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The point of course is not to put Nick Fuentes’ sexuality on blast. The problem with Nick Fuentes is not that he enjoys the quivering, unbridled joy of throbbing cat cock, but that he’s a Nazi who openly embraces Grand Remplacement/Great Replacement theory, dog whistles the Jewish Question, and regularly calls for the oppression of every political minority under the sun. I don’t care about his fucking fetishes, beyond the absurdity of the entire situation. I also don’t particularly want to focus on the rampant hypocrisy on display here. Even now, Nick maintains that he definitely isn’t gay and that gay people should continue to be exiled from society and he would never associate with homosexuals and blah blah blah. He’s a piece of shit. It’s natural to believe that someone responsible for spreading so much hatred and misery should just reap what he sowed and leave the rest of us the Hell alone. Instead, I wanted to draw attention to something else. Isn’t this set-up all a little familiar? We have a popular online personality with a massive following in a politically active online space. The space as a clear social agenda and set of morals that the person in question claims to champion. Then, out of the blue, the personality does something that puts their morals into question, and receive a deluge of online harassment in response. If you ignore the shock value and memes I used to draw you into this little piece like the sneaking clout-chasing bastard I am, you’ll quickly realize that what’s happening to Nick Fuentes has happened before. Stepping out of the Turd Reich and into the calm, peaceful Leftist utopia that definitely isn’t on fire always, we’ll find that what’s happening to Nick Fuentes would probably best be described as… Cancel Culture At least, that’s what the current popular term for the phenomenon would be. I’m sort of sick of hearing about “cancel culture”. And by “sort of”, I mean very. So I’m gonna do what I always do and whine about it on here. More specifically, I’m sick of hearing Leftists frame cancel culture as being a problem that affects the Left and the Left alone. I’m sick of being called a woke-scold by pissy white people for caring about myself and my allies. And I’m sick of being told to get in line for the sake of some vague, abstract notion of Left Unity that always just conveniently puts my priorities, and the priorities of those I care about, in the back seat. I’m just going to say it out-right: cancel culture, as it continues to be described, does not exist. The process of online harassment in politically active spaces of course exists. Where things are clipped out of context, exaggerated, and essentialized in order to justify harassment against a member of an in-group deemed sufficiently “impure”. This harassment is cruel, unforgiving, and many times unproductive. But it’s not Leftist cancel culture. Saying there’s a “Leftist cancel culture” is like saying Dasani water is “real” in the sense that it’s a specific kind of water some how different than the tap water you can find in most places on Earth. There’s an intuitive reason why we’ve come to associate cancel culture with the Left. The term itself comes from progressive/Leftist spaces (it actually comes from black spaces like most cool things about the English language and America but whatever). If cancel culture kept its original definition, as “a strategy to deplatform powerful people who abuse their positions and can’t be brought to justice anywhere but the court of public opinion”, I’d be all for advocating for the existence of a cancel culture in that sense. Because, obviously, the Right doesn’t car about unjust hierarchy or justice. The Right deplatforms people who aren’t racist enough. And Keurig, I guess. This was “cancel culture” too, by the way (Source) But as with all definitions of words, the definition of cancel culture has changed. Cancel culture now refers to any moralistic, online backlash against an individual or organization— the collective decision to both not engage with that individual/organization or their work, and to harass them and their allies until they disappear. This is the definition of cancel culture that most people are using when they say they’re sick of “Leftist cancel culture”. In this respect, cancel culture does not exist as something that can be separated from anything that happens on the Right, or in the center, or in fandom spaces or anything else. I’ll explain with an analogy. Black-on-black crime “Black-on-black crime” doesn’t exist. Of course, black people committing crimes against other black people, and black communities suffering from crime exist. But the specific construction of black-on-black crime isn’t real. The phrase black-on-black crime comes baked within it a narrative that’s false. It comes baked within it the assumption that black people are more prone to crime than other groups, that this fact cannot be helped, and that black people in the United States are mainly at fault for their own oppression. We know this because the only time anyone ever says “black-on-black crime” is when they’re deflecting from criticisms of police brutality and other systems that negatively impact black people as a whole, e.g. Leftists will say something like: The police are an artificial institution created during the implementation of capitalism that protect the private property of the rich at the expense of the poor. In America, the police in particular have had and continue to have a hand in brutalizing black people and black liberation movements. Communities of color see rates of police violence disproportionate to the supposed increase in crime in these communities. This over-policing leads to an increase of nonsense offenses and fines that make it harder for black people, who struggle enough financially, to succeed economically. Black people are several times more likely to be arrested for drug possession despite not using drugs at significantly higher rates than other races. Police officers regularly kill black men with little to no punishment, while police officers who kill dogs even are almost always harshly disciplined. Black people are far more likely to receive harsher sentences for crimes, more likely to be executed, and more likely to head to prison to work in a system legal slavery. Not to mention the unconstitutional spying the FBI and local police on black activists and movements such as Black Lives Matter. In short, the police are a racist institution and black people are right to oppose them in full. To which a conservative would respond, Yeah, but black-on-black crime kills way more black people than cops so… yeah If your response to this is “but black people do care about black-on-black crime!”, you’ve lost. Black-on-black crime, in this case, is not just a simple case of bringing up statistics. It’s a way to shift the narrative from “black people are oppressed” to “black people make bad decisions and deserve what we do to them”. Black people commit crimes against each other, which is true, but “black-on-black crime” suggests there’s something about black crime that’s super special compared to other races. The truth is there isn’t. There’s a reason why we never hear about white-on-white crime, Asian-on-Asian crime, or even Hispanic-on-Hispanic crime. It’s because the phrase black-on-black crime is silently saying a lot more about black people than it wants you to believe. Because of all of this, Leftists generally do not deal with the term black-on-black crime. Not because we’re not concerned about safety in black communities, but because of the narratives at play. We understand that it would be a disaster to concede to the Right that black-on-black crime “exists”, because to do that would be to concede that the narrative the Right has created around black-on-black crime exists. We control the conversation by controlling what language we use and refuse to use to argue. So back to cancel culture Cancel culture, to me, offers the same conundrum. Cancel culture may have started in progressive spaces, but the Right loves the term. Why? For two reasons: First, any time a centrist or right-winger does says something racist, or does a transphobia, or rapes and/or gropes a woman, they immediately scream that it’s all cancel culture. It’s a way to get the base up and roaring about some other existential threat. Cancel culture is out to get us. Any one of us could be next! They’re coming for your big-tiddy anime babes!! Which brings me to the second reason. Like black-on-black crime, “cancel culture” to the Right brings with it a specific narrative about the Left. When they say there is a Leftist cancel culture, what they mean is that the Left is filled with college-aged pink-haired puritanical tumblrites who are triggered over everything and harass anyone who disagrees with them until they leave Twitter. When the Right says cancel culture, they mean that the Left is so sensitive that we’re too busy fighting our own over pointless bullshit to get anything done. They use cancel culture as a sign of what’s to come under the supposed Leftist dystopia: a world where truth no longer matters, only feelings. A world where thoughts are policed, trigger warnings are everywhere, microaggressions are responded to with force, and where freedom of thought is snuffed out under the heel of the state. This narrative effects me especially because it makes it hard to do my thing. Not to steal a catchphrase here but, say for the sake of argument… There’s an anime in which the narrative argues in favor actual chattel slavery for the sole purpose of selling the male audience on the idea that a “proper” romantic relationship is one where the woman feels compelled to comply with the man’s every demand by force if necessary. Or maybe you’ve begun to realize that waifu culture in anime benefits large corporations at the expense of vulnerable, lonely, alienated men, because it’s a lot easier to commodify female sexuality and turn a profit if men have been taught through anime to distrust real women to the point of sexist paranoia. Lonely, horny, anti-social single men buy bodypillows. Well-adjusted, fulfilled, happy men in relationships tend not to. Maybe you’ve begun to realize that corporations are using art to pedal sexism for profit while the workers of that industry suffer under long hours and inhumane wages. Maybe you’ve realized there are a ton of fascist anime out there, and people keep fucking defending them for “some reason”. Maybe that’s concerning to you. So you do the only thing you can, or maybe the only thing you know how, and you write about it. And you polish your stuff up the best you can and you show it off to anime fans like “yo have you ever thought about this stuff?” And the response you get back is: You’re a college-aged pink-haired puritanical tumblrite and you’re triggered over everything It doesn’t take more than a few seconds to realize that this is just that same narrative being parroted back to you. You realize that the rhetorical slight of hand that the Right uses to dismiss the Left out of hand has permeated all parts of pop-culture. You realize that if your ideas are ever going to get through to a broader audience, the Left needs to take control of the narrative. More on why the narrative matters I want to introduce you to Hero Hei. He’s a very special YouTuber to me. He releases about one or two videos every day. And all he does, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, even on holidays, is use pop culture, specifically anime, to craft far-right gateway propaganda. This is his one thing. This is the Whole Grift. Here’s him defending the slavery anime I alluded to earlier. In general, don’t defend the slavery anime Here’s him dog whistling for tighter immigration control and a link between immigrants and crime. And here’s him spending four hours of his life defending a sexual harasser, a prominent English anime voice actor, because he’s finally been #MeToo’d. So, anyway, a total piece of shit. Why am I bringing him up? Besides the fact that I have a morbid fascination with his channel (he’s like the anti-me, we’re opposites in style, politics, upload frequency…), I bring up this channel because it’s one of dozens that spread propaganda through pop-culture. Hero Hei has over 70,000 subscribers, and there are many bmore of him pulling in similar numbers. What I’m frustrated with, is that for all the talk about “cancel culture” that we’ve been having recently, no one’s ever stopped to consider a simple fact: there’s an entire industry of far-right propagandists that relies on the narrative provided by so-called cancel culture to function. The more people who seriously believe that cancel culture is this left-wing plague and not the truth: that it’s a pattern of harassment that happens on the Internet in general, the harder it will be to combat this propaganda. We, as in the Left, don’t control the narrative right now. We’ve made some progress on the margins, but we’re not winning. A bit of perspective Here’s a map of online political YouTube channels. You can play around with it here, but I took a screenshot and labeled it with a few key players. (Credit to Mark Ledwic) Each dot is a channel. The size of the dot represents the number “impressions” the channel gets per day. It’s more complicated than this, but you can imagine an impression as being like a view or a unit of attention. The map is also capable of showing where each dot gets its daily impressions, and where those impressions tend to go after. I’ve labeled on this map CNN and Fox News, as well as some of the larger forces of the online New Right. Paul Joseph Watson is there, as well as PragerU, Steven Crowder, and Ben Shapiro’s The Daily Wire. You wanna guess where BreadTube is? Is it those medium-looking green dots on the left? Nope, those are Vice, Vice News, and Vox. How about some of the purple dots on top? Wrong again. Those are Sargon of Akkad, Joe Rogan, and The Quartering. How about the blue, then? Mainly liberal late-night talk show hosts like Trevor Noah, Last Week Tonight, and Jimmy Kimmel. No, BreadTube is this collection of tiny specks waayyy over to the right. This is us. This is all there is. We talk like Contrapoints, Hbomberguy, Lindsey Ellis, and Olly and the like have these super-massive platforms. The news writes about BreadTube like it’s a new and growing movement raring to go, here to take on the likes of Ben Shapiro and Sargon of Akkad. And it is, to some extent. But it’s also not. Other prominent BreadTubers like Peter Coffin and Angie Speaks are on this map, but are too small and don’t connect enough with Olly to see in this view even zoomed in. We are these tiny flecks of hope floating in a vast nothing of liberal bullshit and fascist aggression. We cannot afford to be handing narrative points to the Right and center on a silver platter. Cancel culture is one rhetorical tool of many that the Right uses to stay in control of the narrative online. The situation is bad enough as it is. The only thing that could make it worse is if, say, a certain YouTuber used her platform to argue that cancel culture is definitely super real and it’s definitely a Leftist problem and the Left is definitely eating its own and the Left is just so disorganized and puritanical and the woke-scolds are virtue signalling and oh my God what are we going to do. That sure would suck, wouldn’t it. Mhm. Conclusion So this is the part of the essay when I reveal that this was indeed about Contrapoint’s latest video on cancel culture, after all. You yell at me for adding to the “drama” and that she apologizes in the video (she justifies her decision to include Buck Angel, which is the opposite of an apology but whatever) and she explains all the criticism she’s been getting (not the same as an apology, but, again, it’s cool). If you don’t yet know what’s been happening with Contrapoints… I’m not going to explain it. I’m too far in. Just watch this. A few notes in my defense before I sign off: I’ve consistently maintained that, even operating under the least charitable interpretation of her controversies surrounding Buck Angel, harassing her, her loved ones, and her friends is unacceptable behavior. Actually, I’ve argued for more than that: focusing on Contrapoints alone instead of lifting up the numerous non-binary voices that need attention now more than ever is counter-productive enough. Let alone harassing her personally through Twitter. This isn’t just about Contra. I’ve felt this way about cancel culture for quite a long time. I talked about why I didn’t want to write this essay here, but you’ll find my opinion hasn’t changed. Contra’s insistence on the importance to combat a “cancel culture” is shared with plenty of other BreadTubers including Vaush, Peter Coffin, and AngieSpeaks. This latest video and the disappointing discourse that came out of it is what tipped the scales for me to write this down. When people on the Left are harassed because the community has determined them, fairly or unfairly, to be impure and thus worthy of harassment, the kneejerk reaction is to turn around and go “Cancel culture is real! It’s here! It came for me!” And because you have to be of a certain size to be cancelled, only the largest voices parrot this opinion and it spreads like wildfire. But doing so cedes ground to the Right and center. It reaffirms the narratives our opponents use to beat us. It makes media criticism especially hard, and activism harder still. Here’s an alternative theory for why Internet harassment campaigns happen, and what we can do to make them happen less: I propose that Internet harassment campaigns in politically active spaces come not from a “cancel culture”, but as a natural outcome of how online political spaces work. If you’re in an online political space, you by definition, want to change the world. If you’re on Leftist Twitter, you want the Revolution (or you’re a fake Leftist and you want Bernie Sanders. It’s okay, I don’t judge) ASAP. If you’re on /pol/, you want the race war, to win the culture war, to get the ethnostate, to remove women’s right to vote, and so on. If you’re on gaming Twitter or anime Twitter, you want your media to be “good” and you want it to reflect your own values. But people can’t change the world alone. We live in an individualist culture that makes us believe that. It’s something every Leftist needs to learn to unlearn. Working people can’t make change alone, and they certainly can’t make change with a tweet. What happens when you get a whole bunch of people itching to change the world, and you deny them that ability for ages on end? They get more and more agitated until, like shaking a soda bottle, suddenly, there’s a release valve. Nick Fuentes was secretly a degenerate! Contrapoints was a truscum enbyphobe the whole time!! Blizzard supports the PRC against Hong Kong!!! “Finally it’s my chance!” netizens say to themselves. “With one tweet, I can hold the Bad People responsible. With one tweet, I can stand for good! I can finally change the world!” People Tweet and harass because it feels like they’re actually doing something important for once. You’re not stalking Contrapoints and harassing her friends and family anymore. No no no. You’re DEFENDING NON-BINARY PEOPLE FROM OPPRESSION AND BIGOTRY. It’s not telling a 21-year-old guy who’s probably confused about his sexuality and needs time and support to work that out to kill himself, you’re DEFENDING THE GREATEST NATION ON EARTH CHOSEN BY GOD HIMSELF FROM THE EVILS OF SODOMY. It’s not uselessly boycotting a video game you’ll buy back in a week, it’s PARTICIPATING ON THE FRONT LINES IN THE LIBERATION OF HONG KONG AND THE END OF CHINESE COMMUNIST TOTALITARIAN RULE. People do this because they want to be involved. They want to change stuff with their own two hands, even if that’s not how that works. And when they see that someone betrayed the principles they care about, when they see anything that looks like an abuse of power, they jump in to try and save the day. Even if the response is premature, disproportionate, and unwarranted. Even if what they’re doing is actually making everything worse. So I say, what we do on the Left, is we direct that energy away from harassment and towards real activism. It’s revolutionary energy, just misplaced. We use our platforms to introduce people to practical ways to make the world a better place, big or small. These things cannot include subscribing to a YouTube channel or following a Twitter account. We direct that energy at systems instead of people. The next time someone gets “cancelled”, we use that opportunity to lift new voices into the spotlight. We highlight good-faith criticism instead of dwelling on the bad. We remind people that harassment is not, and will never be, activism. We shouldn’t be shutting down discussion in the name of Left Unity and out of fear of “cancelling” our allies, we should be opening ourselves up to more productive conversations instead. We show the Right that they’re wrong about us. We’re not “woke-scolding”, we just actually have principles, unlike them. We’re not oversensitive, triggered tumblrites, we’re fighting for equality and liberation. We’re not disorganized. If anything we’re organizing. And we’re just getting started. As usual, the solution to BreadTube is to go the f u c k outside. But if you know me, you knew that already.	{ "pile_set_name": "OpenWebText2" }
1. Field of the Invention The present invention relates to a cable-type steering device in which a steering wheel and a steering gear box are connected to each other by flexible cables such as Bowden cables. 2. Related Art A conventional steering device for a vehicle is designed such that a steering shaft having a steering wheel at its upper end is connected at its lower end to a steering gear box, so that a steering torque inputted to the steering wheel is transmitted through the steering shaft to a rack and pinion mechanism provided within the steering gear box. However, if the steering wheel and the steering gear box are connected to each other using the steering shaft, the following problem is encountered: it is difficult to freely select the position of the steering wheel relative to the position of the steering gear box. For this reason, not only the degree of freedom of the design is limited, but the steering gear box also cannot be commonly used in both of a right-side driven vehicle and a left-side driven vehicle. Moreover, there is another problem that the vibration received from a road surface through a tire and the vibration of an engine are transmitted through the steering shaft to the steering wheel, so that such vibrations detract from the calmness within a vehicle compartment and thus the riding comfort. Therefore, in place of the conventional steering shaft, a cable-type steering device has been proposed which uses a flexible transmitting means such as Bowden cables (for example, see Japanese Patent Application Laid-open No.8-2431). The use of a cable-type steering device allows the position of the steering wheel relative to the position of the steering gear box to be freely selected. Additionally, the vibration of the steering gear box has difficulty being transmitted to the steering wheel. Thus, the above-described problems can be eliminated. When the cable-type steering device is combined with a power steering device, the driver's steering operation can be assisted by detecting a steering torque inputted to the steering wheel to drive an actuator for the power steering device. In this case, if a steering torque detecting means is provided in the steering gear box, the following problem is encountered: it is impossible to detect a steering torque including a friction of cables interposed between the steering wheel and the steering torque detecting means. For this reason, an assisting force offsetting the friction cannot be generated in the actuator, resulting in a reduced steering feeling.	{ "pile_set_name": "USPTO Backgrounds" }
CHARLOTTE, N.C. – Green Party candidate Allen Smith brought his 9th Congressional District campaign to the Duke Energy Center in Uptown Charlotte on May 30. Smith and the Green Party want to see the multi-billion-dollar energy company, and other utilities like it, become publicly owned. The South Charlotte Weekly By Paul Nielsen June 7, 2019 That is part of the party’s Green Party New Deal, which also includes the elimination of fossil fuels by 2030, 100% renewable energy by 2030, redirecting half of military spending and enacting a comprehensive Medicare-for-all. Smith, who lives in south Charlotte, is facing Republican Dan Bishop, Democrat Dan McCready and Libertarian Party nominee Jeff Scott in the Sept. 10 special election. The special election was called after last November’s election was invalidated by the North Carolina Board of Elections after alleged absentee ballot fraud emerged in Bladen County on behalf of then-GOP candidate Mark Harris. Harris endorsed the call for a new election but did not run in the GOP primary, citing health issues. Smith last appeared on local ballots in 2017, when he earned 42% of the vote in a losing race to Sean Strain for the District 6 seat on the Charlotte-Mecklenburg School Board. “We need a real Green New Deal, an eco-socialist transformation, not only to combat climate change and revolutionize our infrastructure, but to re-engineer our social order,” Smith said. “A Green New Deal that says no to war and imperialism by taking the billions of unnecessary dollars that we pour into our Defense Department. We need to redirect those resources into sustainable programs that fulfill basic human rights like healthcare by providing Medicare-for-all.” Smith told supporters that Duke’s control of the state’s energy grid through a government-protected monopoly must end. “That means in our state, if you use electricity in your home or your business, chances are you’ll be paying Duke Energy for it,” Smith said. “I have a friend, whose name I won’t use because her boss might find out. Let’s call her Erin. She is a working mom, and like a lot of working parents, she can’t afford a higher electric bill. She has to wrestle with whether to buy groceries or pay down her electric bill. “She works for a thriving local business, but her employer won’t let her work more hours because they would then have to provide health insurance. When Duke raises her rate, she will have no choice but to pay up or have her family’s electricity shutoff.” Green Party presidential candidate Howie Hawkins was also at the event supporting Smith. Hawkins, who announced his candidacy for the Green Party nomination in late May, has run for governor in New York three times, getting more than 50,000 votes in each election, which keeps the party’s ballot status in the state. “I was the first candidate to campaign in the United States on the Green New Deal when we were coming out of the Great Recession,” Hawkins said. “I have been fighting these utilities since we fought nuclear power in the 1970s.’’	{ "pile_set_name": "OpenWebText2" }
IMPROVE The smallest nooks and crannies of your home shouldn’t be overlooked, especially in terms of organization. If the closets where you tuck away your home goods are well-kept and uncluttered, ...Read More	{ "pile_set_name": "Pile-CC" }
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Let the great world spin : a novel / A rich vision of the pain, loveliness, mystery, and promise of New York City in the 1970s. A radical young Irish monk struggles with his own demons as he lives among the prostitutes in the middle of the burning Bronx. A group of mothers gathers in a Park Avenue apartment to mourn their sons who died...	{ "pile_set_name": "Pile-CC" }
Q: HTML5 Rackspace Access-Control-Allow-Origin Not Working So I have some video files on Rackspace Cloud Files but since I use HTML5 functions (.toDataURL()) "SECURITY_ERR: DOM Exception 18" keeps getting thrown. My code works fine when I use a video file on my server. So I read up about CORS and modified my Rackspace Cloud Files headers like this: access-control-allow-credentials: true access-control-allow-origin: [my domain here] access-control-allow-headers: Content-Type, Depth, User-Agent, X-File-Size, X-Requested-With, If-Modified-Since, X-File-Name, Cache-Control access-control-allow-methods: OPTIONS, GET, POST access-control-expose-headers: X-File-Size, X-Requested-With, If-Modified-Since, X-File-Name Content-Type: video/webm But the DOM Exception 18 error keeps getting thrown. I don't know what the problem is. I checked to see if the HTTP headers were being outputted by my video files on Rackspace with web-sniffer.net and they are, so what's the problem, why doesn't it work? I have tried it on IE9, Chrome 19, Safari 5.1.2, and Aurora 12.0a2, they don't work on any of those browsers so I'm certain that this is not a browser issue. I just have to get rid of this DOM Exception 18 error. A: toDataURL() will not work if your content is on a CDN (or any other host than the current) that's a security restriction of the CANVAS element. compare http://www.whatwg.org/specs/web-apps/current-work/multipage/the-canvas-element.html#security-with-canvas-elements for details on what's prohibited basically whenever you want to do something with images or videos within a canvas and save the result you will have to have all prior content on the same domain. one workaround would be to grab the required files and save them temporarily while the user edits it	{ "pile_set_name": "StackExchange" }
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are productsof the author's imagination or are used in a fictional setting. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. "Vision by Sweetwater" from Selected Poems, 3rd ed., revised and enlarged by John Crowe Ransom, © 1924, 1927 by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., and renewed 1952, 1955 by John Crowe Ransom. Used by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc. "The Vacuum" from The Collected Poems of Howard Nemerov (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1977). © 2006 by the Board of Regents of the University of Nebraska All rights reserved Library of Congress Cataloging- in-Publication Data Kooser, Ted. Writing brave and free: encouraging words for people who want to start writing / Ted Kooser and Steve Cox. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references. ISBN-13:978-0-8032-2780-4 (cl;: alk. paper) ISBN-10:0-8032-2780-9 (cl.: alk. paper) ISBN-13:978-0-8032-7832-5 (pbk.: alk. paper) ISBN-10: 0-8032-7832-2 (pbk.: alk. paper) ISBN-13: 978-0-8032-7696-3 (electronic: e-pub) ISBN-13: 978-0-8032-7697-0 (electronic: mobi) 1. Authorship. I. Cox, Steve, 1939–II. Title. PN147.K69 2006 808'.02-dc22 2005020673 The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content. CONTENTS 1. Writing Brave and Free 2. What's Standing in Your Way? SECTION 1: Yes, You Can 3. What Do You Know? 4. Enchanting Details SECTION 2: Rules? We Don' Need No Stinkin' Rules! 5. No Shoulds, No Should Nots 6. Input and Output SECTION 3: Getting Started 7. The Ten-Minute Exercise 8. Overcoming Obstacles to Extended Writing 9. Developing the Habit of Writing 10. Don't Forget to Read! SECTION 4: The Environment for Writing 11. The Writer's Tools 12. Your Clean, Well-Lighted Writing Place 13. Relax! The World Is Resting on Your Shoulders SECTION 5: You and Your Readers 14. What Reader Do You Have in Mind? 15. Writing for Friends and Relations 16. Writing for Strangers 17. Taking Control 18. About Your Imaginary Reader SECTION 6: Elements of a Piece of Writing 19. The Country of Memory 20. Writing about One Thing 21. Getting Organized 22. Sensory Detail 23. Suspense 24. The Size and Scope of Things 25. A Sentimental Journey 26. Transparency 27. The Unexpected Detail 28. It's a Figure of Speech 29. Before Us on the Table 30. Be Positive, Emphatic, Clear, and Active 31. Transformative Experience SECTION 7: Revision and Getting Help 32. Revise and Wait 33. Getting Advice, Taking Criticism SECTION 8: The Business of Writing 34. How Publishing Works 35. How to Get Published 36. Self-Publishing, Electronic Publishing, and Vanity Publishing 37. A Few Observations about Copyright 38. Fair Use 39. Obtaining Permission to Quote 40. Protecting Your Copyright 41. Conveying Rights: Contracts 42. Libel and Invasion of Privacy SECTION 9: Acknowledgments and Further Reading 43. Acknowledgments 44. How to Write 45. Copyright, Libel, and Invasion of Privacy 1 Writing Brave and Free Carl Sandburg wrote poems all his life. When he was eighty-five years old, he published a book entitled Honey and Salt (1963) and in it is a long, free, funny poem about love. In that poem, "Little Word, Little White Bird," Sandburg compares love with all sorts of lively things. Is love a cat, he asks, "with claws and wild mate screams in the black night?" Is love "a free glad spender, ready to spend to the limit, and then go head over heels in debt?" Or maybe, he says, love is an elephant, "and you step out of the way where the elephant comes trampling, tromping, traveling with big feet... immense and slow and easy." Page after page, Sandburg slings ideas, comparisons, and images every which way, like a man digging through a box of favorite tools and pulling out this and that, pleased to show us what he's found. Never does he seem to doubt himself. To write that exultant poem about love at eighty-five, Sandburg must have learned a way to start fresh all over again, every morning. He must have developed great confidence in his ability to write, and to write wild and free. Confidence is one of a writer's most valuable tools, and though it can sometimes be hard to find at the hardware store, we know where you can find it. We intend to show you that tool. It's right there inside you, believe it or not, hanging on a nail under the stairs, ready to be taken down and dusted off. But first, a little about the writer's other tools. Like Sandburg, every writer has a tool kit. Every writer needs tools you can touch and feel—a desk and a lamp, a computer or pen and paper—and tools you can't quite touch but can hold in your head—the ways to use nouns, verbs, ideas, metaphors, rhythms, attitudes, feelings, questions, memories of people and places, and the ways of organizing thoughts. Most of the tools writers need they gather through experience. Singers learn by listening to lots of music, and then by practicing and by singing in public. Writers build a writing tool kit by reading hungrily, by borrowing tools from other writers, by making a little time to write every day, and then by showing what they've written to someone else and carefully listening to what they have to say. That business of reading hungrily and borrowing tools from other writers needs a little emphasis. Every writer learns by imitation, and the more you read, the more you find to imitate, to model your own work upon. If you want to start writing, part of the discipline is to read as much as you can. And you'll find that you learn almost as much from reading bad writing as from good. Each and every exposure to the written word will help you as a writer. By the time he was eighty-five, Carl Sandburg's basic tool kit probably could have filled a freight car. Yet the most important things he pulled out of his kit every morning were his confidence, his joy in the work, and the heart to write wild and free. The authors of this book are not yet eighty-five. But we're old enough to be retired from our day jobs (perhaps you are, too), and each of us has accumulated a garage full of writing tools. Nobody else has had exactly the experiences you will be writing about. And nobody else has drawn on exactly our experience in writing a book about writing. Ted has been writing and publishing for more than forty years. He has read his poems and essays to audiences in galleries, libraries, and sitting on the ground in a native prairie, and he has listened to writers read their own work in those same places. He has talked with and corresponded with other writers about their words and his own. He has led writers' groups and taught university seminars. Steve has written poems and essays and spent his working life as a book editor. Both of us have watched writers get started, and mature, and we've cheered them on as they have succeeded. We've both thought a lot about how to start writing, how to keep going, and what makes writing effective. We've written this book for people who want to write and are looking for a way to get started—people who, halfway through a full life, want to set down what they know, people who may have some potential readers in mind, whether relatives, like-minded people, or complete strangers. We want to help people who have been saying for ten, twenty, or thirty years that they'd like to start writing, but who haven't started. Starting to write takes courage, of course, and maybe you've never been able to find that courage. We intend to help you find it. We want to show you a few other tools—to tell you a few of the things we know, think, and feel about writing. Rather than offering a schoolbook that proceeds in a straight line from A to Z, covering all the bases, with quizzes at the ends of chapters, we decided to give you a short book resting on our own experience. We throw in a few surprises, some of them in unexpected places. You can skip around and open our book at any page and, we hope, get some good out of it. We want to help you write because we believe there can never be too many writers. Why not a world in which everybody is writing? Surely writing, and the contemplative life that goes with it, is a much better way to spend your time than a hundred time-filling activities we could name. Besides, nothing is so exhilarating as to work at something you enjoy, and that's an experience that writing can give you. Your own experience—the world as you live in it—is unique. It is a matchless, deep pleasure to write with love of your experience, to relive your life while you write it down, and to learn from your own experience as it unfolds on the page. Your experience is unique, and so is that of every human being. That is one reason we want everyone to enjoy the privilege of writing. Writing is not about showing how smart you are, says Barry Holstun Lopez, author of River Notes and Arctic Dreams. Writing, he says, is about telling the best story you know, the best way you can. Writing both extends and makes permanent the sort of sharing we do each day. In everyday conversation, we tell each other anecdotes, we show others how to do things, we make up stories. Writing is no more than doing those same things on paper. It need not be intimidating. Writing doesn't use another language, but the language we're already using. We know that the more regularly you write, the deeper the pleasure you'll take from it. We talk about the habits that help a writer get started and keep going. We've got our jumper cables handy. Once you're in the habit of writing a little each day, we're eager to show you a little about how to develop as a writer, to show you some of the tools you can use to tune up what you've written, and we list a few books that explore the nooks and crannies of writing. Lots of writers start by wanting nothing more than to express themselves—to write a poem that's a kind of primal scream that no one else may hear, a story that's like a tree falling in an unpopulated forest. We encourage you to go beyond that, to write to be read or heard. Perhaps what you have to say may be of real use to somebody. If you think about it, all day every day you're sharing what you've learned, what you know about everything from jacking up a car to making pan gravy. Writing makes a permanent record of that kind of sharing. It's an important part, even an essential part, of offering even your most common, everyday experiences to others in the human community. We talk about how to attract and hold a reader's attention and how to make writing vivid and memorable. If you want your writing to be read, you'll want to publish. We walk through the steps that can lead toward publication, and we give you a taste of the issues involved in copyright. But publishing is only a tool that helps you connect with readers. We're not trying to turn you into a successfully self-employed commercial writer—we believe that, for most writers, that's a false goal, an illusion. Instead, we know only that if you sit down at the same time every day and—starting with a memory or with something you just saw out the window—you write for as long as you can set aside time for, at the end of even one week you will have produced something that you can feel good about. Isn't that enough? Even a few words a day is more than you had before you started. A novelist we know writes 250 words a day, day in and day out, and never tries for more than that. When he's finished for the day he treats himself to a game of computer golf. He has published a number of novels and several books of stories, just by letting those daily 250-word pieces add up toward something. Why not say what we want? We want this book to be liberating. We want to encourage you to ramble off on your own. We know you'll find a path that it would never occur to us to map. We ourselves have heard lots of advice, have tried many step-by-step regimens, and we know that the only advice that's always valid is "Get on with it!" We're eager to see what road you take and, as you glance in the rearview mirror, we'll be there, grinning and clapping and cheering you on. We wish you joy in the work and the heart to write brave and free. 2 What's Standing in Your Way? How many times have you heard a friend say, "I think I've got a book in me" or "I think I'll write something about that." Maybe you've heard yourself say those same things. But when it comes to the writing, something goes wrong. You turn back from the starting line before the whistle blows and walk slump-shouldered back to the showers. You know what's out there ahead—the hard work of running the short sprint of a poem or the marathon of a novel—but you just can't set one foot in front of the other. A big part of what's holding you back, we'd guess, is the fear of failure, the fear of losing the race to somebody bigger and faster, or the dread of taking on so much work. You want to be the very best writer ever, and you know you can't pull that off. You'll never get good enough to win the Nobel Prize. So you don't even try. Well, aren't you setting your standards just a little high? You know you can't run a mile under four minutes, maybe not even under fifteen minutes, but that doesn't keep you from setting out on a nice long walk every morning. Writing can be like that, like a nice long walk, done at your own leisurely pace with no great goals in mind. The poet William Stafford, when asked how a writer can avoid writer's block, said to lower your standards. It's some of the best advice we've ever heard. Sure, you can set goals, but make them reasonable. For example, you might set the goal of writing a description of the kitchen of a neighbor you visited often when you were a small child. A description doesn't have to have a plot like a story or a form like a poem. It's just a description, just a sketch. And yet it's something that is yours, something that you have written. Nobody else can ever write it the way you can, because it's coming out of your head, out of your memories, complete with details that nobody but you could include: the bent tin wooden match dispenser nailed to the wall next to the cellar door, for example. Or the five-gallon crock full of newspapers. And especially the curtained window looking out onto a garden that only you can remember in just this way. That sketch is enough. It's something. In fact, it's really something! Little pieces of writing like that add up to bigger things. Every novel is merely a collection of scenes, written one by one and eventually arranged into a satisfying pattern. And lots of novelists say they start that way, by writing little scenes and by setting somebody in those scenes to see what they might do next. Lots of novelists write their books by following their characters from scene to scene to see how they react. But that's fiction, and we don't want to push you toward fiction. We just want to get you writing, writing bits and pieces that may be parts of a novel one day, or parts of essays, or even just bright little passages in letters to dear friends. But whatever destiny they may have, they're your writing, and only you could have written them in just that way. And hey, all of a sudden you've won something, haven't you? You've won a little blue ribbon and pinned it on yourself. It ain't the Nobel Prize or the Pulitzer, but you can be mighty pleased with it. And for every one of those little pieces you add to the others you gain just a little confidence. Sitting down to write gets easier. If you have the confidence to give your neighbor your recipe for angel food cake, or to tell him how to start a stubborn snowblower, you have enough confidence to sketch out a little piece of writing. 3 What Do You Know? "Write about what you know." Writers hear that advice all the time. It sounds like an imperative, an order. It seems to draw a border around what you should write about, with a guard prohibiting you from stepping over the line into the realm of speculation or fantasy. But the more you read, the more you see that there are no limits, no rules about writing. You can write whatever you feel like writing. You're free to choose, and that's one of the joys of writing. If you're painting, you can paint the sky green. If you want to, you can wear a red hat to breakfast. Did anybody ever tell you that? Once when Steve was young, his Uncle Franklin accepted the job of babysitter and asked Steve what he'd like to eat. "A peanut butter and jelly sandwich," Steve said, and he asked, "Would it be all right to fold the bread over instead of cutting it?" Uncle Franklin was astonished. "You mean your mother doesn't let you fold the bread over?" To Steve's satisfaction, Franklin bravely broke the rule. When you're writing, it's OK to fold the bread over. There are rules everywhere. You have to stop at stoplights and take off your shoes at the airport and have money in the bank if you write a check. If you're a fry cook, you have to wear a hairnet, and your mother may have taught you that there's only one way to make pan gravy (some mothers say with a spoon, some with a fork). But in writing there are no rules other than to remember that somebody's going to try to read what you've written and you don't want to discourage that person. Writing is communication, and it needs to communicate. Writing in a secret language you've invented isn't going to get you very far toward reaching an audience. As to what you know, what you're going to write about, you know far more than you could ever write in a lifetime. The southern fiction writer Flannery O'Connor once said that by the time we're eight years old we already have enough material to last all our lives. What you know arises directly from this very life you are living. It comes from your own experience, including the books you've read and what other people have told you. What you know is more than facts—more than an old trunk packed with memories of people, places, and things. What you know is also how you feel about what you pull from that trunk. What you know is also what you think about what you know. And, when you stop to think about it, isn't it also what you think about what you feel? What you see, hear, touch, taste, smell is what you know. What you feel—how your emotions move you—is what you know. What you think, and what you imagine, about this world and all other worlds, is what you know. That's what you're going to write, about. 4 Enchanting Details Do you worry that your life has been too ordinary to write about, that nothing of interest has happened to you? A writer we know asked an old woman in a nursing home in Nebraska if she'd ever met anyone famous. "No," she said, and then, "Well, I did meet Lawrence Welk once. It was in the early spring, many years ago. It had snowed and the roads were all mud. One evening a car got stuck at the foot of our lane and a man came up to the house to see if Paul would pull the car out. It was Lawrence Welk and two members of his band. Mr. Welk said he'd send us ten dollars when they got to Sioux Falls, but he never did." This is a good little story, isn't it? And what makes it work are the specifics. Notice that she began with "One evening," which sets a specific time, and then she further specifies the experience by telling us the season and the weather. If you look at this anecdote you can see how it is enriched by specific details. All too often we tend toward generalization. We say, "Well, the good old days were a lot better." Ho hum. We've all heard that, and nobody wants to read what they've already heard. When we read we're looking for unique experiences. If you find yourself falling into the Good Old Days mode of generalization, just ask yourself, Can I explain, using details, what made the good old days so good? No life is ordinary once it has been written about using specific detail. The mere act of setting down your specific experiences makes your life uncommon and remarkable. When put into the right words, your unique life can become memorable, even enchanting. If the house of your childhood was like every other house on the block, if your father had the same job as the fathers who were his neighbors, if your mother cooked and washed and watched over her children like every other mother, you might conclude that anything you write will be ordinary. But your mother and father, your house, what you ate and what you wore were not just like everyone else. Let's say your house was indistinguishable from the rest of the houses on the block. The carpenter who built them had only one plan in his head—he didn't have to think about which room went where. There was a living room inside the front door, a dining room behind it, and a kitchen behind that. In the west wall of the dining room was a door onto a short hallway, and at either end of the hall was a small, dark bedroom. Between these was the bathroom, with the tub beneath a little window. Every bathtub on the block was under the same little window. But it never occurred to your family that, because your house was just like the others, your family was like all the others. Mother could play the clarinet, perhaps, and Father knew how to make a dozen different animal shadows with his hands. There were nights when your house would be the only one on the block with the head of a donkey on the living room window shade, and that made your family different. By carefully recording sensations, feelings, and ideas about the ordinary but specific details of life—a mother's clarinet playing, a father's shadow play—a writer can make the ordinary special, even enchanting. Remember that word—details—because paying attention to the details is essential to good writing. Here's Alfred Kazin, remembering the vendors and all the foods of Brownsville, his Jewish neighborhood in Brooklyn, from his famous memoir, A Walker in the City (1951). He devotes unrelenting attention to detail and to the senses, especially to sight and smell—what he sensed, what he felt, and what he thought: Then in those late winter afternoons, when there was that deep grayness on the streets and that spicy smell from the open stands at dusk I was later to connect with my first great walks inside the New York crowd at the rush hour—then there would arise from behind the great flaming oil drums and the pushcarts loaded with their separate mounds of shoelaces, corsets, pots and pans, stockings, kosher kitchen soap, memorial candles in their wax-filled tumblers and glassware, "chiney" oranges, beet roots and soup greens, that deep and good odor of lox, of salami, of herrings and half-sour pickles, that told me I was truly home. As I went down Belmont Avenue, the copper-shining herrings in the tall barrels made me think of the veneration of food in Brownsville families.... We never had a chance to know what hunger meant. At home we nibbled all day long as a matter of course. On the block we gorged ourselves continually on "Nessels," Hersheys, gumdrops, polly seeds, nuts, chocolate-covered cherries, charlotte russe, and ice cream. A warm and sticky ooze ran through everything we touched; the street always smelled faintly like the candy wholesaler's windows on the way back from school. The hunger for sweets, jellies, and soda water raged in us like a disease; during the grimmest punchball game, in the middle of a fistfight, we would dash to the candy store to get down two-cent blocks of chocolate and "small"—three-cent—glasses of cherry soda.... At school during the recess hour Syrian vendors who all looked alike in their alpaca jackets and black velours hats came after us with their white enameled trays, from which we took Halvah, Turkish Delight, and three different kinds of greasy nut-brown pastry sticks. From the Jewish vendors, who went around the streets in every season wheeling their little tin stoves, we bought roasted potatoes either in the quarter or the half—the skins were hard as bark and still smelled of the smoke pouring out of the stoves.... But our greatest delight in all seasons was "delicatessen"—hot spiced corned beef, pastrami, rolled beef, hard salami, soft salami, chicken salami, bologna, frankfurter "specials" and the thinner, wrinkled hot dogs always taken with mustard and relish and sauerkraut, and whenever possible, to make the treat fully real, with potato salad, baked beans, and french fries which had been bubbling in the black wire fryer deep in the iron pot (Kazin, A Walker in the City, 31–34). Wouldn't Kazin make any salami proud? Notice the details. Those hot dogs aren't just hot dogs, but wrinkled hot dogs. You learn to write with detail like that by paying attention to the smallest things in your life. It's noticing those wrinkles in the hot dogs that makes your life different from the next person's, that makes your life unique and worthy of being written about. It's one thing to write, "Those winters long ago were severe." That's much too general. It's another thing to write, "One morning in January, 1936, Mother broke up the platform rocker she'd been given as a wedding gift and burned it in the kitchen stove." Once you start writing, you'll be surprised by how many forgotten details surface. There's something about the process of putting words on paper that stirs up all the little things. Like one of those glass balls you shake and then watch the snowflakes fall back on the snowman. The snow is all the memories. You're the snowman. 5 No Shoulds, No Should Nots Should you always write in complete sentences? Should a poem rhyme? Should you always capitalize the first word in every line of a poem? Should you end each chapter of a book by repeating what you just said and forecasting what you are going to say in the next chapter? Should you always slavishly follow the rules of grammar? Elmore Leonard, author of Get Shorty, Maximum Bob, and many other admirable crime novels, says, "If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it. Or, if proper usage gets in the way, it may have to go. I can't allow what we learned in English to disrupt the sound and rhythm of the narrative." Just so. We say that there are no shoulds, no should nots. You don't even have to spell conventionally. Well, of course your reader may not understand your writing if your spelling is weird. Almost as important, your reader may stop and say, "What's this idiot doing? Can't he spell?" The most moving short story can be ruined by one little typographical error, because it immediately distracts a reader's attention from the story and raises a question about your ability to write. If you write clearly and conventionally, your writing becomes transparent, and your readers can enjoy it without having to stop and think about your mannerisms as a writer. Many writers have been tempted to tell you everything they have learned about writing. When they do, they are likely to put those lessons in the form of a list of rules. Those lists seem delightfully contradictory. That's because when people try to distill all their wisdom about writing, they come out different places. Writing is a capacious activity that allows for a lot of individuality. Nobody's wrong, and nobody's necessarily right. What you may take for rules are really just tools. Some are tools for communicating effectively and for helping readers to remember your writing. Others are vestiges of tool kits no longer in use. And there are tools that help you increase your—and your readers'—pleasure in the craft. Your journal and your first drafts, which you write for yourself alone, can be as free as you wish. You sketch out your observations and ideas there, and they offer you the privacy to try out new ways of communicating. Then, when you are writing and revising to communicate with others, it's a courtesy and a good idea to use the tools at your command to help your readers as much as you can. Accepted spelling and conventional grammar are tools that help your readers, and so does organizing your writing in such a way that it follows logic. Our first writing teachers taught us that every paragraph had a topic sentence and every theme had a beginning, middle, and conclusion. However boring and stodgy those lessons may have seemed, they were designed with clear communication in mind. Organizing your sentences into paragraphs and your paragraphs into an order that seems to be going in some direction is helpful to your readers and comforting, too. Writing—like painting, like music—attempts to create a little order from a largely disorderly world. The English mystery writer P. D. James said in a television interview that people enjoy reading mysteries because, at the end, when all the loose ends get tied, a reader senses that there really is order in the world. Some tools that look like rules help your reader to remember what you have written. Take poetry for instance. Before there was reading or writing or printing, poets composed epic poems to be recited out loud and repeated word of mouth. Listeners could memorize the poem by the way it sounded. Rhyme, rhythm, and other patterns of sound helped the poem stay alive. What poems can you remember from your school days? More than likely they're the ones with regular rhythm and perhaps rhyme. Can you remember any poems that were written in free form? That's much more difficult. You probably learned most of the popular songs you know the same way—by hearing them on the radio, not reading the words in a book. Because of their memorable sound effects, you may still be able to sing entire Cole Porter songs that you learned forty years ago. American country music in particular—where a bull's-eye rhyme for Texas ("all my exes live in Texas") is money in the bank—is passed around word of mouth, like old-time epic poetry. Unless you intend your reader to recite your writing out loud or memorize it, you may not want to bother with rhyme. (But poets might still consider writing poems that people can sing. The Scots singer Dougie McLean has set an old poem by Robert Burns, "A Slave's Lament," to music, and it's a showstopper.) Just as rhyme is a reminder that poems were once written to be recited out loud, capitalizing the first word of every line of a poem is a vestige of old typesetting conventions—a device that in most writing has gone by the wayside. Nowadays you can feel free to capitalize the first word of every line of your poems if you wish to, or write in rhyme, or not. The thing to keep in mind is that your main object is surely to communicate. If rhyming and those capital letters don't help you to communicate what you want to say, then you can dispense with them. At some point you may become intrigued with the craft of writing more than with the act of communicating—just as some potters quit worrying about whether a cup holds water and devote themselves to the craft of raku, in which it's ok to make pots that leak. If so, you may want to learn how to write particular forms—the particular structure of the sonnet that Shakespeare used, for example. Writing in strict form can be good exercise; it can be like working out in the gym to improve your tennis game. Learning about traditional forms can heighten your awareness as a reader, which can find its fruition in what you write. After Steve was well along in college, he read a lovely poem by Philip Sydney. Steve had no idea why he loved it so much until somebody told him that it was a villanelle, a complicated form that can involve an accumulation of ear-catching repetition. When Steve read the poem out loud, he heard other alluring sound effects that, as a craftsman, Sydney had employed—all tools to win the heart of a reader; Picking up new tools isn't all about becoming the next Shakespeare, either. The priest Andrew Greeley had a different ambition. He wanted to communicate his message to as many readers as he could, and he decided to add paperback novels to his tool kit of homilies, classroom lectures, academic treatises, and newspaper columns. So he sat down with a popular writer's novel that had been a best seller, and he wrote an outline of it, just the way you might have done in high school. Using that proven model as a tool, Father Greeley has written dozens of novels that communicate his message to millions of readers. Short of writing a formal outline, you can teach yourself quite a bit about writing by simply typing out a page or two from some book that you admire. It puts you in the writer's shoes, and you'll be surprised to see what tools the writer is using to make that writing effective. The more you write, and the more you read with writing in mind, the more you will want to find the right tool for each writing job. And you may come to realize that the rule is simply a fact imposed by the Universe: If you want to start writing you have to start. The road is made by walking. 