's lawyers, along with those of his publisher, Éditions Gallimard, argued that the novel was completely fabricated and owed little or nothing to the life of Saâda Arbane. Central to the case was the concept of "pure fiction," defined as a creative work drawn entirely from the imagination.

From a practical standpoint, the stakes of the case, which was filed as a civil suit in Paris, were relatively small: Bourdon's firm requested 200,000 euros in damages (later increased to 800,000) plus an insert in all future editions of the novel that would attest to the court's findings in favor of his client. This amounted to little against the millions of euros that Daoud and Gallimard had presumably made in sales from the book, which was not, regardless of the outcome, in any danger of being taken off the shelves. The real damage would be to Daoud's reputation, tarnishing his image as one of the leading dissidents and writers of his generation.

As for Bourdon, he was one of those brilliant and irascible trial lawyers the French bar throws up once in a generation—who carve a sparkling international career out of holding genocidal maniacs to account, shielding courageous whistleblowers from state persecution, while also occasionally representing the son of a dictator on the principle that, in a democracy, even the worst of the worst deserve good counsel. In 1995, Bourdon obtained an indictment in France of Wenceslas Munyeshyaka, a Rwandan priest who was accused of complicity in the massacre of hundreds of Tutsi refugees whom he had personally delivered into the hands of the Hutu militias that raped and slaughtered them. In 1998, he filed a complaint in France against Pinochet on behalf of three French families whose French-Chilean family members had disappeared during the dictatorship. And in 2015, Bourdon was summoned to Moscow to meet a young whistleblower named Edward Snowden in order to help him find a safe place to claim asylum.

Taking on Saâda Arbane's case did fit, to some degree, with one of his abiding obsessions, which was the exploitation of the weak by the strong. But Arbane's case was also different, a story not of corporate malfeasance, illegal surveillance, or state-backed killing, but of individual betrayal. This is why I was hoping to speak with him—a lawyer of Bourdon's stature doesn't take a case like this only to win. He also wants to make a point, to put something on the national agenda.

During our conversation, Bourdon emphasized the media-driven nature of the case—both Daoud and Gallimard had intimated that the Algerian government might be at least partly responsible for Arbane's decision to go public—while also casting himself as the one actor in the story without an axe to grind.

“What I can say,” he told me, “is that I’ve been a lawyer for forty-five years. I have plenty to occupy me. I became engaged in this story because this young woman is profoundly convincing, and I considered it my duty to defend her. It’s important that we never underestimate the violence of these attacks.” While I didn’t doubt his sincerity, I saw this happen frequently, a kind of semantic slippage on the part of Arbane’s defenders that quickly went from accusing Daoud of using the details of Arbane’s life as the basis for Houris—which it was pretty clear he did—to insinuating that he was somehow implicated in the slaughter and suffering at the heart of that story. In their legal brief, as well as in interviews, Bourdon’s firm characterized Daoud’s actions as a pillage, which was clearly meant to evoke the circumstances of the killings themselves. For good measure, they also threw in the word prédation: if Daoud couldn’t be tarred as an accomplice to her maiming, perhaps they could #MeToo him.

I found this to be over the top and unnecessary—free speech protections in France are not as absolute as they are in the United States, and in fact there was ample legal precedent to support Arbane's suit, including cases in which the underlying facts were less prejudicial to the defendant. But it was only unnecessary if Bourdon were being completely forthright: it seemed to me that he wanted to win this case in the court of public opinion, which would depend on the extent to which he could cast his plaintiff as a martyr and himself as her heroic defender, as he had done so many times before. The problem was that Daoud was not Wenceslas Munyeshyaka or Pinochet; he was, in fact, a hero to many Algerians, as well as to many French people, for defying and uncovering the crimes of men exactly like Bourdon's "notorious clients." For Bourdon, it was

ARBANE'S WAS A STORY NOT OF CORPORATE MALFEASANCE, ILLEGAL SURVEILLANCE, OR STATE-BACKED KILLING, BUT OF BETRAYAL

precisely this public trust that had been violated.

The case against Daoud is “a caricatural example of bad faith,” Bourdon told me. “He poses as a man of integrity, commensurate with his humanist commitments. [But] if the fact of being an opponent of the regime, the fact of being a humanist, was a guarantee of integrity, that would be evident. But that’s not a cover—it’s not a passport that grants one immunity.” At this point, Bourdon paused, then changed tack. “He was acting through his wife,” he continued, “Arbane gave a dual confidence to her psychiatrist. Yes, this is a woman who has been mutilated, damaged … who has suffered a very heavy trauma, who confided in her psychiatrist, who developed a close personal relationship with her, which is already a bit of an ethical issue. Then she discovers, without her knowledge, that everything that she said was ‘recycled.’”

I agreed that this was an instance of serious professional misconduct— this case was a perfect illustration of why psychiatrists shouldn't be friends with their patients—but it also felt like a deflection. Aïcha Dahdouh, after all, was not named in the suit that Bourdon was bringing against Daoud and Gallimard for violation of privacy. Dahdouh was, however, named in a criminal complaint in Algeria for breaching doctor-patient confidentiality, which was a far graver threat to both her and her husband. In 2023, Dahdouh and Daoud resettled permanently in France, partly as a result of threats by Algerian state-security services. If they ever went back, it was likely that they would be imprisoned and extremely unlikely that they would be given a fair trial; they might be brought to justice, but they wouldn't receive it.

For Bourdon, however, the result was a bit of a muddle: the case was certainly news, and it would continue to make headlines, but the balance was slightly in favor of Daoud, who had a strong reputation, built up over decades, and a weekly perch from which to defend himself. I

thought of the old saw about not picking a fight with anyone who buys ink by the barrel; it seemed intended for men exactly like Bourdon.

I asked him what he thought about the fact that, in other circumstances, he might have been defending someone like Daoud, rather than suing him. He scoffed a little, as if such a thing were impossible, then told me that he had, in fact, defended an opponent of the Algerian government, a former sublieutenant in the special forces who had written a book about la décennie noire (“the black decade”), as many Algerians refer to the civil war. In the early Aughts, the book’s incendiary claims caused an enormous scandal in both France and Algeria, where the atrocities committed by both the army and Islamist militants were not yet common knowledge. Bourdon told me that the author was sued for defamation by an Algerian general who defended the army against accusations of murder, torture, and corruption. Bourdon could not, however, remember the sublieutenant's name, which I found both awesome and slightly comic. What must it be like to have defended so many righteous men that you couldn't keep them all straight?

A few weeks later, I spoke with Habib Souaïdia, the former client of Bourdon's in question and the author of La sale guerre (2001), an extraordinary firsthand account of la décennie noire from a soldier who had seen the infernal death machine from the inside, was terrorists. I saw colonels assassinate, in cold blood, mere suspects. I saw officers torture Islamist sympathizers to death.

When we spoke, I told Souaïdia that, after reading La sale guerre, I wondered whether we could ever be sure who actually killed the family of Saâda Arbane. In response, he told me a kind of fable, to illustrate the twin clamps of the deadly vise in which ordinary Algerians often found themselves trapped: "An old story is the third group that passes by, which is the soldiers disguised as Islamists. They have beards, they wear djellabas, and they have the guns the terrorists normally carry. 'Vive les terroristes!' the old man cries. 'Vive l'Islam!' And then, the soldiers, they arrest him. They say to him, 'We're soldiers, and you're a supporter of terrorism.' They beat him, then they kill him in the maquis and dump his body there. And after they pass by the village, they say to themselves, 'If he did

imprisoned for four years for insubordination, and then escaped to France, where he has been in exile for more than two decades.

"I saw fellow soldiers burn alive a fifteen-year-old kid," Souaïdia writes in the introduction to the book.

I saw soldiers massacre civilians and pass the crimes off as those of the

man who has a few sheep up in the mountains—he's there, a shepherd, as some soldiers pass by, and he says, 'Vive l'armée, vive l'armée, vive l'Algérie!' So the soldiers go past, they wave, and they go on their way. The next day, a terrorist group arrives, with beards, and [the old man says], 'Vive l'Islam! Vive les terroristes!' But the funniest part of this that, then the whole village must be like that, too.' And this was just the way that hundreds and then thousands and thousands of people were killed, executed, or kidnapped."

Souaïdia's story began in the late Eighties, during Algeria's brief and disastrous experiment with multiparty democracy. Until the adoption of a new constitution in 1989, Algeria was a one-party socialist state, still largely run by the former revolutionaries of the Front de Libération Nationale (FLN) who had driven out the French during the eight bloody years of the war of independence, from 1954 to 1962. While parties across the ideological spectrum were founded during the period, the most popular was the Front Islamique du Salut (FIS), which called for a radical reshaping of Algerian society in the image of a strict, traditionalist Islam imported from imams in Saudi Arabia and Egypt, as well as jihadis freshly returned from the front in Afghanistan.

At a time when more than half the Algerian population was between the ages of fifteen and twenty-four, support for the FIS became a fashionable symbol of rebellion, even among those young people whose freedoms (for women, the freedom to study and work; for men, the right to smoke and drink alcohol; for both, the right to have sex outside marriage) were most likely to be restricted if the party came to power. Women in short skirts went to polling stations to vote for the FIS, which promised to ban skirts. Young men voted for the FIS, then went out to nightclubs and hookah bars, which the FIS promised to close.

In December, the first round of parliamentary elections was held, and the FIS won 47 percent of the vote, well ahead of the FLN—a result that was strong enough to give the FIS a majority in parliament, regardless of the outcome of the second round. On January 11, 1992, the Algerian president, Chadli Bendjedid, resigned, which suspended further elections. In March, the government formally dissolved the FIS.

Later that year, the Algerian government passed a law that banned “all membership or participation, under any form” in a terrorist group, which was used to round up thousands of FIS sympathizers or presumed sympathizers in concentration camps located in the Sahara. Souaïdia witnessed how the army was purged of officers who were accused of having Islamist affiliations. (It was enough, in some cases, merely to pray too often, and mosques were soon banned at army barracks.) Many officers and civilians who had no allegiance to the FIS felt they had no choice but to join the maquis—in other words, to hide in the mountains and become “terrorists.” In this way, the government helped to generate, maintain, and even encourage the very terrorism it was supposedly trying to combat.

As the conflict dragged on, the boundaries between the government and les terroristes became blurrier and blurrier. Égorgements—throat slittings—soon became the calling card of massacres committed by Islamist fighters, a tactic that was soon adopted by certain units of the army's special forces, which were tasked with performing what Souaïdia calls le sale boulot ("the dirty work").

TERROR WAS THE LINGUA FRANCA OF THE WAR, A MEANS THAT BECAME, WITH TIME, AN END IN ITSELF

Among themselves, the officers began to jokingly call the Algerian regime la société—as in, “What was the society up to today?”—which was short for la société pour la formation des terroristes. The more I learned about la décennie noire, the more I was reminded of Voltaire’s famous crack about the Holy Roman Empire: that it was neither holy, nor Roman, nor an empire. The Islamist militants, for instance, those shadowy figures who slaughtered a thousand people in Had Chekala and murdered the family of the fictional Aube and the real Saâda? There was a good chance that they were neither particularly Islamist nor especially militant. There was, in fact, no way to be sure that they were Islamist militants.

Many soldiers and officers, for reasons both ideological and practical—the Algerian army was often delinquent in paying salaries—deserted in order to fight against the army of which they had formerly been a part. On the other side, some of the Islamist killing squads were in fact Algerian special forces in disguise, while others were composed of “real” Islamist militants that had been infiltrated by spies from the Algerian intelligence service.

Among the civilian population, the two sides became known as l'état du jour and l'état de la nuit. In a review of Daoud's 2004 book, Ô Pharaon, the Algerian political scientist Lahouari Addi wrote that, "caught between two states that succeeded one another every twelve hours, the population didn't know to whom to pledge allegiance: to the wolves of the night or the jackals of the day." For ordinary Algerians, "terrorist" was essentially a meaningless designation. Terror was the lingua franca of the war, a means that became, with time, an end in itself.

During our conversation, Souaïdia was very critical of Daoud: he felt that the author was late to the real story and that most reporters had been content to parrot the government line during the war, which was that all the atrocities were being committed on the Islamist side. Why, Souaïdia asked me, “was [Daoud] trying to raise consciousness about what happened in Algeria today, in 2025, when he should have done so in 2001, 2003, 2004, 2005?”

