“He was doomed to ambivalence and desire. A braver man, or a more cowardly one, would simply flee. A happier or more complacent man would stay and revel in the familiar, wrap it around him like an old bathrobe. He seemed to be none of those things, and could only deceive the people he loved, and then disappoint and worry them when they saw through him. There was a poem Meg had brought home from college, with the line ‘Both ways is the only way I want it.’ The force with which he wanted it both ways made him grit his teeth. What kind of fool only wanted it one way?”
From “The Children,” short story by Maile Meloy, collected in her Both Ways is the Only Way I Want It.
The National Federation of Women’s Clubs of the Philippines took the lead in campaigning for women’s suffrage in the country.
These girls got game. STANDING: Judge Natividad Almeda-Lopez, Bessie A. Dwyer, Florence D. Cadwallader, Atty. Rosario Ocampo, Laura L. Shuman; SEATED: Alicia S. Quirino (married to Elpidio Quirino), Geronima Pecson (who would later be the first woman senator in the country), Pilar Hidalgo-Lim, Sofia R. de Veyra, and Josefa Llanes-Escoda.
On this day in 1937, women’s suffrage in the Philippines was approved.
Because we were badass HBICs here in the tropics, world-at-large.
And now they made love very sincerely. They did not know anything; they did not ask. But they moved like white clouds on a clear sky and their children in the time after could boast that they were realized quietly, collected calmly, and even in the deepest strongest need, they were quietly taken from the warm hands of a Gentle God.
Love: many things came to her. When she was born; her first tooth, when she first became conscious of flowers. He: his first fist fight, the alarms of his father, the arms of his mother – the sea. He again: his first dance not dancing, outside, waiting and thinking deeply for his age: whoever she is, she had better come soon and beautiful…
J.M.W. Turner → ships
Rejoice, people who always have money for reading material, especially those who have the opposite taste in books as I do! Huzzah! I’ll be setting free books from The Fortress of Solitude, and Pancho will find the strength to let go of his art books. You can’t miss us; I’m a beanpole, and he has a mustache. (Come by from 9am to 5pm, and, you know, give me money in exchange for books. YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO.)
Books by these people, and moar: Jennifer Egan (that person who won a Pulitzer for a book with a chapter made entirely of PowerPoint slides, wtf literature), Ransom Riggs, Vendela Vida, John Banville, Georges Simenon, Leonard Michaels, Roberto Bolaño, Ali Smith, Maile Meloy, Julian Barnes, Colson Whitehead, Jeanette Winterson, Margaret Atwood, Michael Cunningham. And smut by the armful, closet perverts. [Bonus material: Crumbling Post-It flags and occasionally TMI marginalia.]
100% of the proceeds go to keeping Sasha fed.
Socialite and clothing designer Ruth Harkness cradling “the first live panda to reach the West,” Su-Lin. (1936)
NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC: “When her wealthy husband died while in Tibet looking for a giant panda to bring back to the U.S., Ruth flew over for the funeral and decided to finish the expedition herself. In just a few months, she’d succeeded. The Brookfield Zoo in Chicago bought the panda cub for just under $9,000 and Su-Lin—which translates to “a little bit of something very cute”—attracted more visitors than any other animal ever. Su-Lin died a year later.”
Manila in the night, like a vase full of flowers.
Somewhere in that brightness-that-startles, a Sasha dares not look up from her book. [I’ve never before, though, heard of my Manila described that way. Then again, no one else has thought to gaze at us from way up there.]
[Above: I can almost miss the days when the Fortress was bare. Almost.]
Susan Sontag’s The Volcano Lover consoles me:
A great private collection is a material concentrate that continually stimulates, that overexcites. Not only because it can always be added to, but because it is already too much. The collector’s need is precisely for excess, for surfeit, for profusion.
It’s too much—and it’s just not enough for me. Someone who hesitates, who asks, Do I need this? Is this really necessary? is not a collector. A collection is always more than is necessary.
How terribly unfair that his whole self aches because of the shape of a shoulder, the soft line of a hip.