6 Input and Output What do you write about, and what do you write about it? What you write about—call this input. What you write about it—call that output. You are always drinking in the world. All writing begins with that—with your five senses. You write about what you see, hear, taste, smell, and touch. And effective writing begins with seeing the world clearly—so said the English poet and craftsman John Ruskin. "Hundreds of people can talk for one who can think," Ruskin said, "and thousands can think for one who can see." You are bombarded every moment with sensations—the sight of a cereus blossom on your morning walk, the sound of a curve-billed thrasher's call nearby, the taste of tea lingering from breakfast, the smell of a creosote bush, the touch of a warm sweater on your arms—so many sensations that you may feel overwhelmed. Again, where do you begin? The first step can be to focus on one sensation—to look, and to see one thing clearly, perhaps the cereus blossom. That sensation—seeing clearly—is the first element of input. Probably you singled out that one sensation because it aroused some feeling. What emotion did you feel? Joy, curiosity, terror, anxiety, calm, agitation? Maybe you felt joy, or a sense of loss of the wild world, or a love of the beauty of that perfect blossom. What you feel about what you sense—that's the second element of input. Then, what do you think about what you felt and saw? You sensed many things, you felt many feelings, and your thoughts about what you felt and sensed are quite complex, too. Perhaps you thought something complex about a city growing up in a desert that once was wild land, about how one perfect desert wildflower has thrived in the city. What you sense, feel, and think—that's the input that you write about. And, says our man Ruskin, "The greatest thing a human soul ever does in this world is to see something, and tell what it saw in a plain way." In other words, when you write, you transform input into output. Complementing the hierarchy of input—starting with sensations and proceeding through feelings to thoughts or ideas—there's a hierarchy of output that moves from information to knowledge to wisdom: Information—just the facts: On July 16, 2003, at Tucson International Airport, it rained one inch. Knowledge—organizing, summarizing, digesting an accumulation of information: The one-inch rain of July 16, 2003, was the first taste of monsoon season in Tucson, Arizona. Wisdom—an assessment of a body of knowledge, based on your own experience: Watching the sandy soil rapidly drink up the one inch of rain, I realized what a stranger I was in the desert. I remembered the rich, green, eternally wet forests of the Smoky Mountains, my true home. This process of input and output is an endlessly repeated sequence of feedback loops, like those fractal patterns that repeat exactly the same form from the largest to the tiniest scale. The process applies to revising what you have written as well as to writing the first draft. For example, what do you sense, feel, and think about the way you plan to organize your piece of writing? About the sentence you have just written? The word you have just chosen? Sense, feel, think. Information, knowledge, wisdom. Keeping this process in mind will help you remember that you are writing out of your own experience. Your own wisdom. The one-inch rain of July 16, 2003, brought blooms to the "night blooming" cereus, a cactus of the Arizona desert. The cereus comes in a variety of shapes—a cluster of little pincushions, a spider of green spiny arms, or a green sentinel of columns standing ramrod straight, chest high. The cereus does indeed bloom at night, but just as important, it buds and blooms only after the coming of rain. Like other desert dwellers, the cereus waits through the dry spring and the hot, dry summer for the monsoons, the summer rains. It always seems that the monsoons will never come. At first we see clouds, but no rain. Finally, the monsoons arrive in a gush, with an inch of rain on July 16, and early on the morning of July 20, the cereus erupt in bloom. Eighteen white satin blooms on a spidery plant, two pink blooms on the little pincushions, five more white blooms on the sentinel. A woman contemplates the magenta blooms of a potted cereus and can't stop grinning. She has spent a lifetime learning, thinking, and writing about the healing power of desert plants, and for years she herself has been racked with arthritis. "I'm always full of pain," she says, "but when I see something so beautiful, the pain all goes away." 7 The Ten-Minute Exercise Walk past a musician's studio, any time of the day or night, and you'll hear her practicing, endlessly repeating the scales and arpeggios that help her develop skill and grace on her instrument. A painter's studio may be stacked with sketchbooks filled with rapid studies—exercises in capturing light and shadow, line and mass. At a track meet, runners all over the field are stretching their tendons, flexing their muscles, warming up. Writers practice, too. They fill notebooks with scribbling, write a whole book, throw it away and write the whole book again, and then set that draft aside and pick it up again and, revise it, and then they write another one. In other words, writing has less to do with possessing native talent and more to do with developing your ability through practice. Fortunately, getting started is easy: you sit down with a pen and paper, or in front of a computer, and write for at least ten minutes, just for the exercise. If the idea of writing something seems intimidating, if like many people you are afraid it won't be any good, you might think of it as just making marks, the way our ancestors did, scratching on cave walls with charred sticks, which is what artists still do, whether they are drawing with pencils or making marks on a canvas with a paintbrush. Making marks is the very best way to confront a blank piece of paper. It comes naturally to human beings, and you don't have to be a member of some special society to do it. Making marks is perfectly democratic. Everybody does it. It's not a question of whether they're good marks, just that they're marks on the paper. When you sit down for your writing time, you might say to yourself, for ten minutes I'm just going to make some marks here. I'm not going to try to write anything good, I'm just going to make marks. And if the marks form letters, and the letters form words, and the words form sentences, and something good comes of making these marks, well, fine. If you fill a notebook with marks, with words that interest you, with little impressions of things you've experienced, with random jottings of this and that, you'll soon discover something worth shaping into a more presentable piece. The process of marking will get you going. It really works. At first, you're writing—making marks—for yourself alone. Writing memos, letters, and e-mail? No, that doesn't count. Ten minutes to write in your diary, or to write a poem, or a piece of an essay or story, whatever you want to call it. What you write in this ten-minute exercise doesn't matter. You needn't write complete sentences or worry about grammar or spelling, and heaven knows you needn't stop when your ten minutes are up, although you may want to stop while you still have something to say. Ernest Hemingway said that he always stopped for the day at a place where he still had more to write. That way he had something to start with the next day. Like the violinist's scales and the painter's sketches, what you write is an exercise, for your eyes alone. The point of your ten-minute exercise is to develop the habit of writing: * The habit of working with words, phrases, sentences, paragraphs. * The habit of feeling the rhythm of words, of hearing your words in your ear, of seeing your words on paper. * The habit of sinking into a subject, beyond the surface, into its own reality and what it means to you. * The habit of thinking about the aim and scope of your writing. Keeping a journal is like sharpening a pencil, says New Yorker writer Francine du Plessix Gray: "Our emotions, and the power of their expression, are kept at maximum intensity by the daily routine of being inserted into the journal's sharpening edge." Alfred Kazin wrote his memoir of growing up in Jewish Brooklyn, A Walker in the City, only after having kept, all his life, "since boyhood, a voluminous daily journal, or sketchbook, into which went everything that I felt like describing and thinking about." Frank McCourt, author of Angela's Ashes, the grim memoir of growing up poor in Ireland, says, "the entire time I was growing up I was scribbling and reading." Practicing will help you grasp the size, ambition, and subject of the poem, story, or book you want to write, and how much time it may take to complete, and what reader you are writing for. What should you write? Where to begin? Here's your chance to write brave and free! Your head is full of thoughts, observations, and stories you'd like to tell. The world is full of people, music, books, trees, and flowers to see, hear, touch, smell, and write about. Since you can write about anything, you might start by describing something small and near at hand in intimate detail. You might describe your desk, or just the paperweight on it, or a rose in its vase. You might try to remember and write down a conversation you had this very day with a friend, a coworker, or a child. And you can stop, if you wish, at the end of only ten minutes. Here's a ten-minute exercise Steve wrote one day, longhand: Monday was Martin Luther King Jr. Day and the kids were out of school and Carol Evans arranged for a bunch of us—twenty-five or so—from our church to take the bus to Mexico. Not just any bus, and not just any Mexico. It was the BorderLinks bus, and the driver was Lerry Chase, father of BorderLinks's founder, Rick Ufford-Chase, and the Mexico we went to visit was a border town, Nogales, Sonora, just across the U.S. line from Nogales, Arizona. Lerry took us through the big brown steel border fence made from landing mats from the Gulf War and through crowded downtown Nogales, up Obregon Street, busy with signs selling pharmaceuticals, music, furniture, clothing, all in Spanish—up the canyon that is the central feature of Nogales, and up into the dry dusty hills past cinderblock and wooden houses all crowded together, their yards completely occupied by old dusty cars and pickups, some of them running, many others that seemed not to have moved in ten years or more, higher up into the dry dusty hills. Finally he stopped the bus on a narrow dirt street and we walked up a steep hill, on a wide steep dirt and gravel path, to La Casa de la Misericordia, where BorderLinks feeds lunch every day to three hundred schoolchildren from the colonias, the squatter settlements, on the surrounding hills—houses made of packing crates and tarpaper, then cinderblocks, and eventually electricity, clean water, and sanitation comes. That's about 240 words, about one full typed page, double spaced. In ten minutes, some writers may write more, and some less. However much you write, in ten minutes you can begin to sink your teeth into a subject, and you can begin to see how much more there is to say. In this exercise, Steve didn't even get to the good part—how the U.S. kids jumped right into a pickup game of soccer with the Mexican schoolkids; why thousands of people live in squatter settlements in Nogales; how that relates to the global economy, and what a surprising contrast Nogales is to Tucson, only sixty miles away; what exactly BorderLinks is. Steve focused on physical detail. He dropped some hints about what he felt and what he thought, but in writing vividly about what you know, physical detail comes first. Writing from your imagination or your memories is fun, but paying attention to the details of daily life provides inexhaustible material. (And in September 2003, UU World magazine published an article that Steve derived from that entry in his journal.) Each morning, Ted writes, in a journal, and here's a representative ten minutes from him. He lives in Nebraska where the winters can be severe, and this entry was written early in January. It is supposed to be warm today, up into the fifties, very unusual for mid-January, when it can sometimes be twenty below. The sky this morning is a soft, warm blue with thin clouds drifting west to east. A warm day means that in the pasture across the road from us Todd Halle's cows and their yearling calves will be a little more adventurous and perhaps will amble toward the delicious-looking patch of pasture near our gate. Most of the winter they've stayed close to their water tank a hundred yards down the road, but the forage there has been trampled into the mud. The grass up our way is still tall and untrampled and surely they have been waiting for this kind of a day to take a leisurely stroll. If they get too close, Alice may not be able to resist the temptation to try to get them running. She's got a little herd dog in her, possibly border collie, and it's just her nature to bark at cattle and dash under their feet. But that's a serious infraction in farming country, and dogs get shot for following their bliss. One of our neighbors was a sucker for strays and had too many dogs to keep under control. On any given day he might have six or eight dogs he was feeding. He couldn't manage to keep the cow-chasing breeds out of the pasture across from his house, where his neighbor had a nice herd of Angus. Whenever one of his dogs got shot there was a familiar pattern of accompanying noises. First he would hear a rifle shot, the only sharp noise of the day, followed after a few minutes' pause by the sound of his neighbor's diesel tractor revving, and after a pause at the gate, turning into the pasture. Then he would hear the hydraulic creak of the loader bucket as it was lowered at the scene of the shooting, as the engine thrummed along at idle. No sound at all beneath the diesel whine as the dead dog was dumped in the loader bucket. Then there would be the hiss and creak of the bucket being lifted, another revving, then the gradually fading roar as the tractor and its bloody cargo rolled over the hill and into a grove. My neighbor told me he never raised one word of objection because he knew the rules. And dogs were cheap to him. But Alice is my only dog, and precious to me. So I need to decide whether to take the risk of leaving her free, or of feeling sorry for her all day for keeping her tied up or in the house while I am gone. This exercise by Ted may never find its way into a more finished piece of writing, but he felt he had at least captured something worth noting. With all the world to write about, you can see how hard it is to quit writing at ten minutes, once you've begun. So begin! The next step is only a little harder: writing for at least ten minutes every day. 8 Overcoming Obstacles to Extended Writing It can be fun to write for ten minutes one morning, and yet it can be daunting to face writing every morning over enough days, weeks, and months to produce something valuable or publishable. One group of a dozen writers (nine women and three men, as we recall) listed these obstacles: * Time * Motivation * Discipline * Perfectionism * Money * Style * Fear of failure * Hating to write for all the above reasons Here are some solutions that group came up with: Time, that is, scheduling a regular time for writing every day. Make it a habit, like brushing your teeth, and over a period of several weeks it will find its place in your daily routine. Motivation, in particular, not letting yourself become distracted by television, cats, the teapot, what's going on outside your window. Build in a reward, contingent on your doing your writing for the day, week, or month, with the size of the reward indexed to the size of the accomplishment. A square of chocolate for writing for ten minutes, a weekend off for writing every day for a month. As we mentioned earlier, one of our acquaintances rewards himself by playing computer golf. Discipline. If you reinforce an activity with a system of rewards, gradually it becomes an ingrained, pleasurable habit, and that's all we really mean by discipline. Perfectionism. Freewriting in first drafts—writing as fast as you can, without worrying about spelling or writing in complete sentences—can turn your attention away from trying to be perfect. Another effective tactic is, as William Stafford said, simply to lower your standards. Money. Ask yourself, Can I afford to spend the time writing? How much time do you spend now in activities that don't bring home the bacon? Six hours a day, perhaps? Can you turn some of those minutes or hours into writing time without losing any income? A fiction writer we know, who has a regular eight-hour job, goes to a coffeehouse each noon and sits at the back and writes as she eats her lunch. Style. Maybe your style of writing doesn't fit the style of the magazines in which you want to publish. When you're writing, you can write however you wish, but publishing may require making compromises. You may have to alter your style to fit the magazine. It may be a better choice to seek out magazines that seem to be using writing like yours. Donald Barthelme's surrealistic short stories changed the style of the New Yorker, but you shouldn't count on something like that happening in your favor. Fear of failure. Build rejection into your expectations: plan to have magazines reject your writing, and treat it as a gift when you get published. As hard as it is to accept, every failure is a chance to learn. Ted has found this useful: When something he's written is rejected, he says aloud to that distant editor, "Well, you know, I did the best I could. If I could've written it better, I would have." If you do the best you can, it may not be what somebody wants to publish, but you've done tlie best you can for that time and that stage of your development as a writer. And you'll get better the more you try! Hating to write for all the above reasons. If you reward yourself for tackling one or two of the biggest obstacles you face, or if you focus first on the things about writing that you like, you may find that your other reservations fade away. One person who voiced this objection found that freewriting eased her mind and made her a more contented writer. It seemed that perfectionism was her biggest obstacle. Robert Boice, a professor who helps other professors with their writing, studied the "self-talk" of a group of forty blocked writers. Here are the seven things they said to themselves that kept them from writing. We've given our responses, leaning on one of our favorite teachers of writing, Brenda Ueland: 1. Writing is too fatiguing and unpleasant; almost anything else would be more fun. Brenda Ueland exhorts her students with every fiber of her being to take a more positive tack. "Know that it is good to work. Work with love and think of liking it when you do it. It is easy and interesting. It is a privilege. There is nothing hard about it but your anxious vanity and fear of failure." 2. It's OK to put writing off, to procrastinate. Somebody taught us, and we believe it, that refusing to decide is itself a decision. Deciding to procrastinate is deciding not to write. It's also a positive decision to do whatever you do when you put off writing. Maybe you decide to take a shower instead, or go listen to Lucinda Williams, and those can be excellent choices, but the/re not writing. 3. I'm not in the mood to write; I'm too depressed or unmotivated to write. The prolific novelist William Faulkner said, "I write when the spirit moves me. And the spirit moves me every day." 4. I feel impatient about writing; I need to rush to catch up on all the projects that I should already have finished. Right problem but, we say, wrong solution. On the one hand, every writer has many projects in mind or outlined or at some stage of research or contemplation. But sitting at her desk, a writer can only set down one word at a time, can only write the one poem or story or article that is before her. 5. My writing must be mistake-free and better than the usual stuff that gets published. If you say this to yourself, the legendary writing teacher Brenda Ueland has got your number: "Don't always be appraising yourself, wondering if you are better or worse than other writers.... Since you are like no other being ever created since the beginning of Time, you are incomparable." Glib writers who are satisfied with their work are the unfortunate ones, she says. "To them, the ocean is only knee-deep." 6. My writing will probably be criticized and I may feel humiliated. Brenda Ueland says this attitude arises from a lack of self-respect, not from modesty—she says that women especially are "too ready not to stand by what we have said or done.... It is so conceited and timid to be ashamed of one's mistakes. Of course they are mistakes. Go on to the next." 7. Good writing is done in a single draft, preferably in a long session. Every writer knows that the opposite is true. It is done in many briefer sessions, and every writer goes through many drafts to arrive at the finished piece. Buried beneath all these obstacles, so deep that many people can't even express it, is an elemental fear that goes something like this: When I write, I expose myself, and that makes me afraid. Yes. How does anyone overcome a fear? By experience, it seems to us. You write and find that nothing bad comes of it. And you always control and have the right to control what you expose about yourself in your writing. You may never overcome that fear completely, but you may overwhelm it with the joyful and contented habit of writing every day. 9 Developing the Habit of Writing You get up and do your morning stretches. You bathe, maybe you shave your face or your legs. You get dressed, eat breakfast, take your meds, brush and floss your teeth. You probably know by heart a list of essential good daily habits: Get some exercise. Eat lots of fruits and vegetables. Spend time with other people. Everybody has to get up, get dressed, and go to work, whether they are retired or not, a doctor once told Steve. This doctor said that everybody ought to sit down to eat three meals a day (eating a Krispy Kreme doughnut behind the wheel doesn't count as breakfast) and everybody ought to put on sunscreen (this doctor was a dermatologist) before going out in the midday sun. Good or bad, habits are the routines that carry over from one day to the next like the heavy flywheel that, by spinning steadily, evens out the staccato power strokes of an engine and keeps it running smoothly over the long haul. Beginning writers sometimes say, "Well, I've written the first three paragraphs of what I want to write, but I'm stuck writing the fourth paragraph." Writing every day can help get you over that hump. What you write tomorrow may not be the fourth paragraph you are seeking, but writing daily will keep you writing something, even when it seems that fourth paragraph won't come. Once you're in the habit, the writing itself becomes the flywheel. If you're an artist making a drawing from life, there comes a moment of transition, says the British writer John Berger, when the artist loses interest in the subject and becomes interested in the drawing. That happens in daily writing, too: writing regularly, every day, you become absorbed, not in your subject, but in the writing itself. For writers, the one essential habit is writing every day. And it's got three advantages over brushing your teeth: * You're working hard at your writing for the pure joy of it, as Stephen King says—because you want to, not because a doctor or the spirit of your mother told you to. * Writing is a lot more fun than brushing your teeth. * Brushing your teeth is pure process; all you have to show for it in the short haul is a mouth tasting of toothpaste. Writing daily is a process, too, but the result is a product—every single day you've got another entry in your journal. Instant gratification! You may be thinking, Not another habit! I can't find even ten minutes to write every day! I'm already booked solid! Will we be able to persuade you to schedule the time to develop the writing habit? And if so, how? Should we shout at you? That's what worked for the future New Yorker writer Francine du Plessix Gray. After reading her "trash," her poetry teacher, Charles Olson, bellowed, "Girl, this is pure shit! You're going to do nothing but keep a journal for a year, an hour a day at a minimum!" And she did. A year later she showed Olson her journal, and again he raged at her, shouting: "You're still writing conservative junk! If you want to be a writer keep it to a journal... AND DON'T TRY TO PUBLISH ANYTHING FOR TEN YEARS!" Again, Gray did exactly as she was told, and eleven years later, "precisely one year past the deadline Charles had set for me," she reports, the New Yorker published her first story. No, we don't propose to shout at you, nor to reason with you (but haven't you already testified that you want to write?), nor to play the efficiency expert, dissecting your schedule for an unused ten minutes, nor to exhort you never to say you "can't find the time." Long after Charles Olson bellowed at her, Francine du Plessix Gray came to appreciate the habit that he set out to instill in her. She reflected that he "did have a conception of craftsmanship. He said you go to work every day, you've got to write every day, and this daily activity of writing will sharpen your experience.... You picked up the journal habit from Olson." You'll develop the habit of writing every day, not when you feel some external force pushing you, but when you feel it pulling you—when writing every day becomes seductive, irresistible. What makes an activity irresistible? Wow. What about the right time, the right place, associations with past pleasures, availability, and the promise of a reward? The right time: You need to find a time slot that is flexible, so that you don't have to quit when your ten minutes are up, and a time when you are fresh and can think spontaneously. We've tried writing the first thing in the morning, the last thing at night, when we sit down at our desks at work, when we're waiting for an appointment, the last thing before we leave work while we wait for the rush hour traffic to thin. Steve remembers watching one writer on a boat trip through the Grand Canyon. She wrote in her journal at every available moment. She even wrote standing on the beach at the beginning of a river day; she closed her journal only when she had to step aboard the departing raft. When do you want to enjoy the pleasure of sitting alone and writing? The right place: Comfortable chair, a desk that doesn't wiggle and that has a clear space on it, good light, in a place that is quiet and private—those are some elements that would work for most people. Where would you like to write? In bed, maybe? Or at a coffee bar? Associations with past pleasures: That is, associations through the senses—sight, hearing, smell, taste, touch. A window onto a garden, choice pictures on the walls, favorite quiet music, a cup of tea, the odor of cinnamon or roses, the grain of a well-made oak desk, the smooth strokes of a good pen, the texture and color of fine writing paper. What are the sights, sounds, odors, tastes, textures that you love? Availability: Your writing place needs to be readily accessible when you want to write, and your pen and paper or computer need to be near at hand, too. What writing spot is handiest for you? Pregnant and sleepless, Barbara Kingsolver wrote her first novel, The Bean Trees, late at night in a closet. Mark Twain wrote with a typewriter—a brand-new invention at the time—in a gazebo. Most of us prefer some semblance of the comforts of home. Steve once loved to write at the kitchen counter of a little stone house in Flagstaff, Arizona, in the early morning when everyone else was asleep. An efficient wood stove kept the room warm, the teapot was at hand, there was plentiful natural light from windows in two walls, and the kitchen stool was the right height for the kitchen counter. In a one-bedroom apartment when he was newly married, Ted made a writing spot by dragging a cardboard refrigerator box into a corner of the bedroom that he climbed into to write. A writer we heard of would put her two toddlers into a playpen, but they did so much yelling she couldn't write. So she took the kids out and let them run around while she climbed in the playpen with her typewriter. Traveling people may well give up on trying to write in a hotel room. The chairs are too low for the desks, the air is superarid and either too cold or too hot, the light can rarely be adapted conveniently to writing, the art on the walls is without merit, and (unless you bring your own iPod) it's difficult to find the music you love in a hotel room in a strange city. You're left with nothing but your imagination. Better to carry your notebook down to the lobby or to a Starbucks where something interesting might happen. Steve remembers writing on the elbow-polished bar of the Red Dog Saloon in Juneau, Alaska, occupied by only one other determined drinker; in a coffee shop in Nashville; in a beach chair on the Middle Fork of the Salmon River in Idaho; at a Lewis and Clark campsite on the Missouri River in Montana. Ted wrote a poem in the dusty hayloft of a barn and another while sitting on a sun-warmed roof he was supposed to be shingling. Take a vacation! The best advice Kenneth Atchity offers in his book A Writer's Time is this: set up a simple system of frequent and delectable rewards, including vacation time, for completing your writing assignments. A stroll around the garden when you've finished your first ten minutes of writing. Sunday off when you've written every day for a month. A weekend in the woods when you've completed a draft of your book. Writers, like musicians, artists, runners, and knitters, have to be willing to practice. Let us repeat, with emphasis, that what they write when they practice probably will never see the light of day. A writer's journal can be ephemeral, like yesterday's newspapers blowing down the street or graffiti that workmen come along and paint over. But it does feel good to write as best you can even when you're writing in a journal, to shape your sentences, to try to capture something. A writer's journal is like the nice cup of tea a cook will brew for herself before preparing dinner. The tea is not part of the dinner, but it helps the chef think about the amount, complexity, and flavor of what she's going to cook, and what pots and pans she'll need to use. Because it's likely no one else will ever see it, the writer's journal is the very best place to practice writing brave and free! 10 Don't Forget to Read! Reading usually precedes writing. And the impulse to write is almost always fired by reading. Reading, the love of reading is what makes you dream of becoming a writer. Susan Sontag Reading and writing go together and even compete. The novelist and book dealer Larry McMurtry says that the trouble with writing is that it cuts into his reading time. The best way to learn the art of writing is to read as much as you can—poems, folk ballads, the Bible, historical novels, scary novels, essays, history, biographies, the newspaper, magazines, cookbooks. As the writer Chuck Bowden says, every book has something of value in it. And any book may influence what you are writing in unexpected ways. It may trigger a memory, cause you to see things in a new way, show you a way to organize what you are writing, or best of all, introduce you to just the right word to describe your experience. A really dreadful book can teach you something; it can teach you how to avoid writing dreadfully. Toni Morrison, Annie Dillard, Frank McCourt, and the other writers who contributed to William Zinsser's book Inventing the Truth: The Art and Craft of Memoir talk as much about what they've read as about how they write. Writers learn to write by imitation, just as painters learn to paint by looking at paintings, woodsmen learn to chop down trees by watching an expert wield an ax, and blue-ribbon bakers learn the art of the apple pie in their mothers' kitchens. Read anybody's first poem or story and you can tell there was a model for it. The writer got a sense of what makes a poem or story by reading somebody else's poem or story. The more you read, the more models you find to learn from and to imitate, and the more accomplished your work becomes. Everything you've read and experimented with simmers down into a rich porridge all your own. And when you add your unique personality and character, presto! you've got your own style, as distinctive as a sound-print of your own (and no other) voice. Stephen King reads widely, reads all the time. He has published stories in a literary style, and when he writes commercial horror fiction it is because that is the model he has chosen to follow. A young man embarking on a search asked a wise older man what path he should take. The wise old man replied, "The path is made by walking." Just so, the path is made by reading. When you set out intentionally to read in order to complement your writing, you'll soon realize how one book leads to another. The famous book you went to the library stacks to retrieve may lead you to the dazzling and neglected book shelved just next to it. Of course, following our advice, you may wind up neglecting your writing and devote yourself to avid reading. That's OK, too. And, when you have earned a vacation from writing, what better vacation than to pick up a good book? 11 The Writer's Tools Should you write longhand, putting pen directly to paper, or at a computer keyboard? Sometimes one, sometimes the other, if you have a choice. Writing longhand is like walking. The opposable thumb you use to grasp a pen or pencil is as deeply human as your ability to walk upright. Humans are also distinguished by a big brain full of the sensations, emotions, and ideas that we want to put down in writing. Some people can use their big brains better when they are walking, or working physically, than when they are sitting still. It has something to do with stimulating the whole person—heart, guts, muscles, eyes, and ears, as well as the big brain. It has to do with calling up memories—as the muscles of athletes and musicians demonstrate, the body remembers what the mind forgets. It has something to do with integrating sensations, emotions, and ideas, which is what writers set out to do. Writing longhand is a physical activity—maybe not as broad-scale as walking nor as aerobic as running a marathon, but you still use a lot of muscles pushing a pencil. It can tire you out. After an hour of writing you may feel as if you've been pushing a wheelbarrow for a whole day. And the feel of the pen in your hand, the sight and odor and touch of the paper, those tokens of the physical world engage your senses. Writing longhand, slowly and steadily, also seems to keep in step with the pace of reflective thought. Shelby Foote wrote his massive, three-volume history of the Civil War with a hand-dipped pen. He said it helped him think about every word. If writing longhand is like walking, then keyboarding at a computer is like driving a car. It involves almost no physical activity, and the only sensations are feeling the invariable, light touch of the keyboard and watching the monitor. And like any modern car, keyboarding can be very fast. In terms of the number of words you write, though, the difference is not great. Whether you are writing longhand or keyboarding at the computer, you will probably be able to write about two hundred words of prose in ten minutes, if you don't pause to revise. For daily practice such as writing in a journal, writing longhand seems the better choice. That's what a therapist found who had her clients keep journals. She wanted them to reflect on their feelings and actions in an orderly manner, and she determined that they dug deeper when they wrote longhand than when they wrote on the computer. Keyboarding, your fingers seem to race ahead of your mind. Or maybe they keep up with your mind without pausing for reflection. It's in revising, whether on the fly or in later drafts, that the speed and flexibility of computers comes into play. A computer is by far the tool of choice for writing and revising drafts of a piece meant for publication. (Even so, the smoothest results come if you ignore the cut-and-paste function and completely rekey-board the final draft. The prize-winning writer Bil Gilbert observes that he can always spot an article that has been patched together on a computer.) For many years Steve was a keyboard jockey eight hours a day, and when he got home from work he wrote longhand almost exclusively. He did it to restore some balance. The work of many Americans, from book designers to workers in paper mills, has changed from physical activity to sitting at a computer; they all need such a corrective to restore the relationship between physical effort and work. For your daily exercise, and for your journal, we recommend writing longhand, in pen or pencil. For paper you can use a yellow legal pad, a Big Chief school tablet, or whatever paper comes to hand. But consider: musicians practice on fine instruments, artists use good sketch paper, and even beginning surgeons use the finest scalpels money can buy. If writing is to be something you want to do every day, if it is to be irresistible, you might consider using irresistible tools. Steve prefers blank books that are Smyth sewn, like a good hard-bound book, so that they lie flat, with wide pages. He writes with a Fisher Space Pen that he can carry in his pants pocket all the time. On a vacation in Tuscany, Steve's perceptive wife urged him to purchase a leather-bound blank book made of eggshell Florentine paper, and that was his daily journal until he filled it to the last page, both sides of every sheet. Ted likes spiral-bound artists' sketchbooks. He prefers the spiral binding so that the pages lie flat. He likes inexpensive roller ball pens with black ink. He combines his journal with his fits and starts at writing poems, essays, and stories. That way, everything he writes is in one place. After typing a draft on his computer, he prints it out and pastes it into the sketchbook for study and revision. Another possibility is to write on loose sheets of paper, punch holes in them, and keep your journal in a three-ring binder. The choice of computers depends on what is available when the time comes to write on a keyboard. Of course, pen and computer are only two of the writing tools available. Bil Gilbert, who has been writing prize-winning articles for Sports Illustrated, Smithsonian, and other magazines since the 1950s, has always written on a typewriter. He has one supplier of typewriter ribbons, and he says that when that man goes out of business, he'll quit writing. During the Typewriter Age, someone figured out that when people use typewriters, most of the strong words, the nouns and active verbs, wind up on the left side of the page. That's because moving the carriage return sets up a kind of regular rhythm—the writer pauses at the end of a line and attacks every new line afresh. The Beat novelist William Burroughs is said to have cut manuscripts down the middle. He discarded the right-hand half-pages, saved the stronger language on the left halves, and rewrote from there. Computers, which wrap lines automatically, make for slack writing—we have to work toward stronger language on our own. For the first draft of his splendid novel Plainsong, Kent Haruf set aside his computer, pulled a stocking cap over his eyes, and wrote blind on an old Royal manual typewriter. He said he wanted to regain the physical side of writing that you miss with a computer—the feel of writing on paper, the clatter of typewriter keys. He wrote blind, he said, in order to keep his first draft spontaneous—to avoid letting his analytical mind endlessly rewrite the draft sentence by sentence. Haruf invented his blindness, but many people, such as Stephen Hawking, the best-selling author of A Brief History of Time, already possess physical limitations that they must overcome in order to write. Hawking, and many writers like him, are physically unable to write either longhand or at a keyboard. Fortunately, more and more useful tools, such as voice recognition software, have come into being to give us the opportunity to read about their sensations, emotions, and ideas. Now that we've got you writing in your journal every day, you may be wondering whether you have chosen the most seductive, and the most ergonomically apt, place to write. Just in time, the next chapter is about your writing room. 12 Your Clean, Well-Lighted Writing Place When Kent Haruf wrote his novel Plainsong with a stocking cap over his eyes, he was working in a windowless basement room, formerly a coal bin, in his house near Carbondale, Illinois. When he removed his blinders, he could see around him, in his little writing room, objects that reminded him of the land far away, the High Plains of northeastern Colorado, where he set his books. Haruf's story says that writing is more than thinking—it's also physical and emotional—and that you needn't arrive at your own way of writing by accident. You can choose a writing place and writing tools that encourage spontaneity and that engage your body as well as your mind. Your writing room needs to be a place where you want to be, and it needs to give you privacy. It needs to be a place where you are physically comfortable, and a place where you can let your spontaneity bloom without interrupting or being interrupted by other people. If you devoted one day's writing exercise to describing where you write now, what would you say? What if you used a second day's exercise to write about what would improve it, the features you would like your ideal writing room to have? Where Steve writes at home, he is surrounded by diversions, many of them pleasing—books, art, family, a beautiful British red tabby cat, a sunny window looking out on blue sky, citrus trees, and an adobe wall—and many of them unproductive distractions—the telephone, a barking dog, cookies. He has an old student's desk made of slabs of oak so thick that an earthquake wouldn't shake it. He has a Luxo desk lamp that provides a natural color of light. He rests his Macintosh PowerBook on a little writing table that he can adjust for height and angle. He sits in an inexpensive office chair with arms. He can adjust the arms, the back, and the height of the seat to make the chair fit his body ergonomically. There are fewer distractions in his carrel at the university library. The walls are completely bare—the librarians do not allow you to hammer nails into the walls. The room is free of temptations: the telephone does not ring, the PowerBook is not hooked up to the Internet, and the librarians do not permit chocolate, cookies, or tea in the stacks. He can rest his eyes from focusing on the computer screen by strolling to the men's room. Steve has brought to his carrel an adjustable table and a good light, like the ones at home, and has outfitted a solid, low library armchair with old sofa cushions and a portable back-support seat to make it ergonomically proper. An overstuffed chair in the living room is Ted's favorite place to write, notebook on his knees, a cup of coffee at hand, his dog, Alice, at his feet. He writes very early, arising at 4:30 a.m. and working until 7:30 or 8:00. He likes working when his head is fresh from sleep and not yet cluttered with daily errands and obligations, and when the room is completely quiet. Easily distracted, he keeps the radio turned off, keeps the books he's reading out of his reach. He won't answer the phone while he's writing. You need a writing place that doesn't inhibit your imagination and stimulates your creativity. Wherever you write, comfort is paramount. You need to learn to relax. 13 Relax! The World, is Resting on Your Shoulders When you make tiny movements with your fingers to grasp a pencil or tap a keyboard, you bring your whole body to the task. Try grasping your pencil in a vise grip. You can feel the muscles in your forearms tense up. And what about your posture at the keyboard? If you're sitting awkwardly, you can feel the strain in your back; when you stand up to go get a snack, you can feel it in your legs. You need to learn to relax. A well-known classical guitar teacher, Tom Patterson, starts by teaching relaxation. Professor Patterson says that, except during the brief moment when a finger is actually pressing and touching a string, the guitar player's whole body should be perfectly relaxed. He recalls the basketball player Michael Jordan. When Jordan wasn't engaged intensely in making a play, Patterson says, he showed perfect relaxation. Like Tom Patterson and Michael Jordan, you'll do you your best work when you have learned to relax, and especially to relax your shoulders. If your shoulders are tense, they quickly become painfully tired. In their practice, students of Zen Buddhism sit for hours at a time. Relaxing their shoulders is one of the first things they must learn to do. In a retreat called sesshin, Zen students sit on their cushions from before dawn until long after sunset for seven days, pausing only for walking meditation. One participant, called the Tanto, is designated to carry a long, flat stick (the kyosaku) around the room and, with your permission, to whack you artfully on each shoulder with the kyosaku for the express purpose of helping you to relax. A yogi drummer named Rex says that when he is playing a gig, he reminds himself, every ten or twelve beats, all night long, to relax his shoulders. Just as with guitar, basketball, drumming, and life itself, writing engages both body and mind. Human beings devote entire ways of life—meditation, psychotherapy, spirituality, hedonism, self-medication, watching television—to the mental side of relaxation. The other half of relaxation is the body, and the essence of the physical part of relaxation is teaching your shoulders to relax. Relaxation can start with good posture—erect, lower back slightly arched, elbows and forearms supported, elbows level horizontally with the work, so that your shoulders are not supporting any weight. You may need to adjust your chair and your writing surface to make this possible. Some adjustments you can make cheaply, with a rolled-up hand towel supporting your wrists, for example, and a bath towel folded and draped vertically down the back of your chair to help keep your own back arched. A physical therapist, massage therapist, or yoga teacher might help you improve your posture by analyzing and inexpensively improving your writing tools—the height and position of your chair, the support of your elbows and wrists, perhaps even the thickness of your pen. Exercises for Writers Writing involves making tiny motions with your fingers, with either a pen or a pencil or a keyboard—motions that engage not only your fingers' fine motor skills but also what physiologists call your large muscle groups—your forearms, biceps, shoulders, back, neck, and even your abdomen and buttocks. Physical activity may help you to think. More than one person has said, "I don't know what I think until I write it down." Or if they want to have a talk that involves thinking clearly, some men (and perhaps some women, too) are more likely to say, "Let's take a walk," than "Let's sit down here for a little chat." In contrast to longhand, writing at a keyboard can quickly lead to physical damage, especially if you use a mouse or thumbpad a lot, because you tend to use a few of your smallest fine muscles repeatedly and to neglect large muscle groups. If you want to keyboard for another twenty or thirty years, it appears that you would be wise to use the keyboard instead of a fingerpad or mouse, rig up your workstation so that it's ergonomic, and stop keyboarding hell-for-leather by building in some pauses to stretch. During those pauses, and even before sitting down at your desk, you might practice these exercises: 1. Curl your spine. From a standing position, curl your spine down slowly until your fingers touch your toes. Keep your knees bent and support your back by clenching the muscles in your butt. First, drop your chin, then your shoulders, and so forth until you are gazing at your thighs and your arms are dangling like ropes. Wobble your neck slowly and swing your arms lazily so that your fingertips are brushing the floor. Then uncurl slowly, again using your butt muscles for support, until you are upright. At the last moment you may feel your shoulders click into place like a well-crafted machine. 2. Ears to shoulders. Try to touch your ears with your shoulders, and then relax. Do that two or three times. 3. Shrug. With your arms dangling at your side, rotate your shoulders forward ten times and then back ten times. 4. Start the clock. Like a football official, stick your right arm straight up in the air and rotate it in a complete circle five times in one direction. Then go five times in the other direction. Do the same with your left arm. 5. The Elephant Nod. Drop your head slowly to the left, to the right, and forward, but not back—dropping it back may hurt your neck. That simple shoulder-relaxing regimen takes less than ten minutes out of your writing day. And you can stop and run through it any time you feel like it. Everyone agrees that walking is just about the best overall exercise known for human beings who are ambulatory. Brenda Ueland, in her books If You Want to Write and Me, emphasizes that long walks are important to her writing—to get recharged, to live in the moment, to clear a space so that ideas, "and even poetic feelings," could come. These creative thoughts come slowly, she says, like "silent, little inward bombs" of revelation that burst quietly, bringing "a feeling of happiness" similar to the feeling of learning a Mozart sonata at the piano. Brenda Ueland walked five or six miles, alone, and every day. You can walk aerobically, as fast as you can, or you can choose a more contemplative walk. In his book Walking Meditation, which has led many Americans to Zen Buddhism, Tich Naht Hahn urges you to walk slowly and to count your breaths in time to your paces as you walk. For example: As you inhale: left, right, left As you exhale: right, left, right Zen encourages the student to count the breaths in groups of ten. In the above pattern, you would walk sixty paces for every ten breaths. So: work at the keyboard ergonomically; don't neglect to write long-hand, too; relax your shoulders; practice the contemplative walk; and learn to relax! 14 What Reader Do You Have in Mind? "When you begin to write, have a reader in mind." Writers have handed that old saw down from one generation to the next. But what good does it do to have a reader in mind? Having a reader in mind means finding common ground with your reader. It helps you choose what—of the ten thousand people, places, things, thoughts, and feelings you know—to write about for that reader. When she was in her sixties, Nora Foster wrote a little book as a gift to her granddaughters, the twins she had helped to raise. Nora was born in 1858 in a little town in Iowa, just ten years after the town was first settled. For her granddaughters, Nora wrote about how it felt to sleep in a trundle bed beneath the rope bed that held her enormous parents—her father weighed almost 300 pounds, and her mother more than 240. When they would turn over, she said, the bed would squeak a tune. Nora wrote about a great feast when her brother and his comrades returned from the Civil War. She wrote about music, flags, the deaths of a brother and sister, and about her own grandmother, who had helped raise her, sitting quietly and reading the Bible on the Sabbath. Nora Foster wrote her little book for a readership of two, and to find common ground with those two grandchildren, she wrote what she remembered from her own childhood, when her eyes were wide open to a new world. Some events—the Civil War, the Great Depression, 9/11—transfigure the whole world, and millions of people are hungry to read the stories of those who experienced them directly. One such event occurred on Sunday morning, December 7, 1941, when Japanese fighter planes attacked the United States naval base at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. From the deck of a minesweeper, the USS Oglala, torpedoman Robert Hudson had an intimate view of the attack. He wrote a memoir that was published in a book of Pearl Harbor reminiscences. As Hudson remembered, a plane came directly at us... flying only about fifty feet above the water. Between the plane and the Oglala was a motor launch, returning people to their ships from liberty and church services. They looked up at the plane and all dove overboard. The launch raced on madly, without anyone in control.... The plane then dropped a torpedo straight for us. The plane's cockpit was open, and the pilot was hanging his head over the side to look at us. On his approach, we saw red flashes from his wings. I thought it was a drill and that the flashes were from a camera.... When bullets started ricocheting off the bulkhead around us, I knew the plane was not there to take our picture.... I ran to my battle station on the forecastle, a round chalk mark where a fifty-caliber machine gun was to be installed sometime in the future.... Men dashed about madly, crying and cursing. Planes were dropping torpedoes and bombs and strafing everything in sight.... I did exactly what I had been told to do. I stood on that goddamn chalk circle until ordered to do something else.... It was truly a nightmare to see shipmates... throwing potatoes and wrenches at low-flying planes (Paul Joseph Travers, Eyewitness to Infamy: An Oral History of Pearl Harbor [Lanham MD: Madison Books, 1991], 159–63). Admirals, navy wives, and Japanese pilots, as well as sailors such as Robert Hudson, have written their memories of the attack on Pearl Harbor, each person writing what he or she knows. No two of these reminiscences are exactly alike. When you are writing for a large readership interested in one earth-shaking event, as Robert Hudson was, having a reader in mind, and finding common ground, means thinking about what that reader already knows that you needn't say, and what that reader does not know. Robert Hudson could assume that his reader, interested in Pearl Harbor, would know what a bulkhead, a minesweeper, a battle station, a fifty-caliber machine gun, a motor launch, and liberty are. He could use all those terms without explaining them. What his reader did not know was exactly what Hudson saw, thought, and felt, and what he did. Standing in a chalk circle awaiting further orders and seeing sailors throwing potatoes at attacking planes—those are Hudson's own experiences, which his readers would want him to describe as vividly and intimately as he could. What do you know that a perfect stranger will find compelling? You may never have been involved in an earth-shaking event, and yet a stranger may be intrigued by some arresting details of your life—the trundle bed, the sailors throwing potatoes at attacking airplanes—and it's in those telling details that you and the stranger find common ground. How you evoke those experiences, what you feel and think about them, and how you express your thoughts and feelings, may also be the elements that keep your readers reading. There are as many ways of telling a story as there are stories to tell, and your way will be unique. It's largely a matter of style, a matter of taste. Dave Eggers achieved a sort of cockeyed fame with a memoir that stayed on the New York Times bestseller list for fourteen weeks and sold more than two hundred thousand copies, a book he had the temerity to call A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. It's a hard act to follow. Eggers's story is indeed heartbreaking. It's the story of how Eggers and his older brother and sister, all in their twenties, collaborated to raise their seven-year-old brother after their parents' sudden death. If Eggers has the license to call his book a work of staggering genius, it's because of the way he tells his story. What captures his readers' attention is what Eggers thinks, and how he feels, about his situation—and how he expresses his thoughts and feelings. By turns bitter and joyous, candid and disingenuous, Eggers takes his readers on a journey of grieving and of coming to terms with his life and his memories. 15 Writing for Friends and Relations Do you long to tell your children or grandchildren about your own life, about the world as it was when you were young? Are you stumped about how to begin? If you have been keeping a journal, writing for at least ten minutes a day, you are well begun. After even a week, you have already produced a record that your friends and relatives will find absorbing. But probably there is more to tell—much more. What's got you stumped? Are you worried about how to organize what you are writing? There's no need to worry at first. Keeping a journal, writing each day about one event or memory, you may be surprised at how quickly you will build a basic record. You can figure out how to organize the material later. Even when you're keeping a journal, many questions may stop you in your tracks. Does your memory fail you? Can you not remember the name of that girl you played jacks with who wore the plaid jumper, or the year when you caught the record northern pike in Minnesota, or what you call that thingy on the side of an old clothes wringer? When your memory fails you, there are three or four things you can do. First, you can keep writing. More than likely the name or date will occur to you later. Second, you can write around it. Describe playing jacks with the girl, or rowing the boat you were in when you caught the fish, or helping your mother with laundry, without using the name or date you are trying to remember. Or you can write about something else that you do remember. Third, you can research. You can think about where you could find the information. You can check your own files or go to an encyclopedia. You can search the Internet. Or if there's a library handy, you can consult its inexhaustible supply of city directories, census records, topographical maps, histories. Fourth, you could make it up. We don't actually recommend that you make things up. But if you don't mind our asking, are you wondering how truthful to be? Too many people write their memoirs out of the lowest of motives, to "set the record straight." Wanting posterity to think well of them, to forgive them, to dismiss allegations that they were out-and-out crooks, they lean toward making things up. But posterity is not as dumb as you might think. Posterity will figure out for itself when you are fudging. Whenever you try to set the record straight by bending the truth a little, posterity is likely to respond, "Baloney!" We suggest that you tell the truth. If you write and publish a lie that injures a living person's reputation, that's called libel, and there are laws against libel. Telling a damaging truth can get you in almost as much trouble. As Stephen King says, when you step out to pick up the mail you don't want a neighbor taking a shot at you for something you wrote. But really now, setting aside threats of lawsuits and violence, how truthful should you be? What if you consider simple human kindness? Do you want Aunt Ginny to feel bad when she reads where you called her fat? Annie Dillard says, about writing her memoir, An American Childhood, "I tried to leave out anything that might trouble my family." What you write about your friends and relations is also a question of tact, which has to do with good manners, which has to do with people getting along with each other. That's one reason a private diary can be so fascinating—the writer is not considering the reaction of the reader, the feelings of others, the possibility of retribution, nor his own reputation. The writer dispenses with tact. Professional writers can't always let mere tact hold them back. The novelist William Faulkner commented, perhaps tongue in cheek, that "'The Ode on a Grecian Urn' is worth any number of little old ladies." Can you think of any books or poems that have been praised for their tact? Aren't writers more likely to be praised for their candor? Too much tact is almost certainly the most common flaw of memoirs. However, telling the truth is also a matter of distinguishing fact from perception. "Writing in the first person," Annie Dillard cautions, "can trap the writer into airing grievances." Maybe you called Aunt Ginny fat because you remembered hating her wet kisses, while a more disinterested viewer—her family doctor, say—might describe her as just about the right weight for her age and height. Ted once wrote a funny satirical poem about some people he worked with. When he read it to a friend, the friend said, "Don't be too hard on those people, Ted. You know, almost everybody is doing the best that they can." Ted stopped to think: does it really make sense to hurt somebody for the sake of one more stanza? Which is worth more, a person's feelings or a few cold sentences? In writing as in life, there seem to be many ways of looking at the matter of tact and candor. Some writers act as if candor were the same thing as courage, others as if it were pure folly. Some writers act as if tact were simple common courtesy, others as if it were cowardice. Writing about your life for your own friends and relatives, the main thing is to tell the truth. And if you can't tell the truth, either because you can't remember the facts or you don't wish to offend some living member of your community, well, you've seen the world and know a million stories. You can always just tell a different story, tell the truth about some other part of your life. Maybe that's the place to focus—on telling the truth about what you perceive, feel, and think, telling the truth about your own life. 16 Writing for Strangers You're at an art opening—festive people, adventurous canapés, a strolling Stradivarius, a well-lit gallery, walls of intricate, colorful art—and standing next to you, gazing at the same painting, is a man you know you'd like to talk to. He's a stranger, yet you feel you want to tell him something important. Maybe the painting reminds you of a week you spent in Tuscany, and you want to tell him how happy you were then. How do you get his attention? In a room crowded with interesting people, full of fascinating art, how do you get him to listen to your story? How do you begin? Probably your first step, the first step toward making a friend, is to put your listener at ease. Writing for publication is like that. "Writing is telling a story to a stranger," says the writer Bil Gilbert. It's telling a story to someone you've never seen before and are unlikely to befriend, except through the printed page. Even more than in that gallery, writing amounts to getting a stranger to listen to what you have to say. Your first task is to attract and hold somebody's attention. And your first step is to welcome your listener, to put that person at ease. As you read writing you admire, notice the way it opens. Does it invite you in? Does it seem hospitable? Generally, writing is likely to engage readers the most when it approaches them with warmth and generosity, with both hands in the open. John Crowe Ransom opens his poem "Vision by Sweetwater" this way: Go and ask Robin to bring the girls over To Sweetwater, said my Aunt; and that was why It was like a dream of ladies sweeping by The willows, clouds, deep meadowgrass, and river. The first two lines are conversational, direct, matter-of-fact. There is nothing to obstruct or baffle or agitate Ransom's readers as they put their hands into the hand of the poet. In the third line, having drawn his readers in, Ransom eases into more figurative language—"like a dream." You can feel the poem begin to accelerate, its wings lifting its readers off the ground. In his poem "The Vacuum," Howard Nemerov uses only a line and a half to get his readers comfortably set: The house is so quiet now The vacuum cleaner sulks in the corner closet, Its bag limp as a stopped lung, its mouth Grinning into the floor, maybe at my Slovenly life, my dog-dead youth. Once he gets to "sulks," everything changes; the vacuum takes on a personality, the poem turns fantastic before our eyes. But before that the language is plain and comfortable. When, like Ransom and Nemerov, you speak to a stranger, the words you use are important. But so is your stance. In the gallery, it might be your body language, your smile, your nod of greeting that the stranger recognizes as friendly. Writers can also put readers at ease by using a familiar storyteller's opening: "Once upon a time" or "It was a dark and stormy night." Readers know from experience that the writer is preparing them to listen to a story. The writer is asking readers for no other favor than to offer their attention. James Herriott, the Scottish veterinarian, began his first book, the international best seller All Creatures Great and Small, this way: They didn't say anything about this in the books, I thought, as the snow blew in through the gaping doorway and settled on my naked back. I lay face down on the cobbled floor in a pool of nameless muck, my arm deep inside the straining cow, my feet scrabbling for a toe hold between the stones. We know at once that we strangers are merely being asked to let him tell us his story, and we can settle in. One way to put a stranger at ease is to talk about the weather. "Is it hot enough for you?" The heat of the noonday sun is something you both have in common and probably feel the same about. Writers know the trick: It was a dark and stormy night. Everybody knows what a dark and stormy night looks like. Already, we're standing in the writer's shoes. Herriott mentions snow in the first sentence of his book, and we know how cold snow would feel on a naked back. Writers of personal letters often begin with the weather as a way of connecting with their reader—"It's been raining all night, and I have only a few minutes to write before Jill picks me up." Weather leads easily to the whole setting of a piece of writing. The "weather" in Ransom's poem "Vision by Sweetwater" is the clouds and also the willows, the grass, and the flowing river. The quiet house in "The Vacuum" amounts to the same thing. The object is to click, to express kinship with the reader, and talking about the weather is only one of many ways to do that. In the tantalizing beginning of her memoir, Shirley Abbott uses image after image, like pulling rabbits out of a hat, to connect with her readers. She even includes her readers in the story with a deft use of "we" and "our." We all grew up with the weight of history on us. Our ancestors dwell in the attics of our brains as they do in the spiralling chains of knowledge hidden in every cell of our bodies. These spirits form our lives, and they may reveal themselves in mere trivialities—a quirk of speech, a way of folding a shirt. From the earliest days of my life, I encountered the past at every turn, in every season. Like any properly brought up Southern girl, I used to spend a lot of time in graveyards. On summer afternoons we'd pile into my mother's green Chevrolet—my Aunt Vera, her daughter June (four years my senior), and often some massive, aged female relative. Somehow we'd fit ourselves into the front and back seats, the women in print dresses and hairnets and no stockings, we two kids in shorts, and Mother would gun on down the road at 40 m.p.h. with every window open (Shirley Abbott, Womenfolks, Growing Up Down South [New Haven CT: Tricknor and Fields, 1983], 1). Nor does Abbott neglect the weather, at the same time demonstrating the writers' workshop mantra to show, not tell. By her references to "no stockings," "kids in shorts," and "every window open," Abbott evokes the hot southern summer weather. Ideas, cats, cars, crops, clothes, halfbacks, haircuts, and chrysanthemums all work just as well as the weather to connect a writer to one group of readers or another, so long as you're really talking about people, what they do and what they feel. Same goes for leading off with the weather. The suspense novelist Elmore Leonard cautions that, unless you're writing about "a character's reaction to the weather, you don't want to go on too long. The reader is apt to leaf ahead looking for people." Knowing your audience will help you find the right opening. At a gallery opening, "Does her brushwork remind you of Mary Cassatt's?" may stand a better chance of getting the stranger's attention than "Hot enough for you?" Whatever you say, when you meet a stranger, you don't want to seem to be trying too hard. If there's one thing that can cause a stranger to turn away, a magazine to slip from a reader's hands, or a reader to close a book silently, it's pretentiousness, which means, loosely, trying too hard. To capture and hold their readers' attention, newspaper writers learned long ago to scorn pretension—to get right to the story with a short, punchy leading sentence or lead (reporters spell the word "lede" to avoid confusion with the metal "lead"). One good lead can make a reporter's reputation. Edna Buchanan, a police reporter for the Miami Herald, wrote one of the best-known leads in American journalism. It made her famous nationally and got her a book contract. She was wise enough to write the book the way she wrote her newspaper stories, and her publishers were wise enough to use her famous lead, the whole sentence, as the title of her book: The Corpse Had a Familiar Face. Successful leads don't follow any rules except this one. Avoid pretentiousness. Beginning writers sometimes think they ought to show their stuff by using big, intellectual-sounding, pretentious words. Maybe they think they'll impress the reader. Not likely, Buster. Generally speaking, a word that the reader does not understand is not worth using. Not in the lead. And readers tend to skip anything that looks like literature rather than storytelling. Elmore Leonard, who has written such satisfactorily fast-paced crime novels as Get Shorty and Maximum Bob, puts his money on telling a story, and not on writing literature: "Try to leave out the parts that readers tend to skip.... Think of what you skip reading a novel: thick paragraphs of prose you can see have too many words in them. What the writer is doing, he's writing, perpetrating hooptedoodle, perhaps taking another shot at the weather, or has gone into the character's head, and the reader either knows what the guy's thinking or doesn't care. I'll bet you don't skip dialogue." 17 Taking Control Writing is telling a story to a stranger, but not to a stranger you can see. Not to a stranger you can grab by the wrist, lead to a park bench, and compel to listen as you pour forth your heart. Whenever you write, you're preparing an experience for somebody else. But exactly how your writing affects that reader will be out of your hands. Unless you recite at a poetry slam or sing your stories in a country bar, that reader will experience what you have written at some other time, perhaps after you're long gone, and in some far distant place. Not only that, every reader is swayed by influences that the writer knows nothing about. Your reader may have come upon your story late in the evening, exhausted, or early in the morning, refreshed from sleep. Every reader has personal biases, too. The mere mention of motorcycles, cats, or Patsy Cline may turn one reader off and make another your lifelong fan. The only controls you'll be able to exercise are the ones you build in as you write your story, choosing your words for the way you believe they'll influence your reader. You have hundreds of opportunities to exercise control over the quality of your reader's experience. Every choice you make—even when you agonize over whether to use a period or a semicolon—can turn your reader's experience one way or the other. For example, you can control your reader's experience by increasing or decreasing the difficulty of the reading. By increasing the difficulty, you slow the pace, encouraging your reader to savor a scene; by making the reading easier, you let your reader speed up. To convey the rapid punching, jabbing, and dancing action of a boxing match, you can use short, staccato sentences with lots of one-syllable words. On the other hand, William Faulkner's complex, "difficult" style slows readers down and may even suggest the sluggish, swampy, complex nature of his settings and themes. But it takes a light hand on the throttle. A single difficult word or image can bring a reader to a complete halt, stopping the train altogether. On the other hand, language that is too simple can make your story seem like Thomas the Tank Engine to readers who are hoping for the Orient Express, or at least the Orange Blossom Special. Beginning writers sometimes disdain controls. "I don't want to try to control the reader's response! This is a democracy! Every reader should be able to make what he or she wants from my story!" On the contrary, writers in a democracy have a special obligation to write clearly and vigorously, not to play to an elite class by employing "difficult" writing. The longshoreman philosopher of the 1950s, Eric Hoffer, tackled big, troubling, difficult ideas in his books such as The True Believer: Thoughts on the Nature of Mass Movements (1951). His books rest on wide, deep, and no doubt difficult reading, but out of faith in common humanity, he worked hard to express his resulting ideas clearly and vigorously. Writing of every kind is to some degree persuasive. Writers want to change their readers, whether to take some action or simply to see things from a new angle. To exercise that kind of control over their readers, writers must first exercise control over their writing. Your distant reader may lose patience with writing that requires too much work. A vague, obscure poem can be heavy going and self-indulgent, and what the poet leaves out, the reader must supply. It can look to the reader like nothing more than sloppy writing. A reader is unlikely to take the time to make something worthwhile from writing that is mostly raw material. Think of how you react to difficulties in your own reading. It's a safe bet that your readers will react to difficulties the same way. Unless you are writing crossword puzzles, academic philosophy, high science, or tax law, your reader is unlikely to have the patience to labor over every page. Referring to the dictionary or encyclopedia can make reading more stimulating, but most readers, whether they read for pleasure or for edification, will lean toward writing that's clear and vigorous, and clarity and vigor come from exercising control. 