Leaving aside the fact that Daoud had written about the civil war back then, in countless columns and articles, I thought that this criticism left out an important bit of context: Souaïdia had written and published his book in exile, while Daoud had stayed in Algeria and continued to work as a journalist for decades after the end of the conflict. One of the epigraphs to Houris was an excerpt from the reconciliation bill that was passed after the official end of hostilities, which granted amnesty to Islamist fighters and forbade

anyone who, by their declarations, their writings, or any other action, uses or instrumentalizes the wounds of this national tragedy to attack the institutions of the People's Democratic Republic of Algeria, weaken the State, besmirch the honor of its officials who serve it with dignity, or tarnish the image of Algeria internationally.

Violations are punishable by three to five years in prison, and it was this law—Article 46 of the reconciliation bill—that had been invoked to ban Houris from being sold in Algeria, and also to prevent Gallimard from attending the 2024 Salon International du Livre d'Alger, Algeria's largest book festival. Similar statutes have been invoked in the charges against hundreds of other writers, journalists, filmmakers, and anti-government activists, many of whom have been held for years without trial. True, Houris itself had been written in exile, but I didn't see why a novelist should be held responsible for the gap between the events that inspired a novel and the writing of the novel itself. Fiction isn't journalism; newsworthiness can't save a piece of bad fiction, while a good novel might be written decades, or even centuries, after the events that it describes.

When I asked Souaïdia about the case of Saâda Arbane, he noted that both sides had instrumentalized her. “Kamel Daoud used the story of this young woman,” he said, “and the regime used [her] to attack Kamel Daoud.” Though Souaïdia knew better than anyone what it was like to be the target of a state-backed smear campaign—both he and Daoud, for instance, were accused in the Algerian press of being in the pay of France and Israel—he seemed to have little sympathy for his plight. In part, it was because Souaïdia felt that Daoud was reaping the fruits of his labor; it was his exposure of the truth, as he saw it, that opened the door for Daoud’s fiction. But it was also a very neat illustration of the paradox of solidarity: the more you’ve suffered precisely as someone else has suffered, the less likely it is to inspire fellow feeling.

For Daoud, this was exactly what gave fiction its mandate to explore all facets of the human experience, especially the darkest ones. “If we speak of the [concentration] camps, and have to choose between the story of the torturer and the story of the victim, instinct pushes us to tell the story of the victim,” he said.

“Literature, on the other hand, pushes us to recount the story of the torturer, because the torturer had the choice.” This was a fascinating perspective, one that, as I read Houris, I sometimes wished Daoud himself had taken. The novel, however, is the testimony of a permanent victim, someone trapped so thoroughly inside her trauma that she can think and speak of nothing else.

Perhaps it was simply the case that literature could proceed only slowly, and in a straight line, from the viewpoint of the victim to that of the torturer. The 2006 Prix Goncourt, for example, was awarded to Jonathan Littell's The Kindly Ones, which is narrated by Maximilien Aue, an SS officer who is present, with Forrest Gump-like serendipity, for many of the most terrible and historic scenes of World War II: Auschwitz, Stalingrad, the Babi Yar massacre. Published sixty years after the Holocaust, the book nevertheless managed to stir up a major controversy in France, which was painfully slow to acknowledge its active role in the deportation of tens of thousands of Jews to the Nazi death camps. So perhaps it will be another few decades until some enterprising young Algerian writer can give us a grand comic novel in the voice of, say, fighters in the maquis who are unable to distinguish between which of them are "real" terrorists and which of them are fake. But for now, under a regime that insists on the reality of its fictions—silencing its victims while letting its torturers walk free—perhaps there was some wisdom, on Daoud's part, in sticking to the truth.

The legal dossier filed by Daoud's lawyers must be one of the strangest and most extraordinary documents I've ever read. In their brief, Daoud's lawyers, Benjamin Moisan and Jacqueline Laffont-Haïk, laid out in meticulous detail a counterhistory of each piece of inspiration that Saâda Arbane's lawyers had insisted was "stolen" from her life. According to Daoud's lawyers, the massacre in Houris was not inspired by the massacre of Arbane's family, but by the massacre in Had Chekala that Daoud had witnessed and reported on as a young journalist. Was it true that the families of both the fictional Aube and the real Saâda owned small farms in a remote mountainous region? Perhaps, but so did Daoud's family, which was part of a Berber tribe called the Beni Ouragh, whose members were spread across many small villages, including Had Chekala. Was it true that both the fictional Aube and the real Saâda underwent tracheotomies and had cannulas inserted? Yes, but during his research for the novel, Daoud watched documentaries in which Algerians who had been égorgés also had cannulas inserted. Was it true that both Aube and Saâda lived in the neighborhood of Hai El Yasmine in Oran? Well, so had Daoud.

There was also the matter of the large discrepancy in the number of siblings (the fictional Aube had just one sister, while Arbane had six siblings), which I originally attributed to the dramatist's desire to condense characters in the interest of narrative fluidity. In the legal brief, however, Daoud's lawyers pointed to a documentary that was aired on Algerian television in 2018 that told the story of two sisters who had been "led into the mountains" during la décennie noire, a colloquial way of saying that they had been kidnapped. While their story deviated from that of Houris in one important respect—in the novel, Aube watches as her older sister is killed—I couldn't help but notice that Daoud had lifted the name of Fatima, Aube's older sister, from the film.

As for the mutilation, while it was true that both the fictional Aube and the real Saâda went through advanced surgeries in France to permanently graft over the cannula and restore the normal function of eating and breathing—attempts that ultimately failed—Daoud himself had also done medical research into the physiological effects of égorgement. He discovered, for example, that the mutism that results is rarely curable and only found a single example of success, an eighteen-hour operation undergone by a woman in California in 2010, mentioned in the novel by Aube's adoptive mother as a reason for Aube to try the same thing.

Daoud's lawyers cited an interview Daoud had done with Le Nouvel Obs that was published in September 2024—well before Arbane's public accusations, in other words. In the passage that his lawyers cite, Daoud explained his attraction as a novelist to the character of Aube: "She [elle] was the real metaphorization of this story that cannot be told, even though it was suffered." Here, however, is the full transcript of the question and response:

INTERVIEWER: Your heroine, Aube, her neck carved into a horrible smile by a knife, is mute, breathes through a cannula, but maintains an interior dialogue with the daughter that she carries. Was she inspired by a real woman?

DAOUD: Yes, I knew a woman with a cannula, but she [elle] was not the only to be mutilated, since throat slitting was the modus operandi of the Islamists. This image triggered something powerful in me, which I hadn't known how to express. It [elle] was the real metaphorization of this story that cannot be told, even though it was suffered.

When I first read this quote, I saw immediately that the argument between Daoud's lawyers and Arbane's lawyers was over the identity of this woman. Daoud's lawyers were arguing that the elle was Aube, while Arbane's lawyers, who also cited the passage, were arguing that it was Saâda. However, they were both wrong—or in any case, they were both misrepresenting the meaning of the passage—and the reason was grammatical. In French, nouns can be masculine or feminine, and pronouns must therefore follow the gender of their antecedent—thus, when Daoud said, elle était la métaphorisation réelle de cette histoire, the elle he was referring to was not a woman. In fact, its antecedent was image, which is a feminine noun. What Daoud was saying was that the image of these mutilated women had inspired him: the image of both the woman he knew (a clear reference to Saâda Arbane) as well as the many women who had been mutilated in the same way. The lawyers on both sides were arguing that the source or sources of Daoud's inspiration could be precisely identified, but most novels simply don't work that way. The novelist doesn't draw directly from life, whatever that might mean—he draws on images of life and then fashions them according to his talent and his temperament. A novel is a story, not a transcript. It has characters, not people.

Still, this was not the only time that Daoud had directly admitted in an interview that the character of

LAWYERS ON BOTH SIDES ARGUED THAT THE SOURCE OF DAOUD'S INSPIRATION COULD BE IDENTIFIED, BUT NOVELS DON'T WORK THAT WAY

Aube was inspired by a specific individual. When asked by the writer Éric Fottorino whether this woman had “really existed,” Daoud responded, “Bien sûr” (“of course”), before quickly pivoting to another aspect of the book that may have seemed novelistic but was in fact true:

I've been told that placing a hair salon—where my novel takes place—across from a mosque is very symbolic, as if it were a novelist's artifice.... Except, this salon across from a mosque really exists, just around the corner from my house!

In the interviews that were done around the time Houris was published, Daoud seemed quite anxious to establish the truth of his fiction; for each anecdote in the novel, there was a corresponding story that he had either witnessed himself or been told about personally. While I'm sure that some of this had to do with establishing his command of the reality of the civil war, I think it was also an attempt to defend himself against charges that he was appropriating the story of a young woman for his own benefit.

Yet in these same interviews, I also noticed how certain details that Arbane's lawyers had insisted were stolen from her life were, according to Daoud, drawn from a different source entirely—Aube's tattoos, for example, which Arbane insisted were based on her own. Daoud told Fottorino:

I was raised by my grandmother, who was covered with ancestral tattoos, the meaning of which she never explained to me. For me, at first it was like the French language: it was tattooed everywhere on the paper, but I couldn't understand the words I was reading. I have always felt that a body and a body of work are the same thing.

Here we can see the same logic that transformed an angelic smile on the lips of a slaughtered infant into a sourire diabolique scrawled across the neck of the mutilated Aube. Under French law, you don't

need to demonstrate that every single detail of a person's life has a direct corollary in a given work. The person need only be deemed recognizable. A lot seemed to hinge on that word. Recognizable to whom? To the plaintiff's family? Her close friends? Her acquaintances?

In an interview with the left-wing news outlet Mediapart, Arbane explained that she had received dozens of messages from people who had come to her after hearing about the novel, because they assumed that she had agreed to be the subject of Daoud's book. Some even asked her how much money she had received. This gets to the heart of the case. Although much of the legal arguments on both sides are taken up with the provenance of certain details in the novel, Arbane's argument really hinges on the personal relationship between her, Dahdouh, and Daoud. According to Arbane, Daoud and his wife asked multiple times for permission to use her story in a book, but Arbane in every case refused. According to testimony provided by

Arbane's adoptive aunt, as well as one of her close friends, the first request occurred in 2021, when Dahdouh invited Arbane to a café and proposed that her husband write a book about her life. Dahdouh then asked Mentouri, Arbane's adoptive mother, to grant permission on behalf of her adopted daughter, which was also refused. On September 22, 2024, Dahdouh sent a text message to Arbane that read: “the heroine is pregnant with a baby that she calls ‘my houri,’ whose story somewhat resembles yours.”

On October 30, Dahdouh and Arbane saw each other one last time in Oran. According to Arbane, as well as testimony from her husband and her adoptive aunt, Dahdouh made a last-ditch effort, offering to cut Arbane in on the novel's film rights. Arbane's lawyers characterized these efforts as being made in bad faith, but I'm not so sure. How else are you supposed to approach the subject of a book you hope to write except by asking for permission? It seemed to me that Arbane's lawyers wanted Daoud to pay for Dahdouh's original sin, which was developing a close personal relationship with her client. But was it bad faith from the start? If Daoud had simply written the book without asking for permission, would it have been better from an ethical standpoint? Obviously not. Nevertheless, the legal case against him would have been much weaker. In truth, he was being sued for acting in good faith, at least initially, and for leaving behind evidence, including a copy of the novel that he dedicated to Arbane, with the following inscription: "Our country has often been saved by courageous women. You're one of them. With my admiration: Kamel."

In the months after Arbane's accusations were made public, the media coverage divided neatly along political lines: publications on the left, like Mediapart and Libération, gave prominent coverage to Arbane, while those on the right, like Le Figaro and Le Point, supported Daoud. Those on the left tended to minimize or dismiss the censorship of Daoud's novel in Algeria. Like Arbane's lawyers, the left wanted to foreground the personal betrayal, too. On the right, the story of personal betrayal was minimized or dismissed—the conservative papers were content to focus on Daoud's status as Algeria's most famous dissident, as well as the ways in which Algerian state media was using Arbane's claims to distract from the regime's unfortunate habit of jailing and persecuting people who said things it didn't like.

What the coverage revealed was that this story was, as much as anything, yet another skirmish in a long-running war between two different factions of the Parisian elite. If William Bourdon represented the activist left, then Daoud's lawyer, Jacqueline Laffont-Haïk, represented the interests of the pro-business right. (One of Laffont-Haïk's colleagues told me that they had "demonstrated that these accusations are completely devoid of any factual or legal basis.") When Laffont-Haïk took on Daoud as a client, she was in the midst of contesting the corruption ruling against former president Nicolas Sarkozy. Daoud himself is friends with President Emmanuel Macron, who had come to power promising a kind of French Third Way politics, but was now seen to be a politician in the traditional center-right mold, a Sarkozy with a few superficial updates. Shortly before resettling in France, Daoud had met Macron for dinner in Algeria, and after the move he had lunched with him at the presidential palace. It was this closeness that seemed, in part, to account for the vehemence with which Daoud was attacked by leftists, who had been profoundly disappointed by Macron's presidency. (After Daoud won the Goncourt, Algerian state media accused Macron of having intervened to throw the award to his old friend.)

