I encountered Joan Didion’s famous line about why she writes—“entirely to find out what I’m thinking”—many times before I read the essay it comes from, and was reminded once again to never assume you know what anything means out of context. I had always thought the line was about her essays, about writing nonfiction to discover her own beliefs—because of course the act of making an argument clear on the page brings clarity to the writer too. She may have believed that; she may have thought it a truth too obvious to state. In any case, it’s not what she meant. She was talking about why she writes fiction.
The first partner to write on my risotto recipe was Al, and I was in love with him. I was also in love with the Ina Garten cookbook from which the recipe came. Al signed in 2011 (spring training, a rainy day) and 2012 (moonshine baby flights @ Sycamore Bar). Most nights Al and I drank infinite beers and cooked while fending off my roommates’ cats, who wished for nothing more than to sit in our mise en place. I told Al what to chop or stir (cold butter, broth) and he did so with a charming absurdity. He was a man playing the role of a man chopping vegetables. I loved these domestic feints and I think he did too, even as he felt the need to put a little distance between himself and the action. If there was a reason we broke up it was this: He was more afraid of becoming domesticated than I was.
A year later, when a new partner went to sign my risotto recipe, he paused, then asked: Who is Al?
We all know it’s good manners to never show up to a party empty-handed. Often, that results in people bringing a bottle of wine or a six-pack, which is all well and good. It usually gets drunk, or stashed away in the host’s fridge for the next occasion (though sometimes this results in me begging people to drink six-month-old Bud Light because I will never). But sometimes, one yearns for creativity when it comes to the party contribution. And I can’t stop thinking about the best one I’ve ever seen — showing up to a party with a 24-pack of Popeyes biscuits. Please, everyone do this.
It was in sixth grade that I discovered The Official Rocky Horror Picture Show Movie Novel. During recess a thin, lonely girl named Carrie was hunched in a corner of the playground reading it with rapt attention. An avid reader myself, I was curious and went over to her. I hadn’t heard of the movie. We were way too young to get in, of course.
On the morning of October 8th 2013, no one could find Peter Higgs. The Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences had been trying to get hold of him on the phone for hours—its custom being to try to speak to the winners of a Nobel prize in the moments before making the decision known to the world. Despite delaying proceedings that day until past lunchtime, the Swedes could not locate Mr Higgs and had to press on with the announcement of that year’s physics prize without his knowledge.
Frank Close’s new book tells Mr Higgs’s side of that story. He had spent a year preparing to disappear, it turns out.