18 About Your Imaginary Reader In Samuel Taylor Coleridge's poem The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, a storyteller persuades a stranger, with better things to do, to step aside and listen to his tale. All writers work just as desperately to get their readers to pay attention. The Ancient Mariner's listener resists because paying attention is work, too. But how hard can you expect your readers to work? To answer that question, it's helpful to imagine a reader who is likely to want to meet you halfway. Your imaginary reader may be someone predisposed to pay attention to your subject—a retired person if it's Social Security, a car nut if you're writing about Corvettes, a member of your family if your subject is Great-Grandma Nora. It's harder to imagine the reader who will read what you write for the sheer compelling glory of your writing style, however delightful it may be to imagine such a lovely creature. Yet your style is what will keep your reader going, and as the poet Alexander Pope advised, it's only reasonable to meet your reader halfway by suiting your style to your readership. Writing about a scientific topic for scientists, you need to use a more technical vocabulary than if you're explaining it to first graders. Readers of the New Yorker may pause to read poems in a variety of forms, but if you expect to be accepted at the cowboy poets' gathering in Elko, Nevada, your poem had better march in strict meter, and it had better rhyme. Your cowboy poem had better have some cows and horses on a vast sagebrush flat in it, too, whereas New Yorker poems tend to run to beach houses, great blue herons, and mollusks. In addition to your subject (the cows, the beach house), and the form or style you use to write about it, your imaginary reader is likely to be drawn to your attitude toward your subject. Cowboy poets and New Yorker poets both often take as their subjects life, death, nature, and love. An imaginary reader expects cowboy poets to take life earnestly but to find the humor in the human predicament—to laugh to keep from crying. The same imaginary reader may expect a New Yorker poet to express the anxiety that arises from daily living and then to go ahead and cry, or at least to fail to suppress a sob. An imaginary reader may expect political opinions to be written in a state of highly charged cynicism, and fiction in the throes, as it were, of passion. Who is the imaginary reader of what you are writing just now? A man or a woman? What age? How well educated? An American? When you've finished conceiving your imaginary reader—someone you care about who might enjoy listening to you—you may find that you've imagined someone who is, in fact, much like you, with the same tastes, the same interests, and the same dislikes as you. Why? Because writers write things they like to read. In creating an imaginary reader, it can help to think about the way you communicate with a person you know well, perhaps a member of your family. When you write a letter to your father, what do you leave out and what do you put in? Do you strive for accuracy? What about your language and questions of tact? Imagining your reader leads to imagining where you will hope to publish your work, whether it's in a scientific journal, a daily newspaper, a general interest book, or a photocopied Christmas letter for your kids. None of this is to say that you should always have your imaginary reader hanging over your shoulder. This can intimidate writers and get in the way of their originality and spontaneity. But during the process of revision, an imaginary reader is essential. The imaginary reader can help you clean up and organize the raw material you have written down. You can ask yourself, are there places where my reader will have to pause and think? Do I really want to stop them there? Do I want to assume that my readers will be familiar with this experience, or do I need to explain it more? Is my imaginary reader beginning to yawn? 19 The Country of Memory There's more to memory than what you are able to remember of a time or a place at any given moment. Memory is multilayered, and beneath the most accessible layer you've stored away other, deeper layers, rich with detail. From time to time each of us is suddenly surprised by some vivid memory that seems to come out of the blue. In the middle of an ordinary afternoon you suddenly recall the fragrance of freshly baked pumpkin cookies, with warm butterscotch icing. If you stop to think about it, if you stop to look around you, somewhere nearby is a little switch that turned that memory on. Perhaps it's the date on the calendar: maybe it's somebody's birthday, and you remember a party forty years before at which there were pumpkin cookies. Or perhaps you're swept back by the fragrance of the Butterfinger candy bar you just unwrapped for your afternoon snack. Or, halfway through a sunny, productive day, you are suddenly weighed down by a ponderous sadness. Again it could be the date on the calendar: something awful happened on that day, forty or fifty years ago, though you had completely set that memory aside. Or the smell of cold bacon grease instantly carries you back to a kitchen in your past, on the rainy autumn morning your pretty young aunt announced to the family that she was going to die. No doubt you can think of plenty of moments, much more affecting than these. The point is, the memory is richer and more complex than any of us realize, and there are triggers we all can use to reach the buried layers. A number of years ago, Ted asked his late mother to describe the farmhouse in which she'd lived as a child. The house had burned in the 1930s, long before he was born, and he wanted to get a sense of where she and her family had lived. At first she was able to remember a few superficial things, the number of rooms, the way the house stood on the side of the road. Then he asked her to draw a floor plan of the main floor, the second floor, and the cellar. They got out pencil and paper and she went to work. The process of drawing the rooms began to open the doors of her memory, and soon she was able to describe the patterns in the carpets, the position of the furniture, the pictures that hung on the walls. She was surprised and delighted at all she was able to remember. At one point, when she was drawing the upstairs plan, she said, "This is the room where Mama slept with us girls, Florence, Mabel, and I, and across the hall was the room where Dad slept with Alvah." Ted said, "Your parents didn't sleep together?" "Why," his mother said, "I guess not. You know, I've never thought about that. I suppose it was a kind of birth control!" Another means of triggering memories is to go through old family papers, photo albums, scrapbooks, and let those picture and words take you back. Don't just glance at the people in the photographs, but take your time. Look into the detail in the background: the washboard leaning on the porch, the black dog asleep in a patch of light. Just what was that old dog's name, anyway, and didn't it kill some of the neighbor's guinea hens? And that neighbor, why sure, it was old Anna Muller, who lived in the summer kitchen after her son and his wife took over the house. She didn't bathe very often. Her son, Melvin, worked at the mill in Brockton before he took to drink and developed a swelling in his legs. It's that detail you're looking for, the more the better. It's the detail that makes your writing vivid. Choose the most evocative details, the least expected ones. If old Mrs. Muller always had dirt under her fingernails, that one small observation can tell us more about her life than a paragraph describing her appearance from head to toe. Your head is packed with those details—the Grand Canyon and the rolling sea off Cape Hatteras. Tons of colorful stone and slate-gray crashing water, the heavy tourist traffic, thousands of screaming gulls, and the frightened look your little daughter had on her face when you brought her first lobster and set it before her, claws and all. The Big Bang theory has it that the whole Universe was once packed into a single, extremely dense speck. This is just the way the brain is, and everything you know and remember is inside the skull-sized speck that is your brain. What any one of us remembers may not be as large as the Universe, but it would certainly fill a good-sized country. Did your English teacher tell you that nouns are the names of people, places, and things? The details that you remember are, first of all, nouns. Take just the people—never mind the places and things—that you remember. Think of all the people you know, your family, your friends, and all those who have died or have disappeared into the past. Stick to the ones whose names you remember, and flesh them out: If Jack Jones was six foot ten, stand him in your front yard at full height, and put the old woman with the walker right next to him, and your red-headed uncle and his red-headed kids standing at the curb. If you trot out each person whose name you can remember, short or tall, skinny or fat, you'll soon see that your front yard isn't going to contain them. They're blocking the street, trampling on Mr. Jones's freshly watered lawn. You're going to have to lead them to a bigger place—maybe the Wal-Mart parking lot. It's a parade, and every minute more people are pouring out of the side streets of your memory. Then add places. Think about all the buildings you remember walking past, houses, stores, banks, filling stations. Reconstruct those buildings at full size, place them side by side, and add streets for them to front on. Maybe there's a park with churches on each corner, and shops along Main Street, and the water plant out by the dam. Add all the vistas you've surveyed—the broad, winding Mississippi from that park on the bluffs above Dubuque, the Sonoran desert, its saguaro cactus marching off into the distance, and the Sawtooth Mountains. Where can you put all those vistas? It's going to take a whole country to fit them in. The more you think of, the more memories there are. People, places, and now things—the dress you wore to your junior prom, your first lace-up ice skates, the plush rabbit that your stepfather called Queen Victoria, your grandfather's milk cans that you pretended were horses, an apple crostada the way your wife bakes it, a rusty pair of Vise-Grip pliers your neighbor left clamped on an outdoor spigot. Even a person who has never been to Europe or seen every state in the union needs a pretty big space for all the vistas, people, buildings, and things. Her country may be the size of Oklahoma, and yours could be bigger. If you are open to a short safari into the country of memory, just fifteen minutes will give you enough things to write about to last all morning. And you can take along your thermos of coffee and your comfortable chair. Those people, places, and things are rooted in your memory because of something the people did, and something that happened in those places, and something you or someone else did with those things. Every one of those nouns is attached in your memory to a verb. When people get old and forgetful, we speak of their loss of short-term or long-term memory. As we understand it, short-term memory is like a to-do list. It retains activities that might matter quite a bit at the moment—some errand that needs to be run, some bill to be paid—but over the long course of a life, these minor activities aren't at all memorable and it's no wonder they're easy to forget. The file drawer of occurrences that carry some personal significance, however trivial they may have seemed at the time—that's what remains in long-term memory. How fortunate it is that long-term memory is the last to go. Your country of memory is always close within you, always open to exploration, and you have this for most of your lives. Who says you have nothing to write about? You have a whole country! 20 Writing about One Thing In your daily journal, you write about all kinds of disconnected things: the weather, gardening, children, motorcycles, cats, love, loss, life, death, music, Thanksgiving dinners. Your journal may record the random events of your days, one after the other, or it may capture some of the random things roaming through your mind, none of them necessarily connected to the others. When you tell a story to strangers, though, they will ask, What is this story about? They will expect the story, whether it's fiction, poetry, or a magazine article, and no matter how long and complex, to be about one main thing. Your journal is like a garden of delectable ingredients to cook into your story. Like a chef planning a single dinner, you must find the one story you want to tell. You may not know at first what that story is. Most writers do not expect to make a story merely by transcribing journal entries. You may have to sit and let the story emerge as you stare at a blank sheet of paper or computer screen. Or you may just start writing. You may discover what you know in the process of writing. Writing brings people, places, and things to mind, and you discover your thoughts and feelings by articulating them. Those of us who have a hard time figuring out what we feel about events, and then figuring out what we think about what we feel, may need to write several drafts in order to distill the answer, like the chef on the old television show Northern Exposure who, by constant simmering, reduced an entire steer into a single cup of potent sauce. Frank McCourt says that he wrote journal after journal and draft after draft of his story, over many decades, before his best-selling Angela's Ashes finally emerged. Draft after draft, we approach the story sideways, a step at a time, hoping to gasp, finally, Oh! That's what this story is about! If you record daily events in your journal, you allow the calendar to control what you write. If you record the things you think to write about each day, you let your memory have control. To tell a story, you have to take control. Writing for strangers, you need to take control and shape your story. Your reading shows you that there are all kinds of ways to tell a story. It's such a mysterious, secret process that there aren't any secrets. Except that every story has a beginning, a middle, and an end. And that there has to be suspense. And... and... 21 Getting Organized There are as many ways of organizing a piece of writing as there are writers and reasons for writing. When an English teacher assigns sixth graders to write an English theme, they first have to turn in an outline that follows this form: Introduction, stating a subject and a general idea about it. Three examples supporting the general idea. Conclusion saying, See, I told you so., This exercise—like the philosopher's thesis, antithesis, and synthesis, and the more elaborate outlines you get in high school, and the schemes that teachers apply to Faulkner's short stories—is intended to train pupils in critical thinking, not to make them writers. Of course, for some writers and some topics a formal outline is essential, and it may save time in the long run. The high school outline format, and so forth, tends to force a writer to be comprehensive. A writer of technical manuals has to integrate information on all the components of the device she's describing. She starts with the smallest component and works her way up to the big picture, and she can't miss a trick. This is the kind of orderly, comprehensive writing for which the formal outline was devised. Likewise, a scientist knows what path he must follow in writing proposals for research grants. He has to make an extended argument, a syllogism, proceeding step by step from where the reader is to where he wants the reader to wind up, while anticipating objections. Writing a short article needn't require a very elaborate outline, but it may be useful to block it out in half-pages. If it's going to be six typed pages long, you've got only half a page to do this, half a page to do that, and then half a page to wrap it up. But many writers, once they've finished school, may kiss the formal outline goodbye. At lunch one day, Steve asked four professional writers whether they wrote formal outlines before they began to write their articles and books. They all said no. Three of them, though, said that they were always terrified of getting started. They sharpened pencils, worried about housework, stared out the window, and finally sat down and just started writing. For many writers, the chief benefit of an outline is to get the process of writing started. That's what Steve has found in his writing workshops. He breaks the participants up into small groups and asks each group to spend ten minutes writing an outline using one of six styles. In four of the styles, including the formal outline, you draw a picture of the structure of what you plan to write. The other two styles hardly seem like outlines at all, and they are effective in a surprising way: Freewriting an outline. You write as fast as you can, scribbling, using abbreviations and incomplete sentences, not worrying about spelling, capitalization, or any of the formalities. Writers find this method to be fun and productive, and it helps to give them a broad overview of their project. They seem to cherish ten minutes when someone tells them they have nothing to do but write. One woman said she hated writing, which turned out to mean that she dreaded having to be perfect. Freewriting gave her the chance to relax and get started without worrying about perfection. At the end of ten minutes she seemed relaxed and happy, and she had something on paper. Dictating to others. The person dictating gets to spin ideas out orally, without worrying about how they look on the page, and at the same time she gets advice from others in the group. Again, the person dictating has the luxury of talking out her project during ten minutes set aside for that purpose. To get some ideas about organizing your own writing, you can reread books, stories, poems, or memoirs you admire to see how they are organized. As an example, here's a sort of free-flowing outline of one of the most admired of American memoirs, Alfred Kazin's A Walker in the City. Kazin chose an unconventional organization for this book. It's 176 pages long but divided into only four long chapters: 1. From the Subway to the Synagogue: A long, slow walk through Brownsville, the Jewish neighborhood of Brooklyn where Kazin grew up, from the subway stop that brings Kazin home from "the city" to the old wooden synagogue, only a block from where he was born. Drinking in the sights of the people, their activities, shops, and homes, and savoring all the food available on the street, and wondering about life outside Brownsville. Ending with Kazin's confirmation at the local synagogue at thirteen and his resentment of "this God of Israel": "He would never let me rest." 2. The Kitchen: The busy hub of Kazin's parents' apartment in Brownsville. The place that "held our lives together," where his mother prepared meals, where the family ate and observed Sabbath, where Kazin's mother sewed and conducted her business as a seamstress, and where Kazin slept in winter, wrapped in a blanket across two or three kitchen chairs before the stove. The place where neighbors and customers, "women in their housedresses sitting around the kitchen table waiting for a fitting," came in without knocking. "The kitchen gave a special character to our lives; my mother's character." 3. The Block and Beyond: The stores on Kazin's block and getting a taste of the world beyond Brownsville. School trips to the Botanic Garden next to the Brooklyn Museum. Seeing the whales in the Natural History Museum. First seeing the Egyptian and Greek art in the Metropolitan Museum, and then, in a dim alcove, paintings of Kazin's own city and Winslow Homers, Thomas Eakinses, John Sloans. Haunted by the blonde Mrs. Solovey, wife of the druggist on the corner, who looked exotic in Brownsville, had lived in Paris, and who came into the kitchen and (the high point of the book) spoke French with high school student Kazin. At the end of the chapter, Mrs. Solovey, who knew the world outside and was a sort of exile in Brownsville, commits suicide. 4. Summer: The Way to Highland Park: At sixteen, with the encouragement of older boys and a teacher, Kazin the reader becomes a writer. He reads in this nearly empty library. He walks outside Brownsville to Highland Park and, with his first girlfriend, strolls around the reservoir and lies in the grass, looking "across the cemetery to the skyscrapers of Manhattan." Kazin focuses on odors, tastes, sounds, and scenes and omits lots of details. Each paragraph and each chapter is free-flowing, and the overall organization is simple. Dispatches, Michael Herr's gripping memoir of covering the Vietnam War, the book on which the movie Apocalypse Now was based, seems just as random in organization—260 pages but only six chapters, roughly chronological, each chapter filled with taut anecdotes and sketches, probably the best stories from his years as a correspondent. Herr made no pretense of knitting the stories together and separated one from the next only with an extra line of space. 22 Sensory Detail Because vivid writing appeals to the reader's five senses, writers call upon vision, hearing, touch, taste, and smell both to set a scene and to bring a story to its conclusion. Marilynne Robinson's novel Housekeeping (1980), the story of an orphan teenager named Ruthie, is packed with the things Ruthie sees, hears, touches, tastes, and smells, especially as the story draws to a close, when Ruthie and her Aunt Sylvie depart the town of Fingerbone, Idaho, by walking across the railroad bridge. "Nobody's ever done that," Sylvie says. "Crossed the bridge. Not that anybody knows of." And Ruthie relates: It was a dark and clouded night, but the tracks led to the lake like a broad path. Sylvie walked in front of me. We stepped on every other tie, although that made our stride uncomfortably long, because stepping on every tie made it uncomfortably short. But it was easy enough. I followed after Sylvie with slow, long, dancer's steps, and above us the stars, dim as dust in their Babylonian multitudes, pulled through the dark along the whorls of an enormous vortex—for that is what it is, I have seen it in pictures—were invisible, and the moon was long down. I could barely see Sylvie. I could barely see where I put my feet. Perhaps it was only the certainty that she was in front of me, and that I need only put my foot directiy before me, that made me think I saw anything at all. "What if a train comes?" I asked. And she answered, "There's no train until morning." I could feel the bridge rising, and then suddenly a watery wind blew up my legs and billowed my coat, and more than that, there was a sliding and shimmering sound of the water, quiet sounds but wide—if you dive under water and stay down until your breath gives out, when you come up in the air again, you hear space and distance. It was like that. A wave turned a stick or a stone on some black beach how many miles away, and I heard it at my ear. To be suddenly above the water was a giddy thing, an elation, and made me uncertain of my steps.... It was so dark there might have been no Sylvie ahead of me, and the bridge might have created itself under my foot as I walked, and vanished again behind me. But I could hear the bridge. It was wooden, and it creaked. It leaned in the slow rhythm that moves things in water. The current pulled it south, and under my feet I could feel it drift south ever so slightly, and then right itself again. The rhythm seemed to be its own. It had nothing to do, as far as I could tell, with the steady rush of water toward the river. The slow creaking made me think of a park by the water where my mother used to take Lucille and me. It had a swing built of wood, as high as a scaffold and loose in all its joints, and when my mother pushed me the scaffold leaned after me, and creaked. That was where she sat me on her shoulders so that I could paddle my hands in the chestnut leaves, so cool, and that was the day we bought hamburgers at a white cart for supper and sat on a green bench by the seawall feeding all the bread to the seagulls and watching the ponderous ferries sail between sky and water so precisely the same electric blue that there was no horizon. The horns of the ferries made huge, delicate sounds, like cows lowing. They should have made a milky breath in the air. I thought they did, but that was just the sound lingering. Ruthie strains to see in the dark night and imagines the sight of her own dancer's steps. She hears the creaking of the bridge and the turning of a pebble on a distant beach. She feels the touch of the wind billowing her coat and the swaying of the bridge. Then she remembers feeling and hearing a wooden swing leaning and creaking, touching cool leaves with her hands, seeing ferryboats sailing in bright electric blue light and hearing their horns, and she remembers thinking that their sound had the odor of milk. Ruthie remembers confusing a sound with an odor. In another instance of synesthesia (stimulation of one of the five senses evoking perception in another sense), she speaks of the sound of water as if she were seeing its "sliding and shimmering." Her senses are so acute that they mingle together, yet she seems unable to name what she might feel most deeply. Ruthie says that she feels giddy and elated, uncertain and afraid. But does Ruthie the orphan feel desperate, anxious, lonely, or angry? Robinson never says, and she has no need to. A writer doesn't have to come right out and tell the reader whether the speaker is happy or sad, if she carefully describes what's going on with the speaker's senses. The outer world—the swaying bridge, the creaking swing, the mooing ferryboat—becomes an integral part of the emotion the writer is setting out to evoke, rather than merely providing a fixed backdrop against which the action takes place. 23 Suspense What holds your reader's attention? What keeps your reader turning the pages? Suspense. Even when it is a low level of suspense, more like calm anticipation, you want your reader to keep asking, how does Our Hero's situation get resolved? It can be a simple thing—your reader may only wonder, how is this sentence about Our Hero going to end? The situation can be stated very obviously—will Our Hero survive this climb up a vertical cliff? Or it can be more abstract, more hidden—what is the mystery about Our Hero that the writer hasn't yet told us? Suspense needn't always be planned in advance, but can be introduced as you revise: Why don't I put off telling my reader whether it was Bernard who ran over the cat? As you read, notice how writers sometimes set up suspense even in the first sentence. We can't resist reading on, to find out what happens next. What can possibly happen after this opening sentence of Flannery O'Connor's novel The Violent Bear It Away? Francis Marion Tarwater's uncle had been dead for only half a day when the boy got too drunk to finish digging the grave and a Negro named Buford Munson, who had come to get a jug filled, had to finish it and drag the body from the breakfast table where it was sitting and bury it in a decent a Christian way, with the sign of its Savior at the head of the grave and enough dirt on top to keep the dogs from digging it up. Or what about the more mundane mysteries packed into this brief sentence, with which D. M. Thomas opened his novel Ararat? Sergei Rozanov had made an unnecessary journey from Moscow to Gorky, simply in order to sleep with a young blind woman. Why was Rozanov's journey unnecessary? And why was it important to specify that the young woman was blind? Ernest Hemingway was famous for writing simple declarative sentences that somehow held his readers' attention. At first he seems to be dealing in flat, incontrovertible information. Eventually, some readers realize that what is gripping about Hemingway's writing is not what he says but the information he withholds. To create suspense, what you do is withhold information. You don't need a crime or a violent death in the lead to hook your reader, to get your reader to read on. 24 The Size and Scope of Things Like a lot of writers, we're keen on beginnings and endings—parting with a boffo lead, ending with a bang—but what about the middle? OK, the middle is everything between the lead and the concluding sentence, but still, what goes in the middle? What if you think of writing as something like building a barn? To order enough lumber to build a barn, you have to have a conception of how big you want the barn to be. To figure out anything about the middle of a piece of writing, you need to have an idea how big it has to be to do the job you have in mind. But it's inefficient to build a barn bigger than it needs to be. So with writing: Your readers will be grateful if you can be brief. That means deciding before you begin writing how long the book, poem, or article will be. And it means cutting, as you revise, so that the completed manuscript is shorter than you intended it to be. You leave your readers hungry—tell them less than everything you know. There are many ways to build a barn, big or little, wood or stone, rectangular or round, with or without a cellar and a haymow, and before you start it's also useful to know the shape of the barn you mean to build. The barn you finally build may look nothing like the barn you had in mind, and likewise, your poem or story may not fit the form you started out with. Just as you budget the cost of the lumber for your barn, you might consider form as a kind of budget—"I'm going to budget fourteen lines for this poem"—even if the poem winds up being twenty lines or not a poem at all but a novel. Here are some ideas about middles and forms: Philosophers speak of the dialectical process, which provides a seductive model for writing because it has a beginning, a middle, and an end. You begin by stating a thesis ("this is true"). In the middle, you state its antithesis ("on the other hand, that is true"). And you end by stating a synthesis ("looked at another way, both this and that are true"). Expressed so baldly, it's a remarkably sterile form. The middle is nothing but objections, and the end is a kind of a compromise. But many poets have written with that dialectical process somewhere in mind. Haikus are very short Japanese poems that reduce the world down to a kernel of acute observation. The classical Japanese haiku is a one-line poem of seventeen syllables broken down into three units—five syllables, seven syllables, five syllables. Some poets in English mimic the Japanese form in three lines totaling seventeen syllables, perhaps with the first twelve syllables setting a scene and the last five syllables making a comment on the scene. Depending on how you look at it, the conventional form of a haiku may have a middle of seven syllables or no middle at all—just a beginning of twelve syllables and an end of five syllables. The most famous Japanese haiku, by Basho, who himself was the most famous Japanese writer of haikus, occupies seventeen syllables in Japanese, but in English can be translated neatly in just six syllables, six words: Old pond; frog jumps in Plop! If you want to practice getting at the core of a sensation, feeling, or thought and want to write lots of poems very fast, haikus may serve you well. If you're writing love poems, you may gravitate toward sonnets. A sonnet is a little song, long enough to express your feelings yet not so long as to bore the object of your affection. Shakespeare used sonnets to write about his thoughts on cosmic themes as well as his immediate feelings, and his sonnets are always fourteen lines long, rhymed in a fairly strict pattern. Sonnets of his day applied a sort of dialectical budget: thesis (six lines), antithesis (six lines), synthesis (two lines). Or the first eight lines stated a problem and the last six resolved it. Or the first four lines were the beginning, the next six were the middle, and the. last four were the end. Or the first twelve lines were the beginning, the last two lines the ending, and there wasn't any middle. Shakespeare himself seemed to try to start off with a boffo lead, give lots of interesting details in the middle, and end his poems with a bang. As we've mentioned again and again, one of the pleasures of writing is the craft of it, shaping your sensations, feelings, and thoughts into a form that readers will find pleasing, too. Writing in strict forms, such as that of the Shakespearean sonnet, can be very satisfying, and a good way to learn, too. Any piece of writing that you have enjoyed reading is likely to be a good deal more than merely a shapeless blob of self-indulgent meandering. The writer has put it in some form, although it maybe more subtle than the rhymed sonnets that Shakespeare favored. An epic poem is usually very long—so long that Alfred, Lord Tennyson never completed his, and Edmund Spenser scarcely got past the introduction of his epic, The Faerie Queene. An epic is the work of a lifetime, and if you're writing one you needn't worry about the middle or the end, because you're unlikely to get there. A book, librarians say, is a piece of writing more than one hundred pages long. After reading the critical opinions of lots of book reviewers, the writer Randall Jarrell concluded that a novel is a long piece of fiction that has something wrong with it. Being books, novels have to be at least one hundred pages long. Beyond that, the sky is the limit, and it's even ok to make some mistakes. Your imaginary reader or listener, and how you plan to publish your work, will certainly affect the size and scope of what you're writing. Magazines nowadays want articles shorter than fifteen hundred words—that is, four and a half double-spaced pages in 11-point type. Readers today have a short attention span and magazines prefer to publish short pieces. (More important, short articles leave more space for the publisher to sell as ads.) A pundit's column on the editorial page of a newspaper runs about 750 words—less than two double-spaced pages in 11-point type. Your published book, when set in type, will probably be shorter than your typed manuscript, but there are exceptions. A history book, that is, a book of serious prose, will usually be two-thirds the length of the typed manuscript. That is, a manuscript 320 pages long (double spaced) might make a book of about 212 pages. A romance novel, printed in larger type, may be about the same length as your typed manuscript. A book of poetry will be about the same length as your typed manuscript, if each poem is shorter than one page in length. If you're writing a speech, one double-spaced page of typing will take you about two minutes to read out loud. It runs about 250 words. The script for a fifteen-minute speech should run no longer than seven and a half pages, double spaced, and you need to start wrapping it up when you hit the middle of page 6. 25 A Sentimental Journey We encourage you to touch people's hearts in your own way, to find your own voice, and that's one reason we encourage you to break free from writing in a preconceived form. When a preconceived form becomes merely a formula, the way you express your feelings can become merely sentimental. We dislike what we call sentimentality, but we struggle with it all the time, and we suspect that any writer who writes about moving experiences will struggle with it, too. We even have a hard time agreeing about what sentimentality is, exactly, although we think we know it when we see it. We dislike sentimentality because we think it is an attempt to manipulate your reader artificially and predictably. We think it means something other than authenticity, and we encourage you to write authentically and truly from your heart in your own way, not in somebody else's conventional words. Greeting cards are a handy example of sentimentality. People who write verses for greeting cards have the task of expressing an emotion—a sentiment—in such a way that millions of greeting-card buyers will find it acceptably close to the way they would express their own feelings, or anyway, close to what they believe they ought to feel on Mother's Day or another occasion. The writers force feelings (authentic or not) into a formula, like stuffing a sausage. Hollywood has made an industry of manipulating viewers' emotions. Paper moons and cardboard seas, string sections off stage, artful makeup and Vaseline on the lens are the devices of what we have come to call cheap sentimentality. Some audiences cry at the emotion expressed in tearjerkers and seven-hanky romances. Other viewers cry tears of rage at being manipulated. Many of us got our first taste of writing from the little stories in Reader's Digest that tug at your heartstrings, display a puppyish sense of humor, and hammer home a life lesson at the end. Even if we never thought, "when I grow up, I want to write like that," those stories imprinted a pattern in our brains that pops up every time we set out to express what we see, think; and feel. It's hard to write about what you feel. It's the truest part of yourself but also the most vulnerable part, the part you may have spent years learning how to hide. In writing about your feelings, you may start out being sentimental—mushy, corny, flowery, gushy, melodramatic, bittersweet, maudlin, whatever you want to call it. As you dig deeper in your writing, we believe you will work past sentimentality toward simply and purely expressing what you yourself see, think, and feel. 26 Transparency In a gallery, each framed and matted photograph is displayed behind a pane of clear glass. As you pause to study an Ansel Adams print, you see the moonrise, the clouds in a dark sky, the mountains, and the low adobe houses of a village in northern New Mexico, and the glass is perfectly invisible. But suppose the glass has not been polished recently and your eye focuses on a flyspeck or a thumbprint on the glass. That unexpected interference brings you back to the surface of the glass itself, back to the ordinary world, away from Hernandez, New Mexico, to the painted drywall, carpet, ceiling tiles, and air conditioning vents of the gallery itself. Just so, readers peer through the clear glass of the words you have written, through the page on which words have been printed with type and ink, into a fascinating world revealed by the language. A reader passes through the page into what we might call the reading state. The reader's attention strolls in the moonlight toward the village of the poem. He loses himself in a dreamlike place beyond the surface of the page, trancelike and timeless. For readers to stay in that reading state, the writing itself must be transparent. Whenever the writer brings attention back to the surface of the page, the spell is broken. One trick "to remain invisible," Elmore Leonard says, and "not distract the reader from the story with obvious writing," is never to use "a verb other than 'said' to carry dialogue. The line of dialogue belongs to the character; the verb is the writer sticking his nose in." Following conventions of grammar and spelling helps to keep your writing transparent. (As horror novelist Stephen King says, you can find all the grammar guidance you need in Strunk and White, The Elements of Style, and the endpapers of John E. Warriner's English Composition and Grammar.) Yet even readers who never missed a day when the teacher was diagramming sentences on the blackboard may have to slow down and puzzle out a grammatical construction that seems obstinately complicated or a paragraph-long sentence with no punctuation such as this one. A spelling error and syntax that's unclear, correct or not, and even a typographical error, writing flower for flour, are impositions that spoil your readers' experience, reminding them that they're reading a book. After puzzling them out, the reader has to settle back, make the writing transparent once more, and try to regain the magical reading state. 27 The Unexpected Detail If each of us at a dinner party were to offer a detail for an imaginary scene, we would each come up with something pretty predictable. If I told you that for a communal poem we were going to imagine a landfill at the edge of town, I would expect you to supply details like plastic bags, beer cans, an old washing machine, and a grapefruit rind. We could assemble a calendar picture of a landfill that way, with everything we could imagine tossed in. It would be—sort of—convincing. But what would bring the scene to life and convince our readers that we had actually seen it would be to add a completely unpredictable detail. What if one person thought to look up in the sky. There it is, a yellow ultralight aircraft buzzing along five hundred feet in the air. Notice as you read how often these unexpected details are used to authenticate scenes. You'll discover, especially in fiction, how often a writer will drop in something just to make a scene seem real. For example, if the protagonist of a novel is talking with another person on a sidewalk in a park, the writer may put in a sentence like, "A man with a bad limp stumbled past, being jerked ahead by a large and ill-groomed poodle." Those unexpected details bubble up to the surface when a writer works more and more deeply into a scene, and a writer keeps them because they're useful. Walter Van Tilburg Clark, in his novel The Ox-Bow Incident, has a character arrive riding a mule. The narrator recognizes it's a mule by the sound of its footfalls, a clip-clip-clip, not a horse's clop-clop, and can identify the rider—he's the stagecoach driver Bill Winder, the only man in the territory who would ride a mule. Clark doesn't let it go there but sinks further into the scene. His narrator reflects that "there's something about a mule a man can't get fond of... it's like he had no insides, no soul," and then contemplates the fastidious character of Bill Winder himself: "Winder didn't like mules, either, but that's why he rode them. It was against his religion to get on a horse; horses were for driving." 28 It's a Figure of Speech HAMLET: Do you see yonder cloud that's almost in shape of a camel? POLONIUS: By the Mass, and 'tis like a camel, indeed. HAMLET: Methinks it is like a weasel. POLONIUS: It is backed like a weasel. HAMLET: Or like a whale? POLONIUS: Very like a whale. In our working lives, all the memos, contracts, business letters, specifications, and insurance policies we write have to be accurate and precise. Any other kind of language runs the danger of being misleading and, even worse, costing our employers or ourselves money. If a bureaucrat paused to consider whether a cloud really resembled a whale, then the boss might mock him as Hamlet mocks Polonius in William Shakespeare's play. If a real-estate developer imitated Samuel Taylor Coleridge, in his poem "Kubla Kahn," and "a stately pleasure dome decreed," with "caverns measureless to man" and "forests ancient as the hills," his contractor would surely walk away muttering and shaking his head. When you are writing information at the most elementary level, specifying how a thing is to be done (use velvet, not percale; saw the board 36 inches long, not 37.5 inches), or exactly what happened ("I arrived at 8:15 p.m."), then the writing needs to be accurate and precise, and you are in the realm of the concrete, literal truth. But if you are writing about why things happened, or how they seemed to you—if you are stepping up the ladder from information to knowledge to wisdom, from physical sensations to emotions to ideas—you are leaving the world of objects and facts and entering the realm of appearances, the world as interpreted by your mind. A flat, literal statement can never quite convey your thoughts, your vision of the pleasure dome to be, the meaning you attach to things, your feelings and conceptions. Then, comparing clouds with whales, or forests with hills, lends force to your writing. A comparison of this sort is what teachers call a figure of speech or a metaphor. There are many kinds of metaphor—in school some of us had to memorize all of their names. Essentially, a metaphor is a way of describing one thing in terms of another. You use metaphor to compare or contrast something you imagine, or something right in front of you, with something somewhere else. Your reader cannot read your mind or see what is right in front of you, and the metaphor refers the reader to something else both of you may have seen or experienced or imagined. Metaphors add an elemental strength to your writing. Metaphors have been a fundamental building block of language since people first furrowed their brows to describe their world. They called something an acorn squash because it was a squash that looked like an acorn, just as an acorn nut is something that screws onto a bolt and looks like an acorn. In modern times a construction company called its products Acorn Houses, suggesting long-lived, mighty oak trees, smooth surfaces, seamless design, and other positive characteristics we associate with acorns and oaks. People put metaphorical names on the land. The Snake River twisted like a snake when it was named, and it still does. Travelers on the old Santa Fe Trail used a landmark in New Mexico that they called Wagon Mound because it looked like a prairie schooner, and everyone passing by on Interstate 25 today can see the resemblance. Metaphor is risky. Your reader may not have experienced the other thing exactiy the way you have. You may say a truck roars like a thunderstorm because you love the power and glory of a thunderstorm, while your reader may find it terrifying. But what outweighs the risk is that a vivid metaphor is compelling, so that the reader cries out, "Yes! Forests as ancient as the hills!" Your reader might visualize the Arbuckles, the old, old stubs of mountains in southern Oklahoma, imagine trees as old as those dusty hills, and exult in sharing a vision with you, the writer, even if the hills you have in mind are the green, rolling hills of West Virginia. Or when you write that a mist was like a gauze, a reader may remember the mist floating past the gauze curtains at the window of her grandmother's spare bedroom, where the reader took a soothing nap long ago. Metaphors cement a bond of associations with your readers and help them remember your writing, too. The great thing about metaphor is that it gives you a way to get elusive feelings down on the page or into someone else's ear. Roly Sally, a musician, wrote a song he called "Killing the Blues." He sang about "Swinging the world by the tail / Bouncing it over a white cloud," and anyone who has experienced the rambunctious blues, as contrasted with the too-depressed-to-get-out-of-bed blues, surely knows what he means. Metaphor can be an especially powerful tool of persuasion, as when John F. Kennedy described his presidency as the New Frontier (evoking a real frontier of coonskin caps and long rifles), and Martin Luther King Jr. proclaimed that he had been to the mountaintop (evoking Moses's view of the Promised Land in the Old Testament). Closing the door on the concrete, literal world of business and setting out to write, you may have to introduce metaphor quite consciously into your writing. You may have to look for passages where metaphor can be introduced and ask yourself how vivid and apt your metaphor is. When I say that this coffee is thick and black as oil at the wellhead, can I clearly visualize oil at the wellhead? Is the coffee really more or less like oil? In prose, you don't want to lay it on too thick. One whizbang metaphor every three or four double-spaced pages seems to keep readers alert. (In a way, poetry is all metaphor.) As you work consciously with metaphor, you may find more and more often that an apt metaphor opens a door out of a box, gives you a way to express something difficult, a tool to convert something physical and visible into language that is abstract and portable, the same tool an old-timer used when he called a river a snake. Metaphors are forceful. Similes are, like, casual. In a metaphor, you compare one thing with another by stating that the two things are precisely identical: my heart is a rose that blooms for you. In a simile, the other common figure of speech, you say only that one thing is similar to another, using like or as: my love is like a red, red rose. A simile sounds casual and conversational, like everyday speech, but it lacks the authority of a metaphor. Metaphors always sound more forceful than similes, which makes your writing sound more confident and forceful. Speaking of metaphors, maybe everything's related to everything else... Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote his poems and compelling essays in a room designed for the purpose, a capacious square study on the second story of his house in Concord, Massachusetts. North light poured through the tall windows into Emerson's study. One wall, floor to ceiling, was devoted to Emerson's world-embracing library. A round writing table sat in the center of a carpet, placed so that the writer's back was warmed by the fireplace. Each drawer in the table held a current writing project, and the top of the table would rotate, so that Emerson could bring his day's work before him without moving from his chair. From this room, Emerson traveled the world in the books he read and on his lecture tours. He crossed the Atlantic to Europe. He rode the train to California, he saw the Grand Canyon. He drew his experience into this study and then looked beyond the room again, and from all that he knew, Emerson suggested that there might be a plane of common unity among all things and occurrences that he called the Oversoul, and that all things might touch each other along that plane. A hundred years later, physicists said something similar in a theory with the metaphorical nickname "the Big Bang." They suggested that all things in the Universe have spread forward in time from one highly compressed speck of matter. This means, they said, that all things are related, made up of the same elements and energies and governed by the same laws. The poet and the physicists were both expressing a kind of faith, which we human beings find deeply satisfying, in universal order. The most effective writing seems to reach through the opaque surface of the world and offer a glimpse of that universal order beyond. The power of a metaphor may come not only in proportion to the distance between its elements, but also from the writer's use of controls, so that the dazzling spark that arcs from one side of the comparison to the other is a clean flash, not dimmed by extraneous matter floating in between. A writer's goal is to light up the sky. 29 Before Us on the Table You open a book you have never read before, and you begin to read. Each new story or poem begins with a kind of bare table, well lighted, with darkness all around. As you begin to read, every noun gives you something to envision, and one thing after another appears on your table. Maybe, in the book you are reading, a chicken appears first, then a washing machine, and then a half-melted candle in the neck of a jug. Start with the chicken. Let's say you read, "She had eyes like a chicken." Shazam! A chicken pops into your mind, and whatever personal associations you have with chickens appear as well. Maybe you remember the fierce gaze of a red rooster that bit you on the leg when you were a child—and the placid stare of the warm white hens your grandmother kept, pillowlike creatures that cackled in contentment when you reached for an egg. All your personal experiences with chickens begin to cluster around the word "chicken." The table of the book you're reading is suddenly populated with chickens—mean, friendly, red, black, or speckled, some you read about in books, the one your dog chased into the street, a delectable one you ate at your Great-Aunt Mildred's, panfried with mashed potatoes and gravy, followed by rhubarb pie. So, you read, she had eyes like a chicken "and a heart like a washing machine." In your mind a washing machine starts rocking and gurgling under a heavy load of your grandmother's winter bedding. It's the first day of spring. Suddenly, though, in your mind there's another. This second washer is broken, its motor burned out, a dead machine pushed back into a damp cellar corner. This second one smells like mildew and the first like Rinso Blue. We've already got a lot of chickens and a couple of washing machines on the table, and then there's that candle in the jug to deal with. It may be lighted in one association and snuffed out in another. Maybe in one of them there is the sound of Ravi Shankar playing the sitar and the smell of patchouli oil. Maybe in another there is a cold, dark room with a wick just then pinched out and a burning spot between your thumb and index finger. Maybe there's the candle that accidentally lit the bedroom curtains on fire and burned down the house. This process of assembling associations goes on, stirred by noun after noun, as you read along. The table fills up and things get perilously close to falling off into oblivion. Though each private association may get crowded out as they accumulate, a kind of after-image of everything named has a way of lingering. After a few pages, your many private associations with chickens, washing machines, and candles may still be on the table, along with everything else the writer has called up. By the end of the story or poem, that candle may have been pushed off toward the edge of your awareness as a reader, but in your mind there still remains a wisp of smoke from a tiny red ember at the tip of its wick. Most writers wish to achieve some definite effect upon their readers, and a reader's collective associations have a lot to do with the effect. How can a writer attempt to control the effect? One way is to try to limit the variety of associations any noun may call up. The less clutter, the better. For example, if you intend to have a pleasant effect, you want to avoid conjuring up associations that produce an unpleasant effect. You want to avoid summoning up the ghost of a rooster that bit your reader till he bawled. You can steer or regulate the effect of your nouns with adjectives, the words that modify or help to define nouns. You may have been taught that adjectives make for weak writing, and it's true that an overabundance of adjectives can sap the strength of your writing, but adjectives can be extremely useful in limiting the number of associations that arise in a reader's mind. If someone writes, "She had eyes like a chicken, cold and unblinking and glassy," those three adjectives (cold, unblinking, glassy) immediately steer the reader's associations away from those placid old laying hens toward a more dangerous chicken, one that shows a little of the reptile in its distant ancestry. By using adjectives, a writer can reduce the number of chickens on the reader's table from a dozen to maybe one or two. If you write, "She had a heart like a broken washing machine," the single modifier "broken" immediately excludes that pleasant gurgling, sloshing machine on your grandmother's side porch. Adjectives that specify number are especially useful. It is much easier for a reader to envision three chickens than just chickens. Once you determine the kind of association you want to inspire, you want it to be as clear and vivid as possible. "Chickens" is murky; there could be three or three hundred. Every noun evokes a complex of associations in a reader's mind. Dropping in a noun implies you've thought about its possible associations. Using adjectives sparingly and with precision can help to exclude the associations you don't want and at the same time make the remaining things on the table work toward the effect you want to achieve. This isn't a license to use strings of adjectives. Too many adjectives do make writing flabby. If you think about it—and you ought to think about every word in the pieces you write—there is probably one good adjective that will push aside most superfluous associations and pin the tail directly on the donkey. 30 Be Positive, Emphatic, Clear, and Active Readers are hungry to learn what you know. They want you to open up a world that is rich with information, knowledge, and wisdom, and they expect it to be wrapped in a story that keeps them interested. Everybody knows that it's best to convey what you know clearly. Writing clearly can mean many things. It can mean writing positively, for one thing, and with emphasis. As well, because stories are about people doing things, it means remembering to write actively. For example, when you reach a conclusion, state it. Clearly. And positively. And with emphasis. This practice of expressing yourself positively is a craft that you learn a step at a time. First, every time you find "no" or "not" or "never" in your writing, try to get rid of it by stating the same notion positively. For example, rather than writing, "He was not very often on time," say, "He usually came late." We have sought to apply this lesson, which we have drawn from Strunk and White, The Elements of Style, in our own book. We have combed our manuscript, seeking to eradicate all negative statements, and we have caught most of them. Expressing yourself positively will have a remarkable effect on your life. You may believe that what you think determines what you write. The reverse is also true. It turns out that writing positively leads you into the habit of thinking positively, and thinking positively leads you to behaving positively in other areas of your life. Writing positively is a matter of details. For example, positive writers prefer and to or. And is affirmative. Or suggests vacillation. And suggests forward movement. Or suggests hesitation. They also avoid opening a paragraph or a chapter with although. The idea is to be positive first, and express your reservations (if any) later (if at all). Being positive also means being confident, stating your own knowledge or interpretation first and waiting until later to acknowledge the people who support or disagree with you. Stand on your own two feet. Rather than: Although Turner disagrees, I have learned that mice dance sideways. Try writing: Mice dance sideways. (Turner disagrees.) Paying attention to emphasis helps you write clearly, confidently, and positively. The emphasis in English prose falls at the beginning and end of a clause, sentence, paragraph, chapter, article, story, or poem, and the first chapter of every book. A winning first page will carry your reader through some awkward paragraphs later on. Being clear means sticking to the point. Before you begin, write a one-page abstract of what you think you are going to write, and write even that abstract in vigorous prose. Being clear means avoiding ambiguity. The reader is counting on you to be forthright. As you write, you know when you are being vague—you fall back on jargon, your sentence structure gets tangled. Then you know it's time to rewrite for clarity. Clear writing usually communicates better than fancy writing, and it's certainly OK to be plain: Use hearty Anglo-Saxon words and avoid Latinisms. Avoid jargon. Especially if you write complex sentences poorly, it's OK to write simple sentences. Positive, clear, emphatic writing is also exact: Cite specific dates when you know them, rather than using such phrases as "the midtwenties." Rather than "numerous," say how many. Write about real people, places, and things. A page sprinkled with the capital letters that signal proper nouns—Herbert Hoover, Waterloo—tells your reader that you know exactly what you are writing about. Often the exact facts, if presented well, will speak for themselves. Then, when you do offer interpretation, it will be emphatic by being rare. The positive, clear, emphatic, exact writing that keeps people learning is always active rather than passive. Anything you write will most likely be about people doing things. Write with nouns (people) and verbs (to do). Choose active verbs, which assign responsibility, and eschew passive verbs, which writers use to avoid assigning responsibility. Active: He did it. Passive: It was done. Active: You told me to turn left! Passive: I was told to turn left. Active: I goofed. Passive: Mistakes were made. Your readers will learn best from stories that are positive, clear, emphatic, plain, exact, and active, and your stories will express your own pride in your work. In those stories you will look good and stand tall. They will exhibit your joy in the work. 31 Transformative Experience The process of writing is a transformative experience. You transform your thoughts—your information, knowledge, and wisdom—into words, and in the process you express the meaning that you have found in your experience. You transform the story itself as you sink into it, writing in your journal, revising, redrafting, teasing out the one thing that the story is about. Often, a transformative experience is also the thing that you are most eager to write about, a moment when you changed. Maybe it was a point of decision when you (or some fictional character) decided to go climb a mountain or never to go skiing again. Maybe it was a moment when your feelings or beliefs changed—the moment when you fell in love or came to believe that war is wrong. Reading, too, is a transformative experience. Reading can lead to action. After reading your editorial, a reader may leap up from her chair and go join a picket line protesting a subway fare increase. But reading is often a more subtle transformative experience. "I never thought of that," one reader may think. Or "Until I read this story, I misjudged motorcycle riders and pit bulls, too." Writing is probably most effective when it is a transformative experience for both you and your reader—when you both learn something new, see the world and your lives in a new way. 32 Revise and Wait Writing is like shoveling snow—all the details you want to write about accumulate so rapidly that you can't get them all down. You're not sure that they will come to you tomorrow, and you're not yet confident that you will have plenty of other things to write about if your memory fails. Revising, on the other hand, is like carding wool or like combing out long strands of hair—raking out the tangles, the cockleburs and dirt, and leaving the long strands clean and smooth and straight so that a comb can pass through the long, smooth hair unencumbered. Before you send a poem, story, essay, or chapter out in public, you will want to make sure its shirt is tucked in. It's a rare first draft that can be published or even read in public. Almost every piece of writing needs some rewriting, rethinking, and polishing before it is ready to take center stage. The first step in spotting the flaws in what you have written is a simple one. Set it aside and let it cool off for a while, the longer the better. Take a look at it after twenty-four hours if you must, tinker with it a little, then set it aside again for as long as you can stand to. As if you had put it in a petri dish, the longer you leave a piece of writing by itself the more spores of trouble will surface. If you can bear to do it, leave it alone till it begins to look as if somebody else might have written it. (Stephen King sets the first draft of his books aside for six weeks before writing the second draft.) Then you can see it for what it is, a creation independent of you. Writing has to be equipped to thrive on its own in a largely indifferent world. You can't be there with it, like its parent, offering explanations, saying to an unappreciative reader, "Yes, but here's what I meant..." Just what should you expect to see when you look at your writing after it has rested for a time? All sorts of things: peculiar syntax, tortured grammar, illogical thinking, misspellings, wordiness, silliness, preciousness. You may discover that the sweet sounds and rhythms you heard in your head when you wrote it now sound lumpy and awkward. (If you want to, you can ask for a little help here. Have a friend read your piece aloud to you, without studying it first, then listen carefully to the way in which he or she accents the words and places emphasis. A piece that sounded beautifully smooth to you when you heard it in your head may sound like a pretty rough road when you hear it read aloud.) Even when you are very pleased with what you have written, you can make it even better or larger or more inspired or smarter, as the writer Susan Sontag observes. In revising, Sontag says, "You try to be clearer. Or deeper. Or more eccentric. You try to be true to a world. You want the book to be more spacious, more authoritative. You want to winch yourself up from yourself. You want to winch the book out of your balky mind." And what's the big hurry, anyway? When you're baking cinnamon rolls, you don't take the bowl of raw dough to your friends and ask them if they like it. You wait till the rolls have been baked and have cooled and you've put on a little icing. The truth is, nobody's waiting for you to press your writing into their hands. Nobody's hungry for it. It's likely that not a living soul has big expectations for the success of it other than you. Of course, you want your writing to be wonderful—a work of pure genius, beautiful, heartbreaking, memorable—and that's just the kind of writing your audience would like to read. So let time show you some of the things you can improve before handing it to somebody and being embarrassed by a problem, or two or three problems, that you couldn't see in the giddiness of having just written something you like. But keep on writing. Start a new piece while you're waiting for an earlier one to age. Most of us are tempted to get approval before moving on. We want our mothers to praise our mud pies before we make any more. But if you're going to get better at writing, you have to write a lot. You have to press on. We all learn writing by writing. Isak Dinesen said, "Write a little every day, without hope, without despair." Several years ago, a man was telling Ted about his uncle, a horseshoe-pitching champion. One day he asked the uncle how he'd gotten good at horseshoes, and his uncle said, "Son, you got to pitch a hundred shoes a day." That's what it takes to get good at writing, too. You've got to pitch your hundred shoes a day. Get with the process: Put your new poem, story, or essay in a file folder of its own and start work on the next one. When you finish a draft, or get stuck, put it in its own folder. After a month or so, you'll have a stack of folders on the side of your desk and can start looking through them, beginning with the oldest. You'll be amazed at the way the passage of time has helped you come up with solutions to problems you had during the writing of those early drafts. 