I visited the offices of Gallimard, another bastion of the Parisian elite, and spoke with Tahar Ben Jelloun, a well-known French-Moroccan author. In 1987, Ben Jelloun had won the Goncourt for his novel The Sacred Night, and was also a member of the prestigious Académie Goncourt, which had selected Houris for the prize. “When this story about Kamel Daoud [came out],” he told me, “there was some grumbling about it in France, because people thought that Kamel Daoud was rather on the right, or that he was playing a game of seeming to be on the right.” He was disappointed with what he believed was biased coverage in legacy media outlets like Télérama, as well as Le Monde, where he had written for many years. “It seems to me,” he said, “that Le Monde has become left-wing, and that there are people inside who are out to settle scores.”

For Ben Jelloun, the lawsuit was simply another aspect of the carnival that surrounded the award, which often launched into the literary stratosphere the careers of obscure writers—some of whom were used to selling hundreds, or just a few thousand, copies of a novel. "With each Goncourt, there's a scandal," he said. "There's so much money there's always a story. And of course, there's always a divorce. Always. Five times out of six, I would say."

In May 2025, the day after the first hearing of the trial, Gallimard published a pamphlet by Daoud titled Il faut parfois trahir (“Sometimes we must betray”). It’s a lovely essay, well argued and dense with historical and literary citations, about the narrative necessity of betrayal:

Sometimes, to betray is to reveal, to clarify, to dare, to love, to cherish, and to venture into the unknown. Am I a traitor? I dare to hope.

When I showed Bourdon this passage, he dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “Ça, c’est du tralala,” he declared, which was his way of saying that this was just another smoke screen, a way of obfuscating the personal wrong that had been done to Arbane. But Daoud’s argument was that betrayal is an essential part of many great stories, and that our collective history can’t move forward until someone dares to say the unsayable, do the unthinkable. The comparisons, of course, were grandiose—Prometheus, Satan—but I wasn't so sure this was simple obfuscation. In a roundabout way, I rather thought it a confession.

Late in the essay, Daoud cites Borges's short story “Three Versions of Judas,” in which the real savior of mankind is not Jesus but the man who set in motion the crucifixion (and therefore the resurrection) by betraying him. Daoud's detractors wanted to fix him forever in this act of betrayal, to make this moment define him totally and forevermore, but his argument was that the annunciation of a new life—of a new possibility of salvation, of a new relationship with God or one another—will never appear ex nihilo. First a betrayal must occur:

Without betrayal, there is no humanity, no stolen apples, no forbidden fruit, no whispers, no rejection of God. The traitor wounds this unanimity, this common body, and he lays it bare.

The primary way this was read in France was as a simple defense of the dissident and the necessity of betraying his nation in order to redeem his people. But if you read between the lines, I thought that another message had been enclosed, a secret appeal to an audience of one. Arbane had spent eight years in therapy, and after all that time she had, by her own account, told almost no one other than Dahdouh about the circumstances behind her disfigurement. Was Daoud arguing that, however painful this betrayal was, it might, by forcing Arbane to confront what had happened, afford her the possibility of a new life organized around something beside the terrible suffering she had endured? “I am the only one to have survived this and kept the traces,” Arbane said in an interview with Mediapart, “the only one to have a cannula in Algeria.”

Arbane insisted on the unique nature of her injury; Daoud on its universality. At various times during the reporting of this story, I felt pulled toward this side and then the other. When I was pulled toward Daoud's side, it was because it seemed to me that holding novelists legally accountable for telling the truth in fiction was eventually going to lead to a perversion of justice; the same law that protected Saâda Arbane's privacy today might be used tomorrow to intimidate and silence authors who wanted to explore the suffering that they had experienced at the hands of others. It seemed to me that anyone who wrote a novel about incest, sexual assault, or even genocide could, under the same interpretation of the law, be sued for violation of privacy. (In April, Daoud would be sentenced in absentia to three years in prison by a court in Oran for violating Article 46, making his exile permanent, in all probability.)

When I was pulled toward Arbane's side, I thought particularly of a devastating account of her mental state, recorded in 2001 by a child psychiatrist who treated the seven-year-old Arbane in Paris while she was in a hospital undergoing her tracheotomy. At the time, only six months had passed since the massacre of her family and it was unclear how much she remembered of the incident. One day, the psychiatrist found her with a book in Arabic that told the story of bloody conquests from long ago. As the psychiatrist wrote:

The images were often unbearable. She turned the pages and stopped when she saw families laid out on the ground, above all women. She pointed her finger at scenes that seemed to correspond to what she seemed to believe she had experienced. She received this book from a person that we haven't found yet and who did this without discussing it with anyone on the team.

Arbane even told me—in response to one of a list of questions I sent her—that this was where she recovered her sourire. It was the most extraordinary thing—in a French hospital, an illustrated book in Arabic had been slipped, almost as if by magic, into the hands of this young girl, so that she could begin to confront the awful truth of what had happened. So that maybe, in time, she could begin to heal.

Slow Down, We're Floating Here!

Practice Safe Boating and Slow Your Wake for their Sake.

SILKWORMS

Reincarnation in Beijing

By Long Ling

Translated from the Chinese by Jonathan Flint

The restaurant is still there. Cars line both sides of the street, so I have to park a block away. I am carrying a five-foot pole and a pair of scissors in a plastic bag. It is the spring of 2019, and the only clue as to where I am heading was posted on the internet years ago: "In the northwest corner of the Garden Bridge on the West Third Ring Road, there are two mulberry trees to the north of a restaurant."

The buildings on either side of the restaurant have been rebuilt, and there is now a new road to its north. Flanking the road are Beijing's ubiquitous poplar trees. Late April is when the trees' flowers cover the city with their white fur, appearing on tables, on floors, and under beds, making people blink, sneeze, and curse. The poplar leaves sway under the streetlights. I don't see any mulberry trees.

I walk up and down the road, searching hesitantly until I attract the notice of a uniformed security guard. He is on shift in a nearby office and has just finished dinner, judging by the disposable food container and chopsticks on the concrete steps. He has nothing to do but watch people coming in and out of the restaurant on the other side of the street.

“Hey, what are you looking for?” he asks me in a Hebei accent. I smile and say, “Do you know if there are any mulberry trees nearby? My son has raised some silkworms, but we ran out of mulberry leaves. The worms are starving.”

My son is feeding silkworms for an art project on the theme of reincarnation. The silkworms weren't his first choice. Initially, he'd proudly shown me a portrait of Mao Zedong he'd made. The portrait had two parts: on the left, Mao in a gray tunic, with his broad back and distinctive hair; on the right, Mao in a suit and tie, his hair neatly parted, reminiscent of President Xi. My son challenged me: "What do you think of this? Spiritual reincarnation." I didn't know what to say to the angry teenager, but his art teacher did: "Above all else, you must graduate safely, so don't ask for trouble." Frustrated, my son asked my advice: "Could I record a life from birth to death to rebirth?" Uncertainly, I suggested: "Like raising silkworms?" I had bred them before, since they were common pets among primary-school students when I was young. To my surprise, he became fixated on this idea. He began reciting idioms and poems about silkworms familiar to all Chinese students: to spin a cocoon around oneself, a silkworm will not die until it spins out all its silk.... This could be a good topic for his art project. We decided to raise silkworms.

Starting the project was straightforward; after all, in China almost anything can be bought online. His silkworm-raising kit cost twenty yuan (less than three dollars) on Taobao (China's biggest online shopping platform) and came with one hundred silkworm eggs, a plastic lunch box (to serve as an incubator), a goose feather (to sweep and move the young silkworms around), a pound of mulberry leaves, and free shipping. We put the eggs in the lunch box and the lunch box on the balcony. After a week, I heard my son exclaim, “Quick! They’re hatching!” We took the mulberry leaves out of the refrigerator, cut them thinly, and fed them to the comma-shaped worms. More than sixty had hatched.

Silkworms “sleep” regularly. My son observes them and takes pictures every other day. Each time his reaction is the same: “My God. So big.” He looks mildly disgusted. Eventually, they grow so large that I transfer them to shoeboxes. After the silkworms shed two layers of skin, they turn white and their heads become round. I’m afraid of insects, but I slowly begin to feel that silkworms are not so scary. Watching them gnaw away at the edges of the leaves recalls another idiom, 蚕食 (cán shí, which literally means “silkworm eating”), referring to a continuous, inch-by-inch encroachment, often used in Chinese textbooks to describe how Western imperialists forced the Qing government to open up China in the second half of the nineteenth century. The imperialists ate slowly, like silkworms, or, otherwise, cut up and devoured resources as if they were eating a watermelon.

The silkworms are kept in my tiny bedroom in the apartment I rent close to my son's school. Families from across the city reside upstairs and downstairs, all for the same reason: so their children can live near the school. To avoid an hour-and-a-half commute each way, I am paying an exorbitant amount of money to stay in a dilapidated old neighborhood, in an apartment built in the Seventies that's so small there is little space outside the two bedrooms.

At night, the rustling sound of dozens of silkworms in shoeboxes, munching on mulberry leaves, brings back childhood memories of the silkworms I raised at my grandparents' house. The area around my hometown was once a famous silk-producing region, and my grandparents kept silkworms in six-foot-wide bamboo trays. My teenage aunts, entrusted with the care of thousands of white larvae feasting on lush, thick mulberry leaves, had to get up in the middle of the night to scatter more leaves into the trays. The tradition vanished nearly half a century ago.

The first one-pound pack of mulberry leaves is quickly finished. I order more online, but two days later, I have only a couple of leaves left in the refrigerator, and the courier still hasn't arrived. I contact the seller, who replies, "Oh, the parcel was returned because there is a big meeting taking place in Beijing. Many deliveries have been suspended. I don't know when I will be able to send a replacement." I then realize that two bottles of salad dressing that I ordered haven't arrived, and a letter from Singapore regarding a visa application has also yet to be received.

The seller is right: the Belt and Road Forum for International Cooperation is being held in the city. Preparations started a few months ago, and with them the usual disruption to the lives of Beijingers. We are used to the street closures, the factory shutdowns, the restrictions on driving and internet access during Communist Party conferences, international summits, Tiananmen Square military parades, and the visits of foreign dignitaries. We are excited to have one or two weeks of “APEC blue,” a phenomenon first observed in the fall of 2014 when the color of Beijing's skies noticeably improved during the Asia-Pacific Economic Cooperation meeting. But I did not expect the fate of silkworms to be so closely linked to such events.

The silkworms rock their heads in the shoeboxes, looking for mulberry leaves. It is hard to find them in Beijing because the mulberry tree has an inauspicious name in Chinese. The Chinese word for “mulberry,” 桑 (sāng), sounds similar to the word for “funeral” or “mourning,” 丧 (sàng). Since antiquity, people have believed that planting a mulberry tree in front of one’s house is unlucky. When I found the old post online describing two trees on the ring road, I was skeptical that they would still be there. But now the security guard confirms that they exist; he’s seen them.

The trees he leads me toward are thick and tall, perhaps more than fifty years old, their lowest branches six feet off the ground, owing to the gardeners' efficient pruning. Green and red mulberries are scattered beneath them, no doubt causing the sanitation workers on the block to complain. I raise my pole and try to reach the lowest branch. While I consider how to pull the leaves down, an elderly woman wearing a red armband approaches me. My heart tightens. Is she one of the so-called Chaoyang Masses or Xicheng Dama?

“Chaoyang Masses,” “Xicheng Dama,” “Haidian Netizens,” and “Fengtai Persuaders” are what Beijingers refer to as “the four mysterious organizations” of Beijing. (Chaoyang, Xicheng, Haidian, and Fengtai are four districts in the city.) When the police announce the arrests of gang members or fraudsters, or some other suspects, the news often states, “It was reported by the Chaoyang Masses,” or “According to the information of the Xicheng Dama....” Dama refers to members of the cohort of elderly women who were in their teens or twenties during the Cultural Revolution and share many characteristics, such as believing the news reports on China Central Television and being energetically patriotic. Some have retired from office jobs; others have come from the provinces to look after their grandchildren. They love square dancing and they are famous for driving a hard bargain for groceries and clothes. Many are relentless in their efforts to protect a socialist China and the Chinese Communist Party. Some years ago, when a foreign tourist was seen recording a video on a street in Beijing, he was stopped and interrogated by several dama wearing red armbands. It was very smoggy that day, and the dama took the tourist to the police station because, they explained, “he tried to denigrate China by taking a video of our air pollution.”

If this armbanded dama accuses me of destroying public property, the silkworms at my home will go hungry tonight. But instead, she simply asks whether I'm picking mulberry leaves. "I can tell you that the mulberries from this tree can be very sweet," she says. "When my son was a child, we picked and ate the berries from these trees. They are small, but they are sweet!" The dama tells me her old story of the two trees. "Fortunately, when they widened this road, the trees weren't in the way, so the workmen left them. There are not many old trees left here."

I walk around beneath the trees. Although my pole reaches the branches, the wire at the end is too pliable and the branches too strong to be hooked and pulled down. The security guard, seeing my failure, comes to my aid. “Jump up! Surely you can jump and reach it?” But I cannot. He takes a few steps back and runs toward the tree, leaping up and grabbing the lowest branch with one hand: “Come on, hold it! I have to hurry back. If my manager sees me doing this, he’ll fine me.”

When I walk back to my car, I have a plastic bag bulging with enough leaves for a week. I feel a sense of fulfillment and satisfaction. The strange experience of collecting mulberry leaves reminds me of the sudden happiness that a pack of sweets brought to me as a child. I am smiling, and the muscles of my face relax.

The mulberry trees are far from where we live. Each trip is a long, tiring journey. Then one day my husband announces that he has found a mulberry tree within 650 feet of our building in the civil servants' community that is our primary residence.

This neighborhood, built in the early Aughts, consists of fifteen buildings housing more than two thousand families. Like others, we have been assigned an apartment based on our rank, education level, and years of employment. Our property was purchased at the subsidized rate dictated by the civil-servant affordable-housing policy, under the premise that leasing and resale are strictly prohibited. The apartment buildings are not all the same. Buildings Nos. 1, 2, 3, and 4 are redbrick and six stories tall. The other buildings, from No. 5 onward, are gray concrete towers twenty-eight stories tall.

The mulberry tree my husband has found is in front of the ministers' buildings. The whole community is enclosed within high brick walls, but the four brick ministers' buildings are surrounded by an additional iron fence with two large steel entry gates. There are nearly two hundred ministers and vice ministers there, a concentration of senior government and party officials that is unique to Beijing. Other provinces and cities have only a few dozen minister-level cadres.

A squad of armed soldiers protects the compound. The officers are all men in their twenties, dressed in smart military uniforms. When standing guard, they stare straight ahead and look as good as the guards in Tiananmen Square. The security officers at the towers, on the other hand, are almost all migrant workers from other provinces. They have a low monthly salary, wear cheap uniforms, and range in age from eighteen to older than fifty. Often they stand with hunched backs, their hands clasped behind them, watching the young soldiers change guard on the other side of the iron fence.

The ministers' compound is always quiet. At night, few lights are turned on inside these beautiful slabs; of the twelve units in each building, only one or two are illuminated, meaning that most people with residences there live elsewhere in the city.

It's extremely difficult to be promoted high enough to move into the ministers' community. And it would not be easy to pass through the steel gate under the eyes of the armed soldiers just to pick a few mulberry leaves. The tree grows beyond the iron fence, just six feet away from my reach. Its thick green leaves look juicy, and the mulberries are already red because of the sunshine and the good care of the gardeners.

I think of two possible ways to get the leaves. The first one, as the saying goes, is to “find a connection.” In his twenties, my husband served as secretary to a high-ranking official who has now retired and has an apartment in the ministers’ community. We wonder whether we can tell the police we are going to visit the old leader. But we learn that he and his family do not often stay there. If we were discovered picking the leaves rather than visiting him, or if we were asked to call the minister to let us through the gate, it would be an embarrassment. My husband knows that when one asks for a favor, it must be for something big, which does not include permission to collect mulberry leaves.

The second way is to seek the help of the dama. With two thousand households living together, there is always a big group of them. Every morning, the entire complex is envelopoped in repetitive dance music adapted from popular songs of twenty years ago. The sound from the speakers is penetrating; even if you live on the twentieth floor, closing the windows won't keep out the noise. One or two women, trained when they were young, lead the dance. Thirty or forty dama form straight rows or circles. Their movements are sometimes like gymnastics, sometimes like folk dances, sometimes like kung fu, sometimes like disco. They do this every day, while gossiping about their neighbors.

My mother-in-law is typical of these elderly women, who are said to “follow their husband, then their children.” Coming from a village in a southern province, illiterate, and speaking only local dialect, women like her come to Beijing to live with their sons and daughters. Although she can’t speak Mandarin, my mother-in-law has made several friends who have become her “good sisters.” Most of them live in towers like the one where we live, except for a woman whom I will call Mrs. Yuan, who lives in a ministers’ building.

Mrs. Yuan's hair is dyed black, with a perm, her fair skin is carefully shielded from the sun, and her clothes are fine. Her taste is significantly better than that of my mother-in-law and the other dama. For quite a while, I couldn't guess why Mrs. Yuan was willing to spend time with the elderly women from the tower. Her background is not ordinary. She is a multimillionaire! We know this because Mrs. Yuan once came to see my husband, who works in the legal department, to receive his counsel about a lawsuit against her business.

Before Mrs. Yuan retired, an iron-and-steel company hired her as a salesperson. Her task was to sell steel for major state and provincial construction projects. Unlike regular employees, she received a commission. How much did she sell? She does not say. The steel company later went bankrupt, and her boss regretted the commissions he had paid her. He went to court to reclaim the money, stating that it had not been a “salary” but “hidden bribery” to the tune of more than two hundred million yuan (approximately thirty million U.S. dollars). Such a large amount is a shock to or dinary civil servants who earn six or seven thousand yuan a month. Since we don't want to stir up any gossip involving us and the Yuans and their complicated case, my husband urges his mother to keep a distance from her. But when my mother-in-law hears that we want to reach the mulberry tree inside the iron fence, she volunteers to ask Sister Yuan to collect the leaves for us. "No! Don't!" we say. My husband and I are frightened. We wouldn't ask a minister's wife with two hundred million yuan to pick a few mulberry leaves for us. That is a favor we don't want to ask for.

The Belt and Road Forum is over now, and so is the associated moratorium on deliveries. Before I place another order, a courier knocks on my door and hands me a cardboard box. The parcel is addressed to our apartment, care of my husband. I open it doubtfully. It contains five stuffed bags of big green mulberry leaves, weighing about six pounds. My order on Taobao was refunded and canceled; my husband does not shop online.

So many leaves. Though they are inexpensive, someone still went out of their way to send them to us. Who could it be? We are not in the habit of discussing family life with neighbors in our community. Communication is limited to greeting one another in the corridors and the elevator. For the sake of safety, most civil servants have learned not to post on social media. As experienced civil servants and members of the party, we know many colleagues who were warned or punished because of their “imprudent comments.” So how does the sender know about our silkworms? How does he or she know our home address?

When my husband comes home and stands in front of the refrigerator stuffed with bags of mulberry leaves, his face takes on an unnatural look. It is strictly prohibited to give presents to civil servants, but it is often tricky to know where the line is drawn. It is still common to receive a bottle of wine, a pack of tea, or some souvenirs. But gifts make people alert and nervous. We have no idea how certain corrupt officials collect and hide two hundred million yuan in cash in their apartments, but we do have colleagues who were punished because of an anonymous report that they were seen attending a dinner paid for by businessmen. An unaccounted-for parcel, whatever it contains, is suspicious.

I think my husband has some idea who sent the parcel and why. But I don't pursue the subject. Many years ago, I was told that the best and safest route for a civil servant's wife is to have no curiosity. Life is exhausting enough and has long made me lose interest in raising awkward questions.

The leaves are so lustrous that they make the ones I picked look listless and dull. I feel as if the five bags make me a millionaire, from the perspective of the silkworms. I take a pair of scissors and, picking the freshest leaves from one of the bags, cut off the edges, the stems, and the dark yellowish spots, leaving only the most delicious parts. It is hard to believe that only yesterday I had to ration the leaves, cutting each into small pieces so that none would be wasted. Now I have a sense of what it must feel like to become rich overnight.

But the silkworms lose their appetite. They sniff the fresh mulberry leaves and wriggle around, searching anxiously in the air. They are approaching the conclusion of their brief lives and are ready to make cocoons. Mulberry leaves—fat or thin; bought, picked, or given—have lost all appeal for them. The worms spin silk, ceaselessly weaving the threads together. Translucent, the threads turn into shining cocoons: pure, white, and solid. After another week of quiet, the cocoons hatch one moth, then another, and they immediately seek partners to mate with. Afterward, the male moths die, the females lay eggs, and then they die, too.

The boxes in which they lived are a mess. The white cocoons are torn through and stained with yellow-brown secretions. Dried mulberry leaves and worm dung has piled up at the bottom, now mixed with the bodies of dead moths. Thousands of eggs cover the walls of the shoeboxes. Life and death are entangled, like a once-prosperous but now deserted community. My son records the scene, and all he can say, again and again, is: "My God. My God." Have we witnessed reincarnation?

All the conversation topics you need for the whole year.

FIVE STORIES

By Diane Williams

THE QUICKENING

A bit of frothy landscape greenery pointed the way, to the way she intended to go—carrying her cardboard box—and she was not meant to see her husband again, nor did she want to.

But she did say aloud, “I thought so! You’re here!”

Diane Williams is the founder and editor of the literary annual NOON. Her twelfth collection of short stories, I Liked Rex, will be published this month as an NYRB Classics original.

She counted ten geese promenading on the cobbled walkway of Fifth Avenue, plus her husband, and when the geese reached the park's access point, the troop entered single file—her husband, at the back of the line, managing to keep up with them.

Such crude attention-grabbers, the woman was thinking, as an ornate chimneypiece on a dolly interrupted her line of sight—a crude attention-grabber, too.

She screamed—"Thief!"—at the sight of a man stealing flowers out from behind an apartment house's low ornamental fence, which he handed off to his little girl.

The woman, who felt she had lost her dignity by screaming, shifted the somewhat heavy box side to side within her bent arms and wished to behave better than she was able to.

“He’s gone!” a customer at the post office reported to her, referring to the absent clerk. “He’s way back there, and he’ll be gone a long time. He’s already been gone a long time.”

"Do me a favor," the woman said. "I can't wait. Tell him I said goodbye."

Her progress was noted by several as she departed with her unsent parcel pressed to her breast.

Her shoes are more beautiful in person. Her dress is made of a soft silk-rayon fabric with a satiny finish. She wears a full crinoline petticoat that adds a delightful fullness to the skirt.

Seen from the side, with her head turned toward the viewers, she appears to be a tamed domestic female type who is trying to fit in well with the spirit of her surroundings in this port city, on the east side from Fifth Avenue to the East River, between Fortieth Street and One Hundred and Tenth.

THE GREATEST EXPERIENCE

He said it was as if he had pulled himself along on all fours upon leaving.

It was a miracle that he obeyed her—that the house did not catch fire when she said he must get out.

He is still very much alive and living apart from her—takes vacations, knows what he likes.

Actually, he had to get on all fours while visiting a cave in France.

It is really not so nice to be in a cave. He had to crawl to get across ledges, in order to slide down the sides of the ledges.

The ground was tilted dangerously near the cave paintings, so that his legs were atremble from his efforts not to fall into the water.

In this chapter, at some point, we should seek to understand these people, as if we could say to them—We have been talking about you. Mind if we ask you a few questions?

We do know that his former wife often waits to meet a friend or a stranger, has enthusiasm for entertainment, inclines more often to monotony.

She does enjoy it when the wind comes in through the windows and the screen doors—also the quality of calm—the black, blue, and gold of the night, when it finally arrives.

Her house, once his too, is made of brick and flint and is situated at the beginning of a broad road, which runs along a canal.

Something more about the house—fittingly, it has an exposed location.

What else to reveal? Here are moments of a domestic lunch scene from their past that likely spotlight a statement from either one of them akin to—Don't boss me around!

They ate mayonnaise-and-egg sandwiches, according to Diane W., who insists on carrying out this narration.

This could be a story about sexual encounters.

But can't this be a story about how this James Zawistowski was once kissing his wife, how he went on devotedly with that?—how he felt so unbound and breezy once upon a time, long ago?—how in the beginning days of the marriage, a certain man felt like a happy child, not so stressed.

There was that certain man. The loss of paradise keeps happening.

And his wife did sincerely look fondly at him several times, while he placed a hand on her shoulder—that sort of thing.