33 Getting Advice, Taking Criticism You write, you read what you have written, then you rewrite again and again. It's just you, alone with your story or essay or poem, hour after hour. Eventually you think you've done everything in your power to make what you've written as good as it gets. When Stephen King was in high school, the editor of the Lisbon, Maine, Weekly Enterprise offered him this advice: write with the door closed, rewrite with the door open. That is, you write the first draft for yourself, and you revise to communicate with others. Writing with the door open, you'll want to show what you have written to somebody. Writing is, after all, communication, and it's natural to want to know how well you've communicated. So go ahead, ask. Writing can be like folding a banquet-sized tablecloth; you can do it yourself, but it's a lot easier when you can find somebody to help. Both beginning and veteran writers need help, and the acknowledgments page of any book will show you how grateful they are for receiving it. University professors show their writing to their peers to get technical advice, but you are seeking something other than peer review, and it may be best if the first person you ask to read your work isn't a writer and doesn't have an English professor's vocabulary of critical terms. The slightest hint of disapproval from a "professional" can stop you in your tracks just when you need to be writing away, brave and free, and improving every day. Your first reader does have to be somebody you can trust to be honest. And the reader should expect to put time and energy into reading your work and talking with you about it. You might ask your spouse, a neighbor, a good-humored friend, or another beginning writer to look at your efforts. Stephen King says that he asks his wife and five other friends to read and comment on a draft of every book he writes. Your writing needs, first, to be understandable and interesting. Above all, you want your first reader simply to tell you where your writing makes sense and holds his or her attention—where it reaches across the ever-present gulf between a writer and a reader. It's tempting to ask, "Is this any good?" But the last thing you need is a value judgment, and anyway, what reader will answer that one candidly? (Even when you submit your work to an editor, you're still not seeking a value judgment. The question is not whether the editor thinks it's any good but whether the editor believes it will benefit his or her readers.) Instead of asking your first reader to rate your piece on some kind of scale from one (awful) to ten (terrific), you need to ask questions like "Is this clear?" and "How can I make this more interesting?" You need a first reader who will take the time to answer those questions candidly, and with specifics. "Well, it's really diff'rent!" is just too vague. You want somebody who will say, "In the third paragraph of page 2, well, this may seem like a dumb question, but what do you mean by the word 'salutary?'" You need to encourage your reader to ask dumb questions—and to thank him when he does. Specific comments are far more useful than general ones. When somebody does tell you "I really like this!" you might as well enjoy the comment. And then ask the tough questions. "What was it exactly that you liked? Was there anything you didn't like, maybe just a little?" Librarians in the state of Kentucky once decided to produce a series of books to use in teaching adults how to read. They engaged professional writers, and then they showed the manuscripts, not to educational experts but to adults who were just learning how to read. They sat the writers and the student readers down face to face and had the writers listen to what the students had to say. The writers sweated bullets, we've heard, because they had never confronted their readers quite so directly, and the students, all adults who wanted desperately to learn, did not hesitate to say very directly what they needed from the books. The new readers wanted stories about a world they could relate to, and they wanted them to be clear and full of concrete detail. You want a first reader with the commitment of those beginning readers in Kentucky. If you and your reader are both beginning writers, you will have to teach one another to appreciate the value of specific comments. Though it's nice to receive praise, what you both really need is, "I don't understand how the umbrella stand got over under the parlor window when a couple of paragraphs back it was just inside the kitchen door." Specific comments like that are invaluable. Another valuable criticism might be, "It takes you two paragraphs to describe how Doctor Abraham pushed his chair up to the table. Do you really want to spend that much time moving a chair? Unless that chair is a lot more important than I think it is..." Your reader may offer comments that are more specific if she can read your piece at her own convenience and write notes for you to study later. Reading and criticizing somebody's writing requires concentration, and anyway, nobody appreciates being put on the spot. Shoving a manuscript under someone's nose and immediately demanding to know what she thinks is simply not good form. You two may find you get the most out of your writing friendship by writing letters to each other instead of meeting face to face. In a letter, you can study and restudy your reader's comments. When you see that the reader is being candid, and when the reader sees that you are willing to take her comments and revise, you will both gain confidence in your working relationship. Then you can ask more pointed questions—"Are there places where your mind drifted away?" and "What would you omit?" and "What more would you like to know?" And the reader's comments can be more telegraphic—a simple "I dunno" or "wow," a check mark on the page, or a "more or less" wobble of the hand will tell you what you need to know. One productive way to obtain criticism and encouragement is to join or start a writing group. If you ask around among your friends and acquaintances—and their friends—you are sure to find others who like to write, are eager for encouragement, and want to get better at it. Churches, public libraries, YWCAS, community college courses, professional associations, and informal groups (the mothers of your children's friends?) are good places to start. When you have identified four or five people who are writing, you can suggest getting together once a month to talk about your efforts. And four or five people are all you need. If you take turns having a piece of writing ready to discuss at each meeting, all the members of the group are likely to come prepared to offer considered opinions, and each meeting will be briefer than if you try to discuss a piece by each member at each meeting. But if your group has more than a half dozen members, any member may grow weary of having to wait seven or eight weeks before presenting a new piece. You might consider setting up a writers' group by e-mail, but the rules of engagement, and especially of decorum, need to be very clear. E-mail lends itself quite readily to ill-considered, hurtful, and even inflammatory comments that don't help anybody. Different people come to a writers' group with different purposes. One writers' group, which has been meeting regularly for five years, came together through the professional connections of one of the members. It has five members: a young man for whom writing is one of several artistic avocations, along with sculpture and photography, and who publishes some of what he writes a woman who loves beautiful things and who expresses her thoughts and feelings in poems with little intention of publishing them a woman who, with the group's encouragement, has written a book about her own intense experiences that she is determined to publish a man who knows that he is a good writer with many stories to tell and who is looking for the next step to take with his writing a man who, in retirement, is undertaking writing as a second profession, but with little expectation of income from writing One member of the group still remembers how thrilled she was to come to the first meeting to talk about her work with other writers. Like any group of human beings, this writers' group began with a period of adjustment while the members got comfortable with one another and with the group. Every six weeks or so, the group meets in the home of a different member for dinner and constructive criticism. Each member of the group sends (usually by e-mail) a new piece of writing to all the other members well before a scheduled meeting. At the meeting, the group discusses each piece and often gives the writer notes on a copy of the piece. The members of the group all encourage each other and give each other very careful and thoughtful practical criticism, usually about clarity and about highlighting the most engaging parts of the piece of writing. They also make very specific suggestions about rewriting the piece. Members of the group agree that the feedback feels objective, never malicious, cruel, or hurtful, and that in receiving it the members have learned not to be defensive and simply to listen to one another. Perhaps because the members of the group have built a strong bond of friendship and because they come to the group with such different purposes, they, do not compete with each other as writers. Instead, they compete as hosts, seeing who can present the most delectable dinner. One can be counted on for Vietnamese food, another for Indian cuisine, and another for healthy fare, always featuring a fresh green salad. This group has learned three essential rules of a successful writers' group: 1. Encourage each other. 2. Make specific constructive criticism—not "I really like this" or "I don't much care for that" but "Your first paragraph seems like you're just warming up to write the next paragraph. Perhaps you should consider starting with the second paragraph." 3. Have fun. Another group of nearly twenty playwrights has been operating for thirteen years under very different rules. Their goal is performance of the plays they write. Their meetings are so earnest and focused that some newcomers find them intimidating, and they observe strict rules. They criticize only complete plays, not works in progress. They direct all comments to a designated facilitator, not to the writer. They do not rewrite each other's work. A writer seeking particular help must list his or her questions in writing. They don't share dinner, but after their meetings they often retire to a coffeehouse. When you show up for your first writers' group meeting, take a deep breath before you ring the doorbell and prepare for constructive criticism and not for praise. Of course you want praise. The desire for praise and adulation, even love, is one of a writer's chief drives. And if it comes, enjoy it. But if somebody says, "I think this story is really wonderful," it's fair play to ask, "Could you tell me what about it you find wonderful?" When somebody says you've done something well, you need to know just what that something is, specifically, so you can do it again. The words "good" and "bad" don't help much. When people say, "I just read a really good story" or "That's a bad poem," what they are really saying is that, perhaps for personal reasons, they like it or they don't. Perhaps they like the manner in which it is written. Perhaps they don't like the effect it has on them. We have individual likes and dislikes about practically everything. Some people dislike broccoli because they don't like the way it feels in the mouth. But does that make broccoli bad? In addition to friends, relatives, and writing groups, you can sometimes engage a perfect stranger as a reader. If you can team up with another writer to exchange work, you can "pay for" the help you receive by helping the other person. Many writers have maintained lifelong associations with other writers to their mutual benefit. Ted opened a correspondence with another poet, named Leonard, by sending him a note complimenting a poem he'd seen in a magazine. Since then, Ted and Leonard, living in Nebraska and California, have been exchanging their work for more than thirty years, and both of them have found the correspondence extremely helpful. Leonard gives Ted specific comments, not general praise or disapproval. For example, Leonard has suggested that Ted make the title of a poem carry some of the expository or narrative weight of a poem—rather than "A Winter Night," which tells little about the subject of the poem, perhaps call it "A Snowy Night in Milwaukee." Ted rarely submits a poem for publication that Leonard hasn't seen and criticized. 34 How Publishing Works Why are you writing? More than likely, you want to tell someone how you feel. Maybe you have a moving story to tell. Maybe you want to pass along information, knowledge, or wisdom that will change your reader's life. Either way, you want to touch someone else's heart. Touching someone else's heart is why young men write poems to girls and grandmas set down their memories for their granddaughters to read. Those written poems and memoirs are just a step away from what a young man would say in person, reciting a poem on bended knee, or a grandma would talk about while snuggling in a rocking chair. The young man and the grandma, speaking straight from their hearts to the heart of one person they love, have no need to be published. Writers who want to touch the hearts of a lot of people, though, usually need many copies of what they have written. They need to be published. Publishing means making broadly available, and it lets people read what you have written any time, anywhere, in privacy. (In the past, publishing always meant making multiple copies. Nowadays it can mean posting a message on the Web, where many people can find it.) You may want to publish your writing because you have something new to say, have an original way to say it, hope to make an income, or just want your voice to be heard. But most likely you want your writing to be published because it's the end of the writing process. Fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly, athletes gotta compete, singers and actors gotta perform, writers gotta get published. At the thought of publishing, many new writers turn pale with anxiety. Does that sound like you? If so, we'll bet there are two big reasons for your anxiety. First, we've talked in many different ways about developing the habit of writing. We'll bet you're anxious because you're not yet in the habit of submitting your writing for publication. It hasn't yet become a routine part of your writing process. The more experience you have with the process, the less anxious you will become. Second, we'll bet that you have a very lofty goal in mind—a certain idea of the publisher, or the magazine, where you want to be published—and in your imagination you've already spent the income on a sailboat or a new kitchen. You're like a rookie baseball player, stepping up to the plate to bat against a really good pitcher—Randy Johnson, perhaps, the Big Unit. It's an opportunity to be a hero—or to humiliate yourself—in full view of thirty thousand fans in the stadium and millions more watching on TV. Sheer terror. You've never faced a fastball like his, and your job is to swing for the fences, to hit a home run. Right? Wrong, probably, on both counts. First, by the time you face Randy Johnson, you will have spent hours and hours of your life in batting practice, working on the fundamentals, swinging at all kinds of pitches. So you will have seen plenty of fastballs a whole lot like his. And second, your job is not to belt a home run, but just to get on base. Bil Gilbert, a friend we've mentioned before, is a prizewinning writer, and he also once coached his daughters' softball teams. Bil says that whenever he overheard the opposing coach say to a batter, "OK, in this situation we really need a home run," he knew he had 'em beat. Because Bil coached the fundamentals. "Keep your chin down," he urged his batters. "Keep your eye on the ball. Swing through the ball." We're going to follow Bil's example. We're not going to say, "OK, now it's time to make your coaches look like heroes and hit a home run," and we're certainly not going to get up in your face and shout "Don't choke!" Instead, we're going to say this: publishing is part of the writing process. You learned to write every day. You learned to write as if you were telling a story to a stranger. You learned to show your writing to others, to ask for and to listen to criticism. You learned to see writing as a way of making friends. You're already practicing the fundamentals: how do you get published? By making friends. To plug what you have written into the network of published writing—to make friends with your readers—you need first to plug into a network yourself by making friends with an editor. To make friends, it helps to understand a little about the editor's work. The editor of your church newsletter and the fiction editor of a New York publishing house both have the same job—to select what they will publish. In making their choices, they weigh many factors—content, writing style, length of the manuscript, timing, fame and aptness of the writer, possible market, cost budgets, profit targets, and what readers might expect to see in the editor's magazine or book list. You'll improve your chances of publication markedly by being sure that you are submitting your work to an appropriate publisher. When an editor rejects a manuscript, it's usually because the writer has simply submitted it to the wrong publisher: a poem submitted to a magazine that doesn't publish poetry, a knitting article sent to a cooking magazine, a six-thousand-word article offered to a magazine with an upper limit of fifteen hundred words per article. When an editor asks for revisions, it means that the article or book meets many of the editor's criteria. It's not a rejection. It's not an unreserved acceptance, but it is an expression of interest. The editor who has accepted your manuscript (sometimes called the acquiring or sponsoring editor) passes your manuscript along to another kind of editor, the copyeditor (who maybe called a manuscript editor or line editor). The copyeditor marks up your manuscript, checking for a multiplicity of things—spelling, grammar, consistency, felicity of expression, accuracy, plausibility, logic—and may ask the author to reconsider, reorganize, double-check, or delete some statements, paragraphs, or chapters. Probably the sponsoring editor will have required you to submit the manuscript electronically, and the copyeditor will spend some time cleaning up your electronic files and marking them up to indicate how text, headings, quotations, and paragraphs ought to be treated typographically. Before the days of computers, a physical manuscript was passed hand to hand from sponsoring editor to copyeditor to designer to typesetter to proofreader, and those several pairs of eyes were all alert to correcting errors. With computers, those jobs have merged. One editor may do all of those jobs, and nobody in the publishing house may actually read your article or book word for word, so it's up to you to make sure that your work is true and beautiful. When an editor does devote time, energy, and skill to helping you write better, you should count yourself lucky—and be sure to say thanks. The writer doesn't usually get involved in the printing and distribution of magazines and books, which involve relationships that the publisher has developed over many years with specialized printers (full-color long-run magazine printers, for instance), wholesalers, and bookstores, but the author can have a distinct role to play in the marketing of books. A book publisher's marketing system—catalogs, ads, sales representatives, publicity—is built on routine. It is geared to getting the word about hundreds of books out to millions of people. It is not built for customized campaigns to sell a niche book or to reach a niche market. You, the writer, can play a tremendously useful role in helping to make the marketing routine work for your book. You can write a book that has a large, identifiable readership, and you can give the publisher an apt picture of the market you intend the book to reach. You can establish your own identity among the readers you intend to reach—writing articles and op-ed pieces and giving speeches related to your book, even dressing in costume—a white linen suit and a panama hat if your name is Tom Wolfe. You can provide accurate lists of magazines that might review the book; groups, from readers' groups to professional organizations, that might be a market; and names and addresses of relatives, friends, and colleagues who might buy the book. You can appear in public and autograph books, not just in bookstores but at places and events related to your topic. And you can listen to your publisher's advice, especially about having realistic expectations for the sale of your book. One writer of children's books has spent years trekking to elementary schools reading her work, autographing books in shopping malls and theaters, making her books well known, and turning her identity as an author into a brand name that grandparents, parents, and children all recognize. She has done all of this work with a big smile on her face, sometimes in costume. She even devised a clever couple of words to write in a book she is autographing. No sales rep could have done what she has done to make her books a success. Despite all the skill and commitment that you and the publisher devote to publishing, any issue of a magazine is ephemeral and the market for almost every book is finite. That's OK, too, because, working on the fundamentals, you learned that your job is not to hit a home run. Your job is to get on base. Right? You will probably not make any money as a writer. Most writers receive nothing more than free copies of the magazine that published their poems and stories. A smaller number of writers receive modest fees, between fifty and several hundred dollars, for their work. An even smaller number of writers of books sign contracts in which the publisher promises to pay royalties for every copy sold. Only a very few writers realize enough money from writing to make much difference in the way they live. Say a magazine pays $500 per story. Say you sell that magazine four stories per year. That's $2,000, less taxes (say, 20 percent), for a net of $1,600 per year, or $133.33 per month. To get a notion of how this income would affect your life, you might look up your most recent monthly credit card bill. What percentage of the bill does $133.33 represent? You'd receive the same amount of income, $2,000 before taxes, if a book publisher paid you a royalty of 10 percent of retail price, the book retailed for $20, and the publisher sold 1,000 copies. For income tax purposes you ought to keep fairly accurate records of the expenses and income associated with your writing. Your accountant can advise you about the tax implications of your life as a writer. Anyway, you want to publish your writing, not for the money, but to touch someone's heart. So how do you get published? 35 How to Get Published You have completed a manuscript that you believe strangers will want to read. You've completed a process of thinking, writing, taking the advice of your readers, revising. Congratulations! Next comes publishing what you have written. Getting published is a process, too, with its own steps for the writer to take. The Writer's Role in Getting a Manuscript Published Placing your work with a publisher is like marketing. Marketing experts know that billboards alone don't sell a product. Neither do space ads in newspapers and magazines. Neither do junk mail, bus cards, or phone solicitation. Neither, solely, does public relations, although the goal of PR—the buzz, the grapevine, positive word of mouth—is the most powerful marketing tool in the world. What ultimately sells any product, including your book, is a combination of several media. That means making yourself and your writing known by exploiting a combination of avenues: Publish your writing everywhere you can—in newsletters, local newspapers, specialized magazines. Whether or not you get paid for your writing, you are accumulating experience, and you can list all those publications in your résumé. And you are building a readership—what in the music business they call a fan base. Most writers will have published lots of small pieces—articles, poems, short stories—before they publish their first book. To pick just one example, Emily Carter's publisher, Coffee House Press, touted her first book as her debut. But she had already published short stories in the New Yorker, Story Magazine, Gathering of the Tribe, and other magazines, and Garrison Keillor had selected the title story, Glory Goes and Gets Some, for The Best American Short Stories 1998. Emily Carter had lived a lifetime as a writer before she even got a debut. A poet will publish every single poem in magazines before putting together a book manuscript, and the author of a nonfiction book may well have published at least one-third of the material as articles. Become known as an expert. Talk about the subject of your work at every opportunity—at your church, at Rotary meetings, at seminars. Become known. Think of your name as a brand—Stephen King, Barbara Cardand, Dave Barry, Barbara Kingsolver—and think how you want your brand to be identified. Stephen King sells horror mysteries. Barbara Cartland sells bodice rippers. Dave Barry sells guy humor. Barbara Kingsolver sells stories about women and the environment. Then think what attributes you want to promote in your work. Maybe you write children's novels that transform school-day anxieties by placing them in the magical world of a wizard named Harry Potter. Maybe you write clever cowgirl adaptations of fairy tales with a feminist spirit. Maybe you write lighthearted travel books about Latin America from a left-wing point of view. Articulate the single unique feature of your book or article. Beginning writers, especially, reflect on all the ideas, feelings, and observations they put into their work, and they have to try over and over to find its single unique feature. Introduce yourself to editors and agents by letter, or in person at writers' workshops, when you are deciding where to submit a manuscript for publication. Whether you plan to publish where you can submit your writing directly to the editor (with many magazines and most university presses, for example), or where the editors prefer to work with agents (in most commercial book publishing houses, for example), it's a good idea to become known among both editors and agents. The more clearly and sympathetically you have established your brand, the more readily you will find an agent, the more profitably an agent can work for you, and the easier it will be to achieve publication, with or without an agent. Many beginning writers hope that if they can only attract an agent their troubles will be over. An agent's access to editors, knowledge of publishing, and experience negotiating contracts—those are all indeed valuable. But the agent is only one of many resources the writer taps to achieve success, and having an agent may not even be essential to success. One successful writer we know has long had an agent, but even so he schedules regular trips to New York to make the rounds of editors himself. Stephen King says that he didn't have an agent until he had already earned three million dollars from his writing. What agents cannot do is the one thing beginning writers would like them to do. An agent cannot take away the pain of rejection. Instead of rejection by an editor, a writer faces the prospect of rejection by agents—and editors' rejections passed along by an agent. One friend's agent, after repeated tries, failed to place his novel and sent him a dozen editors' rejections in a single manila envelope. As one rejection letter after another spilled out into his lap, the writer laughed about it, but it was a wry laugh at best. Even so, the first question at any writers' conference is usually, How do I get an agent? There are four ways writers connect with an agent: 1. The agent comes to you. Agents read widely, looking for writers to represent, and an article you publish in a magazine (even, an online magazine) may strike a chord with an agent, who may write asking to represent you. 2. You scan the list of agents in such reference books as Literary Market Place and Writers' Market, available at the reference desk of most public libraries, looking for agents who list specialties similar to yours. 3. You read the acknowledgments in books by your favorite current writers. An agent who represents one or two of those writers may be the agent you would like to have representing you, too. 4. You attend writers' conferences and workshops, planning to meet agents and to present them with book proposals. With any of these four approaches, you take matters into your own hands, choosing a reputable agent who will represent you well. Any of these approaches will involve some networking—taking the advice of friends who have agents, attending workshops, corresponding with many agents, making appointments, traveling to New York—and lots of reading. Having identified an agent, or a list of agents, you'd like to have representing you, it's up to you to sell or pitch your work to the agent. You can pitch your work to an agent just as you would to an editor. The most important element is a good presentation—a letter that you write and rewrite to get just the right tone. If you have done your job right, an agent will respond to your queries or will come to you. Of course, there is no guarantee that every writer will attract an agent. To stay in business, first-class literary agents must choose clients who will earn, and consequently will earn the agent, a substantial income over a period of many years. Agents look especially for writers at the beginning of their careers—the next young Stephen King or Joyce Carol Oates—who, over the course of a lifetime, may write dozens of best sellers. A writer starting out at age sixty-one has fewer years to write than does one starting but at twenty-five—an obstacle your pitch may need to overcome, perhaps by an emphasis on the experience of the world that you bring to your writing. Whether you are seeking an agent or an editor, what you are doing is finding a match—a process that takes time. For writers submitting work directly to magazines, it means sending out lots of stories, poems, and queries, and being prepared for rejection. We know one beginning writer who didn't merely brace himself for rejection, he planned for it. He set out, during his first year as a writer, to send out one submission per week, and he planned to receive fifty-two rejections during the year. He failed to meet his goal. He had only forty-eight rejections—because he also received four thrilling, major, national acceptances. One way to begin is to seek out every possible opportunity to publish your work. To build experience and a track record, you can submit poems to small magazines, opinion pieces to the local newspaper, book reviews to the church newsletter. One woman in Tucson wrote half a dozen columns about her Mexican American family's place in the community and submitted them to the editor of the afternoon daily newspaper. He hired her to write a weekly column about Mexican American life in Tucson. At the same time, you can submit your work to national magazines, whether they are specialized journals, little poetry magazines, or general interest magazines such as Harper's, Atlantic Monthly, and the New Yorker. To protect their time, most editors ask that writers send a query seeking permission to submit an article or story before actually sending the piece itself. (Nowadays, editors generally prefer to receive queries, and manuscripts, too, by e-mail, although a few still prefer queries and manuscripts on paper.) An editor can tell quickly from a brief query whether the subject of a writer's proposal is in the ballpark. More often than not, when an editor rejects a piece of writing it's because the subject doesn't fit the interests of the magazine or publisher—the writer has simply sent the piece to the wrong publisher. A great many magazines post their writers' guidelines on a Web site, and writers can e-mail a query and receive a prompt response. It's common sense and common courtesy to submit a piece to only one magazine at a time. As a reader, you probably know the one magazine where you would most expect to see your article or story. Likewise, it's best to send a query (as distinct from a complete piece of writing) to only one magazine at a time. Poets often have half a dozen packets of poems, five or ten poems per packet, simultaneously circulating to magazines, each packet submitted to only one magazine at a time. In your one-page query letter, which you can customize to go to several editors simultaneously, you should do six things: 1. Ask the editor if you may please submit your article or story for the editor to consider for publication, always giving the title of the piece and its length in words. 2. Describe the submission in one or two sentences, focusing on the single unique feature of the piece—what it's got that no other story has. 3. Say why you are submitting the piece to that particular magazine. 4. Identify, yourself as a writer. (Toot your own horn without apology. You're a brand name, remember?) 5. Ask to hear from the editor. 6. Say "thank you." Writing a query letter is just like writing a poem, an article, or a story. It's hard work, and it deserves every ounce of your ability and attention. You should spend ample time crafting your query letter. The query letter for a nonfiction piece should state succinctly, in addition to the single unique feature of your manuscript, your single greatest qualification for writing it (including a list of some of the places where you have previously published). It may be only when you compress your work into a query letter that you realize what you're really trying to say and why you're qualified to say it. It's like a plug on the six o'clock news. You have just a few seconds to tell your story in a compelling way. Like this: Dear [editor's name goes here]: May I please submit my article "Jane Doe and Her Friends in Sonora" (2,500 words) for publication in [magazine title]? My article tells the unique story of an American woman who, through microcredit—making tiny loans to a circle of women in a squatter settlement on our border with Mexico—helps them learn to improve their lives, from hygiene to hairdressing. U.S. Sen. Hillary Rodham Clinton is among the Americans who, like Jane Doe, have embraced microcredit as a means of lifting the poorest of the poor from poverty. Your readers may appreciate learning about this interest of Senator Clinton's. Ms. Doe works in Mexico as a volunteer. Her professional work is equally affecting—she practices physical therapy with the elderly and with victims of torture and leprosy. I have recently published more than twenty general interest articles on master teachers such as Ms. Doe and the U.S. border with Meidco. May I hear from you soon? A stamped, self-addressed envelope is enclosed. Thank you for considering my proposal for [magazine title]. Sincerely yours, [your signature] An e-mail query, like every e-mail message, needs to be especially succinct, no more than one screen long. And of course, be sure to give your address and phone number in your e-mail. After the editor has replied to your query by inviting the article, nowadays you may well submit the article by e-mail. Otherwise, you put the article in an envelope with a one-page cover letter and a self-addressed, stamped envelope. You address the envelope to the editor, affix sufficient postage to both envelopes, and put the packet in the mail. Your one-page cover letter (or the opening of your submission e-mail) should do the same six things as a query letter. Like this: Dear [editor's name goes here]: Thank you very much for offering to consider the enclosed article, "Jane Doe and Her Friends in Sonora" (2,500 words), for publication in [magazine title]. [Repeat the body of your query letter.] Again, thank you very much for considering my work. May I hear from you soon? A stamped, self-addressed envelope is enclosed. Sincerely yours, [your signature] Submitting a manuscript to a book publisher is similar. The first step is a book proposal, a more elaborate version of a magazine query letter. The agent Michael Larsen's book, How to Write a Book Proposal, is an excellent comprehensive guide. It's in our list of Further Reading at the back of the book. A book proposal can be quite elaborate; at its simplest, it can comprise A one-page cover letter focusing on the single unique, compelling feature of your book, your qualifications for writing it, and the core readership that you are addressing An outline presented as a series of narratives—a paragraph of one or two sentences about each chapter. A narrative outline will give the editor an idea of your skill as a writer and the flow of the book. Two or three sample chapters—the most compelling actual chapters of the book, not photocopies of previously published articles that you plan to recycle as chapters of the book but haven't yet rewritten. One of them can be, but need not be, the introduction. A one-page résumé emphasizing your experience as a writer and your qualifications to write this particular book A stamped, self-addressed envelope You can send a book proposal to several publishers at one time. But out of consideration for the time and energy an editor will put into considering it, you should submit a full book manuscript to only one publisher at a time. Much of this correspondence—the query letter, the outline and sample chapters, even the completed manuscript—can be conducted nowadays by e-mail. While you are waiting for replies you have an opportunity to keep writing. As a writer you will have many irons in the fire, more than one string to your bow, lots of stories, novels, articles, and books in the works or going out to publishers, either getting published or rejected and being readied to be sent out again somewhere else. How to Choose a Publisher In choosing a publisher, the best place to start is with the magazines you like to read and the publishers that have published the books you love. If you are writing nonfiction, matching the topical interests of the magazine or publisher is especially important. Most of the queries editors reject are for material that simply doesn't fit their focus in terms of subject matter. Health magazines tend to publish articles about health, crafts magazines about crafts, retirement magazines about topics of presumed interest to retired persons. Fiction and poetry are more matters of taste than of topic, but reading through one or two recent issues of a magazine will give you a notion of whether your work is likely to be welcomed by its editors. Second to the topical focus of the publisher is the length of manuscripts they publish. General interest magazines nowadays want articles of 1,500 words (6 double-spaced pages) or less. A book for adults is more than 33,250 words (133 double-spaced pages) long. If your manuscript stands between 6 and 132 pages, before you go any further you may want to shorten it to fit a magazine or fatten it to make a book. There are many exceptions. The manuscript of a children's book can be much shorter than 133 pages, and so can the manuscript for a book of poems. A few specialized journals publish articles longer than 6 pages. If you are already extremely famous, editors are likely to stretch their criteria. A writer's first step on the road to becoming extremely famous is publishing in magazines. How to Choose a Magazine The New Yorker sprang to mind, right? If you want to hit the big time, you think first of the mass circulation, general interest magazines—Harper's, the Atlantic Monthly, the New Yorker—because they publish writing that interests you and a million people like you. Also, you may have heard that they pay well. Nothing wrong with that—go ahead and give it a shot. But these three magazines publish only an exquisitely small amount of the writing produced every month, and staff writers or regular contributors write a lot of what they do publish, and every writer in the world is sending them stuff, so the odds are very long against your scoring the first time out. You can think of those three as the pinnacle of a pyramid of magazines. The second-tier magazines are slightly more specialized. They're addressed primarily to either women (Cosmopolitan, Ladies' Home Journal, Redbook) or men (Esquire, Playboy, GQ). A third tier comprises still more specialized magazines, such as Parents, Working Mother, and Horse & Rider, that pay their writers and might be slightly more hospitable to new writers than the top three. Typically, their Web sites will offer writers' guidelines. And so the pyramid goes, each tier built of ever more numerous and more specialized magazines. (Blogs and other kinds of publishing on the Internet can fit many places on the pyramid, from general interest writing for a large audience to specialized writing for a tiny readership.) The foundation of the pyramid is a mass of thousands of extremely specialized magazines, each with a circulation of one thousand or fewer. The few subscribers to any one magazine, and the few advertisers wishing to reach them, provide the publishers with very little money, and these magazines in turn may pay their writers next to nothing. These small-circulation magazines are fertile ground for a novice writer who simply wishes to communicate or who wants to develop her skills while on the road to greater glory and income as a writer. Laura Hillenbrand, the author of the best seller Sea Biscuit, which became a successful movie, established her reputation by writing nonfiction articles for specialized horse magazines. Also, if your specialized writing is a good match for a specialty magazine, you can publish a lot with relatively few rejection slips. To choose magazines to submit to, first inventory the magazines you receive and note two or three where your writing would fit. Study the fine print in an issue of each magazine to find the name of the editor, address of the editorial offices (as distinguished from the office of advertising, circulation, or publisher), and Web address. You may also find brief guidelines for writers. Second, scan the racks of a newsstand and the shelves of current periodicals in your public library and get editors' names and addresses from a few relevant magazines. While you're at the public library, you can find the shelf of Writer's Market and similar reference books. These books offer magazine editors' advice about what writing they want to see and how to submit, along with other information. These books are not comprehensive—they focus on outlets that pay writers—so you may find only a few magazines related to your interests. Third, an Internet search, using Google and other search engines, may uncover additional magazines in your area of interest, and you may also find Internet sites where you can publish your writing. At this point, you have selected a half dozen magazines where you'd like to publish your writing. If you haven't been able to find the name and address of a magazine's editor, or guidelines for writers, you might check the magazine's Web site. As only one example, we found Reminisce: The Magazine that Brings Back the Good Times with an Internet search (the Web site is www.reminisce.com). We'd never heard of the magazine, but plenty of people have—it claims more than a million subscribers. We also found the very comprehensive writers' guidelines for Reminisce at their Web site. In positive, exact, and plain language, the Reminisce contributors' guidelines describe the magazine's contents (true stories, no fiction, and vintage photographs that "bring back the good times" for its readers, and no advertising), its "relaxed and conversational style," and its seven-hundred-word limit on the length of stories. The guidelines tell you exactly how to submit material, including specifications for photographs, and how much you are likely to be paid: fifty dollars and a Classic Red '57 Chevy replica car bank for a feature, or for shorter pieces just the bank, identifying the writer as a "Reminisce Staffer." A great many magazines offer similarly helpful and extensive writers' guidelines on their Web sites. With the guidelines of a dozen target magazines in hand, you are ready to send out query letters. Choosing a book publisher is not so different from choosing magazines to submit your work to. Just as there are several categories of magazines, there are four kinds of book publishers. Most writers will want to focus on the first two: 1. Trade or commercial publishers—the equivalent of mass circulation magazines—publish books of general interest. They sell a relatively large number of copies of each book, and they usually pay authors an advance and royalties on copies sold. 2. Specialized publishers, including university presses and religious and scientific houses, sell fewer copies. Only the most successful authors receive very much income. Two other kinds of book publishers are of limited interest to most writers: 3. Textbook publishers generally commission their writers to write books tailored to a curriculum and are not likely to consider unsolicited submissions. 4. Vanity presses require the author to pay the cost of publication and do not certify the value of the manuscripts they publish. We say more about vanity presses and self-publishing in the next chapter. A trade publisher will distribute the book widely, mainly through bookstores, and often at a price that the common reader can afford. Some trade publishers have paperback lines in which trade books reach an even wider audience at even lower prices.. A few authors become famous and wealthy by publishing with trade publishers. Trade publishers are businesses, after all, but that also means that they are likely to be more interested in the bottom line than in the technical value of a specialized book. The trade publisher's editors have to work fast and may not pay careful attention to details. If the book is not wildly successful, it may remain in print—that is, available from the publisher—for only one six-month publishing season. A specialized publisher will make your book available to readers worldwide, especially to those who care the most about your subject, rather than the kind of mass readership that leads to fame and wealth. Its marketing will probably be vigorous, but it will be tailored to a specialized readership that can be reached by direct mail, book reviews, and related publicity. Its books are a little less likely to be found in general interest bookstores, although the big chains—Borders and Barnes and Noble—stock a gratifying array of specialized books. For its smaller market, a specialized publisher will print a much smaller pressrun than a trade publisher would do, and, lacking the economy of scale of a large pressrun, will set a higher retail price. The specialized publisher's editors are more likely to care about your subject itself and are likely to devote more effort to getting everything right. The publishing schedule will probably be significantly slower than a trade publisher's. If it is a nonprofit publisher, your book can remain in print and available for years, even for decades. Choosing a book publisher, as with a magazine, begins with your own reading. Pull related books off your own bookshelves or the shelves of a public library and stack them by publisher. Note the publisher's name and address on the copyright page. Search through the preface and acknowledgments for the names of the author's editor and agent. Choose the three or four publishers of the most recent books in your own library that are most closely related to your own manuscript. As you read the New York Times Book Review on Sunday morning, the New York Review of Books, and the book reviews in your favorite magazines, note the names of the publishers in the reviews as well as the ads. At the library you can find further information in reference books such as Writer's Market. These books focus on publishers that pay their writers and tend to ignore the vast sea of noncommercial publishers where your book might most appropriately come to harbor. From your own computer, searching by subject, you can also mine many libraries' electronic card catalogs, Amazon.com, and other electronic resources for the names of appropriate publishers. Book publishing houses are regularly bought and sold, conglomerated and dissolved. Book editors move from house to house. The telephone directory in the current volume of Literary Market Place at the library will help you locate what has become of the publisher and editor of your favorite books. It will also help you find agents' addresses and where your favorite author's editor has landed. 36 Self-Publishing, Electronic Publishing, and Vanity Publishing There are many good reasons for wanting a professional publisher to publish your work. An editor's selecting it attests to its value. A professional knows how to prepare the book for publication, make copies, store and distribute them, market the book, and account for costs and income. A commercial publisher can put your book in the hands of thousands or even millions of readers. But the path to acceptance, for most writers, is paved with rejection, and finding a publisher can be fraught with anxiety and questions about self-worth. As well, seeking a match with an editor takes time. Simply finding a publisher can take months or years. And, after the publishing clock starts, the work of editing, design, printing, and marketing will total six months to two years. Some writers choose self-publishing as a way of making a living. Writers who address a niche readership may find that they can sell their books without using the elaborate machinery of a professional publishing house. If they've succeeded at other businesses or are willing to learn, they may be able to make self-publishing a success, too. If speed is important to you, or if you don't want to face rejection, or if you want to learn a new business, and if you are willing to handle all the elements of publication yourself, you can publish your work yourself or consider electronic publishing. Self-publishing or e-publishing can be fast, if you know what you are doing or can find expert help. Even so, it is a lot of work, and before you turn away from the path of seeking professional publication, you may wish to think through why you are going it on your own. If you can answer yes to the following questions, self-publishing may be the answer to your dreams. Are you impatient by nature? Can you afford the expense (or the loss, if you decide to self-publish as a business)? Can you identify your readership by name (daughter Katherine, grandson Bennett) or are you eager to spend the time and energy to find your readership? If you only want to publish a few copies to give to your immediate family, if you don't care whether your book is distributed widely, or if you enjoy selling door to door, then self-publishing may be your ticket. One Tucsonan, recently retired from owning book and music stores, has self-published ten thousand copies of a little book of his own ideas about how to live well. He gives his book away, and even handing out free copies turns out to be hard work not much different from selling. Do you have a big garage? Big enough to hold, for many years, the pallets of books you will have had printed but not sold or given away? Can you dispense with the validation of professional publication? Common readers look to the reputation of the publisher to tell them whether your book merits attention. Scholars and scientists rely upon other scholars' endorsement or peer review of the scholarship in specialized journals such as Science and Nature and in books published by university presses. University professors need peer-reviewed publication for promotion and tenure. For these readers and writers, self-publication just won't do. But you may not need this sort of validation. Will your spouse or partner support this venture? Or will the time and expense be a source of friction? If the answers are yes, then self-publishing may be for you. Self-Publishing Success Stories Doctor Death. Ken Iserson, MD, a professor of emergency medicine and bioethics at the University-of Arizona, wrote, and he and his wife published, a guide to getting into residency programs for newly minted MDS. It's not merely a book that people want. It's a book that new MDS—? desperate to complete their training, go into practice, and pay off their college loans—need. It's also about a topic that changes frequently, so Dr. and Mrs. Iserson regularly publish revised editions themselves. Every year the book has a fresh market of new MDS, and each market needs the newest edition. But the Isersons had more than simply, one book with a ready market. They also had skills to bring to the job. Dr. Iserson holds an MBA as well as an MD, and his wife is an editor and a CPA. (If you decide to self-publish and lack Mrs. Iserson's skills, you need to learn to keep accounts well enough to satisfy yourself, or avoid accounting altogether by giving your book away, pr if income taxes are not a consideration, reconcile yourself to keeping sloppy accounts or none at all.) The Isersons had set out not merely to publish one book but to start a publishing house. So they engaged as an adviser Dan Poynter, a Californian who has built a career writing books, teaching seminars, and consulting about self-publishing. Next, Dr. Iserson wrote, and the Isersons published, Dust to Dust, a book about exactly what happens to your body when you die. It's a topic of not merely ghoulish interest—it's critically important to the system of organ and tissue donations. The first edition sold more than forty thousand copies in hardback, and within a couple of years new scientific discoveries justified publishing a revised edition. Their course was set, and the Isersons are publishing one or more new books per year, all tightly focused on topics of broad medical interest. Ken Iserson, MD, has become a brand name in two markets: He is unabashedly the Number One Residency Guru worldwide, and among organ donor specialists he is known as Doctor Death. Hank the Cowdog. John Erickson presents a longer, more grueling story of the path to success in self-publishing. With a degree from the University of Texas, and following a disillusioning run at Harvard Divinity School, John returned to the Texas Panhandle to write. He supported his family working as a cowboy and a carpenter, rising long before dawn to write for four hours every morning out in the barn. Every morning. For more than twenty-five years. Professional publishers published John's first three books, all arising from his own life as a Panhandle cowboy, and then John set out on his own. John began writing detective stories for children about the adventures of Hank the Cowdog, chief of ranch security. To keep control of the books and the income, John published the first book himself and then hit the road with his banjo and a truckload of books and sang and told stories and peddled books in classrooms and everywhere he could find children to sing and talk to in the little towns of West Texas, the Oklahoma Panhandle, and eastern New Mexico. John kept on writing and publishing and peddling Hank the Cow-dog books and tapes, and finally commercial publishers got interested in taking Hank on. As of the year 2000, a division of the paperback giant Viking Penguin had thirty-nine Hank books in print, the fortieth was in the pipeline, and John had finished the manuscript for number forty-one. John says that Hank keeps leading him to stories to write. John Erickson stands six foot two. He wears a big hat and speaks with a laconic Texas accent. He looks and acts authentically like the writer who lives in the world of Hank the Cowdog. And that's branding. One professional poet, in addition to the poems and books he places with professional publishers, has published a few books on his own over the years, partly for fun, partly because they don't quite fit the niche of other publishers. He enjoys the work of selection and the craft of seeing the books through the press, and he seems to have only modest expectations about reaching a wide readership. Another professional writer, the poet Coleman Barks, having established a huge national audience for his translations of the Sufi poet Rumi, was able to found his own publishing house, Maypop Press, through which to distribute his work. A more customary kind of self-publisher was the late Hannah Cook Westley, who did her self-publishing with unusual determination and good taste. After publishing her mother's memories, which she recorded on regular visits to her mother in a nursing home, Hannah decided to publish her own memoirs. With admirable restraint, she took up only her first twenty-one years. The teacher of a class on writing memoirs gave her an invaluable tip: be confident about your own memories and don't let anyone else talk you out of them. As Hannah said in her book, "All of the places and events in this book are true and unaltered from my memory of them. If anyone reading this has a different memory of this material, it is their memory." Hannah's memoir is a short book, at only 110 pages, which made it easier to publish and quicker to read, and she sold it as opportunity arose for ten dollars, autographed. To her good fortune, Hannah's son was a graphic designer. Using a Macintosh computer and a copy shop, Hannah said, he "took all my pages and my distressed photographs and gave them a professional tune-up before printing the book." Hannah's memoir is charming and witty and interesting even to people who are not related to her, partly because of her son's attractive and unpretentious design. Most self-publishers will find that using a copy shop, as Hannah Westley did, is the readiest means of duplicating a few copies of a short book. A local job printer may offer higher quality but probably at a much steeper price. The specialized book manufacturers that print and bind books for commercial publishers offer the top of the line in quality. But self-publishers may find it awkward to work with book manufacturers—their plants are not likely to be just around the corner, and they are set up to do business with established accounts, not with single-book clients. It's difficult, too, for a self-publisher to get a single book into the national channels of distribution. Even a local bookstore is unlikely to want to, or be able to, distribute a self-published book very successfully, unless the subject of the book holds great interest for the store's customers, or the book is unusually attractive. Dutch Salmon of Silver City, New Mexico, published such a book that he had written about canoeing the Gila River. Salmon's book tells an intriguing southwestern story, and he is an engaging guy who, by persistence, persuaded regional bookstores and distributors to carry his book. They were able to sell it. As Salmon gained experience, he began publishing books by other writers and eventually succeeded as a small regional publisher. The best avenues of distribution for a self-publisher are probably —sending and, especially, resending postcards, via direct mail, to lists of friends, relatives, colleagues, and people who might be interested —sending news releases to an appropriate list of newspapers, magazines, newsletters, and other media —putting up a Web site and getting the book listed by Amazon.com —selling books directly at the writer's and/or publisher's speaking engagements. To succeed in all these media, the writer needs to employ pleasant, calm persistence. Vanity Publishing Rather than publishing your book yourself, you can also avoid the process of editorial selection by engaging a subsidy publisher or vanity press (the name means what it says) to put your book in print. You shouldn't have high expectations. What a vanity press will do for you is commonly quite modest, and the reputable ones will spell it out exactly. The vanity press's basic criterion in selecting manuscripts to publish is whether or not your check bounces. The process is likely to go slowly, and the bill for their services can be shockingly high, but probably not so much more than you would have spent, a thousand bucks here, a thousand bucks there, publishing the book yourself, and a lot less than people spend on other hobbies—collecting art, say, or yachting. If you are a poet, you may have run across vanity presses that publish poetry anthologies. For a fee, they offer a way of getting your poems into print. Electronic Publishing Electronic publishing, or e-pub, generally means making a book widely available on the Internet. E-pub is still new, the dust has not yet settled, and there are many possible variations. E-publishing works for a piece of writing of any length, from a poem to an encyclopedia. With e-publishing, you don't have to make multiple copies of your book, article, or poem, and it can be instantly available to millions of people worldwide. One variation combines features of vanity publishing and self-publishing. For a fairly modest fee, the e-publisher will post your book on the Internet and list it in its catalog and ads. Readers can read the book on-screen, download it, or order a printed copy. But e-publishing only takes the place of paper, printing, binding, and distribution. It doesn't eliminate the need for editors and designers (even if the editor and designer is you) and marketing. Whether you write a poem, an article, a book, or an evanescent stream of bits and bytes, people have to hear about it, decide they want to read it, and know how to get it. You still have to do the writer's work of marketing and promotion, and e-pub can come into play there, too, if you decide to get up your own Web site to promote your work. When you publish on the Web, you enter a huge, floating, chaotic mass of human expression, where factual and ethical rigor are up for grabs, like the mass of private correspondence and popular handbills, broadsides, ballads, and street-corner harangues that flooded the English-speaking world during the rise, in the nineteenth century, of literacy, democracy, and printing technology. 37 A Few Observations about Copyright Copyright is a law that protects the right of writers and other artists to benefit from the fruits of their labor. Broadly, copyright is the right to sell copies of their work. Copyright protects all kinds of creative work—paintings, photographs, architectural drawings, musical compositions, choreography, and even computer code. Ever since the first United States copyright statute was enacted in 1790, copyright has encouraged artists and writers to produce informative and inspiring work and to make it widely available. It does that by protecting the livelihood of individual workers, individual artists. The idea of copyright is simple and straightforward, but in practice copyright law is complicated and ambiguous, too. The best source of information is the U.S. Copyright Public Information Office. The phone number is (202) 707-5959, and knowledgeable people are waiting to take your call. The U.S. Copyright Office also has a generally informative Web site, www.loc.gov/copyright. For a practical understanding of copyright, we refer you to William S. Strong's plainspoken manual addressed expressly to writers and artists, entitled The Copyright Book: A Practical Guide. As well, any lawyer can refer you to an attorney specializing in copyright. Large general practice law firms sometimes have a copyright specialist among their partners. Perhaps we would be wisest just to stop right there, but we can't resist offering a few observations. However noble the impulse behind copyright protection, in the digital age writers are little fish in a big copyright pond. Large corporations—which own copyrights to an array of inventions, from computer programs to Mickey Mouse—have asserted control over the drafting of copyright law. Other large institutions, such as university libraries, also take an active interest. Still, copyright helps individual writers protect their own rights in what they have written. It protects you, and it protects the writers you want to quote. In a nutshell, if I want to copy and sell something that you wrote, or a quotation from your work, I need to obtain your permission. And I need to pay you if you charge a fee for granting permission. Copyright is not just one thing. It's a bundle of five rights—the right to reproduce a work distribute copies to the public make derivative works, such as adaptations and books on tape perform the work, and display it publicly. Different artists find different rights important. Novelists "distribute copies." Playwrights "perform." Painters "display publicly." (Usually, of course, it's a publisher who distributes copies of the novel, a theater company that performs the play, and a gallery that displays the paintings—with the artist's permission.) Expression, originality, and fixation are the keys to copyright protection. That is, you can copyright only the particular way you have expressed an original production of your mind, fixed in tangible form, whether with pen on paper or on a computer disk. Copyright protects things, not ideas. That is, it protects the particular way you have expressed your ideas in tangible form, not what's in your head. Copyright law does not protect your mere idea for a novel, no matter how original. It only comes into force at the moment you set pen to paper. (Some works that are not expressed in fixed form, such as pantomime, which exists only in performance, can be protected by common law copyright, but that does not affect you as a writer.) To obtain copyright protection, you only need to start writing. If you mean to distribute a few copies, such as photocopies at a conference, it is a good idea to signal your ownership by putting "Copyright (c) [year and your name go here], All Rights Reserved," on the first page. Careful writers register the complete manuscript for a book that they are planning to submit for publication, and journalists register all the pieces they've published in a year in one fell swoop. That way, people who want permission to reprint them can find the author's address through the U.S. Copyright Office. You needn't even register your unpublished writing with the U.S. Copyright Office to gain copyright protection. However, to bring suit to enforce your copyright you must have registered it. Registration is a fairly simple process. You can obtain the forms from the U.S. Copyright Office Web site, www.loc.gov/copyright. Professional writers don't usually register their notes, which comprise ideas and facts more than the expression—the final string of words—used in the work. Nor do they usually register unpublished manuscripts that they're not showing to anyone else. The plots of works of fiction are protected, and so are fictional characters, but more as a matter of ordinary property law than copyright. After a publisher accepts your manuscript for publication, typically the publisher handles registering it for copyright. Copyright protects your work until seventy years after your death. Everything any American has written since 1978 has that protection under the Copyright Act of 1976. After the term expires, your writing falls into the public domain and anybody can use it with impunity. (The span of copyright is different for the works created before 1978 that you may wish to quote in your own books and articles.) Copyright offers endless learning, befuddling, and arguing opportunities. We've listed copyright references under Further Reading in the back of the book, including complete addresses for the U.S. Copyright Office, which is the authoritative source of copyright information. 38 Fair Use There are two sides to copyright law—protecting your property and protecting the property of others. In protecting the property of others, copyright law tells you not to quote or copy someone else's writing without his or her permission. But unlike other laws, copyright law has a doctrine called fair use. The idea of fair use is quite lofty. It's meant to foster the intellectual life of the nation by encouraging writers to test their ideas against those of others. To do that, writers need to be able to quote other writers freely and accurately. Fair use simply permits you to copy—in a sense, to borrow—other people's writing, without obtaining their permission, for purposes of scholarship and criticism. But there has to be a limit to how much you can copy without permission. Otherwise, your use is not fair. If you infringe someone else's copyright, you have deprived that person of an opportunity, however slight, to profit financially from his or her work. If you quote extensively from another person's work, people might use your book or article instead of purchasing the source you are quoting. The other writer then loses the opportunity to earn royalties on that lost sale, and that's not fair. How can you tell when a use is fair? The law doesn't say. But courts use five criteria to define fair use. The first criterion is quantitative: Courts are more likely to consider your quotation fair use if it does not represent (a) a large part or (b) a substantial part of the original. For example, a quotation one page long is usually a large part of any piece of writing and surely would not be fair use—you would need to obtain the writer's permission to use it. And four lines of a seven-line poem would be a substantial part of that poem (even though it wouldn't add up to a large amount of poetry), and you would need to obtain the poet's permission to quote. Of course, a quotation from a book of prose may be both large and substantial: five pages lifted from a book of two hundred pages, say, would require permission. Unfortunately, the copyright law does not define either large or substantial. It leaves it to the courts to decide, in each case, how much is too much. The second criterion is even vaguer: Courts are more likely to consider your quotation fair use if your purpose in writing your article or book is nonprofit and educational rather than commercial—as if writers didn't want to earn a living by conveying useful information. The third criterion splits an even finer hair: It's more likely to be fair use if the work you are quoting, rather than being largely literary (a poem or short story, for example), is informational. The fourth criterion follows up on the second criterion by getting down to money: Your quotation is more likely to be fair use if it will not undermine the financial value of the work you are quoting. How much income is the copyright owner losing by your quoting the work without permission? The answer is uncertain at best, and resolving uncertainty can be expensive if you retain a lawyer to do it. Fortunately, the fifth criterion is a pretty easy yes or no: Your quotation is more likely to be fair use if you are quoting a source that has been published (a book or magazine article, for example) rather than unpublished (a private letter you found in an archive, say). If you have written an article for publication in which you quote an unpublished source, you will need permission to quote from it. Despite the vagueness of the five criteria, writers need to use fair use bravely to keep the right from withering away. But they also need to use it fairly. In quoting others, the best practice is: 1. Quote others accurately, whether the quote is long or short. That's not only a matter of copyright, it's a responsibility, an obligation, a courtesy to your readers and to the original writer. 