PLEASING ALL THE WORLD

As to part one of the story: he was surely taking pride in his type of fucking. I would have. My fucks end up being dull.

But one day, to my satisfaction, I hope to figure it out and think again of the coitally gifted Erskine, who is still my measure.

He knows well what to do, concerning his maneuvers and the subtly timed space in between each.

Let it start, part two: midway through the meal, Erskine draped himself over a woman, his seatmate, while she tore at her piece of bread.

I have heard it said that life is easy for a woman who is not afraid of a man, and she's probably the sort who hates to be left alone.

They moved to the floor as he concerned himself with that little slit of an opening, the sides of which naturally swell.

He does seem to waste effort, but this is Erskine, who I know is ithyphallic.

As if to sharpen himself, he held on to her—which was exciting for him and for anyone—for everyone present, I think.

In a festive glass tulip dish with fluted sides, ice cream with hot fudge sauce was served.

Also, we were free to appreciate the cheese and the beer, fruits filled with ripeness, vegetables and fish, biscuits and cakes.

And I can say that great gratitude and learning were the bedrock of this banquet for me.

STRIKING FEATURE

She often feels as pockmarked as her carpet pile (where it has been flattened by the legs of heavy tables and chairs)—having once been burdened by the most intimate knowledge of her spouse.

That knowledge was set in deep enough. Now no more spouse.

And she herself is heavy enough and can often be found snacking.

Lately she had been at dinner, eating a large part of a small animal, determining shape sizes for fork-ready pieces of meat with her knife—segments with acute angles, right angles—a scalene.

You might say that's enough about her—but we are curious because she typically assumes a hands-on-hip stance—as if with confidence!

Nobody has captured her sense of humor, nor has she.

Yet on occasion—as a follow-up to almost anything anybody says—she pinches her nose to nasally declare, "I suppose you think that's very funny!"

What's going on here? The Chippendale chair she lives with, the Philadelphia highboy—nothing funny about those.

The tall case clock glowers. The spinet's keys look to her more like teeth that don't bite, but merely get pushed around.

Her prize cornucopia-leg sofa—what about that? What does she really think about that? Is it needlessly putting on airs?

She aches to have something entirely gracious in mind about this stick.

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LARK

The Pike sisters went by and how busy they appeared—wiggling and singing.

There seemed to be no end to their fidgeting and their noise—as they passed Cloud Nine, and the Zink Grill for Fine Dining, and remained in my sights for longer than I thought possible.

But soon a hatchback got my eye, and a blouse that featured a big mauve-striped bow collar.

"How did that happen? Look at you!" my mother cried out when I arrived.

I went where I wanted in her house—toward the spinet that has its back against the wall and that I don't often play, except I did this time.

Its response was upsetting at first, but in fact I was surprised to hear my melody improve.

“What can I do for you?” Mother said, “—the old story,” as I entered the kitchen. She was washing broccoli. “Do for everyone!”

My sister nodded toward the table that was empty of tableware. She was ripping up—shucking—corn.

On a platter, I found a cheese bun to eat.

"Do you want the whole tray?" Mother asked as she dragged a pot off the stovetop and dumped its contents into the trash.

She posed herself briefly near some woebegone flowers in a jug that were in no condition to preen—they were so obviously humiliated, feeling sorry for themselves.

My uncle in his Bermuda shorts soon showed up. He's the one who never agrees with anything Mother says—but this time he was telling her, "I see what you mean."

With his palms pressed together just before he left, he claimed Mother had made a delicious meal.

I slept well that night and the next day I set off toward the north-east, how I usually do.

Near me children jumped across the sidewalk. They jumped very high, as if they had made the vow—I promise always to be happy.

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NOTES FOR "CRAZY QUILT"

Note: * indicates an anagram

ACROSS: 1. pale*-onto-logy; 10. anecdotes*; 11. adored*; 12. germs, first letters in reverse; 13. equals, two mngs.; 15. [sh]addup; 16. burial ground*; 17. t[ackle]-Y(p[unt]-if)Y; 19. 0-lives; 23. g(r[ethinking])ot to; 25. massage*; 27. mid-w(if)e, pun; 28. [excessive]e-tuil(tion]; 29. [e]roti[c]; 30. pored, homophone; 31. E[instein]-ternal*; 32. asses-s[teroids]; 33. Dry-sdale*; 34. le[v]er.

DOWN: 1. P-ageboy $^{}$ ; 2. ane(U)rism $^{}$ ; 3. c[reature]-ease; 4. on-site, homophone, on sight; 5. tata[m'l]; 6. sol(i)d; 7. road plow $^{}$ ; 8. [P]eggy; 9. d[a]ys-fun-ction $^{}$ ; 14. I-slanders; 18. yard-bird; 20. dot-file; 21. I'm-pose; 22. assure $^{*}$ ; 23. GI-gues[t]; 24. foe[s]-tal[k]; 26. appal, homophone; 27. men-d[oe]s.

WOMEN

Fighting for Democracy

IN

in an Age of

POWER

Authoritarianism

Linda Robinson

"A compelling and persuasive book ... a clarion call for gender equality, not for its sake alone but because we need both men's and women's full presence and participation to solve the world's challenges."

—Laura Liswood, secretary general of the Council of Women World Leaders

DICTATING REALITY

The Global Battle to Control the News

MARTIN MOORE and THOMAS COLLEY

"An elegant, expert, disciplined, and important book about the most urgent contemporary problem: the decay and disorder of information."

—Jean Seaton, official historian of the BBC

COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY PRESS

IGNORANCE

WHAT WE DO NOT KNOW

CANNOT KNOW

MUST NOT KNOW

AND REFUSE TO KNOW

GEORGE G. SZPIRO

"Part delicious personal autobiography and part travelogue across the political spectrum, this book will entrance anyone interested in how a truly open-minded expert came to denounce our test-driven education regime."

—Richard Rothstein, author of The Color of Law

Socially Wired HOW CULTURE SHAPES OUR BRAINS

MATTHEW W. SCHELKE

"This book reveals the critical importance of our cultural environment and shows how the social embedding of our actions determines how we respond when we suffer neurological illness. Schelke explains a longstanding puzzle: why the same brain lesion has different effects in different people."

—Uta Frith, coauthor of What Makes Us Social?

"A thrill to read! With startling metaphors, the Maurers cut the jargon and tell it like it is." —John C. Mather, recipient of the 2006 Nobel Prize in Physics

THE LANGUAGE OF TERRORISTS

Distinguishing Trolls from Violent Extremists JULIA EBNER

"Gripping, fascinating, and often surprising." —Brian Klaas, author of Fluke: Chance, Chaos, and Why Everything We Do Matters

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NEW BOOKS By Dan Piepenbring

Not to toot my own horn, but I think I would've been pretty good at code-naming nuclear tests. Between 1946 and 1992, in places such as the lush Marshall Islands and the barrens of Nevada, the United States organized atomic test "shots," as they're called, under such preposterous banners as Buster-Jangle Baker, Upshot-Knothole Grable, Grommet Frijoles-Espuela, and Nougat Des Moines. These names were non sequiturs by design. As the journalist Jon Else explains in FRENCHMAN FLAT: THE RISE AND FALL OF ATOMIC BOMBS (Belknap Press, \$29.95), "The language of shot naming was antilanguage, deliberately without meaning ... to break any connection to the purpose of the test." Though many Americans can summon the name Trinity—the original shot, christened by J. Robert Oppenheimer after a sonnet by John Donne—few will recall the likes of Aqueduct Whiteface-A, which exploded on Yucca Flat during the George H. W. Bush Administration. Each weapons lab came up with its own names. For a time, the hallway of the Defense Nuclear Agency's Albuquerque facility accommodated a "Name a Nuke" box in which employees could deposit suggestions. Scientists drew inspiration from banalities such as the names of fish and family members.

When we speak of our nation's nuclear posture, is this what we mean? To name a nuke after nothing, to leap into the megatonnage gap, to dance the pas de deux of deterrence—all of these require the same ten-hut salute to nonsense. “Every nuclear weapons developer and tester I’ve spoken with cites the infernal paradox,” Else writes, “that to ensure global peace they must make bombs that must never be used, all the while somehow demonstrating a willingness to use them.” They behave “like the mythical oozlum bird flying in ever smaller circles until it has no place to go but up its own ass." But then, the masters of war are in the market for such desolate locales. When, in the early Fifties, the chairman of the Atomic Energy Commission (AEC) described Nevada's desert plains as "a good place to throw used razor blades," it was clear that the commission was putting down roots there. Some 1,300 square miles of the Silver State comprised the Nevada Test Site, home to no fewer than 928 nuclear blasts over the next four decades. These left the landscape abraded and irradiated—but this was in keeping with the mise-en-scène. A Nevadan living near NTS told Else, "You don't die here; you just dry up and blow away."

And yet much on the wind proved deadly. Stygian clouds of fallout spawned cancers in thousands of people downwind. A girl at a nearby ranch recalled “charming hunks” from the AEC popping by to test her family’s milk and vegetables; the men declined her sister’s cookies and cakes. The milk teeth of children who lived as far away as St. Louis contained concerning levels of strontium-90. The government began to wonder whether the postwar consumer machine could survive some radioactive sand in its gears. Who, exactly, could withstand Armageddon, and where would they buy cornflakes afterward?

Scientists had to know. Frenchman Flat takes its name from an especially well-abused dry lake bed, the site of some of the most destructive and vividly bizarre incidents in NTS history. Priscilla, a single shot there during

Operation Plumbbob, forms the stupe-fying centerpiece of Else's book. He's a limber writer, equally alive to atrocity and irony. Before Priscilla's detonation in June 1957, the government invited civil-defense experts to erect elaborate simulated towns on the site. Shimmering in the heat was an oasis of homes and domes built from brick, aluminum, and glass, with Fords in their garages, televisions in their living rooms, their pantries generously stocked by the National Canners Association. Plastic mannequins—men, women, babies—wore J.C. Penney, whose Las Vegas store later displayed the charred fashions in its front windows. “Test-site workers had surreptitiously undressed some mom and dad mannequins and arranged them having sex,” Else writes.

But even in lifelike poses, synthetic flesh yields bad data. Though plenty of real people had volunteered to stand within a nuclear blast radius, the military opted to use pigs for Priscilla instead, “since their skin and short hair are comparable to man’s.” More than seven hundred of them were purpose-bred in Missouri and trucked in. A number were forced with some difficulty into uniforms, given reflective insulation, or covered in thick layers of protective cream. Five were placed in machine-gun bunkers. At thirty-seven kilotons, Priscilla was about twice as powerful as Little Boy had been in Hiroshima. Supposedly named for a sex worker (brothels proliferated outside NTS borders), the warhead was suspended from a helium balloon at seven hundred feet. A report declassified in 1979 describes the Boschian tortures the animals endured when the bomb went off. Those that weren’t immediately incinerated succumbed to burns, glass wounds, or radiation sickness.

More than sixty years have passed since America's last atmospheric test, and more than thirty since an underground detonation. Our nuclear arsenal stands at around 4,000 weapons, down from a peak of 31,255 in 1967. Good news, of course—but, as Else points out, the cessation of testing means that our leaders haven't witnessed a nuclear explosion. They may not know that a general observing a test wet himself, that soldiers about two miles from a blast saw the bones in their hands, or that an unhinged colonel was said to have lived in a bunker on Frenchman Flat for months after the last aboveground shot. (If Oppenheimer gets a movie, why doesn't that guy?)

Conversely, leaders could be unaware of what one physicist described as the “incredible rush”: “If you like firecrackers and dynamite, and sex, you’re

going to love hydrogen bombs." Another allegedly lit his Pall Mall using a mirror to concentrate the heat from an explosion miles away. As visceral memories of nuclear devastation recede and the Doomsday Clock creeps toward midnight, we would do well to remember that cigarette, and that general's soiled pants. Oppenheimer's brother, Frank, also a Manhattan Project scientist, confessed that it took the decimation of Hiroshima to shake him from existential slumber. "I don't know why," he once told Else, "but up until then I don't think I'd really thought of all those flattened people."

Among “those flattened people” was Chojiro Watanabe, a yakuza leader with a solid grip on Hiroshima’s criminal underbelly. According to Andrew Rankin’s YAKUZA: A 400-YEAR HISTORY OF THE JAPANESE UNDERWORLD (Basic Books, \$32), Watanabe’s death cast the already benighted city further into lawlessness, with his successors vying for control of its supply chains, street markets, and gambling houses—crisis exploitation at its finest. Armed robberies and shoot-outs became commonplace. Japanese servicemen, unemployed and widely disparaged, joined gangs to make some quick cash. No longer in the mood for taking orders, they gave free rein to their most violent impulses, sometimes with the help of methamphetamine. In the ensuing turf wars, one leader lost his entire arm to a sword. Men fought to control the lucrative labor contracts for removing unexploded bombs from the harbor.

By the mid-Fifties, Hiroshima was known to some as the City of Mobsters. They collected protection money from the brothels of Asahi, shuttered during the war but now providing “comfort” to occupying forces. Supposedly, one of them had the first mirrored walls and ceilings of any fleshpot in Japan.

The history of the yakuza presents a ceaseless smear of such cupidity. It can get a little monotonous, actually, the centuries of extortion, pimping, florid tattoos, assassinations, and ritually severed fingers. A life of crime during the Tokugawa shogunate was in some ways indistinct from one in the age of the salaryman. The seventeenth-century ruffians known as kabuki-mono, or “crooked ones,” shook off the doldrums of peace-time by hassling shopkeepers, beating people up, and swearing oaths over cups of sake anointed with their blood. They styled themselves as men of chivalry, would-be samurai, while privately adopting such nicknames as “Three-Worms,” “Lumpy,” and “Shit-bow.”

Shogunal decrees apparently banned such nicknames, along with extra-long swords, extra-short swords, silk brocading, body armor, fireworks, unkempt beards, and strongman contests, all seemingly to no avail. It was better to put the men to work—guarding Edo's "pleasure quarters," for instance, or running card games. They liked to fight fires too, though volunteer brigades were riven by brawls. While a blaze was burning, clans of gangster-firemen would quarrel about who had the right to stamp it out. "Each fire brigade had its own standard bearer," Rankin writes, "who during a fire would climb onto the building at the apex of the blaze and furiously wave the standard."

The American journalist Darrell Berrigan—"young, restless, and homosexual," in Rankin's rather colorful characterization—helped popularize the term "yakuza" in the West, in a series of sensationalized articles on corruption in postwar Japan. Yakuza themselves have not always cottoned to the phrase, which originated as a losing hand (eight-nine-three, ya-kuza) in a game similar to baccarat. Unlike in the Mafia, yakuza families conduct some of their business in the open, and they've long maintained robust public-relations arms. They'll pitch in after tsunamis, bankroll orphanages, or found martial-arts gyms; one oyabun, or boss, established a syndicate called the East Asia Friendship Association, which essentially functioned like an affinity group whose common interest was racketeering. "We need to become the kind of thugs that people can love," said one oyabun, apparently unironically. Another, sounding like a bargain-basement furniture salesman, insisted that the cops had scolded him for selling merchandise at perilous discounts: "It upsets the social order," they said. Dumbest thing I ever heard.

Yakuza have long laundered their penchant for murder and plunder through opaque bureaucracies. Their portfolios are imposingly diverse. Corporate blackmail, talent agencies, strikebreaking, influence peddling, pay-to-play, pachinko parlors, sumo wrestling, sex trafficking, misappropriated government subsidies: with such myriad revenue streams, small wonder that they've inspired books like Yakuza gumi, which started as an employment agency on the docks of Kobe, have their fingers in so many pies that the police once referred to them as a department store; their ranks, now in steady decline, swelled at some point to forty thousand, presenting a diseconomy of scale that would be familiar to Fortune 500 CEOs. At an Osaka nightclub in the Sixties, a foot soldier in the Saito family mentioned his affiliation to threaten another man, who replied, “I’m Saito, you idiot.”

Techniques for Overcoming Business Hurdles Through Successful Speaking and Listening. Members of the Yamaguchi-

Some criminologists have suggested that a sturdy mob presence will sometimes make a society more law-abiding. So we might linger on the organized part of organized crime, at once rigid and shapeless, a buffer zone of angry young men absorbing the contraband energies of the culture around them. As ingenious as yakuza schemes are, many of them will be familiar to anyone who's watched The Sopranos. Both Tony's family and the Sumiyoshi-kai group made inroads in the carting industry, though the latter took it a step further. They hauled nuclear waste.

If Japan be not exactly a Paradise, it appears to me as close an approach to Lotus-land as I shall ever find," wrote the poet Edwin Arnold in 1889, having apparently never been shaken down or stabbed by his hosts. (Yakuza tended to leave foreigners unharmed, unless they were competitors or opposed prostitution.) Arnold's fetishism had far-reaching effects; he was one of a few Western scholars of the poet Basho, and what was sometimes known as the Japanese "poetical epigram," to introduce the haiku to Anglophone readers. Whether this makes him saint or sinner is for the reader to decide.

In HAIKU: HOW THE MODERN WORLD CAME TO FALL IN LOVE WITH SMALL POEMS FROM JAPAN (Yale University Press, \$35), Robert Crawford, a poet himself, follows the trajectory of the “Lilliputian lyric,” as one newspaper called it, whose seventeen syllables careened into modernism, giving us Ezra Pound’s “direct treatment of the ‘thing,’” William Carlos Williams’s wheelbarrow, and very many lovely images of the moon. And why not the moon? Occultation is crucial to haiku. The complete record of life on earth can be hidden behind one, its crescent peeking out. Curtis Hidden Page wrote that haiku at last “gave to all the words of the language, and also to all subjects, styles, and characters, full citizenship in the republic of poetry.” Dag Hammarskjöld, the second secretary-general of the United Nations, wrote one about orgasms, and Amy Lowell was perhaps the first American poet to crack the form open:

Love is a game—yes? I think it is a drowning: Black willows and stars

More surprising was Richard Wright, who, before he died, sequenced more than eight hundred of his haiku and slipped the manuscript to a publisher. It began with:

I am nobody: A red sinking autumn sun Took my name away.

But these are outliers. I'll say it: the haiku is too democratic. The sestina, say, provides a much-needed barrier to entry. Though it didn't mention haiku by name, a 1939 pamphlet called More Power to You asked, "Have you ever wanted to write a poem?" and proceeded to celebrate the brief "picture in words" as a "direct, satisfying way to do so." This gets at the heart of the problem. A British literary review sponsored an 1899 haiku competition, encouraging "as much Japanese lightness and grace as is possible"; its winner rendered a serviceable turn about "the eyelids of spring" that fell instantly from my mind.

Crawford's history is peppered with reminders that most haiku are “little read today,” “hardly great poetry,” or written by someone who “did not become a major Modernist poet.” Even the heavyweights crumple before such delicacy. Of Allen Ginsberg’s haiku, Crawford writes, “There is a hit-and-miss quality. One haiku is about literally hitting and missing a mosquito.” What he dubs the “flatness problem” continues to thwart English-language practitioners. It’s the difference between filming a car wreck with CGI and really driving off a cliff. Devotees of the form who learn Japanese will find unimaginable riches—or so it’s said. The Yamaguchigumi Shinpo, an in-house yakuza magazine, is rumored to include a number of haiku. It is, as yet, untranslated.

ALBANY'S HOMER How William Kennedy found his beat By Kasia Boddy

Discussed in this essay:

The Albany Trilogy, by William Kennedy. Library of America. 768 pages. \$40.

We're barely two sentences into William Kennedy's novel Legs when we learn that Packy Delaney has only four teeth left and that Flossie has roaches in her liver. They're talking about the time when their pal Bones tripped and landed on the corpse of Jack "Legs" Diamond, getting "blood all over the seat of his pants." Jack has three bullets in his head, but since he survived four previous shootings, it's hard to believe he's dead. His face is intact; only the back of his skull has been blown away. The man telling the story is Jack's lawyer, Marcus Gorman. Before he joined this crew, Marcus liked to read Rabelais to distract himself from the "stupendous" boredom of his life. But Jack and the others provide some real-life "Gargantuan" zest.

Kasia Boddy teaches American literature at the University of Cambridge.

It's the perfect introduction not only to Legs, but to Albany, New York—or rather to the carnivalesque version of the city that Kennedy created over the course of seven further novels. Kennedy's Albany is a vital, violent place, a hothouse of gangsters, pool hustlers, bums, crooked politicians, and showgirls. His work documents the city's growth and decay across two centuries, street by street, decade by decade, elevating the details of urban life to mythic status. "I confront even a single street corner," Kennedy once said of his method, "and there emerges an archetypal as well as an historical context in which to view the mutations of its trees, its telephone poles."

Kennedy—born in 1928 and now approaching his ninety-ninth birthday—began his career as a newspaper reporter. His generation is perhaps the last to believe that a newspaper, rather than an MFA program, is the best training ground for a novelist and that every reporter would jump ship if only they could finish the book in the desk drawer (“hack-work and income first, masterpieces afterward,” as Jack London’s Martin Eden put it). Theodore Dreiser recalled how the “great, thrashing” newsroom taught him to write prolifically and to deadline, while a daily “kaleidoscopic contact with the rough facts of life” helped him break free of “moralistic mush.” Kennedy’s problem was that he revered literature so intently that, by his own account, his early attempts at writing fiction tended to be inert and “ponderous.” The newsroom beat that out of him. The “uncertainty of general assignment,” he told an interviewer, provided exposure to lives that rarely conformed to tidy plots or symbolism:

The police stories, the disaster stories, the politics, the squirrelly interviews with some guy who had just walked across the country from Montana wearing a taillight and the dopester who had a perfect system to beat the horses and wanted the world to know about it, but he was broke because he was unlucky.

Three of Kennedy's novels—Legs (1975), Billy Phelan's Greatest Game (1978), and Ironweed (1983)—have recently been collected by the Library of America as The Albany Trilogy. These novels exemplify what's best and most distinctive in his work. Kennedy never stopped believing in the power of the novel to provoke and challenge, but journalism taught him that the form worked best when grounded in the telling naturalistic detail, the vivacious rhythm of everyday talk, and a bracing dose of humor. The result is an unruly, delightful hybrid: the modernist novel as written from the metro desk.

Kennedy has lived in Albany most of his life. He grew up—or, as he puts it, was “made”—in the city’s Irish North End. An altar boy at Sacred Heart of Jesus Church, he was educated at the Christian Brothers Academy and at Siena College, a Franciscan school in nearby Loudonville. Like many of his classmates, Kennedy entertained the idea of becoming a priest. But he also embraced the culture of the profane: cartoons, movies, and blasphemous modern novels. Later, his father and uncle would initiate him into the masculine play worlds of Albany's bars, poolrooms, and bowling alleys.

Fancying himself the next Damon Runyon, Kennedy got a job after college as a sportswriter for the Glens Falls Post-Star, some fifty miles north of Albany. After being drafted in 1950, he spent a couple of years on Army newspapers in Georgia and then Germany, where, as he later put it, he really “dove head first into literature,” steeping himself in Fitzgerald, Dos Passos, Steinbeck, and Algren. By the time Kennedy left the Army, he bragged, he was able to “describe the contents of a kitchen refrigerator just like Thomas Wolfe” and to “keep a sentence running around the block, just like Faulkner.” Back in Albany, he got bored of “covering yet another St. Patrick’s Parade, another ax murder,” and, in 1956, he moved to Puerto Rico, where he became the founding managing editor of the San Juan Star.

It didn't take long for him to realize that he could write about Albany with much greater conviction than he could about San Juan. At first, he returned home in imagination only. He began to draft a novel and showed a few chapters to Saul Bellow, who was in Puerto Rico to teach a workshop. Bellow felt an affinity with Kennedy's combination of low-life high jinks, human frailty, and virtuoso style. He was “very, very encouraging,” Kennedy later recalled. In 1963, after his father became ill, Kennedy returned to Albany and the city's Times-Union as “a half-time newsman and full-time novelist (aspiring).” He wrote reviews of European arthouse cinema, articles about the history of various local neighborhoods, and a series on contemporary homelessness. All of it would feed into his fiction.

His ambition was growing. Kennedy was now thinking of writing “the big Albany novel.” He envisioned something along the lines of Ulysses, the portrait of Dublin that James Joyce wanted to be “so complete that if the city one day suddenly disappeared from the earth it could be reconstructed” from its pages. But instead of a single day, Kennedy’s Albany version would encompass two centuries, depicting the

Civil War, the growth of capitalism, immigration, Prohibition, the Great Depression, and much else. He imagined a cast of historical figures mingling with “a vast crowd of priests, nuns, gamblers, gangsters, mothers, whores, and laboring men, including my father”—all “eternally living out their destinies, over and over again.” This Albany would be a “magical place” making the national as well as the local story “visible.” He made a note to himself: “Commit a decade to the creation of this book.”