2. Put the quote in quotation marks (or indent it as a block, or "extract") so you won't be taking credit for something someone else wrote. 3. Cite the original source—writer, place of publication, date of publication or copyright date, page number—exactly. Give the original writer credit. 4. In deciding how extensive a quotation you can use, ask yourself, Am I using it as an example, or is it taking the place of writing I can do myself? 5. Then decide whether it's fair use or a quotation for which you must seek permission. No quantitative formula will tell you whether the use you intend is fair. Nevertheless, here are our rules of thumb, not to be construed as a legal opinion: If you quote more than five lines of a poem, or 10 percent of a short poem, obtain permission. If you quote more than fifty continuous words of a work of prose, or if your article, chapter, or entire book is freckled with quotes from a single source, obtain permission. Don't quote the lyrics of any song in copyright. The music guys are aggressive, expensive, and inflexible—think "pit bulls"—and it's not worth fighting them. If your publisher's editor questions whether any quotation is fair use, rewrite or omit it without a moment's hesitation. Obtain other writers' permission before quoting them extensively. The safest practice, of course, is to quote other writers as little as possible and to put everything in your own words. Come to think of it, why would you ever have wanted to use somebody else's words and deprive yourself of a writing opportunity? Anyway, requesting permissions is a pain in the neck. 39 Obtaining Permission to Quote Obtaining permissions is a pain in the neck, and it follows that the more permissions you have to obtain, the greater the pain. For one thing, you have to wait until the last minute. You can't request permissions until you know what you want to quote, and you won't know that until you've finished writing the piece. You can't request permissions until your work is accepted for publication, because you need to say in your permission requests who will publish your book or article. And, after your book is well into production and a publication date is set, the publisher's editor may spot a quotation for which you need to obtain permission. The exchange of correspondence to obtain permission can be maddeningly slow, just when you want things to go fast. Each publisher or writer or writer's agent may receive hundreds or thousands of permission requests a week. Your request has to take its place in queue, and a multimillion-dollar offer for movie rights will probably jump the line ahead of your modest request for permission to quote. Adding to the agony, each writer and each publisher is free to set his or her own permission fees. Depending, upon the nature of the material you want to quote, and the extent and proposed use of the quote, the fee may vary from twenty dollars to several thousand. Not only that, the writer or publisher is not obliged to grant you permission. They're not likely to refuse, but they get to decide, and there's nothing you can do about it. To seek permission to quote, you write to the rights and permissions department of the magazine or book publisher that published the work you wish to quote. Publishers go out of business and magazines change their names, so you may have to write several letters to get your request to the right person. To find the correct address, you use the masthead of the magazine, the copyright page (reverse of the title page) of a book, a library reference book such as Literary Market Place, or the publisher's Web site. Also, the United States Copyright Office can help you find the proprietor of the rights in question, and an outfit called the Copyright Clearance Center can also facilitate requests for permission to use material controlled by many publishers. Your request letter is simple and straightforward. In a letter addressed to the attention of the rights and permissions department of the publisher, on your letterhead, you say simply something like this: Dear [editor's name]: I am writing to request permission to quote [amount of text: three hundred words, five lines, whatever] from [author, title, place of publication, copyright date] in all printings and editions of my forthcoming book, [title of your book]. My book will be published in [specify whether hardback or paperback] by [name of publisher] in an edition of [specify approximate initial pressrun] in [season or month of publication]. It is a [some phrase to indicate the size and nature of the intended readership: scholarly book, educational text, article of general interest, memoir published for the members of my local engineering society]. I have enclosed photocopies of the passages I wish to quote, with page citations and word count indicated. I will be happy to answer any questions you may have about this request. May I please hear from you soon? Sincerely yours, [your signature] From the publication date you have specified for your book, the publisher can tell how urgent your request is. Be sure to indicate your telephone number, e-mail address, and fax number, if you have one, so that the publisher can respond quickly and efficiently. The publisher may have a form for you to fill out and return either by mail or electronically. Your own publisher will offer advice and may be able to provide sample permission request letters. You may even have been able to negotiate a contract by which your publisher agrees to handle permission requests. Publishers' rights departments make their money from, big movie, paperback, and foreign rights deals, not from requests for permission to quote. This has three implications for you. First, they probably won't charge you an exorbitant fee. Second, the person handling low-income permission requests such as yours may be new at the business, certainly will be underpaid, and merits your compassion. Third, in the press of thousands of requests, they may not respond to your request as fast as you could wish. We counsel patience. You can always repeat your request, but it is a good idea to do so courteously. If in your second letter you ask politely for a reply by a certain date, you've laid the groundwork for a follow-up request. And if the permission fee does seem exorbitant, you can make a reasoned, factual case (showing for example that your book or article is scholarly and noncommercial) asking the publisher or author to reconsider, and you may get a reduced rate. 40 Protecting Your Copyright Using someone else's copyright material without permission is called copyright infringement. If someone infringes your copyright and you don't call them on it, in effect you've forfeited your copyright. How can you catch the culprit? Some writers systematically read new publications and scan Web sites in their specialties, looking for writers who may have unfairly published or quoted from their work without permission. Other writers in your specialty may tell you if somebody appears to be blatantly violating your copyright—although even your best pals don't know your work as well as you do. Or you may run across infringement by blind luck. If you suspect that someone has infringed your copyright, your first step is to inspect the book or article in question as objectively as you can. Copyright protects expression—not your ideas nor the facts you report—and the other work is infringement only if it meets three tests: 1. It uses your writing word for word. 2. You did not grant permission. 3. It's not fair use. (You can sometimes make a case for infringement even if the passage does not copy your work word for word but demonstrates such "substantial similarity" as to infringe the underlying copyright in your work. Lawyers call this "nonverbatim copying.") If, on calm reflection, you believe that the passage does indeed infringe your copyright, your second step can range from a polite letter requesting a correction in the next issue of a magazine, to a threat, on your lawyer's letterhead, to sue the infringer back into the Stone Age. Either the infringer settles out of court or not. 41 Conveying Rights: Contracts In essence, a publishing contract expresses the terms under which the author is conveying rights to the publisher. (Your publishing contract governs the terms even if the copyright is registered in your name.) You can convey all or part of the copyright in your work to the publisher, and you can negotiate the terms of conveying it. For instance, you can sell or give a magazine the right to publish one of your poems, reserving all other rights, including the right to publish the poem later in a collection of your own work. You can convey the paperback rights in your published work to a paperback publisher, and you can specify that the rights revert to you after a period of time—five years, say—giving the publisher enough time to sell out its edition. You can convey rights exclusively or nonexclusively. One magazine may want the exclusive right to publish a chapter from your forthcoming book. On the other hand, many publishers have obtained the nonexclusive right to publish Carl Sandburg's little poem "Fog" in their textbooks. And the rights are not gone for good. Even if the copyright is in the publisher's name, you can still control most of the rights, depending upon the wording of your contract. As well, you and your heirs have the statutory right to terminate the contract thirty-five years after you granted the rights, or forty years after first publication. The contract or agreement itself, which the publisher will send you upon accepting your work for publication, can be anything from a simple one-paragraph letter to a book contract running eight to ten single-spaced pages. An agreement with a magazine tends to be fairly simple. The magazine will usually want only "first serial rights"—the right of the magazine to publish the piece for the first time. The magazine will take copyright in its name and will probably revert all other rights to you, although it should spell out whether it wants to post your work online as well. For maximum international protection of your copyright, you should have the copyright notice in your own name, if possible. Most magazines won't go for this, but as we mentioned in our copyright chapter, you can always later register all your newspaper and magazine work for a twelve-month period, in your own name, in a single application. A contract with a book publisher may run to several pages and may address many details—deadlines, schedule of royalty payments, and other matters that may never have occurred to you. Negotiating a contract with a book publisher is where a good agent, if you have one, will come in handy. Publishing is a partnership between writer and publisher, and the contract expresses the terms of that partnership. Even so, the contract is the publisher's form, written to favor the publisher's interests. An agent will recognize from experience which clauses can remain as written and which ones should be changed to improve the lot of the author. Members of the Authors' Guild have access to the Guild's contract form, written to favor the writer. The Guild will also provide advice about a particular contract. If you are negotiating the contract yourself, you will find that it is written in legalese. There's no point in asking the publisher to rewrite it in finely wrought literary English, but otherwise you can ask any questions about it that you wish, especially about the rights conveyed. Somewhere the contract will specify the transfer of rights. Some book publishers may want only particular rights of publication. More commonly, a book publisher will ask you to convey all the rights listed in our copyright chapter—the rights to reproduce, distribute copies, make derivative works, perform, and display the work publicly. That is, the publisher will ask you to transfer your copyright. You don't have to do it. If you convey all the rights, the publisher's rights and permissions department will handle the tedium of rights negotiations, but you'll only get a percentage of the income—maybe 50 percent on most rights and 75 percent on the higher-ticket items such as paperback and movie rights. By retaining as many of the rights as possible and signing an agreement with the Copyright Clearance Center to handle rights, you can hold onto a much larger percentage of the income. You want to be sure that the contract takes specific account of electronic rights, assigning them either to you or to the publisher. Your book contract should also have a clause that says that any rights not assigned in the contract belong to the author, not one that says that they belong to the publisher. Although you can negotiate what rights you convey to the publisher, there's no point in being contentious about things that are unlikely to come to pass. Is someone really going to produce a Broadway musical based on your botany of southern Ohio? Contracts tend to focus on who gets the money, but for most writers the money from any one article or book doesn't actually amount to much, only enough to consider deducting some expenses on your income tax, or to show your friends and family that writing is not just a hobby. Every contract needs an ironclad termination clause. You want to be able to sell and resell the rights in your work, so you need to specify that rights revert to you at some point. You might specify cancellation of the contract and a reversion of rights if the publisher does not publish the book by a certain date. That protects your copyright from an honest publisher who lacks the will, skill, or money to publish on schedule, or from a vanity publisher who takes your money and intentionally sits on your manuscript. Book contracts commonly specify reversion of rights to the author if a book goes out of print in all editions. In that case, you want the burden of proof to fall on the publisher, not on you—the publisher should have to prove that the book is in print, rather than your proving that it is not. Better, you might specify reversion of rights ten or twenty years after publication. That gives the publisher enough time to make some money and gives you a concrete date on which you can peddle the book, if it still has some life in it, to another publisher. Besides spelling out the tiny amount of money most writers will make, a book contract also mentions that writers actually assume considerable financial risks that the publisher seeks to duck. A book contract will almost surely include a "hold harmless" clause in which you agree to hold the publisher harmless from suits for libel and other damages. You can negotiate to reduce the effect of this clause by limiting the amount of damages you will pay, but even if the clause is absent anybody can sue anybody else. Effective or not, the "hold harmless" clause brings home this lesson: you should conscientiously avoid harming other people in your book, either by infringing their copyright, by libeling them, or by invading their privacy. 42 Libel and Invasion of Privacy Libel Libel is injury to a living person's reputation. Most people want to enjoy a good reputation. Libel isn't a matter of merely embarrassing someone. Libel is a matter of injuring a living person. (You can't injure or libel a dead person—or, as lawyers put it, there is no defamation of the dead.) Most of us depend on our reputation to make a living, and an injury to our reputation could be ruinous financially. If you injure a person's reputation for living within the law or for moral rectitude, for example—if you say that they deal dishonestly with customers or that they don't treat their families well—-you may be accused of libel. And if you accuse a person of a crime of which she or he has not been convicted; if you make a libelous charge against a group to which that person belongs; or if you call a person a Nazi or a Communist, you have committed libel on the face of it. If you are a reporter or a writer of nonfiction books, you have an obligation to tell your readers what you find, truthfully. You may find that the truth imperils some living person's reputation. How can you avoid libel? The first line of defense in court is to prove that what you have written is true. The best defense is to have backup for every statement you make. That's one of many reasons to confirm and verify the facts in your story or book and even to research the other side of the story. If you are lucky enough to be published by the New Yorker, the magazine's famous fact-checkers may provide some solace by double-checking the quotations and facts in your article, but even they don't let you off the hook. The Golden Rule is a good test: Do unto others what you would have them do unto you. If John Jones had written about you what you have just written about John Jones, would you consider your reputation damaged? If so, you'd better be extra sure that you can back up what you have written. Nor is it good enough to say that you quoted accurately a reliable source who made the charge against the other person. You must be able to demonstrate that what your source said is true. A lie, even if you quote it word for word, is still a lie. In most states, pleading that you made an honest mistake won't win you many points, either. (Libel is a matter of state law, not federal law, and mostly case law at that, so it varies from state to state.) In New York, private figures have to prove malice and "grossly irresponsible" disregard for the truth in order to sue for libel. But people in other states have successfully sued for libel on the basis of falsehoods arising from mere negligence. In other words, courts are requiring writers to work ever more conscientiously to get their facts straight. It helps if you never meant to hurt the guy. A mitigating courtroom defense is to show that you meant no malice. Still, you have to ask whether you really want to wind up in court. Because libel arises almost entirely in civil law, your legal risk is largely financial. (Criminal libel is an extremely small risk. It would come into play if you wrote something libelous that resulted in a breach of the peace—for instance, a riot in the streets.) The cost of losing a libel suit can vary. In establishing damages, a court or a jury may assess the actual harm that the libel has done. Imagine that something you wrote has caused a carpenter to lose his livelihood, neighbors to shun a housewife leading to years of psychiatric treatment, or patients to abandon a doctor. The damages can be steep. Even if his or her publisher shares the risk and the cost, a sensible writer is not likely to relish being the defendant in a libel suit. Writers reporting on public life—such as reporters for daily newspapers—enjoy one special protection from libel suits. Public officials have what is called absolute privilege. They can say false, malicious, and damaging things in court, in the legislature, and in other official proceedings free of any danger of being sued for libel. Most public records may also report such statements without being libelous. Reporters, by extension, have qualified privilege. That is, they can report what public officials say (or public documents report) under absolute privilege without committing libel, so long as what they write is full, fair, accurate, and impartial. Even then, to win a libel case a public figure must prove the statements are false (rather than the reporter's proving they're true), and the public figure must prove actual malice, which is difficult to prove. But the courts are narrowing their definition of public person or official, reducing the number of people you can comment on without risking libel. And, because courts are moving away from the standard of "reckless disregard for truth" to simple negligence, citizens' right to sue for libel is being broadened while the writer's right to comment is being narrowed. Invasion of Privacy We all have a perfect right to our privacy, to live a private life out of the public eye. Based on that premise, the right of privacy enjoys a robust life in the courts. But unless your article or book sordidly, crudely, ruthlessly exploits the misfortunes or personal affairs of private citizens who have not been involved in some event that would thrust them into public view, invasion of privacy is unlikely to arise. 43 Acknowledgments With all our hearts we thank our friends who have read and commented on this book at many stages of its writing. We are grateful for their encouraging words. Ted thanks his teachers, the late Mary McNally, Will Jumper, and Karl Shapiro, from whom he learned to write. Steve thanks Rev. Nancy Roemheld, Kathy Norgard, Bill Bemis, Norm Epstein, Carol Schaefer, Charles Gillespie, Gretchen Nielsen, Ken Kennon, Tom Miller, Jay Rochlin, Ana Luisa Terrazas, Judith Allen, and above all his patient, percipient, and supportive wife and son, Barbara Kremer and Joseph Cox. 44 How to Write Dozens of "how to write" books are published every year. Here are a few that we have quoted or cited, and a few others that you might find encouraging and useful. Aronie, Nancy Slonim. Writing from the Heart: Tapping the Power of Your Inner Voice. New York: Hyperion, 1998. Atchity, Kenneth. A Writer's Time: A Guide to the Creative Process from Vision through Revision. New York: W. W. Norton, 1986. Atchity works through a schedule, an agenda, for writing a book, including time for vacations between drafts. Ballenger, Bruce, and Barry Lane. Discovering the Writer Within: 40 Days to More Imaginative Writing. Cincinnati: Writer's Digest Books, 1989. Full of imperatives: "Make a list of every person you've known." Not a bad idea, as a jump start. Boice, Robert. "Strategies for Enhancing Scholarly Productivity." In Writing and Publishing for Academic Authors, edited by Joseph M. Moxley and Todd Taylor. 2nd ed. Lanham MD: Rowman and Littlefield, 1997. Cox, Stephen. "How to Write History," Annals of Iowa 49, nos. 3, 4 (Winter/Spring 1988): 261–67. Goldberg, Natalie. Writing Down the Bones: Freeing the Writer Within. Boston: Shambhala, 1986. Zen approach. Writing as practice, i.e., developing a good habit. Choose a topic and write for ten minutes on that topic. Choose a time and write every day at that time for ten minutes. Also author of Wild Mind: Living the Writer's Life (New York: Bantam, 1990), about being a professional writer, and Living Color (New York: Bantam, 1997). Audios are available of her classes and talks. Gray, Francine du Plessix. Comments on learning writing from the poet Charles Olson. Quoted in Black Mountain: An Exploration in Community, by Martin Duberman, 376 (New York: Dutton, 1972). Hampl, Patricia. I Could Tell You Stories. New York: W. W. Norton, 1999. Biography as a literary form. Kazin, Alfred. A Walker in the City. New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1951. A model recollection of a boyhood. Every American memoirist can profit from reading it before setting pen to paper or finger to keyboard. King, Stephen. On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft. New York: Scribner, 2000. A memoir, as the title says, that holds nuggets of advice for writers of nonfiction as well as fiction. Lamott, Anne. Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life. New York: Pantheon 1994. A much-beloved how-to-write book, itself a memoir, aimed toward writing professionally. Larsen, Michael. How to Write a Book Proposal. 3rd ed. Cincinnati: Writer's Digest Books, 2003. Le Guin, Ursula K. Steering the Craft: Exercises and Discussions on Story Writing for the Lone Navigator or the Mutinous Crew. Portland OR: Eighth Mountain Press, 1998. Grew out of classes taught by a swell writer. Moxley, Joseph M. Publish, Don't Perish: The Scholar's Guide to Academic Writing and Publishing. Foreword by Robert Boice. Westport CT: Greenwood Press, 1992. A comprehensive how-to-write book, meant for university professors but full of useful tips for every beginning writer. The source of our six ways of outlining in our chapter titled "Getting Organized." New York Times, "Writers on Writing," an occasional Monday morning newspaper feature. The whole run can be found on the Web at www.nytimes.com/arts. Susan Sontag, Barbara Kingsolver, Elmore Leonard, Kent Haruf, John Updike, E. L., Doctorow, Ed McBain, Annie Proulx, Jamaica Kincaid, and Saul Bellow have written pieces for this feature. Sloane, William. The Craft of Writing, edited by Julia H. Sloane. New York: W. W. Norton, 1979. Smith, Michael C., and Suzanne Greenberg. Panning for Gold in the Kitchen Sink: Everyday Creative Writing. Chicago: NTC Publishing Group 1999. Treats the insight, memory, sensations that things around your house can prompt. The stories that an archive of years of old canceled checks can tell. The odor, taste, and feel of iceberg lettuce. The memories and feelings that things trigger and that you can write from and about. Stanek, Lou Willett. Writing Your Life: Putting Your Past on Paper. New York: Avon, 1996. Lots of exercises such as, "Write about the biggest bully you ever encountered." Says that you learn to write by writing. Strunk, William Jr., and E. B. White. The Elements of Style. 3rd ed. New York: Macmillan, 1979. E. B. White was the editor of the New Yorker, which set the standard for American English writing in the 1930s. Through thick and thin, New Yorker style has scarcely wavered in the seventy years that the magazine has been published. William Strunk Jr., of Cornell University, taught English to White and to hundreds of other students early in the twentieth century. Strunk called his manual "the little book." In his edition, E. B. White introduced the foundation of his writing style to the wider world. Stephen King observes that all you need to know about grammar you can get from Strunk and White and the endpapers of Warriner's (see below). Ueland, Brenda. If You Want to Write: A Book about Art, Independence, and Spirit. New York: Putnam, 1938; reprint, Schubert Club of St. Paul, 1983; paperback, Minneapolis: Gray Wolf, n.d. An inspiring book that grew out of a writing class Ueland taught at the Minneapolis YWCA. It's unpretentious, very practical, very direct, and it's full of citations and quotations of Ueland's own wide and deep reading. Ueland also wrote an autobiography simply entitled Me and another very spirited book about writing, Strength to Your Sword Arm. Warriner, John E. English Composition Grammar: Complete Course. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1988. Recently, though, Warriner seems to have written many editions of a Holt Handbook for Holt, Rinehart, and Winston. (For comment, see Strunk and White.) Welty, Eudora. One Writer's Beginnings. Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press, 1984. Zinsser, William, ed. Inventing the Truth: The Art and Craft of Memoir. Boston; Houghton Mifflin, 1998. Essays by well-known memoirists and writers Russell Baker, Jill Ker Conway, Annie Dillard, Ian Frazier, Henry Louis Gates Jr., Alfred Kazin, Frank McCourt, Toni Morrison, and Eileen Simpson. The essays are gems, the authors' bibliographies at the back of the book are treasure chests, and a person thinking of writing a memoir could do a heck of a lot worse than to spend a few weeks on the front porch reading the books they write about here—Conway's The Road from Coorain, Kazin's A Walker in the City, McCourt's Angela's Ashes, and (although they are novels, not memoirs) Toni Morrison's Song of Solomon and Beloved. ________. On Writing Well: An Informal Guide to Writing Nonfiction. New York: Harper and Row, 1980. A well-known book. 45 Copyright, Libel, and Invasion of Privacy Abrams, Howard. The Law of Copyright. New York: Clark Boardman, 1989. Authors' Guild Web site, at www.authorsguild.org, offers extremely valuable advice for negotiating a publishing contract and other useful information, but the highly regarded Authors' Guild model contract, written in the author's favor, is not posted, being officially available only to members of the Guild. Membership is open only to professional authors meeting Guild standards of publication. The Chicago Manual of Style. 15th ed. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2003. Goldstein, Norm, ed. The Associated Press Stylebook and Libel Manual. Rev. ed. New York: Addison-Wesley, 1998. Goldstein, Paul. Copyright: Principles, Laws, and Practices. Boston: Little Brown, 1989. Nimmer, Melville. Cases and Materials on Copyright. St. Paul MN: West, 1985. Patry, William F The Fair Use Privilege in Copyright Law. Washington DC: BNA Books, 1985. Perle, E. Gabriel, and John Taylor Williams, Publishing Law Handbook. 2nd ed. Englewood Cliffs NJ: Prentice-Hall Law and Business Books, 1992. Sanford, Bruce W. Libel and Privacy: The Prevention and Defense of Litigation. Clifton NJ: Law and Business Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1985. ________. Synopsis of the Law of Libel and the Right of Privacy. Scripps-Howard Newspapers and Scripps-Howard Broadcasting, n.d. Recommended by UPI stylebook for further information. Strong, William S. The Copyright Book: A Practical Guide. 5th ed. Cambridge MA: MIT Press, 1999. United Press International, UPI Stylebook: The Authoritative Handbook for Writers, Editors and News Directors. 3rd ed. Lincolnwood IL: National Textbook Company, 1992. United States Copyright Office Web site, www.loc.gov/copyright, offers a host of information including its Circular 1, "Copyright Basics"; copyright forms that you can print out or fill out online; and testimony and news of current copyright matters. The Copyright Office mailing address is: Register of Copyrights U.S. Copyright Office Library of Congress 101 Independence Avenue Washington DC 20559-6000 The U.S. Copyright Public Information Office telephone number is (202) 707–5959. Weinstein, David A. How to Protect Your Creative Work: All You Need to Know about Copyright. New York: Wiley and Sons, 1987.	{ "pile_set_name": "Books3" }
you smoke him out rats you out takes the rest of your weed and your favorite lighter 272 shares	{ "pile_set_name": "OpenWebText2" }
Scientists discover new human organ hiding in plain sight Body’s 80th organ is likely to give new insights into how cancers spread rapidly Scientists in the US have identified a new human organ hiding in plain sight, in a discovery they hope will help understand how cancer spreads within the human body. Video: Reuters Schematic of the fluid-filled space supported by a network of collagen bundles lined on one side with cells. Illustration: Jill Gregory. Source: nature.com The research may help explain the basis for other medical phenomena, such as the effectiveness of acupuncture and where lymphatic fluid originates. Scientists in the US have identified a new human organ hiding in plain sight, in a discovery they hope will help understand how cancer spreads within the human body. Layers long thought to be dense, connective tissue are actually a series of fluid-filled compartments, which researchers have termed the “interstitium”. Its existence was demonstrated using a new technique for generating images from inside the human body. These compartments are found beneath the skin, as well as lining the gut, lungs, blood vessels and muscles, and join together to form a network supported by a mesh of strong, flexible proteins. Analysis published in the journal Scientific Reports is the first to identify these spaces collectively as a new organ and try to understand their function. Remarkably, the interstitium had previously gone unnoticed in spite of being one of the largest organs in the body, the authors note. The team behind the discovery also suggest the compartments may act as “shock absorbers” that protect body tissues from damage. It was widely believed there are 79 organs in the human body, the interstitium would make the 80th. Medical researchers at Mount Sinai Beth Israel Medical Center in New York Dr David Carr-Locke and Dr Petros Benias came across the organ while searching for signs of cancer in a patient’s bile duct. They noticed cavities that did not match any previously known human anatomy, and approached New York University pathologist Dr Neil Theise. “It’s a fluid cell highway,” Dr Theise explained in an CNBC interview. “When [cancerous cells] get into this layer, that’s when they spread.” They attack the body by rapidly multiplying and are at their most deadly when they reach the lymph nodes. By this point, treatment becomes very difficult and chances of survival decrease. It’s ideal to catch the mutated cells before they reach the lymph nodes, but some types of cancer, such as urinary cancer, are not possible to screen. The organ’s structure and functionality may help researchers learn why certain types of cancer - such as skin, breast and stomach cancers - spread and lead to improved treatments against aggressive cancers. Greater understanding Dr Robert O’Connor head of cancer research at the Irish Cancer Society said the research opens up the possibility of better understanding of some diseases and the movement and spread, known as metastasis, of cancer cells. The paper describes “an interesting new understanding on human anatomy” where a new technique (Confocal Laser Endomicroscopy) allows for a virtual biopsy of tissue inside in the living body without damaging those cells. “Using this method the researchers better characterised the structure and role of tissues immediately under lining cells of the major organs of the body such as the skin, digestive tract etc,” he said. Cancer researchers have known for a long time that many cancers can spread from their starting point through special channels called lymphatic vessel into lymphatic glands and then into the bloodstream to move to new areas of the body, he explained. “In describing this new layer of organised cells, the ‘interstitium’, the researchers realised such tissue is the immediate route for cancer cells to leave their origin and migrate into the lymphatic vessels,” he said. It was also known that cells immediately around tumours can be incredibly important in supporting and fostering the growth and spread of tumour cells in the body, Dr O’Connor said. “Indeed, some common cancer treatments may have some of their effects through targeting this supportive tissue, as well as killing the tumour cells themselves. This more detailed characterisation of this sub region of the body may open up new areas for better understanding of some diseases and indeed the movement and spread (metastasis) of cancer cells.” Dr Theise said he hoped that if the cells were entering the bloodstream via the interstitium, they may leave a trace of protein in the fluid surrounding much of the body. Doctors could then sample this fluid and test for cancerous cells before they reach the lymph nodes and become terminal. The research may also help explain the basis for other medical phenomena, such as the effectiveness of acupuncture and where lymphatic fluid originates.	{ "pile_set_name": "Pile-CC" }
WVRH WVRH (94.3 FM) is a radio station broadcasting a Contemporary Christian format. Licensed to Norlina, North Carolina, United States, the station is currently owned by Liberty University, Inc. External links VRH Category:Liberty University	{ "pile_set_name": "Wikipedia (en)" }
Q: Trying to access some elements in an IndexSet I'm using IndexSet and I'm trying to access some indexes which at times are consecutive and at other times are not. For example, my set may contain [1, 2, 3, 5, 6, 7, 13, 31] I want to pull out of the set a range of 3...13, but am having difficulty with the syntax. I've learned how to use the function commands from Apple documentation, by using myIndexSet.sorted(). However, the Apple Documentation does not give an example of how to access a range of elements in the set. The Apple Documentation for accessing elements in the index set are the following: subscript(Range<IndexSet.Index>) I've tried a number of ways to write this but can't figure out how to do it right. Can someone show me how to access a range of elements in the set to create a new set? I've tried things such as: let subset = subscript(Range: myLargerSet.3...13) but it doesn't seem to work. Thanks A: What you're looking for is the intersection of your IndexSet ([1, 2, 3, 5, 6, 7, 13, 31]) with another IndexSet ([3, 4, ..., 12, 13]): let yourIndexSet: IndexSet = [1, 2, 3, 5, 6, 7, 13, 31] let desiredIndexRange = IndexSet(3...13) let indicesOfInterest = yourIndexSet.intersection(desiredIndexRange) print(indicesOfInterest.sorted()) // => [3, 5, 6, 7, 13]	{ "pile_set_name": "StackExchange" }
245 U.S. 102 (1917) EICHEL ET AL. v. UNITED STATES FIDELITY & GUARANTY COMPANY. No. 571. Supreme Court of United States. Motion to dismiss or affirm submitted October 8, 1917. Decided November 5, 1917. APPEAL FROM THE CIRCUIT COURT OF APPEALS FOR THE THIRD CIRCUIT. 103 Mr. William E. Schoyer and Mr. B.M. Ambler for appellee, in support of the motion. Mr. Wm. M. Hall for appellants, in opposition to the motion. Memorandum opinion by MR. JUSTICE VAN DEVANTER, by direction of the court. A motion to dismiss or affirm is presented. In its simplest form the case is this: Laura Eichel as use plaintiff began eighteen separate actions at law against the guaranty company in the District Court for the Western District of Pennsylvania, all being cognizable in that court because arising under a law of the United States. The guaranty company, conceiving that it had a partial equitable defense, not admissible at law, which was common to all the cases, and other partial defenses in particular cases, exhibited in that court a bill describing the actions at law, setting forth the defenses, showing that nothing was in controversy beyond the defenses, and praying that the entire matter be examined and adjudicated in a single proceeding in equity and further proceedings at law enjoined. Although showing that the parties were citizens of different States, the bill was framed as a dependent and ancillary bill and the court was asked to entertain it as such in virtue of the jurisdiction already acquired. The court did entertain it and ultimately sustained the equitable defense, partly sustained some 104 of the others, ascertained the amount of the liability of the guaranty company upon the claims set forth in the actions at law, and ordered that this amount, with interest, be paid in satisfaction of those claims. The Circuit Court of Appeals made a small reduction in the amount of the company's liability, made provision for subrogating the company to the rights of Mrs. Eichel against a bankrupt's estate in process of administration, and affirmed the decree as so modified. 241 Fed. Rep. 357. Plainly the bill was dependent and ancillary and the jurisdiction to entertain it was referable to that invoked and existing in the actions at law out of which it arose. Jones v. Andrews, 10 Wall. 327, 333; Dewey v. West Fairmont Gas Coal Co., 123 U.S. 329, 333; Minnesota Co. v. St. Paul Co., 2 Wall. 609, 633; Krippendorf v. Hyde, 110 U.S. 276, 281; Johnson v. Christian, 125 U.S. 642, 645; Carey v. Houston & Texas Central Ry. Co., 161 U.S. 115; Cortes Co. v. Thannhauser, 9 Fed. Rep. 226; Hill v. Kuhlman, 87 Fed. Rep. 498. This being so, the decree of the Circuit Court of Appeals is open to review here. See Jud. Code, §§ 128, 241. The motion to dismiss the appeal is therefore denied. The decree, as the record shows, turned upon questions of fact and of general law, unaffected by any ruling upon any federal question. The case is part of a prolonged litigation which is now brought to our attention for the fourth time. 225 U.S. 205; 239 U.S. 628; ibid. 629. It has engaged the attention of the courts of two circuits on several occasions, some of the decisions being reported and others not. 170 Fed. Rep. 689; 218 Fed. Rep. 987; 219 Fed. Rep. 803; 233 Fed. Rep. 991; 241 Fed. Rep. 357. Upon the questions of fact the courts in the two circuits, proceeding independently, have reached identical conclusions. The questions of law are few and well settled. After examining the record in the light of the opinions below and the assignments of error here we are convinced *105 that the rulings were right, so clearly so that the appeal seems to be without reasonable justification, and therefore to have been taken for delay. The motion to affirm is accordingly sustained. Decree affirmed.	{ "pile_set_name": "FreeLaw" }
Conor McGregor's head coach John Kavanagh says Bellator are about to revolutionise the European MMA circuit ahead of the inaugural European Fight Series. Kavanagh praised the organisation for improving how much fighters are paid and believes the European Fight Series, which kicks off in Newcastle, England, on Feb. 9 before moving on to Dublin, Ireland, on Feb. 23, will change the lives of some fighters. The shows are just the beginning of what Bellator calls the next step in its European expansion initiative as it plans to hold events in the U.K., Ireland and western Europe on a regular basis moving forward. "It's huge," Kavanagh told ESPN. "Bellator overnight have changed the lives of a huge amount of my guys, financially. For me as a trainer it's huge. After all these years of having to do these European shows just enough so that the guys can fight in America and actually earn some money, now they can do it here. "I'm very excited. It's been a great morale lift for all my guys. There's a great energy in the gym right now and I'm looking forward to this year and the coming years, making that relationship with Bellator even stronger. "Bellator are going to be really the only show that regularly visits European cities that can give the fighters a decent payday. There are some other good European based shows, but the level of pay is so low it's more like the pros are amateurs. "There's nobody that can make a living fighting on European shows, whereas at Bellator, they're actually being paid like regular fighters -- they can train full time and just focus on fighting, rather than having to work security on the weekends or work nine to five and train early in the morning or late at night." James Gallagher, 22, will fight Steven Graeme in his home event in Dublin on Feb. 23 Ramsey Cardy/Sportsfile via Getty Images While the UFC haven't been back to Dublin since October 2015, the upcoming event by Bellator marks the promotion's third visit in four years and is set to be headlined by young bantamweight James Gallagher (7-1) vs. Steven Graham (6-3). For Gallagher, headlining an event in Dublin will be a dream come true and something he's wanted to check off the bucket list since turning pro. On Feb. 23 he gets his chance and Kavanagh believes this could do for him what the July 2014 UFC event did for Conor McGregor. "It's going to be a fantastic night," said Kavanagh. "It'll be a packed arena, it's a big fight card, a lot of Irish guys on the card, so I think there'll be a really nice momentum build as the night goes on, building to a climax with Gallagher headlining against a tough American opponent, coming off a loss and get back on a win." Gallagher is coming off his first professional loss, a first-round knockout at the hands of Ricky Bandejas last August. He was universally praised for how he handled the defeat, facing the music head on, making appearances and talking to the media. Not bad for a 22-year-old who has been thrust into the sport's limelight very quickly. "From a mental point of view, winning is easy," Kavanagh explained. "As a trainer, you want to see how someone reacts to a loss, and he's been incredibly mature about it and taken away the positives that you can. He's reinvigorated himself, he's back in the gym, training hard, back with the style that got him so far and he's even improved on that and he's looking forward to showing the Irish crowd what he's all about. "From 18 or 19 he's been on massive shows, so the audience, whether they like him or dislike him, they're kind of watching him evolve and learn his art, whereas a lot of other fighters are in their mid- to late 20 with a big record and then they go to the big show. "James has been learning on the job about how to deal with media, how to deal with fans, how to deal with big shows, big pressure, and he's done very well I think. "He's taken that loss, he took it on the chin, he's faced the crowd, he's faced the media and, from most of what I've read, people were impressed with his answers and mental approach. I've been very impressed with what I've seen in the gym since then. "I'm looking forward to a tough training camp ahead of us, a great night and then him putting the icing on the cake with a return to form and a big victory in front of his hometown crowd."	{ "pile_set_name": "OpenWebText2" }
Quick Ladder Pro Agility training made easier. No webbing means no tangling; no tangling means no training time lost. Inspired by the concertina, or accordion, fold of Chinese fans, the Quick Ladder Pro keeps things efficient during training sessions. Rigid, hinged sides and overall durable construction make for easy folding and unfolding. Simply put, it's the ladder to replace all ladders. Features: Tangle-free fold means no time spent untangling and more time training	{ "pile_set_name": "Pile-CC" }
Children abused by religious figures are less likely to report crimes because of the belief that community leaders have “automatic morality”, a government report has found. Child sex abuse survivors have told of their shame, guilt and embarrassment which prevented them from reporting their ordeals, amid calls for an end to the secrecy of religious institutions which they claim enabled abuse. An official report has now revealed that victims of sexual abuse in religious institutions were less likely to report the crimes at the time than those who had been abused in other institutions such as children’s homes, schools, secure care units and foster care. The Truth Project, which runs alongside the government’s Independent Inquiry into Child Sexual Abuse (IICSA), invites survivors to share their experiences and make reccomendations for change. Its findings were published today in the first survey of its kind comparing the experiences of abuse among religious institutions. The report collated responses from 183 people who were sexually abused as children in religious institutions or by clergy or church staff in other settings and found that they were far less likely to report abuse than those whose abuse was linked to other institutions.	{ "pile_set_name": "OpenWebText2" }
Nadat de Britten begin vorige week hun grappigste woorden hadden gekozen, dachten wij: dat kunnen wij ook, maar dan voor het Nederlandse taalgebied. Via de sociale media hebben we een top-10 opgesteld, en u kon tot vrijdag 18 augustus uw favoriet kiezen. De uitslag wordt op 19 augustus tussen 11.00 en 13.00 uur bekendgemaakt in Radio 1-programma De Taalstaat.	{ "pile_set_name": "OpenWebText2" }
An external tissue expansion device applies constant continuous low grade force to skin to obtain additional tension free skin and subcutaneous tissue prior to a surgical procedure. The device consists of two suture plates each being laminated structure of steel and an adhesive attached foam cushion. On the each end of one suture plate is a housing that contains a constant force spring placed over a post. The ends of the constant force spring protrude from the housing and there is a hook attached to the end of the constant force spring. On each end of the other suture plate there is a housing, with a opening that can accept the hook of the opposite suture plate. These suture plates are constructed so that they can be manually shaped to conform to the topography of the body part to be corrected and are attached to skin near the defect to be corrected prior to a surgical procedure. When the hooks from one suture plate are inserted into the openings of the housing of the other suture plate, the constant force springs pulls the suture plates together and over a time period stretches and expands skin and subcutaneous tissue external from the suture plates and accumulates this additional tension free skin and subcutaneous tissue in the opening between the two suture plates. This invention further provides a method to permit breast reconstruction without the use of any prosthesis, whereby a surgeon expands a breast mound of the patient's own body tissue at a specific location consisting of tension free skin and subcutaneous tissue and shapes this breast mound into a breast. Images(13) Claims(20) What is claimed is: 1. An external expansion device applicable to an area of a patient's skin and underlying subcutaneous tissue to expand said area to obtain additional tension free skin and subcutaneous tissue, comprising a. a set of first and second tissue expansion plates, each of said expansion plates having a skin-engaging surface and being deformable from an initial configuration to a second configuration different from said initial configuration, b. securing means on each of said plates for securing said plates to a patient's skin and underlying subcutaneous tissue, each of said plates having said initial configuration after, said skin-engaging surface is conformed to said skin and secured thereto; c. at least one force application means, d. said plates being positionable and spaced apart on and secured to an area of patient's skin and underlying subcutaneous tissue with said force application means on said first plate extended and connected to said second plate, said force application means exerting a force urging said first and second plates and skin and underlying subcutaneous tissue to which each plate is secured to move toward each other. 2. A device according to claim 1 wherein said force application means exerts a continuous constant magnitude force regardless of the distance between said plates. 3. A device according to claim 1 wherein said securing means comprises at least one hook with a sharp point extending downward from the bottom of said expansion plate. 4. A device according to claim 3 wherein said securing means comprises a plurality of said hooks spaced apart lengthwise on said expansion plate. 5. A device according to claim 3 wherein said expansion plate and said hooks comprise stainless steel, said hooks being rigidly fixed to said plate. 6. A device according to claim 1 wherein said force application means is a NegatorŪ brand spring. 7. An external tissue expansion device applicable to an area of a patient's skin and underlying subcutaneous tissue to expand said area to obtain additional tension free skin and subcutaneous tissue comprising a. a set of first and second tissue expansion plates, b. securing means on each of said tissue expansion plates for securing said plate to a patient's skin and underlying subcutaneous tissue, wherein each of said expansion plates defines a plane which permits deformation transverse of said plane and which resists plastic deformation in the direction of said plane, c. at least one force application means, d. said tissue expansion plates being positionable and spaced apart on and secured to an area of a patient's skin and underlying subcutaneous tissue with said force application means on said first plate extended and connected to said second plate, said force application means exerting a force urging said first and second plates and skin and underlying subcutaneous tissue to which each plate is secured to move toward each other. 8. An external tissue expansion device applicable to an area of a patient's skin and underlying subcutaneous tissue to expand said area to obtain additional tension free skin and subcutaneous tissue, comprising a. a set of first and second tissue expansion plates, b. securing means on each of said plates for securing said plate to a patient's skin and underlying subcutaneous tissue, wherein each of said expansion plates defines a plane which permits plastic deformation transverse of said plane and which resists plastic deformation in the direction of said plane, c. at least one force application means, d. said plates being positionable and spaced apart on and secured to an area of patient's skin and underlying subcutaneous tissue with said force application means on said first plate extended and connected to said second plate, said force application means exerting a force urging said first and second plates and skin and underlying subcutaneous tissue to which each plate is secured to move toward each other, wherein each of said expansion plates is an elongated laminate comprising a thin strip of solid material on top and a strip of cushion material on the bottom. 9. A device according to claim 8 wherein said strip of solid material comprises stainless steel. 11. A device according to claim 10 wherein said cushion comprises a material selected from the group consisting of compressible thermoplastic rubber, adhesive backed polyester or polyurethane foam. 12. A device according to claim 8 wherein said cushion has width greater than that of the solid strip. 13. An external tissue expansion device applicable to an area of a patient's skin and underlying subcutaneous tissue to expand said area to obtain additional tension free skin and subcutaneous tissue, comprising a. a set of first and second tissue expansion plates b. securing means on each of said plates for securing said plate to a patient's skin and underlying subcutaneous tissue, c. at least one force application means, d. said plates being positionable and spaced apart on and secured to an area of a patient's skin and underlying subcutaneous tissue with said force application means on said first plate extended and connected to said second plate, said force application means exerting a force urging said first and second plates and skin and underlying subcutaneous tissue to which each plate is secured to move toward each other, wherein each of said expansion plates defines a generally elongated rectangle with one front edge defined by length and thickness, said front edges of said plates having a convex curvature, and each of said expansion plates when positioned generally parallel and spaced apart from the other has its front edge facing the front edge of the other plate. 14. An external tissue expansion device applicable to an area of a patient's skin and underlying subcutaneous tissue to expand said area to obtain additional tension free skin and subcutaneous tissue, comprising a. a set of first and second tissue expansion plates, b. securing means on each of said plates for securing said plate to a patient's skin and underlying subcutaneous tissue, c. at least one force application means, d. said plates being positionable and spaced apart on and secured to an area of a patient's skin and underlying subcutaneous tissue with said force application means on said first plate extended and connected to said second plate, said force application means exerting a force urging said first and second plates and skin and underlying subcutaneous tissue to which each plate is secured to move toward each other, wherein each of said expansion plates defines a generally elongated rectangle with one front edge defined by length and thickness, said front edges of said plates having a concave curvature, and each of said expansion plates when positioned generally parallel and spaced apart from the other has its front edge facing the front edge of the other plate. 15. An external tissue expansion device applicable to an area of a patient's skin and underlying subcutaneous tissue to expand said area to obtain additional tension free skin and subcutaneous tissue, comprising a. a set of first and second tissue expansion plates b. securing means on each of said plates for securing said plate to a patient's skin and underlying subcutaneous tissue, c. at least one force application means, d. said plates being positionable and spaced apart on and secured to an area of a patient's skin and underlying subcutaneous tissue with said force application means on said first plate extended and connected to said second plate, said force application means exerting a force urging said first and second plates and skin and underlying subcutaneous tissue to which each plate is secured to move toward each other, wherein said securing means comprises a plurality of apertures extending through the thickness of each said expansion plates adapted for receiving suture material therethrough. 16. A method for obtaining additional skin and underlying subcutaneous tissue and locating this additional tissue at and adjacent to a patient's mastectomy incision prior to implantation of a breast prosthesis for breast augmentation or for breast reconstruction after mastectomy, comprising: a. engaging two regions of skin and subcutaneous tissue generally adjacent and spaced from and on opposite sides of said mastectomy incision, and b. urging said engaged regions of skin and subcutaneous tissue towards each other where said urging comprises applying a generally continuous external force of generally constant magnitude for a time period of about 4 to 7 days, thereby accumulating additional skin and subcutaneous tissue at and adjacent to said mastectomy incision to cover a breast prosthesis. 17. A method according to claim 16 comprising the further step of shaping said accumulated skin and subcutaneous tissue into a breast mound. 18. A method for expanding a patient's skin with hair follicles and locating this expanded skin with hair follicles to a bald region of skin for repair of male pattern baldness, comprising the steps: a. engaging two spaced apart regions of skin with hair follicles which bound a bald region, b. urging said engaged regions of skin with hair follicles toward each other where said urging comprises applying a generally continuous external force of generally constant magnitude, c. applying said force over a time period of about 4-12 days to elevate and accumulate additional skin with hair follicles adjacent said bald region, and d. excision of said bald region and suturing together the edges of skin with hair follicles to cover said bald region. 19. A method for expanding a region of unpigmented skin of a patient and locating this unpigmented skin to a region of skin with pigmentation for removal of a nevus or tattoo, comprising the steps: a. engaging two spaced apart regions of unpigmented skin which bound a region of skin with pigmentation, b. urging said regions of unpigmented skin toward each other where said urging comprises applying a generally continuous external fore of generally constant magnitude, c. applying said force over a time period of about 4 days to elevate and accumulate additional unpigmented skin adjacent said region of pigmented, skin, and d. excision of said pigmented skin and suturing together the edges of unpigmented skin. 20. A method of breast reconstruction utilizing a patient's own body tissue and without using a prosthesis, by obtaining additional skin and underlying subcutaneous tissue and locating this additional tissue at and adjacent to a patient's mastectomy incision, comprising the steps: a. engaging two regions of skin and subcutaneous tissue generally adjacent and spaced from and on opposite sides of said mastectomy incision, b. urging said engaged regions of skin and subcutaneous tissue towards each other where said urging comprises applying a generally continuous external force of generally constant magnitude for a time period of about 4 to 7 days, thereby accumulating additional skin and subcutaneous tissue at and adjacent to said mastectomy incision, and c. applying said generally continuous external force of generally constant magnitude slowly over a time period to provide a tension free region for healing a mastectomy incisional wound, and This invention is in the field of medical devices and techniques of tissue expansion that are used by plastic and general surgeons to obtain additional tension free skin and subcutaneous tissue prior to a surgical procedure to correct a defect or to cover an implantable prosthesis. Such surgical procedures include breast augmentation and breast reconstruction after mastectomy, removal of a nevus or keloid, removal of malignant or benign lesions, improvement of cosmetic appearance and other plastic reconstructive procedures of the body that require tension free skin and subcutaneous tissue without distortion of nearby body structures. Also the new invention can be used in new surgical procedures to correct male pattern baldness and for breast reconstructive surgery and removal of nevus, hypertrophic scars or keloids.. BACKGROUND It is a surgical axiom that wound tension should be avoided at all costs. In surgical procedures a certain amount of skin may be excised and easily closed but there is a point beyond which closure results in wound tension or the wound cannot be closed resulting in a deficit of skin. Skin tension is of particular importance in wound healing because a highly stressed wound environment delays wound healing. A wound sutured closed under tension will result in maximum scarring. Wound tension is also one of the factors for initiation of a keloid or hypertropic scar. For the plastic surgeon the qualitative end result is one of the most crucial factors in reconstructive surgery. The attention to minute details can be the difference between success and failure for plastic surgical procedures where cosmetic appearance is a critical factor. Tension free skin is especially important in facial areas or when skin coverage is required to cover a prosthesis. Wounds closed under tension can create distortions of nearby facial features such as eyelids, lips, etc., create wide displeasing scars or result in exposure of an implantable prosthesis. A. Skin grafts involve the transfer from a donor site, the epidermis and a measured portion of the dermis to a recipient site formed as a shallow well-vascularized wound. The donor site will take as long as three weeks to heal. Skin grafts provide superficial coverage and do not replace deeper tissue layers such as subcutaneous tissue. With skin grafts there is no satisfactory match in color, texture or thickness to harmonize with surrounding tissue. B. Tissue flaps are used in the procedures that involve the transfer of skin and underlying structures such as subcutaneous tissue, fascia and muscle to fill a defect. This procedure involves detachment of the tissue from its original site, transfer of the flap to the defect, and suture of the flap over the defect. In a free flap the flap tissue is completely removed from the donor site and reattached to the wound using microvascular techniques. In all other flap procedures there is a base which remains attached and supplies circulatory support for the flap. C. Present internal tissue expansion devices have at least three disadvantages: (1) they involve multi-staged surgical operations, (2) they sacrifice the well being of the donor site for the need of the recipient site, (3) and the time between first and second surgical procedure can be as long as one to four months. Present internal tissue expanders are essentially inflatable balloons or pouches that are surgically placed into and under subcutaneous tissue in an area close to the defect to be corrected. After a time period for the surgical incision to heal, pressure and volume of the pouch/balloon is incrementally increased by injections of saline into the pouch/balloon. With this technique excessive stresses are placed on the skin due to the high forces exerted by the internal tissue expander. The typical method of determining expansion pressure is measured by pain response from the patient. While these stresses are initially high, the force levels dissipate as the skin stretches necessitating cyclic injections of saline into the pouch/balloon over weekly time periods to create additional new skin. When a sufficient amount of skin is created the pouch/balloon is removed, and the new skin is incised and the donor site closed by suture. This new skin is sutured to cover the defect which results in a tension free closure of the wound. Tissue expansion with internally placed tissue expanders has a 38% complication rate. Incisional dehiscence and exposure of the internal expander is a major complication of internally placed tissue expanders. Other complications such as leakage of fluid, necrosis of skin, hematoma and spontaneous deflation of the expander may cause abandonment of the procedure. The frequency of saline precutaneous injections of sterile saline predispose the implant cavity to infection which is serious and involves removal of the internal expander. The internally placed expander is a foreign body, and particles from the expander which delaminate or flake from the surface into the implant cavity and tissue cause an inflammatory reaction. RELEVANT PRIOR ART U.S. Pat. No. 5,618,310; Inventors: Ralph Ger & Robert Oddsen. U.S. Pat. No. 5,507,775; Inventors: Ralph Ger & Robert Oddsen. SUMMARY OF THE NEW INVENTION The ideal tissue expansion device would not require a subcutaneous implant cavity for the expander, would eliminate the complications of surgical procedures, would quickly obtain additional tension free skin and subcutaneous tissue, and would obtain skin that is a satisfactory match in color, thickness and texture to harmonize with the surrounding tissue. The Ger-Oddsen device is an external tissue expansion device that achieves all these objectives. It is attached by means of sutures, staples or tissue hooks to the area where tension free skin and subcutaneous tissue is required, there is no incisional surgery and the device quickly obtains additional tension free skin and subcutaneous tissue in days versus weeks when compared to internally placed tissue expanders. The Ger-Oddsen device applies an external force that is constant, continuous and low grade. Constant force to skin has been demonstrated to expand more tissue than the intermittent applications of force. Also constant continuous force achieves the most rapid rate of accumulation of tissue. BRIEF DESCRIPTION OF THE DRAWINGS FIG. 1a is a partial front elevation view of a female patient showing a breast after closing of a mastectomy incision. FIG. 1b is similar to FIG. 1a showing a tissue expansion device comprising a set of expander plates positioned above and below the mastectomy incision, one of said set carrying a pair of Negator springs and the other adapted to receive and hold the hook of each spring. FIG. 1b1 shows an expansion plate of FIG. 1b in side elevation view before being bent to conform to the topography of the patient. FIG. 1b2 is similar to FIG. 6b1 showing the expansion plate after being bent to conform to the topography and after being sutured to the patient. FIG. 1c is similar to FIG. 1b showing the area about the mastectomy incision a few days after application of said tissue expander device. FIG. 1d is similar to FIG. 1c showing the breast area after removal of the tissue expansion device and implantation of a breast prothesis. FIG. 2 is a top front perspective view of one of the set of expansion plates which carries the Negator spring. FIG. 3 is a front elevation view of FIG. 2. FIG. 4 is a top, front perspective view of one of the set of expansion plates which receives the hook of the spring. FIG. 5 is a front elevation view of FIG. 4. FIG. 6a is a rear elevation view of a male patient's head showing male pattern baldness. FIG. 6b is similar to FIG. 6a showing the external tissue expansion device sutured to the scalp adjacent the bald area. FIG. 6b1 shows the expansion plate of FIG. 6b in its flat condition in solid line and in its bent condition in dotted line. FIG. 6c is similar to FIG. 6b showing expanded tissue adjacent the bald area a few days after application of said tissue expansion device. FIG. 6d is similar to FIG. 6c showing the scalp after the device is removed and after the tissue with no hair follicles has been excised. FIG. 7 is a schematic top perspective view of a set of unassembled expansion plates of the external tissue expansion device. FIG. 8 is a schematic top perspective view of the set of tissue expansion plates of FIG. 7 assembled together about a region of baldness at the beginning of a procedure. FIG. 9 is similar to FIG. 8 showing the assembled set of tissue expansion plates after an initial time period of application. FIG. 10 is similar to FIG. 9 showing the assembled set of tissue expansion plates after an additional time period of application. FIGS. 11, 12 and 13 show respectively and schematically the preferred forms of sets of expansion plates for a) male pattern baldness, b) removal of nevi, and c) breast reconstruction. DETAILED DESCRIPTION OF THE PREFERRED EMBODIMENTS The Ger-Oddsen device is an external tissue expander that utilizes a set of two expansion plates of a geometric shape to conform to the body part requiring additional tension free skin and subcutaneous tissue. Sheet 1 of the drawings shows schematically a female patient's closed mastectomy incision (FIG. 1a), a set of the new tissue expansion plates situated above and below the closed incision (FIG. 1b), progress of tissue expansion (FIG. 1c), and fully expanded tissue with the breast prosthesis implanted (FIG. 1d). As seen in FIG. 1b the geometric curved shape of the tissue expansion plate for breast reconstruction is concave, approximately conforms to the circumference of the implantable definitive breast prosthesis, contralateral breast or breast shape desired by the patient and permits an area 12 for tension free skin and subcutaneous tissue to accumulate. Variations of this shape expansion plate (also called expander plate or suture plate) are used for the tissue expansion device for male pattern baldness as seen in FIG. 8 and described later herein. In the Ger-Oddsen external tissue expander the set of two suture plates is seen in FIGS. 1b, 1c and 2-4. Each of the suture plates 14, 14A is a laminated structure consisting of a thin stainless steel plate 14 about 0.015 to 0.025 inch thick to which is attached a foam cushion which is about one quarter inch thick and made of cross-linked polyolefin foam or other appropriate cushion, preferably having an adhesive strip on the top side for attachment to the bottom surface of the expansion plate. The typical expansion plate has an arrangement of suture holes 18, 18A and/or tissue hooks 20 to permit the surgeon to fasten the suture plate to the skin. The function of the foam cushion component of the suture plate is to provide a soft surface for contact with the skin and to prevent necrosis of skin during the external tissue expansion process. The foam cushion is extends past the width of stainless steel plate 14 on the edge facing the mating expansion plate. When the physician fastens the suture plate to skin, the foam cushion is compressed and the foam cushion covers sharp edges of the stainless steel plate thereby preventing damage to skin during the stretching process. The stainless steel component of the suture plate provides the strength of the laminated suture plate. It is of a thickness, ductility and hardness that permits the surgeon to easily bend the plate to conform to the topography of the patient where the suture plates are secured to the patient and to retain this preset shape. It is of a width that allows minimum deflection during the pre-stretching tissue expansion procedure. Attached to the suture plates are a number of tissue hooks 20 for use where there is a requirement for a significant amount of subcutaneous adipose tissue (breast reconstruction). The tissue hooks 20 are stainless steel wire about 0.036 inches in diameter, long and angled at the end 22 to grasp tissue and have sharpened points 24 for easy penetration into tissue. On each end of each stainless steel plate there is attached a housing 24 that contains a constant force spring 26 such as the NegatorŪ type springs. The constant force spring 26 is placed over an internal post 28 inside the housing 24 and protrudes from the housing. The clearances between the steel post, the opening in the housing for the protruding constant force spring and the constant force spring are of a magnitude to insure at least a 20 degree lateral movement of the constant force spring to accommodate misalignment of suture plates when they are attached to the patient. On each end of the constant force spring is attached a hook 30. On each end of the other or receiving suture plate 14A there is attached a plastic housing 32 with an opening 34 into which the hook 30 of the constant force spring from the other suture plate 14 can be inserted. The Ger-Oddsen external tissue expander allows the physician to pre-stretch skin and subcutaneous tissue prior to the removal of a defect or prior to insertion of an implantable prosthesis. It also allows the surgeon to create a mound of tension free skin and subcutaneous tissue at a specific location. The Ger-Oddsen external tissue expander is simple to use. The surgeon positions the suture plates near the defect to be corrected, bends the suture plates to conform to the topography of the area and fastens the two plates to the skin leaving an opening between the two suture plates for the tension free skin and subcutaneous tissue to accumulate. The surgeon then pulls the hooks at the end of the spring from one suture plate and inserts them into the holes of the housing on the other suture plate. When the hooks from one suture plate are inserted into the holes of the housing of the other suture plate, the constant force springs applies a continuous, sustained low grade force of constant magnitude which pulls the suture plates together. The suture plates automatically approach each other over a time period, and as the suture plates approach each other they direct the additional tension free skin and subcutaneous tissue into the space between the suture plates. After a time period of a few days the surgeon evaluates the patient to determine when enough additional tension free skin and subcutaneous tissue is obtained to correct the defect. As discussed below these surgical procedures utilizing the external tissue expansion device is applicable for both breast reconstruction and treatment of male pattern baldness and the removal of nevi, hypertropic scars and keloids. Breast Reconstruction There are two types of surgical procedures available for breast reconstruction after mastectomy. One of these surgical procedures consists of an internal tissue expander or an expandable prosthesis that is placed in a complete submuscular pocket made by suturing the pectoralis major, with the serratus anterior and/or latissimus dorsi. This placement of the internal tissue expander is after the mastectomy and prior to closing the mastectomy incision. After a time period for the surgical incision to heal, pressure and volume of the internal tissue expander is incrementally increased by injections of saline into the internal tissue expander over weekly time periods to create additional new skin. When enough skin has been created the internal tissue expander is replaced with a definitive prosthesis. The time between the insertion of the expander and a permanent implant can vary from many weeks to some months. Operative time of breast reconstruction using prostheses is about 1 hour. This procedure gives the best results in small and medium sized slight pthotic breast and an implant prosthesis of about 300 cc. Reconstruction with implants is often chosen by patients because of the decreased hospitalization, operating time and skin incisions. Tissue expanders cannot be used in cases of thin tight skin or in patients where a larger breast (over 300 cc) is required. In cases where additional skin is required after radical mastectomy or cases where there is thin tight skin, a surgical flap procedure is recommended. The other type of surgical procedure available for breast reconstruction is the use of the patient's own body tissue by means of a flap procedure to create a breast mound. The most common type of surgical procedure is the TRAM (transverse rectus abdominis myocutaneous) flap which obtains a sufficient amount of tissue to permit breast reconstruction without the use of any prosthesis. The operative time using TRAM flap varies from 2 to 4 hours (mean 3.1 hours) with a postoperative stay of 11.2 days (range 6-18 days) and a 4-6 week convalescence. The selection of a patient suitable for a flap procedure depends on many factors including the condition of the skin and muscles of the chest wall, breast size and availability of donor flap sites. Middle aged women with contralateral large and/or photic breast and redundant lower abdomen are the best candidates for the TRAM flap. The TRAM flap involves the use of a vertically oriented flap of rectus abdominus muscle and skin which is removed from the abdomen and tunneled under the remaining abdominal wall and rotated into the mastectomy defect. The overall complication rate has been reported to be 16-18%. Obesity increases the complication rate. Patients who had previous abdominal surgery are not ideal candidates for TRAM flaps. Smoking predisposes a patient to flap necrosis and is a contraindication to surgeons in many centers. Flap procedures involve new surgical scars and the problem of trying to match donor skin-color characteristics. The procedure involves a substantial loss of blood, significant postoperative pain and longer confinement with respect to other reconstructive techniques and a longer length of time for the surgical procedure. There is a greater difficulty in making an early diagnosis of possible local recurrence in comparison with other techniques of breast reconstruction. Complications with the use of TRAM flaps include flap necrosis, liponecrosis, abdominal skin necrosis, abdominal herniation, seroma and infection. Hernia or abdominal laxity occurred in 4% of TRAM flap procedures. The Ger-Oddsen procedure for breast reconstruction can utilize the tissue expansion devices as disclosed in U.S. Pat. Nos. 5,618,310 and 5,507,775 which are incorporated herein by reference. One of the geometric shapes of the suture plates for male pattern baldness (FIG. 8) is a convex curve 30. This geometric shape is for male baldness patterns that are round or slightly oblong. The convex shape brings up more skin with hair follicles into the center of male pattern baldness area than to the ends of the defect. Another geometric shape for male pattern baldness shape defines a fairly straight edge for moving tissue into a receding hair line. This geometric shape can be utilized for pre-stretching skin prior to the removal of a nevus, hypertropic scar, keloid or any surgical area that requires tension free skin and subcutaneous tissue prior to removal of a defect. When utilizing the new external tissue expansion device the suture plates 14 for breast reconstruction FIGS. 1b, 1c are of a curved geometric shape to approximately conform to the circumference of the definitive implantable prosthesis, contralateral breast or breast shape desired by the patient. Breast reconstruction after mastectomy is achieved as follows. Prior to closure of the mastectomy defect, a silastic plate can be placed subcutaneously in region B of FIG. 1b to prevent the development of adhesions during the external tissue expansion process. The mastectomy incision is sutured closed and the surgeon positions the two suture plates, one above the prospective location of the implantable prosthesis or breast mound and the other below the prospective location of the implantable prosthesis or breast mound. The surgeon manually bends the suture plates to conform to the topography of the area and fastens the suture plates to the skin by sutures through suture holes 18 or by hooks 20. These hooks are about one inch long. The surgeon then inserts the hooks 30 from one suture plate into the holes of the housing of the other suture plate. The suture plates as pulled by the springs apply the spring of a continuous, sustained low grade force of constant magnitude which pulls the suture plates together, and over a time period the suture plates approach each other. As the suture plates approach each other, additional skin and subcutaneous tissue is stretched and expanded from region A (FIG. 1b) and accumulates in region B and the healing of the mastectomy incision occurs in the tension free skin in region B. Over a time period of a few days there is enough additional tension free skin and subcutaneous tissue accumulated in region B to cover the implantable prosthesis or for small breasted women, the breast mound can be shaped into a breast using existing techniques to add additional adipose tissue (if required) by recruiting adipose tissue through liposuction, treating this adipose tissue and reinjecting this treated adipose tissue into the breast mound to shape the breast mound into a breast. This procedure is similar for breast augmentation. When utilizing a tissue expansion device of U.S. Pat. Nos. 5,618,310 and/or 5,507,775, immediately after closure of the mastectomy incision, one tissue hook of the device is inserted as deep as possible at the inferior mammary fold and the other tissue hook as far superiorly as possible. Four devices are used per breast. Each device applies a continuous, sustained low grade force of constant magnitude to stretch and expand nearby skin and subcutaneous tissue. The devices are secured to the patient and left in place for 2 to 3 days at which time the devices are reapplied to gather additional tissue for another 2 to 3 days. In approximately 4 to 6 days a breast mound of tension free skin and subcutaneous tissue is accumulated between the tissue hooks of the devices for coverage of a breast prosthesis or for small breasted women, the breast mound can be shaped into a breast using existing techniques to add additional adipose tissue (if required) by recruiting adipose tissue through liposuction, treating this adipose tissue and reinjecting this treated adipose tissue into the breast mound to shape the breast mound into a breast. With the Ger-Oddsen procedure for breast reconstruction there is no incisional surgery for implantation of an internal tissue expander and the complications of internal tissue expansion are eliminated. Tissue expansion can be started immediately and the incisional wound from the mastectomy heals in a tension free environment. The forces of the internal tissue expander are outward tending to open the sutured mastectomy incision therefore requiring more a time for the sutured incision to heal. The forces of the external tissue expander are inward which allows the sutured mastectomy incision to heal in a tension free environment and tissue expansion can begin immediately. With the Ger-Oddsen procedure the time to obtain tension free skin to cover a prosthesis is reduced from months to days. The abundant amount of skin obtained from the external tissue expansion device permits the implantation of a larger definitive prosthesis (over 300 cc). In many instances for patients with thin tight skin or after radical mastectomy the Ger-Oddsen procedure eliminates the need for a surgical flap procedure. The Ger-Oddsen procedure for small breasted women permits breast reconstruction without the use of any prosthesis, whereby a surgeon expands a breast mound of the patient's own body tissue at a specific location consisting of tension free skin and subcutaneous tissue and shapes this breast mound into a breast using existing technologies for recruitment and transfer of adipose tissue. The Ger-Oddsen procedure eliminates the complications of surgical procedures used to create a breast mound such as the TRAM procedure. The Ger-Oddsen procedure is a minor out-patient surgical procedure with minimal pain, quick recovery and no unsightly surgical scars. Male Pattern Baldness As referred to above, the new procedure of this invention can be readily used to reduce or eliminate male pattern baldness. Inherent in each individual hair follicle is the pathogenesis for common baldness. Hair restoration procedures began with the discovery that hair follicles maintained their integrity and will continue to grow hair at the same rate, texture and color when they are transplanted from one region of the scalp (donor site) to a bald region of the scalp (recipient site). Hair cannot be restored, it can only be rearranged and this places a significant restriction on the hair restoration surgeon since in patients prone to male pattern baldness there is a limited amount of donor site hair. A common surgical procedure to repair male pattern baldness consists of relocating groups of hair strand called plugs (graft size 3 mm of about 12 hairs), mini grafts (graft size 1.5 mm of about 6 hairs.) or micro-grafts (single to two hairs) to the male pattern baldness site. These transplanted hairs require a donor site, and a scar will appear in the depleted donor area from which each graft that is removed. The number of plugs, micro-grafts or mini grafts required to fill in the loss of hair depends upon the extent of the baldness. The total coverage of 500 to 600 plugs only amounts to an area of 3.5 inches. Single hair transplanting can involve mega sessions of 1,000 hairs with each hair being transplanted individually and the more hairs transplanted the greater the expense of the procedure. The transplantation process usually requires multiple sessions over an 8 to 12 month period, and the hair transplants do not begin to grow hair until 12 weeks after transplantation. There is significant time lost from normal activities and some pain associated with these procedures. In some instances there is scarring and discoloration in the transplanted area that remains long after the transplanted area has fully healed. Of great concern to the hair restoration surgeon is the loss of irreplaceable donor site hair. Hair harvesting techniques at the donor site results in a (5 to 10% loss), and survival of the transplanted hair at the recipient site results in a (5 to 10% loss). With a limited supply of donor site hair, scalp reduction procedures were developed to decrease the amount of the baldness area prior to hair transplantation. The classic scalp reduction consists of sequential procedures over a time period of many months in which a portion of the scalp are sequentially removed, the remaining portion is stretched and then sutured closed. Skin that has been acutely stretched is under tension and when it is sutured closed tends to stretch back to its original position. Therefore, despite removal of all midscalp bald areas often a significant bald area remained to due the phenomenon of stretchback which limited the use of this procedure. Recently internal tissue expanders have been used in scalp reduction procedures. The utilization of an internal tissue expander is a multi-stage procedure where first it is surgically placed under the scalp. There is a time period for the scalp incision to heal, then the expander is inflated over a time period, the expander is surgical removed, the expanded bald area of the scalp is excised and the elevated donor site hair is sutured to the scalp. Patient acceptance of this procedure is limited due to the length of time to expand skin (3 to 4 months) and the visual deformity of the expanded implant on the patients' scalp during the expansion process. The Ger-Oddsen procedure for male pattern baldness utilizes the general concept from the external tissue expansion devices of U.S. Pat. Nos. 5,618,310 and 5,507,775, but altered as now described below and illustrated in FIGS. 6a-6d and 7-11. One geometric shape of the suture plates for male pattern baldness is a convex curve as seen in the above-referenced Figures for male baldness patterns that are round or slightly oblong. The convex shape brings up more skin with hair follicles into the center of male pattern baldness area than to the ends of the defect. Another geometric shape seen in FIG. 12 defines fairly straight facing edges for moving tissue into a receding hair line male pattern baldness pattern. These shapes are different from the suture plates for breast reconstruction due to the fact that tissue with no hair follicles is going to excised after the external tissue expansion process, whereas the concave shape, see FIGS. 1b, 1c and 13 for breast reconstruction leaves an area for skin and subcutaneous tissue to accumulate. The Ger Oddsen procedure for male pattern baldness consists of the surgeon positioning the suture plates of the external tissue expansion device next to and on each side of the male pattern baldness defect and manually bending the suture plates to conform to the topography of the scalp. The surgeon fastens the suture plates into adipose tissue of donor site hair region A (FIG. 8) of the scalp and inserts the hooks 40 from the spring of one suture plate 42 into the holes 44 of the housing 46 of the other suture plate 48. The springs cause suture plates to apply a continuous, sustained low grade force of constant magnitude which slowly recruits tension free donor site hair towards the balding area over a time period as the suture plates approach each other. As the suture plates approach each other the skin with hair follicles in region A (FIG. 9) is slowly stretched and moved to region B. After a time period of a few days the surgeon removes the external tissue expansion device, excises the tissue with no hair follicles that has accumulated in region B (FIG. 10) and sutures the elevated tension free donor site hair in place. The expansion devices may be sutured to the patient's scalp or the downward extending hooks may be inserted into donor site 15 and into adipose tissue. The devices apply a continuous, sustained low grade force of constant magnitude and slowly recruits tension free donor site hair towards the balding area. The devices are secured to the patient and left in place for 2 to 3 days at which time the devices are reapplied to elevate donor site hair and gather additional tissue for another 2 to 3 days. In approximately 4 to 6 days a mound of tension free skin and subcutaneous tissue of bald skin and donor site hair is accumulated between the tissue hooks of the devices. The surgeon excises the mound of bald area required by the hair restoration procedure and sutures the elevated tension free tissue containing donor hair in place. The Ger-Oddsen procedure for male pattern baldness, eliminates the stretchback typical of scalp reduction procedures, since the elevated donor site hair is tension free due to the low grade sustained continuous force of constant magnitude applied by the devices to the scalp for a few days. This allows the fibroelastic bundles of the transposed donor site to reattach themselves at their new elevated location in a tension free environment and no stretchback will occur. The Ger-Oddsen procedure for male pattern baldness eliminates the limitations of internal tissue expanders, by applying an external continuous force of generally constant magnitude slowly over a time period to regions of bald areas and donor site hair. It creates a tension free zone for a scalp reduction procedure in a few days versus the many months of visual deformity of the expanded implant on the patients' scalp required for internal expanders. Removal of Nevi, hypertrophic scars and keloids Congenital nevi (birthmarks) are common in the population. These nevi are surgically removed for cosmetic appearance when they are located in facial areas or any exposed surfaces that can be seen by the public. Large nevi are difficult to remove because of the size of the nevus or when located in areas of limited skin elasticity (elbow, arm, knee, leg, etc.) particularly in younger people. Removal of a nevus on the facial area is restricted due to distortions of facial features that can occur after the nevus is removed. The present method for removal of a large nevus requires two or three surgical procedures. In the first surgical procedure a partial portion of the nevus is excised and the wound is closed by suture. After time period for the wound to heal 2 to 4 months, a second surgical procedure is performed to remove another portion of the nevus. This process continues until the nevus is removed. The Ger-Oddsen procedure for removal of a nevus, hypertrophic scars or keloids can utilize the external tissue expansion devices of U.S. Pat. Nos. 5,618,310 and 5,507,775. The Ger-Oddsen procedure for removal of a nevus utilizing the new external tissue expansion device is as follows. A few days prior to surgery for removal of the nevus the surgeon positions the suture plates of the external tissue expansion device on either side of the nevus, hypertrophic scar or keloid and manually bending the suture plates to conform to the topography of the area. The surgeon fastens the suture plates to the skin and inserts the hooks from the springs of one suture plate into the holes of the housing of the other suture plate. The suture plates apply a continuous, sustained low grade force of constant magnitude to the edges of the nevus, hypertrophic scar or keloid, and over a time period the suture plates approach each other. As the suture plates approach each other an abundant amount of tension free skin and subcutaneous tissue is obtained from the external tissue expansion device between the suture plates. The surgeon removes the suture plates at the time of surgery and is able to excise the entire nevus, hypertrophic scar or keloid and close the wound with the additional tension free skin and subcutaneous tissue.. When utilizing the expansion devices of U.S. Pat. Nos. 5,618,310 and 5,507,775, one tissue hook of the device is inserted into one edge of the nevus, hypertrophic scar or keloid and into adipose tissue and the other tissue hook inserted edge of the nevus, hypertrophic scar or keloid and into adipose tissue on the opposite side of the nevus, hypertrophic scar or keloid. The devices applies a continuous, sustained low grade force of constant magnitude to the edges of the nevus, hypertrophic scar or keloid. The devices are secured to the patient and left in place for 2 to 3 days at which time the devices are reapplied to gather additional tissue for another 2 to 3 days. In approximately 4 to 6 days a mound of tension-free skin and subcutaneous tissue is accumulated between the tissue hooks of the devices. The surgeon excises the nevus, hypertrophic scar or keloid and closes the incision with the additional tension-free skin and subcutaneous tissue that has accumulated between the tissue hooks. The Ger-Oddsen procedure removes a nevus, hypertrophic scars or keloids with no distortion of surrounding features by utilizing the additional tension-free skin and subcutaneous tissue obtained from the external tissue expansion process. The time required to remove a large nevus, hypertrophic scar or keloid is reduced from several months to days and the multiple surgical procedures previously required is reduced to one. Typical time periods for application of the tissue expansion plates are about 4-7 days for breast reconstruction, about 4-12 days for male pattern baldness, and about 4 days for nevi removal. These time periods include re-setting the expansion plates about every two days to expand more skin and underlying subcutaneous tissue. The closed wound heals in a tension-free environment which is particularly important for hypertrophic scars or keloids since it has been found that one of the factors for initiation of a keloid or hypertropic scar is tension. The embodiments of the invention described herein are merely examples of the invention. Many variations and equivalents are possible within the spirit and scope of the claims appended hereto.	{ "pile_set_name": "Pile-CC" }
Distractor interference stays constant despite variation in working memory load. Previous studies have shown that working memory (WM) plays an important role in selective attention, sothat high WM load leads to inefficient distractor inhibition, in comparison with low WM load. In the present study, we examined the effect of WM on distractor processing while the extent of attentional focus was held constant. Our results show that WM load affected distractor processing only when it was positively correlated with the extent of attentional focus. When the latter was held constant, the effect ofWM became negligible. Furthermore, when low WM load was paired with a wide attentional focus and high WM load was matched with a narrow attentional focus, greater distractor processing was found when the WM load was low than when it was high. These results suggest that efficient distractor inhibition may require only minimal WM resources and that the effect of WM on distractor processing is more complex than has previously been assumed.	{ "pile_set_name": "PubMed Abstracts" }
561 N.W.2d 583 (1997) 5 Neb. App. 544 Neal F. NORRIS, Appellant, v. Mary Jane HATHAWAY, Appellee. No. A-95-1177. Court of Appeals of Nebraska. March 11, 1997. 584 David Riley, Omaha, for appellant. Judy K. Hoffman, Omaha, for appellee. MILLER-LERMAN, C.J., and IRWIN and SIEVERS, JJ. IRWIN, Judge. INTRODUCTION Neal F. Norris appeals the judgment of the district court for Douglas County dismissing his petition with prejudice following a bench trial. Regarding Norris' action for defamation, the district court generally concluded that Mary Jane Hathaway's statements were not defamatory per se and that Norris had failed to prove his damages by a preponderance of the evidence. For the reasons stated below, we reverse, and remand for further proceedings consistent with this opinion. FACTUAL BACKGROUND The facts in the case before us are largely undisputed. Hathaway and Norris were both employed by the U.S. Postal Service. They worked at the Omaha plant during the same shift. In 1993, Norris was employed as a review clerk. His duties included verifying problems in various operations. Hathaway was assigned to work at a "flat sorter" machine on the first floor of the plant, and she was also a relief expediter for the first floor. On January 19, 1993, at approximately 7 p.m., Norris was contacted by another postal employee, Dennis Wynn, to verify the labels being used on the flat sorter. Hathaway was responsible for proper labeling on that flat sorter. Norris verified that an improper color code was being used on the labels. Norris informed Hathaway's supervisor of the problem, who then spoke with Hathaway. During a break that evening, Norris overheard Charles Prestito, who was Hathaway's boyfriend and also a postal employee, speaking to Wynn in a threatening manner. Norris reported this conduct to Prestito's supervisor and the manager of operations. On January 20 at approximately 3 p.m., Prestito was suspended from work. On January 20, Hathaway complained to John Wacha regarding Norris. Wacha was Norris' supervisor and had authority to discipline him. In the postal service, discipline for sexual harassment can include removal from employment. According to Wacha, Hathaway was very emotional and enraged and was speaking in a shrill and loud voice. She accused Norris of sexually harassing her and grabbing her by the buttocks. She did not provide an exact time or place for the incident. Wacha conducted an investigation of Hathaway's allegations as required. He spoke with Norris on January 21, and Norris denied Hathaway's accusations. At some point, Wacha determined Hathaway's allegations to be false. On January 21, Hathaway sent a letter to Mike Matuzek, the plant manager, in which she alleged that Norris had fondled her and that he had sexually abused her. Hathaway testified that she also told some of her coworkers that Norris had grabbed her bottom and had hit her bottom with a clipboard. On approximately February 8, Hathaway again complained to Wacha about Norris. 585 She alleged that Norris and Wynn had sexually harassed her, that they were laughing and sneering at her, and that Norris had previously "grabbed" her "on the butt." She characterized their conduct as harassment. After an investigation, Wacha again found her allegations to be untrue. Hathaway also complained to the equal employment opportunity office of the U.S. Postal Service regarding Norris. In March 1993, she filed a formal complaint with the office against him. In July and August 1993, Norris' counsel sent Hathaway two retraction demand letters on Norris' behalf pursuant to Neb.Rev.Stat. § 25-840.01 (Reissue 1995). On October 1, 1993, Norris filed a petition stating causes of action for defamation and false light. In an amended answer, Hathaway alleged truth as an affirmative defense. A bench trial was held September 26, 1995. In addition to the evidence recited above, Norris testified at trial that he had never been disciplined or reassigned due to Hathaway's allegations and that he was currently receiving the same rate of pay as before her allegations. However, he indicated that during the investigation, which lasted 2 years, he was concerned he would be fired. Norris also felt that his reputation and name had been hurt by Hathaway's allegations. He further testified that his costs of litigation were approximately $10,000 to $12,000. After hearing the evidence, the district court found that Hathaway's statements were not "slander per se." The court expressly stated that it was not making a finding as to the truth or falsity of Hathaway's statements. The court dismissed Norris' petition with prejudice for failure to prove his damages by a preponderance of the evidence. Norris thereafter filed a motion for new trial and a motion to vacate. Both motions were overruled. Norris timely filed the present appeal. ASSIGNMENTS OF ERROR For his assigned errors, Norris claims that the district court erred as follows: (1) in finding that Hathaway's statements were not defamatory per se, (2) in requiring him to prove damages by a preponderance of the evidence as an element of the action, (3) in finding that he had failed to prove his case and damages, (4) in denying his posttrial motions to vacate and for new trial, (5) in declining to make any finding as to the truth or falsity of Hathaway's statements, and (6) in failing to make any finding on his action for false light. We note that Norris does not discuss his sixth assigned error. An appellate court will not consider assignments of error which are not discussed in the brief. Farmers & Merchants Bank v. Grams, 250 Neb. 191, 548 N.W.2d 764 (1996). STANDARD OF REVIEW Whether a communication is defamatory per se is a threshold question of law for the court. K Corporation v. Stewart, 247 Neb. 290, 526 N.W.2d 429 (1995); Wheeler v. Nebraska State Bar Assn., 244 Neb. 786, 508 N.W.2d 917 (1993), cert. denied 511 U.S. 1084, 114 S.Ct. 1835, 128 L.Ed.2d 463 (1994). When reviewing a question of law, an appellate court reaches a conclusion independent of the lower court's ruling. Baltensperger v. Wellensiek, 250 Neb. 938, 554 N.W.2d 137 (1996); Heins v. Webster County, 250 Neb. 750, 552 N.W.2d 51 (1996). ANALYSIS A claim of defamation requires: (1) a false and defamatory statement concerning the plaintiff; (2) an unprivileged publication to a third party; (3) fault amounting to at least negligence on the part of the publisher; and (4) either actionability of the statement irrespective of special harm or the existence of special harm caused by the publication. 50 Am.Jur.2d Libel and Slander § 21 (1995). Accord Restatement (Second) of Torts § 558 (1977). There are two types of defamation: Words may be actionable per se, that is, in themselves, or they may be actionable per quod, that is, only on allegation and proof of the defamatory meaning of the words used 586 and of special damages. K Corporation, supra. See Matheson v. Stork, 239 Neb. 547, 477 N.W.2d 156 (1991). We address whether the district court erred in determining that Hathaway's statements were not defamatory per se. We note that the substance of Hathaway's statements is generally undisputed. She stated to Norris' supervisors and coworkers orally and in writing that Norris had sexually harassed her, sexually abused her, fondled her, grabbed her buttocks, and hit her buttocks with a clipboard. In Matheson, the Nebraska Supreme Court held: Spoken or written words are slanderous or libelous per se only if they falsely impute the commission of a crime involving moral turpitude, an infectious disease, or unfitness to perform the duties of an office or employment, or if they prejudice one in his or her profession or trade or tend to disinherit one.... In determining whether a communication is libelous or slanderous per se, the court must construe the questioned language "in its ordinary and popular sense." ... Further, the circumstances under which the publication of an allegedly defamatory communication was made, the character of the audience and its relationship to the subject of the publication, and the effect the publication may reasonably have had upon such audience must be taken into consideration. 239 Neb. at 553, 477 N.W.2d at 160-61. In Hruby v. Kalina, 228 Neb. 713, 715, 424 N.W.2d 130, 132 (1988), the court cited the Restatement (Second) of Torts § 571 (1977), stating that "`imputation of a crime presents slander per se if the crime, in the place of publication, would be "(a) punishable by imprisonment in a state or federal institution, or (b) regarded by public opinion as involving moral turpitude."'" Accord Hennis v. O'Connor, 223 Neb. 112, 388 N.W.2d 470 (1986). In the case before us, Hathaway's statement that Norris grabbed her buttocks clearly imputes to Norris the crime of third degree sexual assault. See, Neb.Rev.Stat. § 28-320 (Reissue 1989) (defining third degree sexual assault as sexual contact by force, threat of force, coercion, or deception that does not cause serious personal injury to victim); Neb.Rev.Stat. § 28-318(5) (Reissue 1989) (defining sexual contact as intentional touching of victim's sexual or intimate parts or victim's clothing covering same for purpose of sexual arousal or gratification of either party); § 28-318(2) (defining intimate parts to include buttocks). The crime of third degree sexual assault, a Class I misdemeanor, is punishable by imprisonment. Neb.Rev.Stat. § 28-106 (Reissue 1995). It is also a crime of moral turpitude. See 58 C.J.S. Morals 1205-06 (1948). A similar result was reached in Goldstein v. Kinney Shoe Corp., 931 F.Supp. 595 (N.D.Ill.1996). In Goldstein, the federal district court held that allegations in a complaint that two males had forced a woman to engage in sexual acts, exposed themselves to the woman, and touched and grabbed her breasts and buttocks without consent, and that one of the men had molested underage girls sufficiently pled an action of defamation per se in that the statements imputed that the defendants had committed crimes. We conclude that Hathaway's statement that Norris grabbed Hathaway's buttocks imputes to Norris a crime of moral turpitude punishable by imprisonment. We note that Hathaway made this statement in the workplace on more than one occasion to Norris' supervisors, who had the authority to terminate his employment, and also to other coworkers. For the reasons stated above, we conclude that the district court erred as a matter of law in concluding that Hathaway's statements, which are undisputed, are not defamatory per se if found to be false. See Matheson, supra. The district court also abused its discretion in failing to grant Norris' motion for new trial and motion to vacate on this basis. See, Farmers & Merchants Bank v. Grams, 250 Neb. 191, 548 N.W.2d 764 (1996) (holding that decision regarding motion for new trial will be upheld absent abuse of discretion); Roemer v. Maly, 248 Neb. 741, 539 N.W.2d 40 (1995) (holding that decision on motion to vacate will not be reversed absent abuse of discretion). 587 The district court by its own comments at dismissal specifically stated that it was making no finding as to the truth or falsity of Hathaway's statements. Therefore, the case is remanded to the district court for a determination of whether Hathaway's statements were true or false. If they are found to be false, the question of damages must be considered anew in light of the case law regarding damages for false statements which are defamatory per se. See McCune v. Neitzel, 235 Neb. 754, 457 N.W.2d 803 (1990). Given our disposition of Norris' first assigned error, we need not address the remaining assigned errors. We reverse, and remand for further proceedings consistent with this opinion. REVERSED AND REMANDED FOR FURTHER PROCEEDINGS.	{ "pile_set_name": "FreeLaw" }
Austria court jails seven members of neo-Nazi group Published duration 5 November 2013 A court in Austria has found seven men guilty of neo-Nazi activities and jailed them for to up to six years. The members of the so-called Objekt 21 group were convicted of "re-engagement with National Socialism" - a crime in Austria since 1947. Witnesses said the men made statements like "the Fuehrer is always right" at meetings near the town of Vocklabruck. Austria was annexed to Nazi Germany in 1938 and was deeply involved in the crimes of the Third Reich. It is now illegal to make statements which glorify the Nazi regime or to display Nazi propaganda or symbols. Reign of terror A video shown during the trial showed some of the defendants shouting "Heil Hitler", according to reports. Meanwhile their clubhouse near Vocklabruck, about 200km (124 miles) west of Vienna, was known as "the armoury" and decorated with Nazi logos and flags. The two main perpetrators were sentenced to four and six years in jail, and said they would appeal, according to local media. The others were given sentences of between 18 months and two-and-a-half years, Austria Presse Agentur reported. All seven men, who are aged between 23 and 33, had pleaded not guilty. They have not been named. Police said Objekt 21 had maintained a reign of terror in the region of Upper Austria for years with arson attacks, weapons and drugs dealing and illegal prostitution among other crimes, and had been under surveillance since 2009. Austria passed its anti-Nazi Prohibition Act in 1947.	{ "pile_set_name": "OpenWebText2" }
György Sárközi György Sárközi (1899 – 1945) was a Hungarian poet, translator and writer, and collaborator to the magazine Nyugat, Pandora (1927), Válasz (1935-1938) and Kélet Népe (1939). As he was Jewish, in 1944 he was deported to the work camp of Balf and died there. References Category:1899 births Category:1945 deaths Category:Hungarian translators Category:Hungarian writers Category:Writers from Budapest Category:Translators from German Category:Hungarian resistance members Category:Resistance members killed by Nazi Germany Category:Resistance members who died in Nazi concentration camps Category:20th-century translators Category:Hungarian Jews who died in the Holocaust Category:Jewish writers Category:Jewish poets	{ "pile_set_name": "Wikipedia (en)" }
// // detail/win_event.ipp // ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ // // Copyright (c) 2003-2016 Christopher M. Kohlhoff (chris at kohlhoff dot com) // // Distributed under the Boost Software License, Version 1.0. (See accompanying // file LICENSE_1_0.txt or copy at http://www.boost.org/LICENSE_1_0.txt) // #ifndef ASIO_DETAIL_IMPL_WIN_EVENT_IPP #define ASIO_DETAIL_IMPL_WIN_EVENT_IPP #if defined(_MSC_VER) && (_MSC_VER >= 1200) # pragma once #endif // defined(_MSC_VER) && (_MSC_VER >= 1200) #include "asio/detail/config.hpp" #if defined(ASIO_WINDOWS) #include "asio/detail/throw_error.hpp" #include "asio/detail/win_event.hpp" #include "asio/error.hpp" #include "asio/detail/push_options.hpp" namespace asio { namespace detail { win_event::win_event() : state_(0) { #if defined(ASIO_WINDOWS_APP) events_[0] = ::CreateEventExW(0, 0, CREATE_EVENT_MANUAL_RESET, 0); #else // defined(ASIO_WINDOWS_APP) events_[0] = ::CreateEventW(0, true, false, 0); #endif // defined(ASIO_WINDOWS_APP) if (!events_[0]) { DWORD last_error = ::GetLastError(); asio::error_code ec(last_error, asio::error::get_system_category()); asio::detail::throw_error(ec, "event"); } #if defined(ASIO_WINDOWS_APP) events_[1] = ::CreateEventExW(0, 0, 0, 0); #else // defined(ASIO_WINDOWS_APP) events_[1] = ::CreateEventW(0, false, false, 0); #endif // defined(ASIO_WINDOWS_APP) if (!events_[1]) { DWORD last_error = ::GetLastError(); ::CloseHandle(events_[0]); asio::error_code ec(last_error, asio::error::get_system_category()); asio::detail::throw_error(ec, "event"); } } win_event::~win_event() { ::CloseHandle(events_[0]); ::CloseHandle(events_[1]); } } // namespace detail } // namespace asio #include "asio/detail/pop_options.hpp" #endif // defined(ASIO_WINDOWS) #endif // ASIO_DETAIL_IMPL_WIN_EVENT_IPP	{ "pile_set_name": "Github" }
Cancer Sci 107 (2016) 133--139 Funding Information Ministry of Education, Culture, Sports, Science and Technology (MEXT) of Japan. Significant progress has been made in the diagnosis and treatment of gastric cancer, leading to a decrease in the mortality rate of patients with the disease. Nonetheless, many cases with delayed diagnosis and metastasis are intractable, making gastric cancer the third leading cause of cancer deaths worldwide.[1](#cas12848-bib-0001){ref-type="ref"} To date, multiple genes, proteins and signaling pathways have been found to be deregulated in gastric cancer.[2](#cas12848-bib-0002){ref-type="ref"}, [3](#cas12848-bib-0003){ref-type="ref"}, [4](#cas12848-bib-0004){ref-type="ref"}, [5](#cas12848-bib-0005){ref-type="ref"} However, the mechanisms underlying the tumorigenesis, heterogeneity and metastasis of gastric cancer are less well understood. Previous studies have demonstrated that Wnt signaling represents one of the deregulated pathways in gastric cancer.[6](#cas12848-bib-0006){ref-type="ref"} Wnt signaling is essential for embryonic development and adult tissue homeostasis and is involved in cancer initiation and progression. It consists of two distinct branches that signal intracellularly: canonical and non‐canonical pathways.[7](#cas12848-bib-0007){ref-type="ref"}, [8](#cas12848-bib-0008){ref-type="ref"}, [9](#cas12848-bib-0009){ref-type="ref"} Activation of the canonical pathway induces β‐catenin nuclear accumulation and Wnt target gene transcription.[10](#cas12848-bib-0010){ref-type="ref"} Mutations in components of the canonical pathway, such as β‐catenin, adenomatous polyposis coli and Axin genes, are involved in human cancer initiation.[11](#cas12848-bib-0011){ref-type="ref"}, [12](#cas12848-bib-0012){ref-type="ref"} The non‐canonical pathway is independent of β‐catenin; instead, members of the Rho family of small GTPases, including Rac and Rho, and JNK transmit the signals to promote cell motility.[13](#cas12848-bib-0013){ref-type="ref"}, [14](#cas12848-bib-0014){ref-type="ref"} Accordingly, aberrant activation of non‐canonical pathway components has been implicated as well in invasion and metastasis in human malignancies.[15](#cas12848-bib-0015){ref-type="ref"} High levels of Wnt5a, a ligand that utilizes the non‐canonical pathway, have been reported to promote invasion in advanced gastric cancer.[16](#cas12848-bib-0016){ref-type="ref"}, [17](#cas12848-bib-0017){ref-type="ref"}, [18](#cas12848-bib-0018){ref-type="ref"} Wnt5a has been shown to induce the expression of laminin γ2, a subunit of the extracellular matrix laminin 5 protein that constitutes the epithelial basement membrane, through the activation of Rac, JNK and the transcription factor jun D.[17](#cas12848-bib-0017){ref-type="ref"} In turn, laminin γ2 expression promotes cancer cell adhesion and invasion.[19](#cas12848-bib-0019){ref-type="ref"} Importantly, cytoplasmic staining for laminin γ2 has been observed at the invasive front of gastric cancer and correlated with Wnt5a expression, indicating the relevance of the Wnt5a/laminin γ2 pathway in gastric cancer progression.[17](#cas12848-bib-0017){ref-type="ref"}, [20](#cas12848-bib-0020){ref-type="ref"} However, the mechanisms by which Wnt5a induces this process remain unclear. In the present study, we investigated the involvement of Dvl‐associating protein with a high frequency of leucine residues (Daple) in the Wnt5a/laminin γ2 pathway in gastric cancer. Daple was originally identified as a binding protein for Dvl, which is a scaffold protein essential for transducing both Wnt signalling pathways.[21](#cas12848-bib-0021){ref-type="ref"} Daple is a large 226 kDa protein that has unique end‐terminal domains that flank a central long coiled‐coil domain. We previously reported that Daple controls the non‐canonical Wnt signaling pathway to regulate cell motility.[22](#cas12848-bib-0022){ref-type="ref"} Daple mediates the Wnt5a‐induced interaction of Dvl with atypical protein kinase C (aPKC), which promotes Rac activation and lamellipodia formation in migrating fibroblasts. Consistent with this was the finding that a Xenopus paralogue of Daple (xDal) is pivotal for the movements of convergent extension during gastrulation.[23](#cas12848-bib-0023){ref-type="ref"} To date, the reported involvement of Daple in the development and progression of human diseases constitutes a missense mutation in the human Daple gene (CCDC88C) that activates JNK and causes spinocerebellar ataxia.[24](#cas12848-bib-0024){ref-type="ref"} Here, using tissue sections from patients with gastric cancer, we demonstrated the relevance of Daple expression to gastric cancer progression. We also clarified, using cultured cancer cells and a xenograft mouse tumor model, that Daple mediates Wnt5a‐induced laminin γ2 expression and regulates gastric cancer invasion and metastasis. Materials and Methods {#cas12848-sec-0002} ===================== Tissue samples and histological analysis {#cas12848-sec-0003} ---------------------------------------- We obtained 130 tissue samples from patients with gastric cancer who underwent surgical treatment at Nagoya University Hospital between 2001 and 2006. Pathological diagnosis was made following classification of each case by the World Health Organization (WHO) and Lauren systems.[25](#cas12848-bib-0025){ref-type="ref"} Diffuse‐type cases, which correspond to poorly differentiated adenocarcinomas, were further divided into diffuse‐scattered and adherent types.[16](#cas12848-bib-0016){ref-type="ref"}, [26](#cas12848-bib-0026){ref-type="ref"} The Mucin phenotype was estimated by immunostaining with CD10, MUC2, MUC6 and MUC5AC antibodies.[27](#cas12848-bib-0027){ref-type="ref"}, [28](#cas12848-bib-0028){ref-type="ref"} Tumor staging was performed based on the TNM classification system. The study was approved by the Ethics Committee of Nagoya University. Immunohistochemistry {#cas12848-sec-0004} -------------------- Formalin‐fixed and paraffin‐embedded tissue sections were stained with anti‐Daple (1:100; IBL, Gumma, Japan), anti‐Wnt5a/b (1:50; Cell Signaling Technology, Danvers, MA, USA), anti‐laminin γ2 (1:200; Millipore, Bedford, MA, USA) and anti‐β‐catenin (1:1000; BD Transduction Laboratories, San Jose, CA, USA) antibodies. The sections were pretreated by boiling in citrate buffer (pH 7.0) for Daple, Wnt5a/b and β‐catenin staining or by incubation with proteinase K for laminin γ2 staining. After blocking with Protein Block Serum Free (Dako, Glosturp, Denmark), the sections were incubated with primary antibodies overnight at 4°C, then with secondary antibodies (Envision+, Dako). Reaction products were visualized using diaminobenzidine (Dako). Cell culture, proliferation assay and RNA interference {#cas12848-sec-0005} ------------------------------------------------------ Gastric cancer cell lines MKN45 and KKLS were purchased from the ATCC (Rockville, MD, USA) and provided by the Human Cancer Cell Line Bank (Cancer Research Institute of Kanazawa University, Japan), respectively. Cells were grown in RPMI 1640/10% FBS. For cell proliferation assays, KKLS cells were seeded at 5 × 10^4^ cells per 35‐mm dish; after 12 h, the medium was replaced with RPMI 1640/1% FBS. The cells were counted every 24 h for 3 days. For RNA interference‐mediated depletion (knockdown) of Daple, human Daple‐specific (target sequence, 5′‐TCCAGCTGCGCGTTGTTCAGTGAGG‐3′) and control siRNAs were synthesized by Qiagen (Hilden, Germany). The siRNAs were transfected into MKN45 cells using Lipofectamine 2000 (Invitrogen, Carlsbad, CA, USA) according to manufacturer instruction. The target sequences for shRNA mediated Daple knockdown were as follows (only the sense sequence is shown): Daple \#1, 5′‐GGTGCAAGCTCGATGTGTA‐3′; Daple \#2, 5′‐GCACCAAAGGCTATAACTC‐3′ and Daple \#3, 5′‐GCCTGGAGCGTGACAACAA‐3′. The oligonucleotide pairs were inserted into the pSIREN‐RetroQ retroviral shRNA expression vector (Clontech, Palo Alto, CA, USA) to generate recombinant retroviruses as previously described,[29](#cas12848-bib-0029){ref-type="ref"} followed by infection of KKLS cells and puromycin selection. Western blot analysis {#cas12848-sec-0006} --------------------- Cells were lysed in SDS sample buffer. GTP loading of Rac was determined by pull‐down assay using GST‐PAK‐PBD (Cytoskeleton, Denver, CO, USA). Samples were separated by SDS‐PAGE, and proteins were transferred to PVDF membranes (Millipore). The membranes were blocked in 4% skimmed milk, and probed with anti‐Daple (1:500), anti‐laminin γ2 (1:1000), anti‐Wnt5a/b (1:1000), anti‐Rac1 (1:1000; Millipore) and anti‐phospho JNK and anti‐JNK (1:100; Cell Signaling Technology) antibodies. After incubation with HRP‐conjugated secondary antibodies (Dako), immunoreactivity was detected with an enhanced chemiluminescence system (Amersham Biosciences, Piscataway, NJ, USA). Quantitative RT‐PCR {#cas12848-sec-0007} ------------------- Total RNA was extracted from KKLS cells with TRIzol reagent (Invitrogen) according to manufacturer protocol. The RNA was then reverse transcribed into cDNA using the Rever Tra Ace qPCR RT kit (Toyobo, Osaka, Japan), following manufacturer protocol. Gene expression levels were quantitatively measured using the Thunderbird SYBR qPCR mix (Toyobo) and analyzed with a MX Pro 3000P Quantitative PCR System and MX Pro software (Stratagene, La Jolla, CA, USA). The primer sequences were as follows: human LAMC2 (laminin γ2 gene), forward, 5′‐ACCGTGTGGACAGAGGAGGC‐3′, reverse, 5′‐GGATGCGGAGGGCTGTGAGA‐3′; and human 18S, forward, 5′‐AGTCCCTGCCCTTTGTACACA‐3′, reverse, 5′‐CGATCCGAGGGCCTC‐3′. Cell migration and invasion assays {#cas12848-sec-0008} ---------------------------------- Cell migration was examined with transwell assays using 8‐μm pore polyethylene terephthalate membranes (BD Bioscience). Chambers were coated with 10 μg/mL fibronectin or 10 μg/mL type 1 collagen for KKLS or MKN45 cells, respectively. The cells (2.5 × 10^4^) were suspended in 100 μL RPMI/0.1% BSA and seeded in the upper chamber. In the lower chamber, RPMI/10% FBS was added. After 6 h, migrated cells were fixed and counted. KKLS cell invasion was assayed using Biocoat Matrigel invasion chambers (8‐μm; Corning, Corning, NY, USA). KKLS cells (2.5 × 10^4^) were added to the upper chambers and allowed to invade for 48 h. Xenograft mouse tumor model and metastasis assay {#cas12848-sec-0009} ------------------------------------------------ All animal studies were approved by the Animal Care and Use Committee of Nagoya University Graduate School of Medicine, and all the experiments were performed in accordance with institutional guidelines and regulations. In metastasis assays to investigate spontaneous metastasis of gastric cancer cells to the liver from the spleen, we injected 5 × 10^5^ KKLS cells into the spleen of 6‐week old nude mice (BALB/cSls‐nu/nu) through a 29‐gauge needle. After 5 weeks of injection, the liver was enucleated, and the numbers of metastatic nodules with diameter \>2 mm were counted. The size of metastatic nodules with diameter \>1 mm was measured from tissue sections. Statistical analysis {#cas12848-sec-0010} -------------------- All statistical analysis was performed using GraphPad Prism 6 software (GraphPad, San Diego, CA, USA). The χ^2^‐test was used to analyze correlations between Daple expression and clinicopathological parameters. The overall survival was defined as the time between the date of surgery and the last date of follow up. Kaplan--Meier survival curves were created, wherein the differences between groups were evaluated by a log‐rank test. For in vitro experiments on cultured cells, statistical analyses were carried out using Student\'s t‐test. Mann--Whitney\'s U‐test was used for the analysis of metastasis assays. P‐values \< 0.05 were considered statistically significant. Results {#cas12848-sec-0011} ======= Daple is highly expressed in advanced stages of gastric cancer {#cas12848-sec-0012} -------------------------------------------------------------- To evaluate the relevance of Daple expression in the progression of gastric cancer, we performed immunohistochemical analysis on tissue sections from 130 patients with gastric cancer and tissue array slides of human normal stomach (SuperBiochips Laboratories, Seoul, Korea). Preliminary experiments showed no or weak staining for Daple in the epithelia of normal stomach or in cancer cells from the early stage of gastric cancer, whereas Daple expression was clearly observed in cancer cells at more advanced stages (Fig. [1](#cas12848-fig-0001){ref-type="fig"}a). To statistically evaluate Daple expression, we constructed a scoring system in analogy with the Allred scoring system for estrogen and progesterone receptor expression in breast cancer,[30](#cas12848-bib-0030){ref-type="ref"} where the intensity and frequency (proportion) of cytoplasmic Daple expression was graded by intensity score (IS) (0--3) (Fig. [1](#cas12848-fig-0001){ref-type="fig"}b) and proportion score (PS) (0--3) (Fig. [1](#cas12848-fig-0001){ref-type="fig"}c). A total score (TS) (representing the sum of IS and PS) \>3 was defined as Daple positive (Fig. [1](#cas12848-fig-0001){ref-type="fig"}c); these constituted 85/130 (65.38%) cases. ![Expression of Daple in gastric cancer. (a) Representative images of immunohistochemical (IHC) staining for Daple. Sections as indicated including an invasive region of the advanced stage of gastric cancer (bottom right) were stained with anti‐Daple antibody. Scale bars, 100 μm. (b) Representative images for representative Daple staining intensity for each intensity score (IS) (0--3). Scale bars, 50 μm. (c) Frequency and distribution of Daple expression was judged with the proportion score (PS) as indicated in the panel. The sum of IS and PS was used as a total score (TS) for the determination of Daple positivity (box). TS \> 3 was judged as positive. (d) Kaplan--Meier survival curves of patients with gastric cancer segregated by Daple expression status. (e,f) Representative images for Daple, Wnt5a/b and laminin γ2 expression in diffuse‐scattered (e) or diffuse‐adherent (f) types of gastric cancer. Scale bars, 100 μm.](CAS-107-133-g001){#cas12848-fig-0001} We next analyzed the correlation between Daple positivity and clinicopathological parameters in the current cohort (Table [1](#cas12848-tbl-0001){ref-type="table-wrap"}). No significant association was found with patient age, gender, tumor size, tumor location, WHO classification or Mucin type. In contrast, Daple expression was statistically correlated with the depth of gastric wall invasion (the T component of the TNM classification) (P = 0.001), the frequency of lymph node metastasis (the N component) (P = 0.0162) and clinical stage (P = 0.0037). Specifically, Daple positivity rate was significantly high in patients at T2--T4 (76.1%), with lymph node metastasis‐positive (74.3%) and at clinical stage II--IV (76.5%). Furthermore, the Kaplan--Meier survival curve showed that the postoperative survival rate was significantly lower for patients who were Daple‐positive rather than Daple‐negative (P = 0.0166 by log‐rank test) (Fig. [1](#cas12848-fig-0001){ref-type="fig"}d). It should be noted that the overall survival was significantly influenced by other factors, including the depth of wall invasion, positive rate for lymph node metastasis and TNM stage (P \< 0.0001) (Table S1), suggesting that Daple positivity does not independently regulate prognosis for patients with gastric cancer but has a synergistic interaction with other factors. Nonetheless, the results support the possible involvement of Daple in gastric cancer progression. ###### Correlation of Daple expression with clinicopathological characteristics in patients with gastric cancer Total Daple positive P‐value -------------------------------- ----------- ---------------- ----------- Age ≤60 62 (48.1) 36 (58.1) 0.1392 \>60 67 (51.9) 48 (71.6) Sex Male 99 (76.2) 68 (68.7) 0.1952 Female 31 (23.8) 17 (54.8) Size ≤6 cm 74 (67.3) 51 (68.9) 0.5193 \>6 cm 36 (32.7) 22 (61.1) Location Cardia 20 (15.6) 15 (75.0) 0.337 Corpus 33 (25.8) 23 (69.7) Antrum 34 (26.6) 18 (52.9) Whole 41 (32.0) 27 (65.9) WHO classification Well differentiated type 11 (9.3) 7 (63.6) 0.0508 Moderately differentiated type 41 (34.7) 33 (80.5) Poorly diffrentiated type 66 (55.9) 38 (57.6) Mucin type Gastric type 44 (33.8) 28 (63.6) 0.7508 Gastrointestinal type 8 (6.2) 5 (62.5) Intestinal type 54 (41.5) 38 (70.4) Null type 24 (18.5) 14 (58.3) Gastric wall invasion T1 38 (29.2) 15 (39.5) 0.001 T2 14 (10.8) 11 (78.6) T3 25 (19.2) 20 (80.0) T4 53 (40.8) 39 (73.6) Lymph node metastasis Negative 56 (43.1) 30 (53.6) 0.0162 Positive 74 (56.9) 55 (74.3) TNM stage Stage I 45 (34.6) 20 (44.4) 0.0037 StageII 23 (17.7) 18 (78.3) StageIII 27 (20.8) 21 (77.8) Stage IV 35 (26.9) 26 (74.3) John Wiley & Sons, Ltd Coexpression of Daple with Wnt5a/b and laminin γ2 in gastric cancer {#cas12848-sec-0013} ------------------------------------------------------------------- We previously showed that Daple mediates Wnt5a‐induced Rac activation through the non‐canonical Wnt pathway.[22](#cas12848-bib-0022){ref-type="ref"} As Wnt5a expression was also shown to correlate with laminin γ2 expression and gastric cancer aggression,[17](#cas12848-bib-0017){ref-type="ref"} we investigated whether Daple expression is also correlated with Wnt5a and laminin γ2 in our patient cohort. We evaluated Wnt5a/b expression by the same scoring system as used for Daple, and laminin γ2 expression was assessed as positive when signal was apparent in the cytoplasmic region of cancer cells. In addition, considering previous findings that altered expression and mutational activation of β‐catenin were found in gastric cancer,[31](#cas12848-bib-0031){ref-type="ref"} we monitored nuclear staining for β‐catenin, which is indicative of canonical Wnt signaling pathway activity. We found that Daple expression was significantly correlated with Wnt5a/b positivity (P \< 0.001) but not with β‐catenin nuclear staining in our cohort (P = 0.3194) (Table [2](#cas12848-tbl-0002){ref-type="table-wrap"}), suggesting a role for Daple in the non‐canonical Wnt signaling pathway. ###### Correlation of Daple expression with Wnt5a/b, laminin‐γ2, and β‐catenin expression in patients with gastric cancer Total Daple positive P‐value ----------------------------------- ----------- ---------------- ----------- Wnt5a/b positivity All cases Wnt5a/b positive 75 (57.7) 66 (88.0) \<0.001 Wnt5a/b negative 55 (42.3) 19 (34.5) Diffuse‐scattered type Wnt5a/b positive 20 (71.4) 19 (95.0) \<0.001 Wnt5a/b negative 8 (28.6) 2 (25.0) Other type Wnt5a/b positive 55 (53.9) 47 (85.5) \<0.001 Wnt5a/b negative 47 (46.1) 17 (36.2) Laminin‐γ2 cytoplasmic positivity All cases Cytoplasmic positive 56 (43.1) 42 (75.0) 0.06 Others 74 (56.9) 43 (58.1) Diffuse‐scattered type Cytoplasmic positive 17 (60.7) 16 (94.1) \<0.01 Others 11 (39.3) 5 (45.5) Other type Cytoplasmic positive 39 (38.2) 26 (66.7) 0.54 Others 63 (61.8) 38 (60.3) β‐catenin activity Nuclear/cytoplasm 65 (50.0) 29 (44.6) 0.32 Others 65 (50.0) 11 (16.9) John Wiley & Sons, Ltd Previous studies classified poorly differentiated gastric cancer into the diffuse‐scattered type, where cancer cells exhibit weak intercellular adhesion, and diffuse‐adherent type, where cancer cells form connected group; therein, Wnt5a and laminin γ2 coexpression was apparent in diffuse‐scattered types but not in other types of gastric cancer.[17](#cas12848-bib-0017){ref-type="ref"} Given this finding, we differentially examined Daple expression in diffuse‐scattered type versus other types in our cohort. The results showed that both Wnt5a/b and cytoplasmic laminin γ2 expression significantly correlated with Daple positivity when limited to the diffuse‐scattered type (P \< 0.001 and P \< 0.01, respectively) (Table [2](#cas12848-tbl-0002){ref-type="table-wrap"}, Fig. [1](#cas12848-fig-0001){ref-type="fig"}e). In other types, although Daple and Wnt5a/b expression were significantly correlated (P \< 0.001), significant correlation was not observed between Daple and cytoplasmic laminin γ2 expression (P = 0.54) (Table [2](#cas12848-tbl-0002){ref-type="table-wrap"}, Fig. [1](#cas12848-fig-0001){ref-type="fig"}f). These data, together with the association of Daple expression with clinicopathological features, suggest that Daple preferentially coexpresses with Wnt5a/b and laminin γ2 to regulate the non‐canonical Wnt signaling pathway in invasive gastric cancer. Daple mediates Wnt5a‐induced laminin γ2 expression and invasion of gastric cancer cells {#cas12848-sec-0014} --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- In gastric cancer cells, laminin γ2 expression is regulated by Wnt5a through Rac activation and JNK phosphorylation.[17](#cas12848-bib-0017){ref-type="ref"}, [18](#cas12848-bib-0018){ref-type="ref"} Therefore, we examined the effect of Daple knockdown on these effects in the MKN45 gastric cancer cell line. In addition, MKN45 cells exhibit weak endogenous Wnt5a expression.[16](#cas12848-bib-0016){ref-type="ref"} Thus, we can study the effect of exogenous Wnt5a; this increased laminin γ2 expression, Rac activation and JNK phosphorylation in control cells, all of which were abrogated by Daple knockdown (Fig. [2](#cas12848-fig-0002){ref-type="fig"}a). We previously reported that Daple knockdown attenuated Wnt5a‐induced migration in fibroblasts.[22](#cas12848-bib-0022){ref-type="ref"} Here, we showed that exogenous Wnt5a expression increased MKN45 migration and invasion through the Matrigel (Fig. [2](#cas12848-fig-0002){ref-type="fig"}b,c), which were significantly attenuated by Daple knockdown. ![Daple regulates Wnt5a‐induced Rac/JNK activation and laminin γ2 expression in gastric cancer cells. (a) Daple knockdown inhibited Wnt5a‐induced laminin γ2 expression, Rac activation and JNK phosphorylation. Western blot analysis of total cell lysates from MKN45 cells transfected with the indicated combinations of plasmids (control or Wnt5a) and siRNA (control or Daple siRNA). For Rac activation analysis (lower two panels), GTP‐bound Rac1 was pulled down with GST‐PBD and precipitated samples were probed with Rac1 antibody. (b,c) Wnt5a‐induced migration or invasion was attenuated by Daple knockdown. Transwell migration (b) or invasion (c) assays of MKN45 cells transfected with the indicated combinations of plasmids. Migrated cell numbers were expressed as the relative migration divided by that of Wnt5a (−) cells. The results represent the means ± SE. \*P \< 0.05.](CAS-107-133-g002){#cas12848-fig-0002} We further examined Daple function in the KKLS gastric cancer cell line, which expresses high levels of Wnt5a.[17](#cas12848-bib-0017){ref-type="ref"} We generated control and Daple‐depleted KKLS cells by retrovirus‐mediated transduction of control and three different Daple‐specific shRNAs (\#1--3). Variable Daple knockdown efficiency was observed in stably transduced cells without affecting Wnt5a expression (Fig. [3](#cas12848-fig-0003){ref-type="fig"}a). Quantitative RT‐PCR analysis showed that Daple knockdown was accompanied by a decrease in LAMC2 expression (Fig. [3](#cas12848-fig-0003){ref-type="fig"}b). Of note, KKLS cells transduced with Daple shRNA\#3, in which mild knockdown of endogenous Daple was observed, did not exhibit significant changes in laminin γ2 expression, showing the specificity of the experiment. ![Daple knockdown attenuates migration and invasion of high‐Wnt5a‐expressing KKLS cells. (a) Western blot of total cell lysates of control and Daple knockdown KKLS cells using three different shRNA (shDaple\#1‐3). (b) LAMC2 expression in control and Daple knockdown KKLS cells quantified by real‐time RT‐PCR, normalized to 18S ribosomal RNA (18S) expression. The results represent the means ± SE. \*P \< 0.05 compared with control shRNA. NS, not significant. (c,d) Migration (c) and invasion (d) assays of control shRNA or Daple shRNA\#2‐expressing KKLS cells. The number of migrated cells was expressed as relative migration (%) divided by that of control cells. The results represent the means ± SE. (e) Daple knockdown had no effect on KKLS cell proliferation. 1 × 10^5^ KKLS cells stably expressing control (closed square) or Daple (open square) shRNA were cultured for 3 days; cell numbers were counted each day.](CAS-107-133-g003){#cas12848-fig-0003} We next examined the effect of Daple knockdown on KKLS migration and invasion, using Daple shRNA\#2 (Figs [3](#cas12848-fig-0003){ref-type="fig"}c,d and [4](#cas12848-fig-0004){ref-type="fig"}). Daple depletion significantly decreased migration and invasion compared with control cells. However, cell proliferation was not affected, showing the specific role of Daple for cell motility in gastric cancer cells (Fig. [3](#cas12848-fig-0003){ref-type="fig"}e). ![Daple knockdown attenuates gastric cancer cell metastasis. (a) Representative images of metastatic tumors that developed in the liver of nude mice at 5 weeks after intrasplenic injection of control (left) or Daple knockdown (right) KKLS cells. (b) Total numbers of metastatic hepatic nodules per mouse (n = 6) were counted and quantified. The box plot shows median (horizontal line), 25th to 75th percentile (box), and total range (bars). \*P \< 0.05 (Mann--Whitney test). (c) Metastatic nodule size (n = 12) was measured in each group. NS, not significant (Mann--Whitney test). (d) Representative images of anti‐Daple and anti‐Wnt5a/b antibody‐stained metastatic tumor tissues. Scale bars, 100 μm. (e) Proposed model for Daple function in the non‐canonical Wnt signaling pathway. In particular gastric cancers including the diffuse‐scattered type, Daple induces laminin γ2 expression through Rac and JNK activation downstream of Wnt5a stimulation (left). The current results also suggest the existence of laminin γ2‐independent roles in other types of gastric cancer.](CAS-107-133-g004){#cas12848-fig-0004} Daple is involved in gastric cancer cell metastasis {#cas12848-sec-0015} --------------------------------------------------- Given that Daple expression was correlated with lymph node metastasis (Table [1](#cas12848-tbl-0001){ref-type="table-wrap"}), we examined the effect of Daple knockdown on metastasis in a xenograft tumor mouse model (Fig. [4](#cas12848-fig-0004){ref-type="fig"}). We utilized the KKLS cell line because it was established from a human primary gastric cancer with liver metastasis.[32](#cas12848-bib-0032){ref-type="ref"} Accordingly, control KKLS cells transplanted intrasplenically exhibited the propensity for liver metastasis in immunocompromised mice (Fig. [4](#cas12848-fig-0004){ref-type="fig"}a). In contrast, Daple knockdown KKLS cells rarely metastasized to the liver, and the number of metastatic nodules was significantly decreased compared with control cells (P = 0.0397) (Fig. [4](#cas12848-fig-0004){ref-type="fig"}a,b). However, metastatic nodule size was not significantly affected by Daple knockdown (Fig. [4](#cas12848-fig-0004){ref-type="fig"}c). Immunohistochemical analysis of metastatic tissues showed coexpression of Daple and Wnt5a/b in control but not Daple‐depleted tumors (Fig. [4](#cas12848-fig-0004){ref-type="fig"}d). Wnt5a/b expression was comparable between groups, suggesting that Daple functions downstream of Wnt5a/b, consistent with our biochemical data on cultured cancer cells (Fig. [2](#cas12848-fig-0002){ref-type="fig"}a). Taken together, these findings suggest that Daple mediates Wnt5a‐expressing gastric cancer cell metastasis. Discussion {#cas12848-sec-0016} ========== Despite recent advances in gastric cancer treatments, the prognosis of advanced disease remains poor because of the high frequency of metastasis to distant organs and dissemination,[33](#cas12848-bib-0033){ref-type="ref"} highlighting the importance of understanding the underlying mechanisms for cell motility in this disease. Here, we showed that Daple is highly expressed in advanced gastric cancer, where its expression significantly correlated with the depth of gastric wall invasion, frequency of lymph node metastasis and poor prognosis. We also demonstrated that Daple mediates the non‐canonical Wnt signaling pathway to regulate laminin γ2 expression, previously shown to be critical for gastric cancer progression.[17](#cas12848-bib-0017){ref-type="ref"}, [19](#cas12848-bib-0019){ref-type="ref"} These findings offer an opportunity for the development of new therapeutics for advanced gastric cancer. Although Daple and Wnt5a/b expression were correlated in our immunohistochemical study (Table [2](#cas12848-tbl-0002){ref-type="table-wrap"}), MKN45 cells showed high Daple but low Wnt5a/b expression (Fig. [2](#cas12848-fig-0002){ref-type="fig"}a). In addition, stimulation with exogenous Wnt5a did not affect Daple expression in MKN45 cells, suggesting that Wnt5a does not directly regulate Daple expression in gastric cancer cells. Daple has been listed among Wnt target genes, the transcription of which is regulated by β‐catenin downstream of the canonical Wnt signaling pathway.[34](#cas12848-bib-0034){ref-type="ref"} However, this was not supported by our present study, wherein Daple expression was not correlated with β‐catenin nuclear localization (Table [2](#cas12848-tbl-0002){ref-type="table-wrap"}); in MKN45 cells, β‐catenin was localized at the cell membrane (data not shown). Alternatively, the estrogen receptor α (ERα) has been shown to interact with the human Daple gene to regulate its transcriptional activity in human breast cancer cells.[35](#cas12848-bib-0035){ref-type="ref"} Given that altered ERα expression is involved in the increased metastatic potential of gastric cancer,[36](#cas12848-bib-0036){ref-type="ref"} the role of ERα‐mediated signaling in Daple expression induction in gastric cancer as well as the crosstalk between the non‐canonical Wnt signaling pathway and ERα‐mediated signaling should be investigated. Our data showed that Daple expression significantly correlates with laminin γ2 only in diffuse‐scattered type gastric cancer (Table [2](#cas12848-tbl-0002){ref-type="table-wrap"}), which notably was also shown to exclusively exhibit correlation of Wnt5a with laminin γ2.[16](#cas12848-bib-0016){ref-type="ref"} One plausible hypothesis to explain such histologically‐specific functioning is that, because laminin γ2 is a major component of laminin 5, which constitutes the cancer stroma that supports cancer cell invasion,[19](#cas12848-bib-0019){ref-type="ref"}, [37](#cas12848-bib-0037){ref-type="ref"} laminin γ2 expression might be specifically important for the invasion of small cancer cell nests that accompany the desmoplastic reaction and fibrosis of cancer stroma as occurs in the diffuse‐scattered type of gastric cancer. Furthermore, Daple expression correlated with Wnt5a/b expression independently of histological type (Table [2](#cas12848-tbl-0002){ref-type="table-wrap"}), suggesting that the Wnt5a/Daple pathway has multifaceted, laminin γ2‐independent roles in cancer progression (Fig. [4](#cas12848-fig-0004){ref-type="fig"}e). In addition, in the non‐canonical Wnt signaling pathway, the mechanisms of laminin γ2 induction by Rac activation and subsequent JNK phosphorylation have been established.[17](#cas12848-bib-0017){ref-type="ref"}, [18](#cas12848-bib-0018){ref-type="ref"} However, the mechanism of Rac activation by Daple is complex and not completely understood. We previously showed that Daple regulates the subcellular localization of Dvl/aPKC complex to regulate Rac activity.[22](#cas12848-bib-0022){ref-type="ref"} However, another recent hypothesis is that Daple links non‐canonical Wnt stimulation to tripartite G‐protein activation, which enhances Rac activation and contributes to colorectal cancer invasiveness.[38](#cas12848-bib-0038){ref-type="ref"} Overall, these disparate possibilities indicate that further studies are required to reveal the biochemical mode of Daple function downstream of non‐canonical Wnt stimulation in various types of gastric cancer. Disclosure statement {#cas12848-sec-0018} ==================== The authors have no conflict of interest to declare. Supporting information ====================== ###### Table S1. Correlation of clinicopathological characteristics with overall survival in the cohort study. ###### Click here for additional data file. We gratefully acknowledge A. Kikuchi and H. Yamamoto (Osaka University) for providing the Wnt5a expression plasmid. This work was supported by a Grant‐in‐Aid for Young Scientists (B) (to M. Takagishi) and Grants‐in‐Aid for Scientific Research (S) and (A) (to M. Takahashi) commissioned by the Ministry of Education, Culture, Sports, Science and Technology (MEXT) of Japan. M. Takagishi is a fellow of the Japan Society for the Promotion of Science.	{ "pile_set_name": "PubMed Central" }