In the end, however, Kennedy settled for “a novel of average size, then another, and another.” The first to be published was The Ink Truck, loosely based on a 1964 strike at the Times-Union, but with none of the topographical specificity that would come to characterize his mature work. A “willful leap” away from journalism, it’s a hallucinatory mock epic of riddles and orgies. He sent it to E. L. Doctorow, who was then the editor in chief of the Dial Press. Kennedy’s interest in the generational relationship between the old and new left and his absurdist take on the Thirties protest novel made him Doctorow’s kind of writer.

The Ink Truck appeared in 1969 to some warm reviews, but Kennedy was already rethinking what he wanted to do in a novel. Legs, his next, went much further in attempting to ground fabulism in historical fact. Set in the Twenties and early Thirties, the novel is a sort of revisionist Great Gatsby, narrating the final months of the bootlegger and gangster Jack “Legs” Diamond through Marcus Gorman’s eyes. In true postmodern fashion, Fitzgerald gets a brief, drunken cameo, meeting Jack on an ocean liner. But in place of Fitzgerald’s disillusioned romanticism, Kennedy filled his novel with relentless violence and copious sex, as well as a good deal of unexpected humor, especially on the subject of Jack. Everyone who knows him has a story. Flossie believes Jack can outpace a rabbit, tie both shoes at once, and turn on the light “just by snapping his fingers.” Packy recalls how Jack sent his dog to fetch a sweater, “and that damn dog got up and went out to the lobby and pushed the elevator button and went up to

Jack's suite and barked, and Hubert Maloy let him in." When the dog doesn't return, someone jokes that maybe it's gone to see the new Rin Tin Tin movie. No, Jack says: "He already saw it."

Kennedy borrowed Gatsby's strategy of having an associate of the protagonist tell the story. But perhaps because, as Kennedy once put it, Nick Carraway "rarely does anything," he found Fitzgerald's narrator "boring." Marcus, on the other hand, readily mutates from a "voyeur" into an "accessory" to Jack's crimes. What starts as the occasional "little moral collapse" quickly escalates into smuggling, perjury, and, as Marcus can barely bring himself to confess, an "excursion into quasi-rape." What does Jack teach him about life? "How boring it is not to fire machine guns."

One of the most striking aspects of the novel is its characters' profound self-consciousness about the place of the gangster in American culture. Jack seeks out every movie, book, and newspaper article about gangland. He's "keeping tabs on his profession," but also on the stages of his own apotheosis. As Marcus puts it, "Jack had imagined his fame all his life and now it was imagining him." Marcus isn't the first to point out that gangsters style themselves as pure products of the American dream—"Horatio Alger out of Finn McCool and Jesse James"—but he is unusually alert to the role they play in a corrupt political system. At one point, he ponders whether he would have learned more about American life if he'd run for Congress instead. There, he reasons, he might have received an education in the ways that "rudimentary hypocrisy is turned into patriotism, into national policy, and into the law." Jack, however, has taught him something more valuable: how to be a "venal man of integrity"—that is, how to acknowledge his own evil in a "psychologically responsible way." Marcus, telling the story more than four decades on, believes that Jack provides "an ancestral paradigm for modern urban political gangsters," though he's quick to point out that they don't all live up to his high standards. Take Richard Nixon: he may have been Irish American, but he had none of Jack's charm. More to the point, his misdeeds singularly failed, as Marcus observes, to “give evil a mythical dimension.”

Albany provides the setting for the climax of Legs, but it's in Kennedy's next novel, Billy Phelan's Greatest Game, that the city truly comes to the fore. "Pure energy in shoes," "pure control in shirtsleeves," Billy is a small-time hustler who believes he can play by his own rules. He knows "jazz and betting and booking horses and baseball," and tries to stay "at arm's length" from everything else. His personal code is not criminal so much as sporting: he believes in the avoidance of squealing, finking, and being a sucker. What Billy doesn't realize is how little any of that matters in the real game—the one being played by the town's political bosses.

Set in the fall of 1938, the novel explores what it means to live in a city where “the American Irish, with the help of Jesus, and by dint of numbering forty per cent” of the population, were “waxing strong.” More specifically, Albany is under the control of a particular clan. In the novel, the McCall brothers have ruled the roost for seventeen years; in real life, the O’Connells, led by Dan O’Connell—whom Kennedy later described as “Jesus Christ in baggy pants and a brown three-inch-brim fedora”—would control the local Democrat machine until the Seventies. The O’Connell clan’s reach extended far beyond a little bribery and ballot stuffing. As Kennedy later wrote in an essay,

from the political hierarchy came the way of life: the job, the perpetuation of the job, the dole when there was no job, the loan when there was no dole, the security of the neighborhood … the right to run your bar after hours or to open a card game on the sneak.

To defy the will of the bosses was to be “cast into outer darkness.” That’s what Billy Phelan’s Greatest Game is about.

For the story of a kidnapping (the plot is based on the real-life abduction of Dan O'Connell's nephew), not that much happens. The novel immerses its readers in "the brass of Broadway," in the clubs and grills of Nighttown, where gamblers, bartenders, prostitutes, and journalists make deals, trade jibes and blows, and then continue on their way. Consider Footers O'Brien, "a retired vaudevillian who sang Jolson tunes at local minstrel shows" and who now plays five-card stud with Billy:

Nobody like him. Drinking pal of Billy's for years, always good for a touch. Footers knew how to survive, too. Told Billy once how he came off a four-day drunk and woke up broke and dirty, needing a shave bad. Called in a neighbor's kid and gave him a nickel, the only cash Footers had. Sent him down to the Turk's grocery for a razor blade. The kid came back with it and Footers shaved. Then he washed and dried the blade and folded it back in its wrapper and called the kid again and told him, take this back to the Turk and tell him you didn't get it straight. Tell him Mr. O'Brien didn't want a razor blade, he wanted a cigar. And the kid came back with the cigar.

Everyone and every place come supplied with a full quota of anecdotes and reminiscences. As the novel proceeds, these fragments gradually accumulate, and a whole social world emerges, a thicket of personal connections and memories.

Like Legs, Billy Phelan is about the power of mythmaking. Just as Jack has to rely on improbable courtroom narratives spun by his lawyer, so Billy's fate rests on a tall tale created by a newspaperman (and failed novelist) named Martin Daugherty. Unwilling to violate his personal code of honor, Billy refused to snitch for the McCalls—this is the risky move in his “greatest game.” But he has sorely underestimated the “Irish-American potentates of the night and day.” The McCalls immediately ensure that Billy is barred from his regular haunts and “marked lousy.” There seems to be no way back, until Martin spins an improbable yarn about his having intuited the whereabouts of the kidnappers: Billy, he claims, is a real-life prophet, “touched with magic.” The McCalls somehow buy the tale and allow Billy to return to his life as a “low-level maestro” of the pool halls and bowling alleys, “the only cosmos in town.”

To the question of why Martin has bothered to make “a heroic picaro out of a simple chump,” the novel provides a Joycean answer. Angry that his own son has also been “snatched”—in this case, by a Catholic seminary—Martin, Bloomlike, is looking for a replacement. Billy, meanwhile, has lived much of his life “in the inescapable presence of the absence of a father." Near the end of the novel, however, he finds himself having dinner with both the surrogate and the original. Francis Phelan, his long-lost father, has returned to town on a job for the McCalls—registering to vote, at five dollars a shot. On his twenty-first go, he's arrested. Billy bails him out and urges him to come home. Francis says no.

But in Ironweed—Kennedy's next novel, which features some of the same characters, and which he always regarded as his best work—Francis takes up the invitation. The time frame of Ironweed overlaps with that of Billy Phelan, and though it retains some of the exuberant malarkey of the earlier novel, it's a much more somber and lyrical piece of writing. It also steps more confidently into magical realism. Ironweed opens with Francis visiting the graves of his family in St. Agnes Cemetery, unaware that the dead are trying to talk to him. Among them is his baby son, who rests in “infantile sublimity, exuding a high gloss induced by early death.... He was neither beautiful nor perfect ... but rather an ineffably fabulous presence.” Francis weeps and prays, then looks up at the sky, where “a vast stand of white fleece, brutally bright, moved south to north in the eastern vault of the heavens, a rush of splendid wool to warm the day.” But the mood doesn't last. A few chapters on, we see Francis in a friend's bathroom, smelling his “fetid crotch” and reaching for soap with which to wash his “encrusted orifices, crevices, and secret folds.” Is this the same book? In true Joycean fashion, Ironweed wants both symbolism and naturalism, the elevated language of heaven's vaults alongside the unadorned details of bodily filth.

Francis has been “on the bum” for twenty-two years, mortified by the shame he feels about his role in a series of deadly accidents: his father was struck by an oncoming train while crossing the tracks to greet him; his infant son slipped from his grip while he was changing a diaper; a strike-breaker was killed by a stone he threw during the 1901 Albany trolley strike. “My guilt is all that I have left,” Francis thinks. “If I lose it, I have stood for nothing, done nothing, been nothing.”

Another man, another code to live by. But again Kennedy reveals its inadequacy. For a start, Francis has no monopoly on guilt. His wife tells him that the baby's death was her fault, too—she hadn't fastened the diaper properly. And, as he finally comes to realize, on the day he brained the scab, many other "forces" were "at work in the world." Francis has been the victim of another myth, peddled by Edward Daugherty—Martin's father. Edward writes a play in which Francis's act is framed as that of a "Divine Warrior," the latest Celtic "liberator" to help "Paddy-with-a-shovel straighten his back and climb out of his ditch." But focusing on "his own right hand," either with pride or guilt, has not helped Francis understand the circumstances of the strike against the United Traction Company, nor the involvement in it of the National Guard. The real "insanity" of the strike, Francis learns, was setting "poor against poor, a race, a class divided against itself." Ironweed tends to be read as a story of personal redemption, but it's also a political book, a statement about money and power, about working life and homelessness, and about the destruction of unions and welfare provision. It's a story of the Thirties, and of the Eighties, when it was written. The problem is not just being "in the weeds," where Francis sleeps most nights. It's about being treated as a weed, even if it's one known, as the title suggests, for "the toughness of the stem."

Kennedy wrote Ironweed in about seven months. Viking Press bought it on the basis of a hundred pages, then had second thoughts about the prospects of publishing “a book about bums,” as one editor put it. The manuscript then went out to another twelve presses, but to no avail. No one thought the novel would make any money.

At that point, Kennedy said, he “hit rock bottom.” But then, as if in one of his own novels, fortune intervened, and “the world turned inside out.” In the summer of 1981, Kennedy went to Vermont to interview his onetime teacher Saul Bellow for Esquire. Bellow had just read Billy Phelan; Kennedy explained his situation. Bellow then sent a letter to Cork Smith at Viking, telling him he was making “a serious mistake.” It was “disgraceful,” he wrote, that the author of Billy Phelan should be without a publisher. (Bellow later downplayed his role, claiming simply to have pointed out a self-evident fact: that in a literary world that regularly served “cold porridge,” Kennedy was “the real hot stuff.”) With the promise of an endorsement by a Nobel laureate—Bellow’s blurb hyped up the novel’s mythic qualities, pitching Francis as a “type out of Icelandic or Irish epic”—Viking decided to take another chance on the book. But that meant taking Bellow seriously when he talked of the larger project Kennedy had embarked on. Smith arranged for Legs and Billy Phelan to be reissued simultaneously with the publication of Ironweed. Kennedy hadn’t thought of the three novels as part of a unified whole. “For me it was just one book after another,” he recounted years later. “But Cork made it into a trilogy, and he turned the whole thing into an event.”

The event proved decisive. The reviews of Ironweed were also reappraisals of Kennedy's earlier novels: for example, the critic George Stade, writing in the New York Times, confessed that while he hadn't previously enjoyed Legs and Billy Phelan, "I now like both novels very much, as I like Ironweed." Kennedy received a Pulitzer Prize, a National Book Critics Circle Award, and a MacArthur grant. The Ink Truck was reissued, and Kennedy sold his next novel, Quinn's Book, as well as the film rights to Legs and Billy Phelan; Francis Ford Coppola invited him to work on The Cotton Club. (Kennedy's screen adaptation of Ironweed came out in 1987; he even had a cameo.) And it wasn't just Kennedy who hit the jackpot. Albany—the "Improbable City of Political Wizards, Fearless Ethnics, Spectacular Aristocrats, Splendid Nobodies, and Underrated Scoundrels," as Kennedy subtitled O Albany!, a collection of essays about the city—got quite a boost, too. Kennedy used some of his MacArthur money to establish what would become the New York State Writers Institute, and in 1984, a grateful metropolis laid on a citywide celebration in his honor. Governor Mario Cuomo declared that Albany had "found its Homer."