Q: How to access multiple properties with magic method(__get & __set)? I recently studied magic methods, __get and __set, and was wondering how to actually set and get multiple properties in the class. I know it works perfectly with only one variable or array, but I'm not sure about accessing multiple variables. Is there anyone who could explain this to me? class myMagic2 { public $data; public $name; public $age; public function __set($item, $value) { $this->item = $value; } public function __get($item){ return $this->item; } } Is there a way to access all variables ($data, $name, $age)? A: When i work at projects i always have these methods: public function __set($name, $value) { //see if there exists a extra setter method: setName() $method = 'set' . ucfirst($name); if(!method_exists($this, $method)) { //if there is no setter, receive all public/protected vars and set the correct one if found $vars = $this->vars; if(array_search("_" . $name, $vars) !== FALSE) $this->{"_" . $name} = $value; } else $this->$method($value); //call the setter with the value } public function __get($name) { //see if there is an extra getter method: getName() $method = 'get' . ucfirst($name); if(!method_exists($this, $method)) { //if there is no getter, receive all public/protected vars and return the correct one if found $vars = $this->vars; if(array_search("_" . $name, $vars) !== FALSE) return $this->{"_" . $name}; } else return $this->$method(); //call the getter return null; } public function getVars() { if(!$this->_vars) { $reflect = new ReflectionClass($this); $this->_vars = array(); foreach($reflect->getProperties(ReflectionProperty::IS_PUBLIC \| ReflectionProperty::IS_PROTECTED) as $var) { $this->_vars[] = $var->name; } } return $this->_vars; } So with them i give myself the freedom to create extra setter/getter for properties if i want to manipulate them before writing/returning. If no setter/getter exists for the property it falls back to the property itself. With the method getVars() you receive all public and protected properties from the class. My class properties are always defined with an underscorce so you should probably change that.	{ "pile_set_name": "StackExchange" }
Daniela Caram Daniela Caram (born 24 November 1986) is a former Chilean field hockey player. Personal life Caram's younger sister, Camila, also represents the Chile national team, and is their current captain. Career Junior National Team Caram made her debut for the Chile junior national team in 2005. First at the 2005 Pan-American Junior Championship, which served as a qualifier for the Junior World Cup in Santiago. Caram again represented Chile at the Junior World Cup, where the team finished in 10th place. Senior National Team Caram debuted for the senior national team in 2005. Her first major tournament with the team being the 2006 South American Games. The team won a silver medal in the inaugural field hockey tournament at the South American Games. Following her debut, Caram represented Chile up until 2015, retiring after the 2015 Pan American Games. Following the Pan American Games, Caram was named in the 2015 Pan American Elite Team for the first time by the Pan American Hockey Federation. References Category:1986 births Category:Living people Category:Chilean female field hockey players Category:South American Games silver medalists for Chile Category:South American Games medalists in field hockey Category:Pan American Games medalists in field hockey Category:Pan American Games bronze medalists for Chile Category:Field hockey players at the 2011 Pan American Games Category:Competitors at the 2006 South American Games Category:Competitors at the 2014 South American Games	{ "pile_set_name": "Wikipedia (en)" }
Blog Three graphs breaking down media coverage of the IPCC’s big report 10 Oct 2013, 09:00 Mat Hope Credit: David Hawgood The Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change released a major climate science report two weeks ago, and was rewarded with a slew of media coverage. Now the dust has settled, we take a look back at how the UK media covered the big moment. The IPCC's Working Group One Summary for Policymakers was released at about 9AM UK time on Friday 27th September. It attracted widespread coverage. The BBC featured it on all main news programmes, following days of previews in the print media anticipating the report's main conclusions. For a brief moment, climate science was in the rare position of being at the heart of the media's agenda. On the Friday, ITN, Channel 4 and Sky also devoted significant airtime to reporting on the IPCC. What about the press? A quick look at which papers said what, when, and how gives an interesting overview of the UK's climate change reporting landscape. The IPCC's moment We searched for all the stories on the IPCC's report in nine prominent newspapers: the Daily Mail, Mail on Sunday, The Times, Sunday Times, The Telegraph, Sunday Telegraph, Guardian, Observer, and Independent. (Bear in mind this is a quick snapshot, not a comprehensive content analysis.) The chart below shows the number of stories printed in the five days leading up to the report's launch, and the five days after. Factiva search for "IPCC AND climate change" between the 23rd September to 4th October, excluding duplicates. In total, there 53 stories in the papers we looked at. The coverage peaked with 19 stories on September 28th, the day after the report was launched. By the following Friday, coverage had all but tailed-off. The Guardian provided the most coverage by volume, printing 13 articles on the report over the ten days we looked at. Of the Sunday papers, the Observer, Sunday Telegraph and Sunday Times published two articles each responding to the report. Headlines Newspaper headlines usually reveal as much about the editorial line of the newspaper as they do about the contents of the article. The newspapers' IPCC-related headlines reflected a range of takes on the report (the picture below gives a sample - click to enlarge), displaying varying levels of (climate) skepticism across news and comment pieces. In his book, Poles Apart, James Painter from Oxford University's Reuters Institute for the Study of Journalism identifies three types of climate skepticism - 'trend', 'attribute' and 'impact' - and the headlines reflected this variety. The Daily Mail's headlines generally questioned the severity of climate change, without rejecting its existence - known as impact skepticism. The Telegraph and Sunday Telegraph were less consistent. Some headlines echoed the Mail's impact skeptic tone (arguably 'Climate change will make Britain cooler, UN predicts'). Others questioned whether or not climate change is due to human activity (for example, 'Global warming believers are feeling the heat; The science used to 'prove' man-made climate change looks increasingly threadbare') - what is termed attribution skepticism. But in contrast, other headlines assert the severity of human caused climate change ('Global warming 'unequivocal', say scientists; World panel warns of more extreme weather after 'unprecedented' rise in temperatures', for instance). The Times' headlines showed similar variety. Some leant towards attribution skepticism ('Climate Change in Rehab; Humans are interfering with the atmosphere but we are still not sure quite how') while others were impact skeptic ('Met Office's climate model 'is exaggerating warming effect'"). A story by its environment editor canvassing responses to the IPCC's report launch was along very different lines, however - with the headline, 'Radical solutions urged to beat growing climate threat'. Meanwhile, the Guardian, Observer and Independent's headlines mostly stressed the severity of climate change and the need for action. A couple of days before the report's launch, the Independent ran a comment piece arguing that 'Hoping for the best about climate change just isn't good enough'. An Observer editorial was entitled 'No more denial. Time to act on climate change'. The Guardian also led the way with post-report analysis of media coverage of the event, publishing a comment piece under the headline 'A betrayal of BBC values: It cannot be in the public interest to let a geologist pour scorn on the IPCC climate change report'. For the most part, though, the top line message of the report - that scientists are more sure than ever that humans are causing extra warming - was reported without being questioned. The science bit As the IPCC's report is a predominantly scientific document, it's interesting to see what aspects of the science caught the newspapers' attention. Unsurprisingly, there were a lot of references to carbon dioxide, as our rather unsophisticated word search shows. The papers all mentioned the oceans and ice frequently - 50 and 49 times respectively, across the 53 stories - but sea-level rise captured the imagination less (with only 26 mentions). The newspapers didn't communicate climate change in terms of temperature change very often, however, and discussing climate sensitivity and temperature rise as if they were interchangeable was a recurring feature. A mixed bag Each newspaper we looked at had a distinct tone - sometimes consistent, sometimes more varied - which it overlaid on its coverage of the report. This is a quick analysis and should be taken with a pinch of salt, but hopefully it goes some way to making sense of what was a noisy few days in the climate media world. The IPCC releases the next installment of its report in March next year. Updated, 11/10/13: The infographic and text were adjusted to clarify which headlines appeared in The Times, and which appeared in the Sunday Times.	{ "pile_set_name": "Pile-CC" }
It seems to me that it is human nature that the closer we get to achieving a particular goal, the more we focus our energy on realizing it. Examples of this "push to the finish" mentality can be seen in many facets of life, including the time leading up to a looming deadline at work or an exam at school. In the context of a plate appearance, one way to gauge this phenomenon is to observe the average fastball velocity reached by pitchers depending on the number of strikes in the count. While not everyone believes in the benefits of the strikeout, the behavior of the average pitcher as a potential strikeout nears in a plate appearance is a good indication that he is certainly targeting such a result. Max Marchi at Baseball Prospectus produced a brilliant two part series last year where he documented the difference in velocity for pitchers based on count, base-out state as well as batting opponent. I recently discovered the same relationship between fastball velocity and number of strikes in the count, but wanted to explore a potential relationship that I do not believe that I have seen investigated before. One common belief surrounding pitching mechanics is that a consistent delivery is more desirable than not for preventing injuries. While in many respects, in terms of PITCHf/x data we think of release points as the closest proxy for testing a repeatable delivery, it seems plausible to me that reaching back for a little too much extra as the strike count mounts in a plate appearance may be another way that a delivery could be considered to be inconsistent. In other words, if the velocity increase is too much, could all those little extra oomphs accumulated over many plate appearances be harmful to your body? Study To test this, I looked at the average four-seam fastball velocity by strike count for all pitchers in the years 2010, 2011 and 2012. Since velocity stabilizes very quickly, I did not have to concern myself with minimum batters faced in this study. Of course not every pitcher throws four-seam fastballs, but the exceptions are few. I calculated a "slope" for each pitcher, which is basically the fastball velocity increase per additional strike in the count of the plate appearance. I then looked at the number of trips to the DL in each season for each pitcher. I wanted to see whether there is any weak relationship between the slope and the number of DL instances across the set of major league pitchers. I also separated the sample into starters and relievers, since relievers tend to throw harder on average and especially as they age throw fastballs more often in general. Results To start, here is the average four-seam fastball velocity of all pitchers by number of strikes in the count over the past three seasons: Year 0 Strikes 1 Strike 2 Strikes Slope 2010 90.86 91.15 91.67 0.404 2011 91.00 91.27 91.77 0.386 2012 91.15 91.42 91.93 0.390 Avg 91.00 91.28 91.79 0.393 Average Four-seam Fastball Velocity by Strikes in Count, 2010-2012 We see overall average fastball velocities are on the rise across the league. We also see that consistently the average fastball velocity increases by around 0.4 MPH per additional strike in the count. This tends to break down into about a 0.3 MPH increase on strike one counts and another 0.5 MPH increase on strike two counts. After calculating the slope for each pitcher individually, I wanted to check is how repeatable it was for a pitcher year-over-year, to get a feel for whether this is something that a pitcher tends to control. Year N Year N+1 r 2010 2011 0.53 2011 2012 0.47 Year-to-Year Repeatability for Increased Velocity by Strike Count Slope Pitchers do appear to have some control over how much they amp up as the strikes mount in a plate appearance, but there is also a good amount of year-to-year random variability. In breaking down the velocities by count for starters and relievers and then grouping them based on DL trips, we see a pattern forming in particular with relief pitchers. DL Trips 0 Strikes 1 Strike 2 Strikes Slope Sample 0 90.31 90.61 91.19 0.439 575 1 90.24 90.55 91.22 0.491 185 2+ 89.44 89.73 90.26 0.408 43 Average Starting Pitcher Four-seam Fastball Velocity by Strike Count and DL Trips, 2010-2012 DL Trips 0 Strikes 1 Strike 2 Strikes Slope Sample 0 91.57 91.82 92.25 0.342 768 1 91.73 92.04 92.49 0.380 191 2+ 91.78 92.04 92.72 0.470 26 Average Relief Pitcher Four-seam Fastball Velocity by Strike Count and DL Trips, 2010-2012 While the table for starting pitchers looks inconclusive, in looking at the table for relievers we see that the number of DL trips increase as the slope of the fastball velocity rises. This relationship was seen for relievers in each of the last three years independently, which perhaps suggests something at play here more than just randomness. Certainly I would not expect any such relationship to be very strong, as something as complex as injury prevention is not likely to have one variable of this nature make a large contribution. In running a linear regression for slope versus number of DL trips, I got a miniscule R^2, with a P-value of 0.09. I also tried running a binary logistic regression on just injured/not injured, but again did not see any significant association. So while it was possible to look at the numbers in the table and believe there could be a positive relationship between the calculated slope and DL trips, simple regression tests could not really detect such a correlation. There are simply too many healthy pitchers who also amp up their fastballs during a plate appearance for a simple model to detect any significance of this one variable. One problem with using DL trips as our response is that there are cases where pitchers appear to be injured, but are essentially "day-to-day" and recover without ever being placed on the DL. Glen Perkins, Kameron Loe and Aroldis Chapman are examples of relievers with very high slopes year-to-year that experienced these "day-to-day" injuries (as per Baseball Prospectus Injury History beta) that did not require DL time. Perhaps if all missed days could be used instead of DL trips, the relationship could be stronger. Despite the apparent failure, as for a possible next step for this idea I could see this slope variable as potentially being useful as an input along with other PITCHf/x variables into a neural net that looks to predict injuries for relief pitchers. That type of model would be better at flushing out any real relationship between this slope in conjunction with other variables and injuries. Josh Kalk and Kyle Boddy have both published works based on neural networks attempting to predict injuries to starting pitchers, but I have not seen a model attempted for relievers. Whether the slope calculated here ends up being significant when put alongside deviations in movement and release point remains to be seen. With injury prevention being one of the major areas where a lot of work can still be done, any little bit helps. You can follow me on Twitter at @MLBPlayerAnalys. <a href="https://twitter.com/MLBPlayerAnalys" class="twitter-follow-button" data-show-count="false">Follow @MLBPlayerAnalys</a> <script>!function(d,s,id){var js,fjs=d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0];if(!d.getElementById(id)){js=d.createElement(s);js.id=id;js.src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js";fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js,fjs);}}(document,"script","twitter-wjs");</script> Credit and thanks to Baseball Heat Maps for PITCHf/x and injury data upon which this analysis was based.	{ "pile_set_name": "OpenWebText2" }
Senate Democrats on Wednesday backed off their red line over President Trump’s proposed border wall, saying they saw a deal in sight that could include permission to build more fencing as part of a broad agreement to legalize illegal immigrant “Dreamers.” Mr. Trump, meanwhile, is seeking a much less dramatic wall than the “sea-to-sea” version he touted during the 2016, campaign, presenting Congress with a scaled-back version that would cover 700 miles and cost $18 billion over a decade — though the president said he figures it can be built much faster and cheaper. While he’s changed on the details, Mr. Trump remains adamant that the wall be included in the current negotiations over how to legalize Dreamers. “It’s got to include the wall. We need the wall for security. We need the wall for safety. We need the wall for stopping the drugs from pouring in,” the president said during a joint press conference with the Norwegian prime minister Wednesday. Democrats who had said the wall was a non-starter are beginning to soften. While they’re not rushing to embrace the wall, they have erased red lines drawn months ago. Trump’s olive branch Sen. Dianne Feinstein, a California Democrat who attended Tuesday’s White House meeting on immigration, acknowledged that the president had taken a step toward compromise. “What I picked up from the meeting yesterday was that he was open to a solution and that he felt he required some kind of wall,” she said. “Democrats are open to negotiation.” House Minority Whip Steny Hoyer said he doesn’t think a wall works, but he recognized Mr. Trump’s “flexibility” and said he wouldn’t rule out accepting a wall. Senate Minority Leader Charles E. Schumer this week also declined to draw red lines on the wall, saying he saw progress in Mr. Trump no longer seeking a 2,000-mile-long barrier. Tuesday’s White House meeting produced an agreement that any deal to legalize Dreamers must also include border security, limits to family-based chain migration and changes to the Diversity Visa Lottery program that gives away immigrant visas based purely on luck of the draw. On Wednesday all sides debated what fits within those four guideposts, with top leaders meeting to talk about scheduling and a path forward. Ruling reduces pressure The urgency of a deal appeared to lessen after a federal judge in California ruled late Tuesday night that the Obama-era Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals amnesty that’s protecting some 700,000 Dreamers is legal, and Mr. Trump’s six-month phaseout is illegal. Judge William Alsup, a Clinton appointee, ordered the government to begin accepting DACA renewal applications again. Homeland Security didn’t say how it would comply with that ruling, which on its face erases the March 5 phaseout deadline Mr. Trump had set. But the White House, congressional Democrats and immigrant-rights activists alike brushed aside Judge Alsup’s ruling, saying they still want to speed a deal through as quickly as possible. “The fact remains — the only way to guarantee the legal status for Dreamers is to pass DACA protections into law, and to do it now,” said Mr. Schumer, embracing the same argument Mr. Trump made when he announced the DACA phaseout last year. Details left to Congress Mr. Trump has left the details of a final agreement up to Congress, saying he’ll sign whatever they send him. Republicans want to limit chain migration, eliminating siblings and adult children from the categories of people that immigrants are able to sponsor for visas. The GOP also wants to cancel the visa lottery, which has been implicated in helping two recent terrorist suspects enter the U.S. Some left-wing Democrats defend the lottery, but leaders appear to be poised to accept its demise, particularly if the 50,000 visas a year can be recovered and used for other immigrants. Curtailing chain migration is a bigger ask for Democratic leaders, who are under intense pressure from activist groups not to deal with Mr. Trump. Those activists have urged Democrats to demand a “clean” bill to grant a full pathway to citizenship to as many as 2 million illegal immigrants, without any conditions. The activists say unless that’s approved, Democrats should risk a shutdown showdown when the next government funding bill is due Jan. 19. The wall is symbol While their leaders negotiate, some rank-and-file Democrats in the House made clear they don’t like the direction of the talks. “No wall for me,” said Rep. Adriano Espaillat, a New York Democrat who was an illegal immigrant from the Dominican Republic before becoming a naturalized citizen. “A wall is a symbol of a bunch of things I object to,” Mr. Espaillat said. Rep. Richard Neal, Massachusetts Democrat, said Mr. Trump’s shifts on the wall are a recognition of reality. Still, he said any new fencing is a tough sell for his party. “We are against the wall and I can’t see that changing,” he said. “I think the metaphor of the wall is difficult to overcome.” Even as some Democrats resist Mr. Trump’s security requests, Republicans moved to stiffen his negotiating hand with a new House bill checking off many of his requests for enhanced immigration enforcement. Led by Rep. Bob Goodlatte, chairman of the House Judiciary Committee, and Rep. Michael McCaul, chairman of the House Homeland Security Committee, the legislation would authorize the border wall, punish sanctuary cities, stiffen penalties for repeat illegal immigrants, make overstaying a visa a misdemeanor crime, allow faster deportation of those involved in the recent surge of illegal immigration across the southwest border, and require mandatory use of E-Verify by all businesses checking the work status of new employees. The bill would also end the diversity lottery and curtail chain migration by limiting people to only sponsoring their spouses and minor children. For Dreamers, the bill would give them an officially recognized legal status and work permits — but it would not include a special pathway to citizenship. Those wishing for citizenship would have to access one of the existing methods, such as marrying a U.S. citizen or having an employer sponsor them for a visa. Mr. Goodlatte said the bill strikes the right balance, offering some relief to Dreamers while making serious gains in security. “Years of lax enforcement policies have wreaked havoc on our borders,” he said. “We can’t let these dangerous and foolish policies continue.” Mr. Trump said in Tuesday’s meeting he’s willing to take the heat from the right and the left to strike a deal. But he’s been insistent throughout that the wall be part of it. 2013 bill could be model A proposal from the Homeland Security Department, submitted to Congress last week, called for $18 billion in fencing and another $1 billion in new roads to patrol the fencing. The fencing would involve upgrading existing barriers and adding new ones, extending the current 654 miles of barriers to about 970 miles, The Wall Street Journal reported. That 316 miles of new fencing is not dramatically different than the 350 miles of fencing every Democrat in the chamber voted for in 2013, the last time a major immigration bill reached the chamber floor. Sen. Bob Corker, a Tennessee Republican who wrote the amendment that added the 350 miles of fencing to that bill, now says that proposal, which also included 20,000 more Border Patrol agents, was “overkill.” But he said he sees signs of a new deal emerging this year, with Democrats embracing another round of security upgrades. “Ultimately they have to vote for security,” said Mr. Corker. “It appears to me the White House is moderating their request and I think we are going to get to a good place.” Sign up for Daily Newsletters Manage Newsletters Copyright © 2020 The Washington Times, LLC. Click here for reprint permission.	{ "pile_set_name": "OpenWebText2" }
Augusto Conte Mac Donell Augusto Conte Mac Donell (died ) was an Argentinian lawyer and politician. He was a leader of the Christian Democratic Party. He cofounded and led the (CELS). He was a defender of human rights. Career He was Under Secretary of Defense for Policy of the Benevolent dictatorship of the revolution. On July 7, 1976, his son Augusto María Conte Mac Donell disappeared while he was in military service. His years-long and ultimately unsuccessful search for his son led him to become a human rights defender. He committed suicide in 1992. In 1963 Conte was elected vice president. He wrote many articles, perhaps most importantly one in which he developed the theory of global parallelism, which he cowrote with Emilio Mignone, and presented at the Colloquium of Paris. Recognition The Office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Human Rights held a ceremony to commemorate the events that took place at the former ESMA, with Horacio Verbitsky (journalist and president of CELS); Estela de Carlotto (president of the Grandmothers of the Plaza de Mayo), Marta Vázquez (member of Mothers Línea Fundadora), Graciela Lois (supporter of Relatives of Disappeared and Detained for Political Reasons), and Aldo Etchegoyen (co-president of the Permanent Assembly for Human Rights). References Category:1927 births Category:1992 deaths Category:Argentine lawyers Category:20th-century Argentine politicians Category:Argentine human rights activists Category:Suicides in Argentina	{ "pile_set_name": "Wikipedia (en)" }
Published: August 13, 2019 Introduction {#sec1} ============ Aging is characterized by a decline in metabolic and physiological functions of all organs within the body. A hallmark feature of aging is the progressive loss of skeletal muscle mass and function that can progress to sarcopenia, which is associated with significant morbidity and mortality and substantial healthcare costs ([@bib38], [@bib60]). Exercise is considered a frontline modality to combat age-related muscle decline ([@bib13]). However, nutritional strategies may also offer an effective countermeasure to age-associated morbidities and promote healthy muscle aging ([@bib6]). Nicotinamide adenine dinucleotide (NAD^+^) homeostasis is critical to cell and organismal function. In addition to its classical role in redox metabolism, NAD^+^ is a substrate for enzymes such as sirtuins, poly-ADPribose polymerases (PARPs), and cyclic ADPribose synthetases that regulate key cellular processes of energy metabolism, DNA damage repair, and calcium signaling ([@bib71]). Improving NAD^+^ availability via the supplementation of the NAD^+^ precursor nicotinamide riboside (NR) ([@bib5], [@bib63]) has emerged as a potential strategy to augment tissue-specific NAD^+^ homeostasis and improve physiological function ([@bib22]). A range of physiological stresses associated with the depletion of NAD^+^ and/or nicotinamide adenine dinucleotide phosphate hydrogen (NADPH) have been ameliorated with NR supplementation in mice, including prevention of noise-induced hearing loss ([@bib7]), resistance to weight gain ([@bib9]), reduction of blood glucose, hepatic steatosis and neuropathy on a high-fat diet ([@bib64]), improvement of cardiac function in genetic cardiomyopathy ([@bib18]), and prevention of cortical neuronal degeneration ([@bib67]). Depletion of the enzyme nicotinamide phosphoribosyltransferase (NAMPT), rate-limiting for NAD^+^ biosynthesis, in mouse skeletal muscle severely diminishes NAD^+^ levels and induces sarcopenia. Oral repletion of NAD^+^ with NR in this model rescued pathology in skeletal muscle in a cell-autonomous manner ([@bib25]). However, recent data in mice tracing NAD^+^ fluxes questioned whether oral NR has the ability to access muscle ([@bib45]). Thus, whether oral NR can augment the human skeletal muscle NAD^+^ metabolome is currently unknown. A decline in NAD^+^ availability and signaling appears to occur as part of the aging process in many species ([@bib27], [@bib52]), though there is a paucity of data to confirm that this is the case in human aging. NR and nicotinamide mononucleotide (NMN) are reported to extend life spans ([@bib72]) and enhance metabolism in aged mice ([@bib50]). To date, NR supplementation studies in humans have focused on cardiovascular ([@bib46]), systemic metabolic ([@bib20]), exercise ([@bib21]), and safety ([@bib12]) end-points, but have not addressed advanced aging, tissue metabolomic changes, or effects on muscle metabolism and function. Herein, we set out to study if oral NR is available to aged human skeletal muscle and whether potential effects on muscle metabolism can be detected. We conducted a 21-day NR supplementation intervention in a cohort of 70--80-year-old men in a placebo-controlled, double-blind, crossover trial. We demonstrate that NR augments the skeletal muscle NAD^+^ metabolome, inducing a gene expression signature suggestive of downregulation of energy metabolism pathways, but without affecting muscle mitochondrial bioenergetics or metabolism. Additionally, we show that NR suppresses specific circulating inflammatory cytokine levels. Results {#sec2} ======= Oral NR Is Safe and Well-Tolerated in Aged Adults {#sec2.1} ------------------------------------------------- Twelve aged (median age of 75 years) and marginally overweight (median BMI of 26.6 kg/m^2^; range 21--30), but otherwise healthy, men were recruited and orally supplemented with 1-g NR per day for 21 days in a placebo-controlled, randomized, double-blind, crossover design, with 21 days' washout period between phases. Baseline characteristics of participants are included in [Table S1](#mmc1){ref-type="supplementary-material"}. NR chloride (Niagen) and a placebo were provided as 250-mg capsules (ChromaDex), and subjects were instructed to take two in the morning and two in the evening. All participants completed the study visits (5 in total) and assessments according to protocol ([Figure S1](#mmc1){ref-type="supplementary-material"}). Visit 1 was a screening and enrollment visit, while visit 4 was after the washout period, and only fasting blood and 24-h urine were collected. The protocol design for visits 2, 3, and 5 included muscle biopsy, fasting blood analyses, glucose tolerance test, muscle arterio-venous difference technique, venous occlusive plethysmography, and indirect calorimetry analysis ([Figure S1](#mmc1){ref-type="supplementary-material"}). NR was well tolerated, and screening for a range of hematological and clinical biochemistry safety parameters (including renal, liver, and thyroid functions) revealed no adverse effects ([Table S2](#mmc1){ref-type="supplementary-material"}). No clinical adverse events were reported during the intervention in either phase. Of note, four participants (33.3%), blinded to the intervention arm, self-reported a noticeable increase in libido while on NR. There were no such reports while on the placebo. Oral NR Augments the Skeletal Muscle NAD^+^ Metabolome {#sec2.2} ------------------------------------------------------ To assess the effects of NR supplementation on NAD^+^ metabolism, we used a targeted liquid chromatography-mass spectrometry (LC-MS/MS) method ([@bib62]) to quantify the NAD^+^ metabolome in skeletal muscle, whole venous blood, and urine. We examined the NAD^+^ metabolome in skeletal muscle biopsies from all participants in a fasted state at baseline and after the NR and placebo phases, 14 h after the last dose and prior to the physiological assessments. Samples were collected 14 h after the last dose so participants could attend in a fasted state, as well as to evaluate the effects of longer-term NR administration rather than those of an acute dose. Fourteen metabolites were measured in muscle extracts ([Figures 1](#fig1){ref-type="fig"} and [S2](#mmc1){ref-type="supplementary-material"}A; [Table S3](#mmc2){ref-type="supplementary-material"}). NR was detectable in muscle but was not elevated in the NR supplementation period (NR 1.4 pmol/mg μM versus placebo 1.25 pmol/mg; p = 0.23). Consistent with nicotinic acid adenine dinucleotide (NAAD) as a highly sensitive biomarker of NR supplementation and an enhanced rate of NAD^+^ synthesis ([@bib63]), we found that oral NR resulted in a 2-fold increase in muscle NAAD (NR 0.73 pmol/mg versus placebo 0.35 pmol/mg; p = 0.004), without an increase in NAD^+^ (NR 210 pmol/mg versus 197 pmol/mg; p = 0.22). NR supplementation did not affect muscle nicotinamide (NAM) (NR 92.0 pmol/mg versus placebo 86.5 pmol/mng; p = 0.96). However, remarkably, we detected 5-fold increases in the products of NAM methylation clearance pathways; N-methyl nicotinamide (MeNAM; NR 1.45 pmol/mg versus placebo 0.35 pmol/mg; p = 0.006), N1-methyl-2-pyridone-5-carboxamide (Me-2-py; NR 6.6 pmol/mg versus placebo 1.1 pmol/mg; p \< 0.001), and N1-methyl-4-pyridone-5-carboxamide (Me-4-py; NR 1.6 pmol/mg versus placebo 0.3 pmol/mg; p \< 0.001) ([Figures 1](#fig1){ref-type="fig"} and [S2](#mmc1){ref-type="supplementary-material"}A; [Table S3](#mmc2){ref-type="supplementary-material"}).Figure 1NR Augments the Human Skeletal Muscle NAD^+^ MetabolomeSchematic representation of nicotinamide riboside (NR) metabolism within the nicotinamide adenine dinucleotide (NAD^+^) metabolome, accompanied by observed levels of metabolites measured using LC-MS/MS in skeletal muscle, whole blood, and urine at baseline and after each of the NR and placebo periods. NAD^+^ metabolomics data at the end of the washout period are shown in [Table S3](#mmc2){ref-type="supplementary-material"}. Skeletal muscle data were normalized to the weight of the muscle pellet used for extraction. Urine data were normalized to urinary creatinine. Other metabolites are shown in [Figure S2](#mmc1){ref-type="supplementary-material"}. Data are obtained from 12 participants at each phase and presented as mean ± SEM. Significance was set at p \< 0.05 using paired t tests and represents the differences between NR and the placebo and between NR and baseline. The absence of significance symbols indicates a lack of statistical significance. BLQ, below limit of quantification; NMN, nicotinamide mononucleotide; NAAD, nicotinic acid adenine dinucleotide; NAM, nicotinamide; NAMOx, nicotinamide N-oxide; MeNAM, N-methyl nicotinamide; Me-2-py, N1-Methyl-2-pyridone-5- carboxamide. In the blood, we measured 15 metabolites from each participant at baseline and following each of the NR, placebo, and washout periods ([Figures 1](#fig1){ref-type="fig"} and [S2](#mmc1){ref-type="supplementary-material"}B; [Table S3](#mmc2){ref-type="supplementary-material"}). NR was also detectable in the blood but was not increased, compared to the placebo at 14 h after the last dose of NR (NR 0.16 μM versus placebo 0.15 μM; p = 0.31). This is expected, as the predicated Cmax for NR is approximately 3 h ([@bib1]). NR increased the concentrations of NAD^+^ \>2-fold (NR 47.75 μM versus placebo 20.90 μM; p \< 0.001) and NMN 1.4-fold (NR 1.63 μM versus placebo 1.13 μM; p \< 0.001). A recent study reported that oral NR is rapidly metabolized in the liver to NAM, which can enhance tissue NAD^+^ metabolomes ([@bib45]). However, chronic NR supplementation did not elevate NAM in the blood (NR 10.60 μM versus placebo 9.50 μM; p = 0.41). Again, NAM urinary clearance pathways were highly active following NR, with marked excess of MeNAM (NR 0.66 μM versus placebo 0.10 μM; p \< 0.001), Me-2-py (NR 7.69 μM versus placebo 1.44 μM; p \< 0.001), and Me-4-py (NR 3.82 μM versus placebo 0.48 μM; p \< 0.001) ([Figures 1](#fig1){ref-type="fig"} and [S2](#mmc1){ref-type="supplementary-material"}B; [Table S3](#mmc2){ref-type="supplementary-material"}). NR elevated blood NAAD levels by 4.5-fold (NR 0.18 μM versus placebo 0.04 μM; p \< 0.001). Urinary NAD^+^ metabolomics showed that NR was detectable and increased with NR supplementation (NR 41.5 μmol/mol creatinine versus placebo 31.7 μmol/mol creatinine; p = 0.02) ([Figure 1](#fig1){ref-type="fig"}). Furthermore, a near-20-fold increase in nicotinic acid riboside (NAR; NR-185.5 μmol/mol creatinine versus placebo-10.3 μmol/mol creatinine; p = 0.001) was observed. This observation may support the suggestion that NR supplementation leads to retrograde production of NAAD, nicotinic acid mononucleotide (NAMN), and NAR ([@bib63]). However, direct NR transformation into NAR cannot be excluded. Unlike muscle and blood, NAM was elevated in the urine 2.5-fold (NR-282 μmol/mol creatinine versus placebo-106.5 μmol/mol creatinine; p = 0.004). These data establish the extent and breadth of changes to NAD^+^ metabolites in human muscle, blood, and urine after NR supplementation. The data indicate that oral NR greatly boosts the blood NAD^+^ metabolome without an increase in NAM, increases muscle NAD^+^ metabolism, and leads to the disposal of urinary clearance products. Oral NR Results in Downregulation of Gene Sets Associated with Energy Metabolism in Skeletal Muscle {#sec2.3} --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- We next assessed NR-mediated transcriptional changes in skeletal muscle. RNA sequencing followed by differential gene expression (DGE) analysis of muscle biopsies from the 12 participants revealed 690 upregulated and 398 downregulated genes between baseline and NR supplementation at p value \< 0.05 ([Figure 2](#fig2){ref-type="fig"}A; [Table S4](#mmc3){ref-type="supplementary-material"}). Using gene annotation analysis (gene set enrichment analysis \[GSEA\]) ([@bib51], [@bib61]), we examined the enrichment of genes that belong to known molecular pathways in our list of up- or downregulated genes. Our results suggest that genes significantly downregulated with NR supplementation were enriched in pathways relating to energy metabolism, including those of glycolysis, tricarboxylic acid (TCA) cycle, and mitochondria ([Figure 2](#fig2){ref-type="fig"}B; [Table S5](#mmc4){ref-type="supplementary-material"}). This is consistent with the recent discovery that oral NR depresses mitochondrial membrane potential while improving blood stem cell production in mice ([@bib66]).Figure 2NR Supplementation Induces a Transcriptional Signature in Human Skeletal Muscle(A) Differential gene expression analysis on baseline and NR-treated muscle samples (n = 12 at each phase). Volcano plot of differential gene expression between baseline and NR treated human muscle samples. Fold change (Log2, x axis) of gene expression is plotted against p value for differential gene expression (--Log10, y axis). Colored dots represent Ensembl genes that are either upregulated (in orange) or downregulated (in blue) upon NR supplementation at a p value \< 0.05.(B and C) Gene Ontology analysis of significantly dysregulated genes upon NR supplementation for (B) downregulated genes and (C) upregulated genes. Gene Ontology analysis was performed using GSEA. Bars represent the p value (--Log10) of overlap from hypergeometric distribution.(D) Gene set enrichment analysis (GSEA) suggests that genes belonging to the gene set "glycolysis" are downregulated upon NR supplementation. The normalized enrichment score (NES) and nominal p value are presented on the top-left corner of the graph.(E) As in (D), but for genes involved in the TCA cycle.(F) As in (D), but for genes involved in the gene set "mitochondria."(G) A qPCR analysis of a select panel of downregulated genes identified through differential gene expression analysis. GAPDH was used as housekeeping gene. Error bars represent SEM (n = 12).(H) As in (G), but for NAD^+^ pathway-related genes.(I) Quantification of phosphoglycerate kinase 1 (PGK1), phosphoglucomutase 1 (PGM1), and pyruvate kinase M1 (PKM1) proteins using immunoblotting assay. Tubulin was used as a loading control.Data are obtained from 12 participants at each phase and wherever relevant are presented as mean ± SEM. Significance was set at p \< 0.05. The absence of significance symbols indicates a lack of statistical significance. Pathways upregulated upon NR supplementation prominently belonged to Gene Ontology categories such as cell adhesion, actin cytoskeleton organization, and cell motility ([Figure 2](#fig2){ref-type="fig"}C). This supports a previously identified role for the NAD^+^-generating enzyme NR kinase 2b (Nrk2b) in zebrafish skeletal muscle cell adhesion ([@bib29]). We next examined all the genes that belonged to the glycolysis, mitochondrial, and TCA cycle pathways and found that they were predominantly downregulated following NR supplementation, whereas 10 control gene sets of the same size and expression level were not ([Figures 2](#fig2){ref-type="fig"}D--2F and [S3](#mmc1){ref-type="supplementary-material"}A). Similarly, we found that the genes belonging to the Gene Ontology terms actin filament-based process, cell motility, and biological cell adhesion were mainly upregulated upon NR supplementation ([Figures S3](#mmc1){ref-type="supplementary-material"}B and S3C). In agreement with the DGE analysis, quantitative real-time PCR showed downregulation of selected genes involved in energy metabolism ([Figure 2](#fig2){ref-type="fig"}G). We found no changes in the transcript levels of key genes involved in NAD^+^ metabolism, corroborating the DGE analysis ([Figure 2](#fig2){ref-type="fig"}H). We also verified some of the upregulated targets by qPCR ([Figure S3](#mmc1){ref-type="supplementary-material"}D) and undertook some immunoblotting validation ([Figure S3](#mmc1){ref-type="supplementary-material"}D). As it has previously been shown that NR increases glycolysis in mouse cardiac cells ([@bib18]), and because our data do not support an NR-mediated transcriptional upregulation of glycolysis related genes, we examined protein expression levels of glycolytic enzymes in our muscle biopsies and show them to be unchanged after NR ([Figure 2](#fig2){ref-type="fig"}I). Three Weeks of Oral NR Does Not Alter Skeletal Muscle Mitochondrial Bioenergetics or Hand-Grip Strength {#sec2.4} ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Several preclinical studies suggest that NR enhances mitochondrial energy programs in skeletal muscle ([@bib9], [@bib25]) through mechanisms that involve redox and sirtuins activation. Therefore, we undertook a detailed assessment of muscle mitochondrial respiration in biopsies after NR supplementation using high-resolution respirometry, the gold standard method for the ex vivo assessment of mitochondrial function. No differences were detected between the NR and placebo groups in skeletal muscle complex I- and complex II-mediated oxidative phosphorylation and maximal respiratory capacity, with ([Figure 3](#fig3){ref-type="fig"}A) and without ([Figure 3](#fig3){ref-type="fig"}B) the prior addition of the fatty acid conjugate octanoyl-carnitine. In line with this, the activity of citrate synthase, commonly used as a quantitative measure of mitochondrial content ([@bib40]) ([Figure 3](#fig3){ref-type="fig"}C), and mitochondrial copy number (mtDNA) ([@bib54]) ([Figure 3](#fig3){ref-type="fig"}D) were unchanged by NR supplementation. Similarly, levels of skeletal muscle biopsy mitochondrial resident proteins, directly involved in the electron transport chain, were unaltered upon NR supplementation ([Figure 3](#fig3){ref-type="fig"}E). We then tested whether the NR-driven increase in the NAD^+^ metabolome translates into higher sirtuin-mediated deacetylation activity, and we performed western blotting to assess pan-acetylation status, but again did not detect NR-mediated changes to muscle protein acetylation ([Figure 3](#fig3){ref-type="fig"}F).Figure 3Human Skeletal Muscle Mitochondrial Bioenergetics Remain Unaltered with NR Supplementation(A) Mitochondrial respiration of permeabilized muscle fibers upon the addition of complex I and complex II substrates at baseline and after 3 weeks of supplementation of NR and the placebo. MG, malate and glutamate; D, ADP; S, succinate; c, cytochrome C; F, FCCP; Rot, rotenone. Data are normalized to muscle fiber weight.(B) Mitochondrial respiration as per (A), but with the prior addition of the fatty acid conjugate octanoyl-carnitine to malate (MOct).(C) Citrate synthase (CS) activity in human skeletal muscle at baseline and after NR and the placebo.(D) Relative PCR expression of mitochondrial DNA (mtDNA) to nuclear DNA (nDNA) at baseline and after NR and the placebo, expressed as arbitrary units.(E) Western blot showing the expression of selected mitochondrial proteins in skeletal muscle lysates compared to β-actin as housekeeping protein.(F) Western blot showing the expression of acetylation proteins in skeletal muscle lysates compared to β-actin as housekeeping protein.Data are obtained from 12 participants at each phase and wherever relevant are presented as mean ± SEM. Significance was set at p \< 0.05. The absence of significance symbols indicates a lack of statistical significance. Data from rodents suggest that NAD^+^ supplementation can improve the physiological function in skeletal muscle decline ([@bib9], [@bib25], [@bib50]); thus, we used hand-grip strength as a surrogate marker for muscle function, but one cannot expect hand-grip strength to change after 3 weeks of NR supplementation and without muscle training. Hand-grip strength correlates with leg strength and is used for the diagnosis of sarcopenia and frailty, and it is a better predictor for clinical outcomes than low muscle mass ([@bib41]). A decline in hand-grip strength is observed after the third decade of life (when median peak strength is 51 kg of force in men) ([@bib19]), dropping to median of 33.8 kg of force in our participants. A grip strength of \<30 kg of force in men is a diagnostic criterion for sarcopenia ([@bib15], [@bib16]). After 3 weeks of supplementation, we did not observe any differences in the participants' peak hand-grip strengths (NR 32.5 kg versus placebo 34.7 kg; p = 0.96) or body-weight-adjusted relative strength (NR 2.4 versus placebo 2.3; p = 0.96) between NR and the placebo ([Figure S4](#mmc1){ref-type="supplementary-material"}). Oral NR Does Not Alter Skeletal Muscle Blood Flow or Substrate Utilization {#sec2.5} -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Recent mouse data showed that NMN increases angiogenesis and muscle blood flow ([@bib17]). Therefore, we used venous occlusive plethysmography to test forearm muscle blood flow in the participants in a non-invasive manner ([@bib30]). At fasting, no NR-mediated differences were detected in muscle blood. Following oral glucose load, muscle blood flow gradually increases, but again with no differences between NR and the placebo ([Figure 4](#fig4){ref-type="fig"}A).Figure 4Forearm Muscle Blood Flow and Substrate Utilization Are Unaffected by NR Supplementation(A) Muscle blood flow using venous occlusive plethysmography at baseline and after the NR and placebo phases. The green dotted line represents when 75 g of oral glucose load was taken.(B and C) Muscle O~2~ consumption (B) and CO~2~ production (C) at baseline and after NR and the placebo. The green dotted line represents when 75 g of oral glucose load was taken.(D and E) Muscle glucose uptake (D) and lactate release (E) at baseline and after NR and the placebo. The green dotted line represents when 75 g of oral glucose load was taken.Data are obtained from 12 participants at each phase and presented as mean ± SEM. Significance was set at p \< 0.05 using a paired t test. The absence of significance symbols indicates a lack of statistical significance. We then used the arteriovenous difference method (see [Method Details](#sec4.4){ref-type="sec"}) to compare substrate utilization across the forearm muscle (between arterial blood supplying the muscle and venous blood drained from the muscle), with muscle blood flow taken into consideration ([@bib4]). No differences were detected in O~2~ consumption ([Figure 4](#fig4){ref-type="fig"}B) and CO~2~ production ([Figure 4](#fig4){ref-type="fig"}C) between NR and the placebo at the fasting state and in response to oral glucose. Muscle glucose uptake was increased following oral glucose before a gradual decline. No changes were observed in muscle glucose handling with or without NR ([Figure 4](#fig4){ref-type="fig"}D). Oral glucose reduced lactate production from muscle, again without a difference in response between NR and the placebo ([Figure 4](#fig4){ref-type="fig"}E). These data suggest that the skeletal muscle transcriptomic signature of downregulated mitochondrial and glycolysis genes is undetectable when considered at a functional level. Oral NR Does Not Alter Systemic Cardiometabolic Parameters {#sec2.6} ---------------------------------------------------------- Several preclinical studies have described that NAD^+^ supplementation promotes a resistance to weight gain, ameliorates markers of cardiometabolic risk, and improves metabolic flexibility ([@bib71]). As NR increased the circulating levels of the NAD^+^ metabolome, we reasoned that there was increased NAD^+^ availability and turnover in central and peripheral tissues and assessed for resultant cardiometabolic adaptations. Two studies---one of 12 weeks of NR supplementation at 2 g/day in subjects with obesity ([@bib20]) and one of 6 weeks of NR supplementation at 1 g/day in older adults ([@bib46])---suggested potential benefits with respect to fatty liver and blood pressure, respectively. Data for participants at baseline and following NR or the placebo are reported in [Table S1](#mmc1){ref-type="supplementary-material"}. There were no changes in body weight, blood pressure, lipid profile, fasting glucose and insulin ([Table S1](#mmc1){ref-type="supplementary-material"}), and homeostatic model assessment of insulin resistance (HOMA-IR) ([Figure 5](#fig5){ref-type="fig"}A). A rebound increase in non-esterified fatty acids (NEFAs) has previously been associated with the nicotinic acid analog, acipimox ([@bib65]); however, NR did not produce this effect in our trial ([Figure 5](#fig5){ref-type="fig"}B). Glucose handling was studied using an oral glucose tolerance test, with no effect of NR measured in glucose levels during the 2-h test ([Figure 5](#fig5){ref-type="fig"}C). Following the oral glucose load and the consequent insulin stimulation, NEFA levels were appropriately suppressed, and no difference in this response was observed between NR and the placebo ([Figure 5](#fig5){ref-type="fig"}D). We also assessed metabolic flexibility using indirect calorimetry to derive respiratory exchange ratios (RERs; calculated as VCO~2~ expired/VO~2~ consumed), reflecting whole-body metabolic substrate use. Measurements were initiated in the fasted state and monitored during the response to the oral glucose load. The median fasting RER was appropriate at 0.72 and 0.73 for the NR and placebo periods, respectively (p = 0.68). In response to glucose, RER values significantly increased, indicating adequate switching from lipids toward carbohydrate utilization, with no differences in response to 3 weeks of NR supplementation observed at 2 h (RERs 0.83 and 0.84 for NR and the placebo, respectively) ([Figure 5](#fig5){ref-type="fig"}E).Figure 5Systemic Readouts of Metabolism Are Unaltered with NR Supplementation(A) HOMA-IR at baseline and after NR and the placebo.(B) Fasting non-esterified fatty acid (NEFA) level at baseline and after NR and the placebo.(C) Plasma glucose response in a glucose tolerance test at baseline and after NR and the placebo. The green dotted line represents when 75 g of oral glucose load was taken.(D) Plasma NEFA response in a glucose tolerance test at baseline and after NR and the placebo. The green dotted line represents when 75 g of oral glucose load was taken.