Kennedy would go on to write another five novels, mostly about the interconnected lives of the Phelan, Quinn, and Daugherty clans, spanning from the 1840s to the late 1960s. There

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(*PA add 6% tax, We ship abroad—See website) HP is no sense of progression from one novel to the next; major characters in one recur as minor figures in another. The pace varies, too. The action of Legs takes place over a year and a half; Ironweed focuses on just three days; Quinn's Book explores fifteen years. Kennedy has referred to the novels as a “related series,” a “web,” and even as the “one book” that he had originally planned to write. But the term he prefers (and the one that seems most accurate) is “cycle,” for the effect is very much one of circling backward as well as forward. In 1996, when the first three novels were reprinted again, Kennedy appended a prelude that reads like an account of the cycle’s evolution—except that the author of these books is identified as Billy Phelan’s nephew Daniel Quinn. It ends with Quinn at the bar, buying another round.

How many readers will complete the cycle? Don't most of us pick and choose in Balzac, Zola, and Faulkner? And does it matter whether we think of the first three novels as a trilogy or, as Kennedy described them, simply as a "trio" within his larger project? In some ways, there is a strange kind of unity to these three—all are set during the Depression, all feature stylish renegades. In Billy Phelan, the McCall brothers form "Albany's own Trinity," while Martin makes a "three-horse parlay" and asks a source who gives him two unprintable statements, "Shall we try for three?" Ironweed has an epigraph from Dante, and its action spans three days, during which Francis reflects on the three women he loved. He was once a professional third baseman, and recalling those days, he thinks of the “Trinitarian talisman” of “a hand, a glove, a ball.” And so on.

On the other hand, one of the more frequent recurring insights of these novels is that to be human is to be incomplete. Francis has lost several teeth and “two thirds of a right index finger.” Billy bowls 299, one point shy of a flawless game. “Is Billy Phelan ready for perfection?” the narrator asks. Of course he isn’t. As much as Kennedy loves playing with symbols and myths, ongoingness is his true theme, as well as his method. He received his first rejection letter (from Collier’s magazine) at eighteen and “didn’t die from it”—and thus was born an “enduring faith in the rewritability of anything.” Stories can be rewritten; cities and lives, too.

In The Ink Truck, Kennedy quotes Joseph Campbell's remark that “there is nothing we can do, except be … dismembered totally, and then reborn.” And then, he might add, we will be dismembered totally all over again. As the “holes in himself” multiply, Jack Diamond renews his “vulnerability to punishment, death, and damnation.” Jack is “incipiently dead,” as is Billy Phelan, returning to Nighttown with a “mark” still upon him, as is Francis Phelan, despite having been cleansed by water from the “sacred” faucets of the family bathroom. New teeth can be bought from the store, good looks are “resurrectible,” but the stains on his wife’s apron remain, and Francis’s hands are once again preparing to inflict and receive the “wounds of the world.”

PUZZLE

AYE! AYE!

By Richard E. Maltby Jr.

The entries at 8, 21, 28, and 37 Down have something in common: taking note of 18, 21, 36, and 39 Across, each has been allowed to 1 Across.

Clued answers include six proper nouns and two foreign words. The entries at 6D and 52A are variants; 13D and 33D are uncommon. As always, mental repunctuation of a clue is the key to its solution. The solution to last month's puzzle appears on page 69.

ACROSS

1. (See instructions) (2, 4, 4, 1, 4)
2. Okay for consumers but it can be belied (6)
3. Had corrupt company backing for one purpose only (2, 3)
4. Song from a Sixties musical (3)
5. (See instructions) (5, 5)
6. Chopper lands federal agents in outskirts of Decatur (5)
7. Superior views come from here, but, showing leaks, die off (8)
8. (See instructions) (8)
9. Space shuttles showing measurements by feet (5)
10. A bit of shamelessness is a legislative component, if you know the ropes (5)
11. Who changed which way? (3)
12. First thing in morning, scarfs Lucky Charms (7)
13. Serve up ribs for so-called socials (5)
14. Pitch, one that might also 1 Across! (3)
15. My bad basketball game? Don't get me started! (4)
16. (See instructions) (10)
17. (See instructions) (5, 5)
18. Employ nanobubbles for a bad eater (6)
19. Doubling back, faces off, getting flak (3, 3)
20. Quality of a cab, perhaps? Sounds like others that 1 Across! (3)
21. More bloody, but are within rights (5)
22. Very successful and cooler, this guy's making TV sets (8)
23. Cognomen, deprived of company name, being set up in grass (5)
24. Are lewd pieces just going where the wind blows (7)
25. Sounds fishy but it's key to the French (3)
26. Charlotte, for one minute, goes into street (5)
27. Fabulous guy, but reportedly broke a lot of commandments? (7)

DOWN

1. Cutting off the outsides of a bagel does take balls (4)
2. Flying saucer produces debate, but it's inconclusive (6)
3. Job set apart for things in museums (6)
4. Dickensian name that's well-spoken—does it ring a bell? (4)
5. Royal act brought back to America by John Lennon at his most existential! (6)
6. Romantic interludes? Sounds like something's going nowhere! (5)
7. Earth rally covers subject totally (6)
8. (See instructions) (4)
9. Watches doctor wears—they have their ups and downs (9)
10. Chariot races around a green (7)
11. Hierarch of a different stripe (6)
12. Heretic roils primate (5)
13. Listing where kings and queens are said to be found (5)
14. Name for naiad at sea (5)
15. (See instructions) (4)
16. Renovated ranch houses (Los Angeles, thank you very much)—he will take you in (9)
17. Lawyer in brief hurts his cases (8)
18. (See instructions) (7)
19. Retake shot at the opening of Oppenheimer—it's the stuff of myths (3, 4)
20. Supporter of the Knicks, e.g.? See rank decimated (7)
21. Nordic goddess, faced with terrible trials, died (7)
22. Umpire employs rejects (7)
23. (See instructions) (6)
24. Trendy place is the seed of a hair-raising novelty (6)
25. Take over energy? It requires a tower (5)
26. Tips on connecting possible answers (5)
27. Strip poker easily evokes laughter from tops coming off (4)
28. Getting through wikiwiki? It'll never fly (4)

FINDINGS

Earth, which the sun may not consume after all, was calculated to contain 110 quadrillion linear kilometers of arbuscular mycorrhizal fungi. The re-meandering of rivers can slow floodwaters, and dolomitic lime plaster was first used at least seven millennia earlier than previously thought. High-severity California fires overtook low-intensity ones in 2012, such that wildfires burn, on average, thirty times more forestland than they did in 1985, and wildfires now occur in summertime Greenland, off whose coast a new family of copepods was discovered. A persistent 6,000-kilometer-wide cloud front on Venus consists of sulfuric-acid vapor. Black holes may instead be gravastars. The knees of astronauts appear unaffected by eighteen days in orbit, and movie geologists have an approximate mortality rate of one in three.

Microplastics were found in three quarters of British dog and hedgehog food, in the street dust of Urmia, Iran, and in all Egyptian vulture pellets sampled in the Turkish city of Çorum, contribute to atmospheric warming when airborne, were being deposited on high-mountain snowpacks in Turkey, are flushed out by the monsoon along the banks of the Brahmaputra River, are more prevalent in tumorous than in non-tumorous penile and testicular tissue, can be tasted in water by electronic tongues, might be filtered by engineered flamingo beaks, and may be introduced into eyeballs during cataract surgery, but do not appear to accumulate inside red worms. Particles from nitrile and latex lab gloves may be causing false positives in microplastics research.

Physicists concluded that campaign expenditures of more than \$1.8 million in U.S. House races fuel polarization and do not affect election outcomes. Instagram use may disrupt the integration of internal and external bodily experiences. A woman buried in Iron Age Scotland was found to have had her brain removed and her long bones whittled to sharp points, and a victim of the siege and conquest of Qabra by Shamshi-Adad I was found face down over a stone basin. The Diamantina Fracture Zone was found to contain a 5.3-million-year-old whale necropolis. Koalas' population decline predated the arrival of humans. Male West African chimpanzees have been pant-hooting and buttress-drumming while throwing stones at specific trees for years, and Japanese macaques playing touchscreen games prefer moderate levels of uncertainty. Bird masturbation does not require intervention; female chickadees prefer to have extradyadic sex with cognitively gifted males; and pigeons' geomagnetic directional sense is located in the liver. Forager bees prefer sugar water that contains deformed-wing virus. The cataloguing of the evolutionary history of all extant millipede orders is now complete. Israeli scientists, by placing a white light perpendicular to the ground, induced mass circular ambulations in otherwise solitary isopods, some of whom were then eaten by a centipede. Saltwater crocodiles raised in captivity do not try to return to breeding centers once released. Marine biologists near Okinawa retrieved a Shaoxing wine bottle containing a crab who had grown up inside it.

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QA Report - Harper's Magazine - 09.2026.pdf

Pipeline

• Extraction route: mineru-vlm
• extraction_route=mineru-vlm
• Translation chunks: 104
• Extraction warnings:
• [MINERU-VLM] Successfully extracted via MinerU VLM (batch: 68d1cbcf-16fd-4d64-af60-080841e19ddf)

Non-model Checks

• WARNING: Missing proper nouns in translation: Ad Operations Coordinator, Adriatic Sea, Adrien Brody, Advertising Operations Coordinator, Affectionately Papa

Memoir, After Benedetta, After Daoud, After Ned, Agnes Cemetery, Algerian Arabic - WARNING: source dates, money, or percentage tokens may be missing

Model QA

经过严格审核，本次翻译件的 QA 报告如下：

1. 幻觉核查 (Hallucination Check)

经核对“标题索引”与“抽样原文”，译文中所有提及的专有名词（如：Polymarket, Kalshi, 绍兴酒瓶, 埃及秃鹫等）均在原文中有所对应。 结论：未发现幻觉内容。

2. 缺陷审计 (Defect Audit)

[BLOCKING] 交付标签残留 - 问题：译文中出现了多处 OCR 识别错误导致的乱码标签，且未在翻译阶段清理。 - 具体位置： - ![](images / 7f8cbab171e0e606436℃7 (低中文密度区域) - ![](images / 3de315d92071795785f35372a47b9a1d666a88℃1a1f61b15b6dd92ee5d44cea3.jpg) - ![](images / d8eff4d287f3207f0eed69ec1dfda0℃314547ee9410ed98199ad0078838℃1ba4.jpg) - ![](images / 43e83ac6℃680e879be0883ad24f6be9fbe241℃7b4ce7℃2℃39a2168930a1e41℃5.jpg) - ![](images / 200212f1031475℃0b35afc0d499181fdca17a993cc99a58℃49cb08b755eb224e.jpg) - ![](images / e1bae869cca1ebb74℃997ca8a20dc5031cadcdf82d977af0babf898℃4689abf5.jpg) - 原因：OCR 将图片路径中的部分字符误识别为 ℃ 等符号，翻译件直接保留了这些损坏的标签。

[WARNING] 术语翻译不统一/不准 - 问题：在“阅读”索引部分，The Crocfather 被翻译为“鳄鱼教父”，但在正文（若有）或语境中，该书是关于 Crocs 鞋品牌的自传。虽然字面正确，但建议标注为“Crocs之父”或保留原名，以免读者误以为是关于动物的书籍。 - 问题：The Matthew Page Method 在索引中被翻译为“Matthew Page 方法”，随后又出现“关于浴室卫生的专利新方法”，建议统一。

[WARNING] 残留英文/未翻译段落 - 问题：在“低中文密度区域”中，关于 Athena Institute 的订购信息、地址及免运费条款完全未翻译。 - 具体位置：请致电 (610) 827-2200 或在 athenainstitute.com 在线订购... 购买 2 瓶及以上美国境内免运费。 - 判定：虽然该部分中文占比低，但属于广告/订购信息，非系统过滤的“纯数据表”，应予以翻译。

[SOURCE_OCR] 数字/符号识别错误 - 问题：原文 3 月 10. 被译为 3 月 10.，原文 2 月 28. 被译为 2 月 28.。 - 判定：这是 OCR 将日期后的逗号或句号误读，翻译员未进行常识性修正。

3. 总结

本次翻译在正文逻辑和文学性上表现优秀，但在交付清理阶段存在严重缺陷。尤其是图片标签中的乱码（℃）遍布全文，属于典型的未清理交付。

审核结果：存在 [BLOCKING] 级别问题，需打回修正。

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═══ 自愈质检微创修复记录（Self-Healing Audit Trail）═══

• 成功修复分块 #71（共修复 1 处问题）
• 成功修复分块 #103（共修复 1 处问题）