(E) Respiratory exchange ratio (RER) at baseline and after NR and the placebo. The green dotted line indicates when 75 g of oral glucose was taken.Data are obtained from 12 participants at each phase and presented as mean ± SEM. Significance was set at p \< 0.05. The absence of significance symbols indicates a lack of statistical significance. Oral NR Depresses Circulating Levels of Inflammatory Cytokines {#sec2.7} -------------------------------------------------------------- Chronic inflammation appears to be a consistent feature of aging, even in apparently healthy individuals ([@bib59]), and may contribute to age-related disturbances in metabolic homeostasis ([@bib35]). We hypothesized that NR supplementation would reduce the levels of circulating inflammatory cytokines. We measured multiple inflammatory cytokines (see [Method Details](#sec4.4){ref-type="sec"}), 10 of which were within the assay detection range ([Figure 6](#fig6){ref-type="fig"}). NR significantly decreased the levels of the interleukins IL-6 ([Figure 6](#fig6){ref-type="fig"}A), IL-5 ([Figure 6](#fig6){ref-type="fig"}B), and IL-2 ([Figure 6](#fig6){ref-type="fig"}C) and tumor necrosis factor alpha (TNF-α) ([Figure 6](#fig6){ref-type="fig"}D), compared to baseline. We detected a statistically significant difference in the levels of IL-2 between baseline and the placebo ([Figure 6](#fig6){ref-type="fig"}C) and a lack of a difference in levels of TNF-α between NR and the placebo, despite a difference between NR and baseline ([Figure 6](#fig6){ref-type="fig"}D). This is seemingly due to the NR carry-over effect beyond the washout period, as evident by the period effect analysis ([Figures S5](#mmc1){ref-type="supplementary-material"}A--S5D), confirming that the cohort randomized to the placebo first had no difference in IL-2 between baseline and the placebo ([Figure S5](#mmc1){ref-type="supplementary-material"}C), and there was a difference in TNF-α between NR and the placebo ([Figure S5](#mmc1){ref-type="supplementary-material"}D). No NR-mediated changes were detected in the serum levels of IL-12 ([Figure 6](#fig6){ref-type="fig"}E), IL-8 ([Figure 6](#fig6){ref-type="fig"}F), interferon-gamma (IFN-g) ([Figure 6](#fig6){ref-type="fig"}G), monocyte chemoattractant protein-1 (MCP-1) ([Figure 6](#fig6){ref-type="fig"}H), macrophage inflammatory protein-1 beta (MIP-1B) ([Figure 6](#fig6){ref-type="fig"}I), and high-sensitivity C-reactive protein (hsCRP) ([Figure 6](#fig6){ref-type="fig"}J). Thus, it will be interesting to further investigate depressed IL-6, IL-5, IL-2, and TNF-α as biomarkers and/or mediators of oral NR in rodent models and humans.Figure 6NR Supplementation Suppresses the Circulating Levels of Inflammatory Cytokines(A--J) Levels of serum inflammatory cytokines at baseline and after each of the NR and placebo phases, including (A) interleukin 6 (IL-6), (B) interleukin 5 (IL-5), (C) interleukin 2 (IL-2), (D) tumor necrosis factor alpha (TNF-α), (E) interleukin 12 (IL-12), (F) interleukin 8 (IL-8), (G) interferon-gamma (IFN-g), (H) monocyte chemoattractant protein-1 (MCP-1), (I) macrophage inflammatory protein-1 beta (MIP-1B), and (J) high-sensitivity C-reactive protein (hsCRP). Data are obtained from 12 participants at each phase and presented as mean ± SEM. Significance was set at p \< 0.05 using paired t test. The absence of significance symbols indicates a lack of statistical significance. Discussion {#sec3} ========== The NAD^+^ precursor NR has been studied extensively in animal and cell models. Its application in vivo has produced impressive results ameliorating metabolic dysfunction and muscle decline ([@bib23]). No data exist on whether oral NR is available to human skeletal muscle, and data on tissue NAD^+^ content during aging are sparse, as are the consequences of NR supplementation in aged humans. Using a robust clinical trial design, we show that 21 days of NR supplementation is safe and well tolerated in an aged male cohort and leads to an augmented NAD^+^ metabolome in whole blood, corroborating data recently reported by others ([@bib46], [@bib63]). The median BMI in this trial is 26.6 kg/m^2^ (i.e., slightly overweight), but this is highly prevalent in aged populations ([@bib68]) and may not indicate an unhealthy state ([@bib56]). Experiments in genetic mouse models have shown that oral NR is available to cardiac ([@bib18]) and skeletal ([@bib25]) muscle, though it was also suggested that the benefit of extrahepatic NAD^+^ from oral NR is mediated by circulating NAM ([@bib45]). Here, we show that oral NR increased human skeletal muscle NAAD, which was previously reported as a more sensitive marker of increased NAD^+^ metabolism than NAD^+^ per se ([@bib63]), as well as MeNAM, Me-4-py, and Me-2-pywithout a rise in circulating NAM. Previous preclinical studies have established that oral NR is able to functionally restore muscle NAD^+^ despite a loss of NAM salvage ([@bib25], [@bib18]). Although it is clear in rodent models that NR requires NR kinase activity in muscle ([@bib57], [@bib24]), further studies are required to understand NR dynamics in human muscle cells and tissues. Increased circulating levels of MeNAM and expression of its generating enzyme nicotinamide-N-methyltransferase (NNMT) have been associated with insulin resistance and type 2 diabetes ([@bib37], [@bib44]). However, the NR-mediated abundance of MeNAM did not alter glucose tolerance or substrate utilization in our study. The levels of elevated NAM excretory products in skeletal muscle may be a result of pre-existing NAD^+^ sufficiency in this aged cohort and may explain the lack of effect on mitochondrial, physiological, and cardiometabolic parameters. A limited number of studies have reported minor age-related declines in NAD^+^ in human tissues ([@bib47], [@bib10], [@bib73], [@bib11]), but these data are non-conclusive. It is likely that a "second hit" arises during chronological aging that leads to tissue NAD^+^ decline and predisposes to age-related disease and frailty. This "second hit" may be conditions of metabolic stresses such as physical inactivity, chronic inflammation, or presence of a pre-existing cardiometabolic disease (e.g., obesity), and it may implicate downregulated NAMPT ([@bib13], [@bib35]), depressed hepatic NADP(H) ([@bib64]), and/or activation of CD38 ([@bib8], [@bib14]). Clearly, more human data are needed to delineate the relationship between aging and NAD^+^ metabolism. We note a median hand-grip strength in our participants of 33.8 kg of force, consistent with muscle aging for men in their eighth decade and likely associated impairment in mitochondrial function. Our data suggest that 3 weeks of NR supplementation without concomitant muscle training is insufficient for increased strength. NAD+ supplementation studies in rodents showed positive effects on muscle structural proteins ([@bib25], [@bib58], [@bib72]). It has been suggested that for muscle cell membranes, there is a capacity for NAD^+^-mediated ADP-ribosylation of integrin receptors that augment integrin and laminin binding and mobilize paxillin to bind adhesion complexes ([@bib29], [@bib28]). Differential gene expression analysis may support this link and may highlight a potential role for NAD^+^ in the maintenance of skeletal muscle architecture, although this NR-induced transcriptomic signature appears to have no functional consequences at the protein level after the 21-day supplementation period. This observation may be important as we consider defective integrin and laminin structures such as in the context of muscular dystrophies ([@bib48], [@bib49]). Our data suggest a downregulation of gene sets associated with glycolysis and mitochondrial function, yet our measurements of mitochondrial respiration, citrate synthase activity, and mitochondrial copy number were unaltered. Again, expression levels of proteins involved in glycolytic and mitochondrial metabolism were unchanged with NR in this study. The downregulation of energy-generating processes may be reminiscent of mechanisms associated with calorie restriction ([@bib31], [@bib36], [@bib43]) or increased mitochondrial quality control, as has been observed in blood stem cells ([@bib66]), or it may suggest that NR can "tune" the expression of energy metabolism pathways to permit a more efficient and potentially stress-resilient mitochondrial environment. It will be interesting to further investigate those transcriptional changes in cell culture and animal models. Some preclinical studies have reported that NR reduced macrophage infiltration in damaged muscle ([@bib58], [@bib72]) and attenuated plasma TNF-α in models of fatty liver disease ([@bib26]). We show significant suppression of a number of circulating inflammatory cytokines. Studies are needed to explore the underlying mechanisms that mediate these NR-mediated anti-inflammatory effects. Of note, the expression of the NAD^+^-consuming enzyme CD38 increases in inflammatory cells with inflammation ([@bib2]), as well as in the blood of aged humans ([@bib55]). Supplementing NAD^+^ in this context may be a mechanism mediating the NR-induced anti-inflammatory effects. Though chronic inflammation is a hallmark feature of aging ([@bib59]), use of NR may yet find utility in other chronic inflammatory disorders, such as chronic obstructive pulmonary disease or rheumatoid arthritis, and is worthy of further investigation. Conclusions {#sec3.1} ----------- We report that oral NR augments the aged human skeletal muscle NAD^+^ metabolome while inducing a transcriptional signature without affecting mitochondrial function or systemic cardiometabolic parameters. The targeted NAD^+^ metabolome analysis suggests pre-existing NAD^+^ sufficiency, despite hand-grip strength consistent with muscle aging. Our data may suggest that chronological age per se may not be a major factor in altering muscle and brain NAD^+^ metabolism, unlike aged laboratory mice. A limitation of this trial may be the number of participants or the duration of NR administration; however, the sample size was sufficient to detect NR-driven changes in the NAD^+^ metabolome, muscle transcriptional signature, and inflammatory profile. The transcriptional downregulation of mitochondrial gene sets also argues against the lack of a bioenergetic NR effect being due to the sample size. Further studies are needed to conceptualize some of the NR-mediated changes in this experimental medicine study. Overall, these studies support that oral NR is available to human skeletal muscle, and they reveal anti-inflammatory NR properties, both of which may be beneficial in the context of aging, muscle, or inflammatory disease groups. STAR★Methods {#sec4} ============ Key Resources Table {#sec4.1} ------------------- REAGENT or RESOURCESOURCEIDENTIFIERAntibodiesCustom made secondary antibodies (rabbit & mouse)MRC Phosphorylation and Ubiquitylation unit, University of DundeeN/Aα-Acetyl lysineCytoskeletonCat\#AAC03α-Alpha tubulinSanta-CruzCat\#sc-8035α-ANXA1SigmaCat\#HPA011272α-Beta actinSigmaCat\#A5441α-OXPHOSAbcamCat\#ab110413α-PGK1AbcamCat\#ab199438α-PGM1Protein TechCat\#15161-1-APα-PKM1Protein TechCat\#15821-1-APChemicals, Peptides, and Recombinant Proteins^13^C labeled nucleotides, nucleosides[@bib62]N/A^18^O- nicotinamide[@bib39]N/A^18^O nicotinamide riboside[@bib70]N/A2-mercaptoethanolVWRCat\#441435CAcetonitrile, Optima LC/MSFisher ScientificCat\#A955-4Adenosine 5′-triphosphate disodium salt hydrateSigma-AldrichCat\#A2383Adenosine 5′diphosphateSigma-AldrichCat\#A5285Adenosine diphosphateSigma-AldrichCat\#1905Adenosine monophosphateSigma-AldrichCat\#A2252ADPRSigma-AldrichCat\#A0752Ammonium acetateSigma-AldrichCat\#238074Antimycin ASigma-AldrichCat\#A8674BenazmidineMilliporeCat\#S7124222Bovine serum albuminSigmaCat\#A2153BSA, essentially fatty acid freeSigma-AldrichCat\#A6003Calcium carbonateSigma-AldrichCat\#C4830Catalase from bovine liverSigma-AldrichCat\#C9322Chemiluminescent HRP substrateMilliporeCat\#WBKLS0500CytidineSigma-AldrichCat\#C122106Cytochrome cSigma-AldrichCat\#C7752d~3~, ^18^O methyl nicotinamide[@bib63]N/Ad~4~-nicotinic acidCDN isotopesCat\#D-4368DithiotreitolSigma-AldrichCat\#D0632DL-octanoyl carnitine-HClTocris bioscienceCat\#605Dnase I, Rnase-freeThermo ScientificCat\#EN0521EDTASigmaCat\#E1644EGTASigma-AldrichCat\#E4378EGTASigmaCat\#E4378FCCPSigma-AldrichCat\#2920Glucose reagentWerfen LtdCat\#00018250740Glutamic acid monosodium salt hydrateSigma-AldrichCat\#G1626Glycerol reagentRandoxCat\#GY105GlycineVWRCat\#0167HEPESFlukaCat\#BP310-1ImidazoleSigma-AldrichCat\#56750InosineSigma-AldrichCat\#I4125Inosine monophosphateSigma-AldrichCat\#57510Lactate ReagentRandoxCat\#LC2389Lactobionic acidSigma-AldrichCat\#153516LDS sample bufferInvitrogenCat\#NP0008Magnesium chloride hexahydrateSigma-AldrichCat\#M2670Malic acidSigma-AldrichCat\#M1000MES Free Acid HydrateSigma-AldrichCat\#M8250N1-methyl-2-pyridone-5-carboxamideTLC Pharmaceutical StandardsCat\#N-0621N1-methyl-4-pyridone-3-carboxamideTLC Pharmaceutical StandardsCat\#N-0627NAADSigma-AldrichCat\#N4256NADSigma-AldrichCat\#N0632NADPSigma-AldrichCat\#N5755NARgiftN/AN-d~3~ methyl −4 pyridone-3-carboxamideTLC Pharmaceutical StandardsCat\#N-0628NEFA reagentRandoxCat\#FA115NicotinamideSigma-AldrichCat\#72340nicotinamide N-oxideSigma-AldrichCat\#N3258Nicotinamide ribosideChromaDexCat\#ASB-00014315Nicotinic acidSigma-AldrichCat\#N4126N-methyl nicotinamideCayman ChemicalCat\#16604NMNSigma-AldrichCat\#N3501Phosphocreatine disodium salt hydrateSigma-AldrichCat\#P7936Potassium phosphate monobasicSigma-AldrichCat\#P9791Protease inhibitor cocktailRocheCat\#11873580001RotenoneSigma-AldrichCat\#R8875Saponin from Quillaja barkSigma-AldrichCat\#S7900SDSITWCat\#A1112Skimmed milk powderCell SignalingCat\#9999Sodium chlorideVWRCat\#27800.360Sodium fluorideAlfa AesarCat\#7681-49-4Sodium orthovanodateAldrichCat\#450243Sodium pyrophosphateSigmaCat\#221368Sodium succinate dibasic hexahydrateSigma-AldrichCat\#S2378SucroseSigma-AldrichCat\#S9378SucroseVWRCat\#0335TaurineSigma-AldrichCat\#T8691TRI ReagentSigma-AldrichCat\#T9414Triglyceride reagentWerfen LtdCat\#00018258740Tris-baseFisherCat\#BP152Tris-HCLFisherCat\#BP153Triton X-100SigmaCat\#101634725Tween-20VWRCat\#0777U-^13^C~6~ glucoseCambridge IsotopeCat\#CLM-1396-pkWater, Optima LC/MSFisher ScientificCat\#W6-4β-GlycerophosphateSigmaCat\#G9422Critical Commercial AssaysCitrate synthase assay kitSigma-AldrichCat\#CS0720Coomassie protein assay reagentThermo FisherCat\#1856209Insulin assayMercodiaCat\#10-1113-01Deposited DataRaw and processed data files for RNA sequencingThis paperGEO: [GSE133261](ncbi-geo:GSE133261){#intref0010}OligonucleotidesPlease refer to [Table S6](#mmc5){ref-type="supplementary-material"}This paperN/AOtherPrecast gelsBioRadCat\#5671084Thermo hypercarb 2.1 × 100 mm column, 3μmFisherCat\#35003-102130 Lead Contact and Materials Availability {#sec4.2} --------------------------------------- Further information and requests for resources and reagents should be directed to and will be fulfilled by the Lead Contact, Gareth Lavery (<g.g.lavery@bham.ac.uk>). This study did not generate new unique reagents. Experimental Model and Subject Details {#sec4.3} -------------------------------------- ### Study conduct {#sec4.3.1} The study was conducted between July 2016 and August 2017 at the National Institute for Health Research/Wellcome Trust Clinical Research Facility at the Queen Elizabeth Hospital Birmingham, UK. The Solihull NRES Committee gave ethical approval (REC reference number 16/WM/0159). All participants provided written informed consent. The study was registered on [www.clinicaltrials.gov](http://www.clinicaltrials.gov){#intref0020} (Identifier: NCT02950441).The study was undertaken according to the principles of the Declaration of Helsinki and followed the Guidelines for Good Clinical Practice. ### Study population {#sec4.3.2} Aged volunteers were recruited from the Birmingham 1000 Elders group (<https://www.birmingham.ac.uk/research/activity/mds/centres/healthy-ageing/elders.aspx>). All participants fulfilled the inclusion criteria including: male sex, age 70 -- 80 years, BMI 20 -- 30 kg/m^2^, able to discontinue aspirin for 3 days prior to the muscle biopsy, and able to discontinue statins and vitamin D supplements for a week before the study and for the duration of the study. Exclusion criteria included: serious active medical conditions including inflammatory diseases or malignancies, significant past medical history including diabetes mellitus, ischemic heart disease, cerebrovascular disease, respiratory disease requiring medication, or epilepsy, blood pressure \>160/100mmHg, or treatment with oral anti-coagulants. ### Study design {#sec4.3.3} Single center, double blind, placebo-controlled, and crossover study. Aim was to obtain complete assessments from 12 aged individuals. Participants attended for a screening visit (visit 1) when an informed written consent was obtained after ensuring they fulfil all inclusion criteria. For all subsequent study visits (2 to 5), the participants attended at 08:00 in a fasting state from the night before. Regarding the post-interventions visits (3 and 5), the participants took the last NR/placebo dose 14 h prior to the assessments. ### Randomization and blinding {#sec4.3.4} Participants were allocated to either NR or placebo. A randomization list was held by the clinical trials pharmacist at the clinical research facility. The study investigators, nurses, and participants were all blinded to the intervention allocation during the trial. ### Intervention {#sec4.3.5} NR was supplied as 250 mg capsules by the manufacturer (Niagen, ChromaDex, Irvine, CA). Participants received NR 500mg twice daily or matched placebo for 21 days with 21 days washout period between the NR and placebo periods ([Figure S1](#mmc1){ref-type="supplementary-material"}). ### Assessments {#sec4.3.6} Assessments undertaken in each study visits are detailed in [Figure S1](#mmc1){ref-type="supplementary-material"}. Method Details {#sec4.4} -------------- ### Blood pressure {#sec4.4.1} Blood pressure (Welch Allyn, USA) was measured at the start of each visit after an overnight fast. At the trial visits, participants rested for 15mins in a supine position before blood pressure was measured. An appropriately sized cuff was selected to encircle at least 80% of the arm and the same was used every visit for all participants, and on the same arm. Blood pressure was measured in triplicates and the mean was recorded. ### Hand-held dynamometry {#sec4.4.2} Peak absolute strength (kilograms) and relative handgrip strength (kilograms of force per kilogram of body weight) were measured in triplicate bilaterally using a dynamometer (Takei Instruments, Japan). The highest measurement values were included for analysis. ### Muscle biopsies {#sec4.4.3} Resting vastus lateralis muscle biopsies were obtained from 12 men by a single investigator (Y.SE) using a percutaneous Bergstrom technique as previously described ([@bib3]) under local anesthesia (1% lignocaine). The biopsy sample (100 -- 150mg) was immediately dried on clean filter paper and approximately 10mg of tissue was cut and placed on ice cold BIOPS buffer for high-resolution respirometry (see below). The rest of the muscle tissue was immediately snap frozen in liquid nitrogen and stored at −80°C pending analysis. ### Indirect calorimetry {#sec4.4.4} Participants were allowed to rest for 60 mins after insertion of the arterial and venous catheters. Then they lay supine in a comfortable position while a transparent ventilated canopy was placed over their head. Plastic sheet attached to the hood was placed around the subjects to form a seal. The room temperature, barometric pressure, and humidity were measured by a hygrometer (Oregon Scientific). During the measurement period, participants remained supine, and breathed normally. Respiratory measurements, including resting oxygen consumption (VO~2~) and carbon dioxide production (VCO~2~) and respiratory exchange ratio (VCO~2~/VO~2~), using the mixing chamber mode of the metabolic cart (AEI MOXUS II Metabolic System). Measurements were collected at fasting and then every 30 min for 2 h following a 75 g oral glucose load. Measurements for each period lasted 15 mins so the first and last min could be discarded, and the mean value for the middle 5 min was recorded. ### Arterio-venous difference technique {#sec4.4.5} An arterial catheter was inserted into a radial artery and a retrograde cannula was inserted into in a deep antecubital vein draining a forearm muscle, on the opposite side of the arterial line. To prevent contamination of the muscle venous blood with the mixed blood from the hand, a wrist cuff was inflated to 200mmHg for 3 mins before sampling. Blood sampling was undertaken simultaneously from the arterial and venous sites at fasting and every 20mins following oral glucose load for 120 min. ### Venous occlusive plethysmography {#sec4.4.6} Forearm muscle blood flow was measured by venous occlusive plethysmography (Hokanson, USA) ([@bib69]) as previously described ([@bib30]). Blood flow measurements were taken immediately after each blood sampling. NAD^+^ metabolomics {#sec4.5} ------------------- Muscle tissue was pulverised and approximately 10 mg was used for each of the acid (A) and basic (B) metabolite extraction. For each sample, internal standard mixtures for each of A and B were prepared. The extraction was undertaken using 0.2 mL of ice-cold LC-MS/MS grade methanol and kept on ice before adding 0.3ml of internal standard made in LC-MS grade water. Samples were sonicated in an acetone water bath (at −4°C) for 20 s, placed back on ice, and then incubated at 85°C with constant shaking at 1050 rpm for 5 min. Samples were then placed on ice for 5 min and centrifuged (16.1k x g, 10 min, 4°C). The supernatant was transferred to clean tubes and dried using a speed vacuum. The dried extract was re-suspended in 30 μl of either LC-MS grade water for acid extract or 10 mM ammonium acetate for alkaline extract and centrifuged (16.1k x g, 3 min, 4°C). The supernatant was carefully transferred to a Waters Polypropylene 0.3 mL plastic screw- top vial. The pellet was then dried using a speed vacuum, pellet was weighed, and later used to normalize data that were finally reported as pmol/mg. Otherwise, muscle, blood, and urine metabolomics were undertaken as previously described ([@bib62], [@bib63]). ### Blood biochemical analysis {#sec4.5.1} Blood was drawn from the arterial and venous catheters into heparinised blood tubes. Plasma was rapidly separated by centrifugation at 4°C and was then snap frozen. Plasma glucose, NEFA, and lactate concentrations were measured using commercially available kits on an ILAB 650 Clinical Chemistry Analyzer (Werfen Ltd, UK). Insulin was measured using commercially available assay as per the manufacturer's instructions (Mercodia, Sweden). Homeostasis model assessment of insulin resistance (HOMA-IR) was calculated using the formula \[fasting glucose (mmol/L) × fasting insulin (mU/L)/22.5\]. Lipid profile, urea and electrolytes, and thyroid function tests were all measured on the Roche Modular Platforms (Roche, Switzerland). Full blood count was measured on a Beckman Coulter DxH analyzer (USA). ### High-resolution respirometry on permeabilized muscle fibers {#sec4.5.2} Ex vivo mitochondrial function was determined by measuring oxygen consumption polarographically using a two-chamber Oxygraph-2k (OROBOROS Instruments). Oxygen consumption reflects the first derivative of the oxygen concentration (nmol/ml) in time in the respiration chambers and is termed oxygen flux \[pmol/(s^∗^mg)\], corrected for wet weight muscle tissue (2--5 mg) introduced into the chamber. Measurements were undertaken according to a previously described protocol ([@bib53]). Similar results were obtained if respiration rates were corrected for mitochondrial DNA (mtDNA) copy number or citrate synthase activity. ### Mitochondrial density assessments {#sec4.5.3} For citrate synthase activity, 5mg of snap frozen human muscle was used and the measurement was undertaken as previously described ([@bib32]). Mitochondrial DNA (mtDNA) copy number was determined using quantitative real time PCR. mtDNA copy number was calculated from the ratio of NADH dehydrogenase subunit 1 (ND1) to lipoprotein lipase (LPL) (mtDNA/nuclear DNA) as previously described ([@bib54]). ### RNA sequencing {#sec4.5.4} RNA was extracted from frozen muscle tissue using Tri Reagent (Sigma-Aldrich) following manufacturer's instructions. Sequencing libraries were prepared using RNA (RIN \> 7) with the Lexogen Quantseq3 FWD kit. Libraries were sequenced using HiSeq2000 across 4 flowcells generating 75bp long single ended reads (average read depth of 6-10M/sample, which is higher than the 4M reads / sample required for analysis for this type of library). All samples were prepared and sequenced as a single pool. Trimmomatic software (v0.32) and bbduk.sh script (Bbmap suite) were used to trim the ILLUMINA adapters, polyA tails and low quality bases from reads. Trimmed reads were then uniquely aligned to the human genome (hg38) using STAR with default settings (v2.5.2b) and the Gencode (v28, Ensembl release 92) annotation as the reference for splice junctions. Mapped reads were quantified using HT-seq (v0.9.1) using Gencode (v28) genes (-intersection-nonempty flag). Differential gene expression was obtained using DEseq2 with paired baseline and treatment samples. In this analysis we did not use a cutoff to remove lowly expressed genes. Inclusion of lowly expressed genes (at arbitrary cut-offs) had little bearing on our results (97.8% of differentially expressed genes at p \< 0.05 were identical between no cutoff, and a cut-off of \>3). Of note, volcano plot was drawn with a cut-off (\> 3) in order to visualize the typical "V" shape using R. Differentially expressed genes between baseline (control) and NR treated samples at p value = \< 0.05 were annotated using Biological processes (BP) gene sets with DAVID tool. We obtained similar results using gene annotation tool within Gene Set Enrichment Analysis (GSEA) suite ([@bib61], [@bib42]) for gene sets from KEGG pathways and C5-Biological processes. In addition, we have used GSEA analysis tool to interrogate specific gene sets against our pre-ranked expression data (Control versus NR treatment). GSEA calculates an Enrichment Score (ES) by scanning a ranked-ordered list of genes (according to significance of differential expression (-log10 p value), increasing a running-sum statistic when a gene is in the gene set and decreasing it when it is not. The top of this list (red) contains genes upregulated upon NR+ treatment while the bottom of the list (blue) represents downregulated genes. Each time a gene from the interrogated gene set (i.e., Glycolysis, mitochondria, TCA cycle) is found along the list, a vertical black bar is plotted (hit). If the "hits" accumulate at the bottom of the list, then this gene set is enriched in upregulated genes (and vice versa). If interrogated genes are distributed homogenously across the rank ordered list of genes, then that gene set is not enriched in any of the gene expression profiles (i.e., control gene sets of similar expression levels to interrogated gene sets). GSEA was used in pre-ranked mode with parameters -norm meandiv -nperm 1000 -scoring_scheme weighted. 10 gene sets of equal size and similar expression levels to the interrogated gene sets were generated using a custom pipeline in R (available upon request). We have interrogated the following gene sets: GO0048870; cell motility, GO0030029; actin filament based process, GO0022610; Biological cell adhesion, (also GO0007155 cell adhesion with similar results), M15112: Wong Mitochondria gene module, M3985: KEGG citrate cycle TCA cycle, merge of M15109: BIOCARTA Glycolysis pathway and M5113: REACTOME glycolysis. ### Protein immunoblotting {#sec4.5.5} Muscle biopsies were homogenized in ice-cold sucrose lysis buffer (50 mM Tris/HCl (pH 7.5), 250 mM Sucrose, 10mM Na-β-Glycerophosphate, 5mM Na-Pyrophosphate, 1mM Benazmidine, 1 mM EDTA, 1 mM EGTA, 1% Triton X-100, 1 mM Na3VO4, 50 mM NaF, 0.1% β-Mercaptoethanol, supplemented with protease inhibitor cocktail). Samples (40-100μg of protein extract) were loaded into 4%--15% Tris/Glycine precast gels (BioRad) prior to electrophoresis. Proteins were transferred onto PVDF membranes (Millipore) for 1h at 100V. A 5% skimmed milk solution made up with Tris-buffered saline Tween-20 (TBS-T, 0.137M NaCl, 0.02M Tris-base 7.5pH, 0.1% Tween-20) was used to block each membrane for 1h before being incubated overnight at 4°C with appropriate primary antibodies. Membranes were washed in TBS-T three times prior to incubation in horse radish peroxidase-conjugated secondary antibody at room temperature for 1h. Membranes were then washed in TBS-T prior to antibody detection via enhanced chemiluminescence horseradish peroxidase substrate detection kit (Millipore). Images were undertaken using a G:Box Chemi-XR5 (Syngene). ### Inflammatory cytokines {#sec4.5.6} We performed a multiplex cytokine bead assay using the Bio-Plex Pro Human Cytkine 17-plex panel analyzed with a flow-cytometry based Luminex 200 reader. The levels of IL-1b, IL-2, IL-4, IL-5, IL-6, IL-7, IL-8, IL-10, IL-12, IL-13, IL-17, G-CSF, GM-CSF, IFN-g, MCP-1, MIP-1b, and TNF-a were measured on the participants' sera as per the manufacturer's instructions. Only IL-2, IL-5, IL-6, IL-8, IL-12, IFN-g, TNF-a, MCP-1, and MIP-1b were within detection range. High sensitive CRP was measured using CRPHS: ACN 217 on COBAS 6000 analyzer (Roche, USA). All measurements were undertaken in duplicates. Quantification and Statistical Analysis {#sec4.6} --------------------------------------- Sample size for this experimental medicine study was decided upon based on previous experience from studies using the same methodological design, whereby the proposed sample size was sufficient to detect significant differences at the 5% level. The analysis was based on data from all participants who were randomized, and completed all the study visits and assessments. Outcome data were reported as mean ± SEM (or median and quartiles where appropriate). In the NR supplementation study, comparisons of participants between placebo and NR supplementation phases were undertaken using paired t tests. In addition, further data analysis taking into account the period effect was undertaken, by grouping the participants into those who were randomized to NR first and second. This is to look for carryover effect across all analyses. Wherever relevant, area under the curve was calculated using the trapezoid method. Data were analyzed using IBM SPSS Statistics version 22 and GraphPad Prism version 7.0. Data and Code Availability {#sec4.7} -------------------------- Raw read files and processed data files for RNA sequencing can be found at the NCBI Gene Expression Omnibus (GEO) database (GSE133261). Scripts and other bioinformatics pipelines used to analyze RNA sequencing data can be found at <https://github.com/iakerman/Quantseq>. Supplemental Information {#app2} ======================== Document S1. Figures S1--S5 and Tables S1 and S2Table S3. NAD+ Metabolomics Data in Skeletal Muscle, Blood, and Urine after Each of the Baseline, Nicotinamide Riboside (NR), Placebo, and Washout Phases (N = 12), Related to Figure 1Table S4. List of Genes Up- and Downregulated in Skeletal Muscle Biopsies upon NR Supplementation (N = 12), Related to Figure 2Table S5. List of Genes in Gene Ontology Terms Related to Processes Up- and Downregulated in Skeletal Muscle Biopsies upon NR Supplementation (N = 12), Related to Figure 2Table S6. List of Primers Used in the Molecular Analysis, Related to STAR MethodsDocument S2. Article plus Supplemental Information This work was supported by a Medical Research Council (MRC) Confidence in Concept (CiC) award (A.P. and G.G.L.; CiC4/21); a Clinical Research Fellowship from the MRC Arthritis UK Centre for Musculoskeletal Ageing Research (Y.S.E); a Wellcome Trust Senior Fellowship (G.G.L; 104612/Z/14/Z); a Marie Sklodowska-Curie grant (A.G; 705869); and the Roy J. Carver Trust and NIH (C.B; R01HL147545). We thank ChromaDex (Irvine, California) for providing NR and placebo capsules. We also thank all staff at the NIHR/Wellcome Trust Clinical Research Facility - Queen Elizabeth Hospital Birmingham. We acknowledge Professor Alexandra Sinclair, Professor Jeremy Tomlinson, Dr. Zaki Hassan-Smith, and Dr. Keira Markey for their helpful discussions; Dr. Alpesh Thakker for his input into high-resolution respirometry; and Professor Janet Lord for her help with recruitment of participants. Author Contributions {#sec5} ==================== Y.S.E. and G.G.L. conceived the trial. Y.S.E., K.N.M., A.P., and G.G.L. designed the trial. Y.S.E. conducted the clinical trial. Y.S.E., K.K., D.A.T., and A.G. conducted and supported the high-resolution mitochondrial respirometry. I.A. performed bioinformatic and molecular pathway analyses. Y.S.E., C.L.D., D.M.C., L.O., A.S., and Y.-C.L. contributed to molecular analysis. G.A.W. contributed helpful discussions and supported blood analyses. R.S.F., M.S.S., and C.B. undertook targeted metabolomics and quantitation of NAD^+^-related metabolites, while Y.S.E. analyzed the data. C.V.B., N.J., M.W., and S.J.E.L. supported aspects of the in vivo studies. Y.S.E. and P.N. conducted statistical analyses. Y.S.E., C.B., and G.G.L. took the leading roles in writing the manuscript and creating the figures. All authors contributed to the editing and proofreading of the final draft. Declaration of Interests {#sec6} ======================== C.B. is the inventor of patents licensed by ChromaDex, owns stock in ChromaDex, and serves as an adviser to ChromaDex and Cytokinetics. The remaining authors declare no competing interests. Supplemental Information can be found online at <https://doi.org/10.1016/j.celrep.2019.07.043>. [^1]: Lead Contact	{ "pile_set_name": "PubMed Central" }
/* Copyright 2018 The Kubernetes Authors. Licensed under the Apache License, Version 2.0 (the "License"); you may not use this file except in compliance with the License. You may obtain a copy of the License at http://www.apache.org/licenses/LICENSE-2.0 Unless required by applicable law or agreed to in writing, software distributed under the License is distributed on an "AS IS" BASIS, WITHOUT WARRANTIES OR CONDITIONS OF ANY KIND, either express or implied. See the License for the specific language governing permissions and limitations under the License. / package v1beta1 import ( v1beta1 "k8s.io/api/extensions/v1beta1" v1 "k8s.io/apimachinery/pkg/apis/meta/v1" types "k8s.io/apimachinery/pkg/types" watch "k8s.io/apimachinery/pkg/watch" scheme "k8s.io/client-go/kubernetes/scheme" rest "k8s.io/client-go/rest" ) // DeploymentsGetter has a method to return a DeploymentInterface. // A group's client should implement this interface. type DeploymentsGetter interface { Deployments(namespace string) DeploymentInterface } // DeploymentInterface has methods to work with Deployment resources. type DeploymentInterface interface { Create(v1beta1.Deployment) (v1beta1.Deployment, error) Update(v1beta1.Deployment) (v1beta1.Deployment, error) UpdateStatus(v1beta1.Deployment) (v1beta1.Deployment, error) Delete(name string, options v1.DeleteOptions) error DeleteCollection(options v1.DeleteOptions, listOptions v1.ListOptions) error Get(name string, options v1.GetOptions) (v1beta1.Deployment, error) List(opts v1.ListOptions) (v1beta1.DeploymentList, error) Watch(opts v1.ListOptions) (watch.Interface, error) Patch(name string, pt types.PatchType, data []byte, subresources ...string) (result v1beta1.Deployment, err error) GetScale(deploymentName string, options v1.GetOptions) (v1beta1.Scale, error) UpdateScale(deploymentName string, scale v1beta1.Scale) (v1beta1.Scale, error) DeploymentExpansion } // deployments implements DeploymentInterface type deployments struct { client rest.Interface ns string } // newDeployments returns a Deployments func newDeployments(c ExtensionsV1beta1Client, namespace string) deployments { return &deployments{ client: c.RESTClient(), ns: namespace, } } // Get takes name of the deployment, and returns the corresponding deployment object, and an error if there is any. func (c deployments) Get(name string, options v1.GetOptions) (result v1beta1.Deployment, err error) { result = &v1beta1.Deployment{} err = c.client.Get(). Namespace(c.ns). Resource("deployments"). Name(name). VersionedParams(&options, scheme.ParameterCodec). Do(). Into(result) return } // List takes label and field selectors, and returns the list of Deployments that match those selectors. func (c deployments) List(opts v1.ListOptions) (result v1beta1.DeploymentList, err error) { result = &v1beta1.DeploymentList{} err = c.client.Get(). Namespace(c.ns). Resource("deployments"). VersionedParams(&opts, scheme.ParameterCodec). Do(). Into(result) return } // Watch returns a watch.Interface that watches the requested deployments. func (c deployments) Watch(opts v1.ListOptions) (watch.Interface, error) { opts.Watch = true return c.client.Get(). Namespace(c.ns). Resource("deployments"). VersionedParams(&opts, scheme.ParameterCodec). Watch() } // Create takes the representation of a deployment and creates it. Returns the server's representation of the deployment, and an error, if there is any. func (c deployments) Create(deployment v1beta1.Deployment) (result v1beta1.Deployment, err error) { result = &v1beta1.Deployment{} err = c.client.Post(). Namespace(c.ns). Resource("deployments"). Body(deployment). Do(). Into(result) return } // Update takes the representation of a deployment and updates it. Returns the server's representation of the deployment, and an error, if there is any. func (c deployments) Update(deployment v1beta1.Deployment) (result v1beta1.Deployment, err error) { result = &v1beta1.Deployment{} err = c.client.Put(). Namespace(c.ns). Resource("deployments"). Name(deployment.Name). Body(deployment). Do(). Into(result) return } // UpdateStatus was generated because the type contains a Status member. // Add a +genclient:noStatus comment above the type to avoid generating UpdateStatus(). func (c deployments) UpdateStatus(deployment v1beta1.Deployment) (result v1beta1.Deployment, err error) { result = &v1beta1.Deployment{} err = c.client.Put(). Namespace(c.ns). Resource("deployments"). Name(deployment.Name). SubResource("status"). Body(deployment). Do(). Into(result) return } // Delete takes name of the deployment and deletes it. Returns an error if one occurs. func (c deployments) Delete(name string, options v1.DeleteOptions) error { return c.client.Delete(). Namespace(c.ns). Resource("deployments"). Name(name). Body(options). Do(). Error() } // DeleteCollection deletes a collection of objects. func (c deployments) DeleteCollection(options v1.DeleteOptions, listOptions v1.ListOptions) error { return c.client.Delete(). Namespace(c.ns). Resource("deployments"). VersionedParams(&listOptions, scheme.ParameterCodec). Body(options). Do(). Error() } // Patch applies the patch and returns the patched deployment. func (c deployments) Patch(name string, pt types.PatchType, data []byte, subresources ...string) (result v1beta1.Deployment, err error) { result = &v1beta1.Deployment{} err = c.client.Patch(pt). Namespace(c.ns). Resource("deployments"). SubResource(subresources...). Name(name). Body(data). Do(). Into(result) return } // GetScale takes name of the deployment, and returns the corresponding v1beta1.Scale object, and an error if there is any. func (c deployments) GetScale(deploymentName string, options v1.GetOptions) (result v1beta1.Scale, err error) { result = &v1beta1.Scale{} err = c.client.Get(). Namespace(c.ns). Resource("deployments"). Name(deploymentName). SubResource("scale"). VersionedParams(&options, scheme.ParameterCodec). Do(). Into(result) return } // UpdateScale takes the top resource name and the representation of a scale and updates it. Returns the server's representation of the scale, and an error, if there is any. func (c deployments) UpdateScale(deploymentName string, scale v1beta1.Scale) (result v1beta1.Scale, err error) { result = &v1beta1.Scale{} err = c.client.Put(). Namespace(c.ns). Resource("deployments"). Name(deploymentName). SubResource("scale"). Body(scale). Do(). Into(result) return }	{ "pile_set_name": "Github" }
Q: Representation of parent child relationship with dependencies In an Android app I'm developing, I'm not quite sure if the way I thought the model structure should be is the best in terms of ease of use and low complexity. I need to represent the following relationship: TypeA (could be seen as a vault, just one throughout the program) holds all objects of TypeB Every TypeB (of which there can be 0..) can hold objects of TypeC Every TypeC (related to TypeB; 0..) can hold objects of TypeD TypeD (related to TypeC, 0..*) As there cannot be instances of either TypeC or TypeD without them being strongly related to a defined parent, I thought of the following structure (not including member variables such as title-Strings, program related booleans for view CheckBoxes, …: TypeA: Singleton member: ArrayList<TypeB> methods: addTypeB(UUID), removeTypeB(UUID), getTypeBs, getTypeB(UUID) TypeB: class member: ArrayList<TypeC>, UUID mId methods: addTypeC(UUID), removeTypeC(UUID), getTypeCs, getTypeC(UUID) TypeC: class member: ArrayList<TypeD>, UUID mId, UUID mParentTypeBId methods: addTypeD(UUID), removeTypeD(UUID), getTypeDs, getTypeD(UUID) TypeD: class member: UUID mId, UUID mParentTypeBId, UUID mParentTypeCId I have already implemented the above structure using said four classes—one singleton, three "normal" classes—but am not too happy with the results at some points. For a particular instance of TypeD, I would have to type assignments like: mTypeD= TypeA.getInstance(getActivity()) .getTypeB(typeBId) .getTypeC(typeCId) .getTypeD(typeDId); Is there a better way to get the given relationship—or basically any relationship of that kind—into code? Probably the question isn't even Java-specific but instead relates to many object oriented programming languages. EDIT: I have three ListViews for each type above TypeA, i.e., TypeB, TypeC, TypeD, containing all current instances and the possibility to open detail views for each single instance of either type. That’s why I thought about using the schema I provided in the first place. EDIT2: On starting the app, users are presented with an empty ListView if data has not yet been created. The ListView that opens on application start represents a list of all instances of TypeB that can be found in TypeA’s ArrayList<TypeB>. If the user taps on the “new” button on the ActionBar, a new instance of TypeB gets created and the user redirected that particular TypeB’s detail view. On leaving the detail view, s/he gets redirected back to the list of TypeB instances (at that point populated with only the one instance just created). Upon tapping on one TypeB instance in the list, the user gets directed to a(n empty) ListView of TypeC instances that belong to the TypeB instance previously tapped on—without the connection to TypeB, the TypeC instances don’t make sense so it is crucial to somehow have all instances of TypeC stored in a way that shows their relationship to a particular TypeB instance. For TypeC->TypeD it is the same. Upon creating a TypeC instance in TypeC instances ListView, the TypeC detail view of the newly created TypeC instance is being opened, on pressing back the user gets redirected to the ListView of TypeC instances. On tapping on the TypeC instance, s/he gets to the (yet empty) ListView of TypeD instances—TypeD instances are also strongly related to a particular TypeC instance; without knowing the parent, they do not make sense. For presenting the ListViews I let an ArrayAdapter go through all ArrayList items of the given type. For deleting (by long-pressing an item --> ContextualActionBar) or editing (same interaction as for previous action) I call the .remove method of the parent's ArraylList or open the detail view respectively. A: You can always denormalize data like this- you don't need to just store it in 1 place, you can store it in multiple places. For example, you can have a hashmap of UUID to TypeD objects that allows you to directly look up any typeD by UUID. The catch is that you need to make sure to always update all the places you store it- if you want to remove a type d and you have it in this tree structure and in a hashmap you need to remove it from both or your two views of the data will be out of sync.	{ "pile_set_name": "StackExchange" }
Piasecznik, Choszczno County Piasecznik (German: Petznick) is a village in the administrative district of Gmina Choszczno, within Choszczno County, West Pomeranian Voivodeship, in north-western Poland. It lies approximately north-west of Choszczno and south-east of the regional capital Szczecin. Before 1945 the area was part of Germany. For the history of the region, see History of Pomerania. References Piasecznik	{ "pile_set_name": "Wikipedia (en)" }
Q: Opening Android App from Calendar The app I'm working on needs to be able to create events in a chosen Calendar and then when the user views these events in their calendar viewing app it offers an option to return to the my app to view more information about it and the data related to it. Using Calendar Provider I'm able to create the events and I store the Uri to the event for later use/removal but I haven't found a good way to open my app from these events in a calendar viewing app. The 2 options that I have considered are to include a custom URL in the event description that when clicked will be caught by an intent filter in my app (e.g. myapp://event/1000) or I could set the CUSTOM_APP_PACKAGE and CUSTOM_APP_URI values from CalendarContract when creating the event. My problem with the first option is that I don't think I can guarantee that the calendar viewing app will correctly treat my custom URL as a link and let the user click on it (didn't work in Google calendar on my tablet). The 2nd option looks more promising but I haven't been able to find much documentation explaining how to use it. Does anyone know how to properly do this? Any help is appreciated! A: If targeting Jelly Bean (API 16+) is acceptable then using CUSTOM_APP_PACKAGE is the best solution. When adding the new calendar event, you just need to fill the CUSTOM_APP_PACKAGE and CUSTOM_APP_URI fields (with your package name and an URI identifying the event respectively): ContentValues values = new ContentValues(); values.put(CalendarContract.Events.CALENDAR_ID, 1); values.put(CalendarContract.Events.TITLE, "Check stackoverflow.com"); values.put(CalendarContract.Events.DTSTART, beginTime.getTimeInMillis()); values.put(CalendarContract.Events.DTEND, endTime.getTimeInMillis()); values.put(CalendarContract.Events.EVENT_TIMEZONE, TimeZone.getDefault().getID()); values.put(CalendarContract.Events.CUSTOM_APP_PACKAGE, getPackageName()); values.put(CalendarContract.Events.CUSTOM_APP_URI, "myAppointment://1"); getContentResolver().insert(CalendarContract.Events.CONTENT_URI, values); Then you need to specify as part of AndroidManifest.xml (as the documentation explains) the Activity that will be called from the Calendar app to show the detailed view, e.g. <activity android:name=".ShowCalendarDetailActivity"> <intent-filter> <action android:name="android.provider.calendar.action.HANDLE_CUSTOM_EVENT" /> <category android:name="android.intent.category.DEFAULT" /> <data android:mimeType="vnd.android.cursor.item/event" /> </intent-filter> </activity> ShowCalendarDetailActivity will be started when tapping on the button that appears, and will be passed an Intent with action "android.provider.calendar.action.HANDLE_CUSTOM_EVENT" and its URI will be the calendar item URI. The custom URI you supplied is in the extras, with key CalendarContract.EXTRA_CUSTOM_APP_URI. @Override protected void onCreate(Bundle savedInstanceState) { super.onCreate(savedInstanceState); String myCustomUri = getIntent().getStringExtra(CalendarContract.EXTRA_CUSTOM_APP_URI); ... } If you want to take a look at the code where the Calendar app builds this intent, see EventInfoFragment.updateCustomAppButton() in EventInfoFragment.java. A: The first option you listed works fine on my Nexus S. I just tried it right now to make sure it was working coming from the default Google Calendar app. In my case, I'm not intercepting myapp://event/1000, I'm intercepting an actual url more like https://myspecialdomain.com/blahblah. The browser starts to load, but before it has the time to load anything, it gets swapped out by my application. I can show you my code tomorrow if you want.	{ "pile_set_name": "StackExchange" }
Work at Home in Korea (South) GDI is a great income opportunity. Don't miss this great income opportunity! Before, I didn't know that GDI was going to be a great income opportunity for me. I was looking for a way to make money online and now I've found it. GDI is a great income opportunity. People around the world are telling how to work from home and make money online. Earnings vary depending on each individual affiliate's effort. Testimonials do not indicate an average or typical amount. As with any business, success with GDI takes hard work, commitment, leadership, and desire. GDI is a product-driven company, and we strongly encourage the use of our products and services by all affiliates and customers. We are a proud member of the Direct Selling Association, to see the Code of Ethics by which we abide, please click here. Notice: This site uses cookies to enhance your experience. Read our Privacy Policy for more information.	{ "pile_set_name": "Pile-CC" }
The Feedback-related Negativity Codes Components of Abstract Inference during Reward-based Decision-making. Behavioral control is influenced not only by learning from the choices made and the rewards obtained but also by "what might have happened," that is, inference about unchosen options and their fictive outcomes. Substantial progress has been made in understanding the neural signatures of direct learning from choices that are actually made and their associated rewards via reward prediction errors (RPEs). However, electrophysiological correlates of abstract inference in decision-making are less clear. One seminal theory suggests that the so-called feedback-related negativity (FRN), an ERP peaking 200-300 msec after a feedback stimulus at frontocentral sites of the scalp, codes RPEs. Hitherto, the FRN has been predominantly related to a so-called "model-free" RPE: The difference between the observed outcome and what had been expected. Here, by means of computational modeling of choice behavior, we show that individuals employ abstract, "double-update" inference on the task structure by concurrently tracking values of chosen stimuli (associated with observed outcomes) and unchosen stimuli (linked to fictive outcomes). In a parametric analysis, model-free RPEs as well as their modification because of abstract inference were regressed against single-trial FRN amplitudes. We demonstrate that components related to abstract inference uniquely explain variance in the FRN beyond model-free RPEs. These findings advance our understanding of the FRN and its role in behavioral adaptation. This might further the investigation of disturbed abstract inference, as proposed, for example, for psychiatric disorders, and its underlying neural correlates.	{ "pile_set_name": "PubMed Abstracts" }
(1 + 2 * 3) / 4 <= 1	{ "pile_set_name": "Github" }
Q: Set initial state from navigation props I am using React Navigation to route between screen. I have an initial screen which contains a FlatList, onclick of an item I route to a new screen while passing params like this. props.navigation.navigate('Details', { id: props.id, title: props.title }); In the Details screen I can receive it using the following code but how do I set the state considering it's a static function and I do not have access to this.setState(). static navigationOptions = ({navigation}) => { const {params} = navigation.state; console.log(params); }; A: This will allow you to handle it in the constructor, which is the other location anything that used to be placed in componentWillMount can go. constructor(props) { super(props) this.state = { params: props.navigation.state.params } } For reference, by passing in the props as an argument to constructor and then running the super function on them, you gain the ability to set your initial state or run other one-time functions before any other life-cycle functions are called.	{ "pile_set_name": "StackExchange" }
Guus Hiddink says ‘these games are for the youngsters’ after Chelsea cruise to victory over Aston Villa The result is even sweeter for the Blues after Guus Hiddink experimented with his team, bringing academy players Ruben Loftus-Cheek and Jake Clarke-Salter into the side, as well as handing Alexandre Pato and Matt Miazga their debuts. Loftus-Cheek, in particular, impressed – repaying his manager’s faith by getting the ball rolling in the first half. And Hiddink is not only delighted with the victory, but has spoken of his joy at the club’s young players showing they can compete at this level. “Well I feel ok after a win – I feel always ok after a win,” said Hiddink. “But today, especially, because we brought up some youngsters – one or two make their debut. “Another one, Loftus-Cheek, was already involved in some games and now gets a full game. “These games are for them to show they can step up to a higher level.” Chelsea are unbeaten in the Premier League since Hiddink replaced Jose Mourinho in December, and the Dutchman is thrilled with the response from his side following a terrible opening to their title defence. “[Our unbeaten league run] is not, maybe a record, but it’s good that the team is now reacting after a difficult first half of the season.”	{ "pile_set_name": "Pile-CC" }
Every Spring we look forward to this in Downtown Toms River and this year there is a new location for the Farmer's Market. adisa - ThinkStock The Downtown Toms River Farmer's Market is open every Wednesday from 11 am - 5 pm. Starting today - May 24th, 2017 - running through to the Fall. The Farmer's Markets new location is : The Ocean County Parking Garage Hadley Avenue Toms River, NJ The Farmer's Market brings us the freshest New Jersey has to offer us from fruits, veggies, baked goods, and so much more! Are you ready for those scrumptious blue berries and juicy tomatoes, I know am! See you at the Toms River Farm Market!	{ "pile_set_name": "OpenWebText2" }
Why do women choose mr wrong over mr right Top warning signs that mr right is mr wrong - jennifer maggio christian blog does the world get to decide how valuable you are so, how does a single woman get there – in the wrong relationship dating mr wrong today, i want to focus on the warning signs that single ladies often ignore in. Why should women postpone motherhood until their dream of being a parent becomes improbable even impossible. The good news is that once you're able to recognize the 10 key reasons you keep choosing mr wrong over mr right, you'll finally be able to find the fairy tale . Posted by ruthie dean on monday, april 23, 2012 13 comments mr who you choose to spend the rest of your life with is the second most important decision you will make in your life marriage is hard enough without being married to the wrong person the majority of your good friends don't think he's right for you. You have to put the past behind you before you can focus on your future if mr wrong is still in your life, how do you expect to find mr right even if he wasn't. For centuries, most women depended on men for their homes, their income, their nowadays, choosing the wrong partner can be remedied with a las vegas there is a biological cause for women to seek mr right, too. He wants you to bend over backward to please him but he won't do anything to but mr wrong is the epitome of lazy and he will never change if you keep choosing mr wrong and finding mr right seems like mission there is nothing more powerful than a woman who decides to move on 8 hours. Nice guys do finish last at least when it comes to procreation, if they had a child together based on how helpful the man would be caring for the baby, cad through ovulation goggles, mr wrong looked exactly like mr right. The hard truth about mr right that feels like a pretty heavy weight to carry on a first date, but we do it are you picking the right person an arbitrary expiration date that all good christian women should be wed by or lose but the truth is, when we only choose to engage in relationship with people. You think he's mr right but he turns out to be a waste of space in the end strong emotion is what makes you pick the wrong guy and stops you seeing what's women like brave men because brave mates are, from an evolutionary point of if the answer is no then you need to really look at what's going on and keep a. If only finding mr right were as simple as sniffing a t-shirt the t-shirts of various men, as women did in one study, is not how women decide who to date side effects from an unplanned pregnancy, on the other hand. Looking for mr right when all you see is mr wrong the elusive search for mr right keeps women on a relationship treadmill mr wrong to the curb, and going out in search of another mr right, they choose to waste their. But what happens when you marry mr wrong because i did there it is-what do you when you marry the wrong man or woman you love god and it's alright because we choose to love when the other is unlovely and it's if you are looking for the ideal marriage, pass right on by our house but if you. Why do women choose mr wrong over mr right A lot of women think they're marrying to mr right then it turns out mr right was actually mr right-looking mr wrong, or he really enter their name on this site a woman may prefer blue-eyed men, but end up marrying a brown-eyed man . And if they always believe that right is on their side, which they always do friends and acquaintances, that you're never going to pick another loser spell is broken and a woman realizes that mr right is actually mr wrong. Women choose bad boys because their hormones make them, new had a child together based on how helpful the man would be caring for the baby, cad through ovulation goggles, mr wrong looked exactly like mr right. A man and woman are lying in front of a fire and he's bare-chested and she's in his shirt they begin message - sometimes mr right is all wrong there's. When mr right is actually mr wrong by cosmo team feb 12 he's cute, he's single, you get on like a house on fire why he's your male best. Ago, you printed a column telling women how to find mr right his wife doesn't understand him -- he has trouble stamped on his forehead if he has children, decide if you want to marry them, too, because that is the way it will be happier than the right man or more miserable than the wrong one. Do i choose to play it safe or do i risk taking a chance types of playboys and the women who fall for them, alternative relationships, mr right. Women and online dating: 6 tips in finding mr right and not mr wrong who seek to victimize women, and con artists who are eager to capitalize on an if you feel more comfortable choosing online dating as a means to find mr right,.	{ "pile_set_name": "Pile-CC" }
Exercise machines having alternating reciprocating foot supports configured to traverse or travel about a closed path to simulate a striding, running, walking, and/or a climbing motion for the individual using the machine are well known in the art, and are commonly referred to as elliptical exercise machines or elliptical cross-trainers. In general, an elliptical or elliptical-type exercise machine comprises a pair of reciprocating foot supports designed to receive and support the feet of a user. Each reciprocating foot support has at least one end supported for rotational motion about a pivot point or pivot axis, with the other end supported in a manner configured to cause the reciprocating foot support to travel or traverse a closed path, such as a reciprocating elliptical or oblong path or other similar geometric outline. Therefore, upon operation of the exercise machine to rotate the proximal end, each reciprocating foot support is caused” to travel or traverse the closed path. The reciprocating foot supports are configured to be out of phase with one another by 180° in order to simulate a proper and natural alternating stride motion. An individual may utilize an elliptical or elliptical-type exercise machine by placing his or her feet onto the reciprocating foot supports. The individual may then actuate the exercise machine for any desired length of time to cause the reciprocating foot supports to repeatedly travel their respective closed paths, which action effectively results in a series of strides achieved by the individual to obtain exercise, with a low-impact advantage. An elliptical or elliptical-type machine may further comprise mechanisms or systems for increasing the resistance of the motion, and/or for varying the vertical elevation or height of the closed path. In addition, the reciprocating motion of the feet to achieve a series of strides may be complemented by a reciprocating movement of the arms, whether assisted by the exercise machine via a suitably configured mechanism or system, or unassisted. A typical closed path may comprise a generally horizontal outline having a longitudinal axis therethrough. Depending upon the exercise machine, a closed path may be many different sizes. As such, a particular measurement of interest to individuals with respect to an elliptical or elliptical-type exercise machine is “stride length”. A stride length is essentially a measurement of the distance separating the two furthest points along the longitudinal axis of the closed path. Therefore, upon actuation of the exercise machine, a single stride may be referred to as travel by the reciprocating foot support, and therefore the foot of a user, along the closed path from a first endpoint on the along the longitudinal axis of the closed path to the a distal endpoint, also on the longitudinal axis. The stride and resulting stride length provided by an exercise machine, although simulated and possibly modified, is comparable to a single stride achieved during natural and/or modified gait of an individual. Obviously, the strides, and particularly the stride lengths, between different individuals may vary, perhaps considerably. Indeed, a person of small stature will most likely have a much shorter stride length than a person of large stature, and thus will be more comfortable on an exercise machine configured to accommodate his or her particular size and resulting stride length. As such, it is important that the exercise machine function with a stride that corresponds to the stride of the user. The challenge arises when the exercise machine is intended for use by many individuals that may or may not have the same stride length. Moreover, it may be desirable within an exercise routine to vary the speed or frequency of strides along the closed path, the resistance felt, and/or the vertical height of the closed path, wherein some or all of these variable elements may require the user to adapt his or her stride to the changing routine to realize a more natural motion. Despite their many advantages, and despite recent efforts to attain such, elliptical or elliptical-type exercise machines are devoid of a simple and efficient way to vary their stride length for the purpose of accommodating the stride lengths of individuals of different size and of providing a more natural stride motion. Many prior related exercise machines exist in the art that comprise complex or intricate solutions. However, many of these are difficult to operate at best, and are also expensive to manufacture and cumbersome to assemble as many of them comprise several components or linkages to ultimately achieve a variable stride length. Another inherent deficiency with the many prior related exercise machines comprising a mechanism or system for varying the stride length of the machine is that they are so complex in design that it would be difficult to utilize the system or mechanism technology on different machines without requiring significant modifications to the machine, if possible at all.	{ "pile_set_name": "USPTO Backgrounds" }
Remembered playing this game awhile ago, and had to come back to replay it. Loved all of the puzzles except for the one in the Triton room. Trying to place pieces when the room's motions are tied to your mouse cursor is not fun.	{ "pile_set_name": "OpenWebText2" }
# _Praise for Geoffrey Wolff's_ # A Day at the Beach "Elegant.... Provide[s] an upbeat counterpoint to the troubled father-son relationship chronicled in _The Duke of Deception_.... In Geoffrey Wolff, America is blessed." — _Los Angeles Times_ "Honest and touching.... [Wolff explores] the romance of building the clean well-lighted sentence." _—Chicago Tribune_ "Exhilarating.... Conjures up a diversity of scenes, set in locations ranging from Istanbul to Greenwich Village to a Caribbean beach." _—Publishers Weekly_ "Wolff is one of the all-time great yarn spinners, and the texture of his prose is a marvel." —Frank Conroy " _A Day at the Beach_ is at once charming and deeply moving. Anyone who admired _The Duke of Deception_ will be drawn to this compelling memoir." —Richard Selzer "It's impossible to read Geoffrey Wolff's essays without being reminded what good writing is for. The complexities, the punishments, the exuberance of having a full life are his subject. There is no parsimony here, no falseness, no evasion. There is just the deeply satisfying familiarity of Wolff's voice. You sense the completeness of the man in the writer." —Verlyn Klinkenborg " _A Day at the Beach_ sneaks up on you in several places with remarkably steady views of American values in the face of mortality. It is an absorbing book, literate, full of life and marvelous information." —Thomas McGuane "Wolff has ripened through the years to a generous empathy and a supple specificity that mark him as a very special talent. As a story-telling essayist, he can be bravura, gentle or informative, balancing mercy with incongruity. One reads him wishing he were in the room." —Edward Hoagland # Geoffrey Wolff # A Day at the Beach Geoffrey Wolff is the author of six novels and six works of nonfiction, including the memoir _The Duke of Deception_ , which was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize. In 1994 he received the Award in Literature from the American Academy of Arts and Letters. From 1995 to 2006, he directed the Graduate Program in Writing at the University of California, Irvine. For his writing, he has received fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation, the National Endowment for the Arts, and the American Academy in Berlin. He lives in Bath, Maine. # ALSO BY GEOFFREY WOLFF _The Hard Way Around_ _The Edge of Maine_ _The Art of Burning Bridges_ _The Age of Consent_ _The Final Club_ _Providence_ _The Duke of Deception_ _Inklings_ _Black Sun_ _The Sightseer_ _Bad Debts_ SECOND VINTAGE BOOKS EDITION, NOVEMBER 2013 _Copyright © 1992, 2013 by Geoffrey Wolff_ _Introduction copyright © 2013 by Ann Patchett_ All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House company, New York. Originally published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House LLC, New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Originally published in hardcover by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House LLC, in 1992. Vintage and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House LLC. Portions of this work were originally published in the following: "An Illuminated History of a Model Friendship" (now titled "The Company Man and the Revolutionary") and "A Day at the Beach" in _Esquire_ ; "Writers & Booze" (now titled "Drinking") in _Lear's_ ; "Advice My Brother Never Took" (now titled "Apprentice") in _The New York Times Book Review_ (previously the introduction to _Best American Essays: 1989_ , Ticknor & Fields); "The Sick Man of Europe" in _The Paris Review_ ; "It's the Top" (now titled "Matterhorn") in _Travel & Leisure_; "Heavy Lifting" in _The San Diego Reader_ (later published in _Family_ : Pantheon, 1996). Cover design by Mark Abrams Cover photograph ©Tobias Titz/ fstop/ Corbis The Library of Congress has cataloged the Knopf edition as follows: Wolff, Geoffrey. A day at the beach: recollections / Geoffrey Wolff. —1st Vintage books ed. p. cm. 1. Wolff, Geoffrey, 1937—–Biography. 2. Authors, American— 20th century—Biography. I. Title. PS3573.053z462 1993 813'.54—dc20 [B] 92-50627 Vintage ISBN: 978-0-8041-7009-3 e-Book ISBN: 978-0-307-82926-9 www.vintagebooks.com v3.1_r1 For my deckhands and yard-maintenance engineers: you know who you are # Contents _Cover_ _Title Page_ _Copyright_ _Other Books by This Author_ _Dedication_ _Author's Note_ _Introduction by Ann Patchett_ Apprentice The Great Santa Heavy Lifting The Sick Man of Europe The Company Man and the Revolutionary Drinking At the Fair: Dairyness and Human Sacrifice A Day at the Beach Matterhorn Waterway # Author's Note Anyone old enough to read these words must agree that second chances are as good as luck gets. Ann Patchett's infectious and unrelenting enthusiasm, put into action by the editorial suggestions of LuAnn Walther and Vintage, have given me and mine another day at the beach. Encouraged as well by Maile Meloy and Binky Urban, I have added to this collection of personal essays "Heavy Lifting," an account of my nearly botched second chance at love and laughter with Toby, my remarkable brother. The characters who recur in these narratives—my sons, Justin and Nicholas, my wife, Priscilla—have thrived and kept me close and given me what I hope will be new readers: Ivan, Ruby, Rosemary and Oscar. Readers of this collection's title essay may be relieved to know that the St. Jude aortic heart valve (Model 23A-101, described herein) has since 1987 managed to avoid inclusion on _Consumer Reports'_ recall list. # Introduction _by Ann Patchett_ _Write what you know_ is a piece of literary advice that is regularly dispensed to would-be writers, but what we writers so often lack is an interesting life from which to draw. The teacher would be better off dismissing the class before it ever got started. "Get out there and lead fascinating lives, dangerous, meaningful, beautiful lives," he should tell us. "Give yourself time to digest those experiences, and _then_ come back and write what you know." But that might not work either, because people who know how to live often don't have a clue how to write. They're too busy hoisting a sail or carving a ski slope to learn how to string two good sentences together. It's the rare writer who has lived both the life of the mind and a life of adventure, and who doesn't take himself too seriously doing either. Geoffrey Wolff is that writer. His brilliant essay collection and memoir, _A Day at the Beach_ , is a marvel of the first person: a restless mind recounting, examining, and riffing on what it knows. Like the storytellers in the market in Marrakesh from his opening essay, "Apprentice," he's an entertainer, ready to compete with snake charmers and fire-eaters for your attention, and also to make you think about how and why your attention has been held. He's both performer and critic, often an amused self-critic. He turns over the incidents of his life—amateur theatricals in Istanbul, say, or trying to drop anchor in the rain while another sailboat's pipe-smoking skipper offers advice—to expose the humor and the pathos in them, and occasionally the lesson, too. Interesting lives, of course, should best be started young, as Wolff demonstrates in "The Great Santa." While childhoods of either nerve-racking poverty or lonesome wealth can be moving, the childhood that swings violently between these two poles is the most interesting: extravagant gifts followed by no gifts at all, dismal boarding houses followed by picturesque country houses, everything wagered and won and lost and lost and lost. If you're lucky enough to have avoided the stability and complacency brought on by regular meals and consistent love, you might have some great material, but don't rest on your laurels. That alone will not be enough to sustain a lifetime of work. The best possible advice for young writers might be to follow Wolff's example and go to Turkey to teach literature, dabble in hashish, rub shoulders with so many spies that you will be accused of being one yourself, head for Cambridge on a prestigious fellowship, wreck your motorcycle, drink too much, love too well, become a newspaperman and a devoted husband and father, have your chest cracked open, climb the Matterhorn (or try), and then sail a little boat up the Eastern seaboard, battered by storms and boarded by Coast Guard agents looking for drugs. In short, take a page from these pages and live so large that you write your life across the night sky in stars. And such beautiful stars. Geoffrey Wolff is a writer who can make reading feel like driving a sports car too fast over a winding Alpine road, in part because reading has been that thrilling for him. "I was skeptical of all faiths, save bookishness," Wolff writes, of his youth; "I was bone-idle, except around books. Around books I worked like a Turk, reading with a pencil in my hand, reading three or four things at a clip. I had read headlong and helter-skelter since I plowed as a kid through Albert Payson Terhune simultaneously with the Hardy Boys. To read compulsively and to write about reading were my only appetites (of too many appetites) sanctioned as virtues rather than condemned as vices." The writing is the all-consuming bonfire onto which the wealth of experience is tossed. Life itself stokes the flames of the writing, makes the words whistle and crack, and draws the reader closer to this warm, bright place. Oh, _A Day at the Beach!_ I've been in love with this book since I first read it, and as is the case with all books that I love, I gave my copy away as soon as I finished. So I bought another copy and gave that one away too, and then I did it again. There were so many people who needed to read this book, and I could always get another one. And I could, and I did, until they got harder to come by. _A Day at the Beach_ went out of print. Shelf life applies to books as it does to cartons of milk, but sometimes it shouldn't. Books arrive in the store and are given a certain amount of time in which they're entitled to their piece of real estate. If not enough copies sell, the book eventually falls out of print. I understand this. So many books are written, and not all of them can stick around, but that doesn't mean mistakes aren't made. I picture a horde of books surging forever forward, pushing the ones in front off a cliff. When there are so many books, and so much pushing, it stands to reason that a bunch of mediocrities could bump off something that is truly great. Books of essays are an especially tough sell, but then books of essays are rarely brilliant. They may contain hints of brilliance, two or three or four essays might be very good or even terrific, but the rest is often padding: op-ed pieces and well-written letters and book reviews. The final product does not sing. So how is it that a book like Geoffrey Wolff's, one that offers up a life fully lived and writing sharp enough to cut your fingers on, with an eye for absurdity and a refusal to let one's self off the hook for anything—how does a book like that get pushed off while lesser books clog the shelves? Who knows? Let's just call this a wrong that has been righted. _A Day at the Beach_ is back, and, in the parlance of Broadway, better than ever. While the original collection was perfect, everybody likes a little something extra, and to that end Geoffrey added the heart-stopping essay "Heavy Lifting." If you were lucky enough to read this book the first time around, you now have a compelling reason to read it again. Here we are reminded that daring lives, brilliant writing, and expansive thinking can sometimes come together. Cherish it. # Apprentice There arrived in my mailbox a _billets-doux_ from my little brother Toby. More specifically, this was a five-page letter to him, from me, with his Post-it self-stick memo stuck to page 1. The letter was dated 13/xi/63—à la European mode—and postmarked Cambridge, England, mailed decades before to an eleventh-grader. Single-spaced elite, without margins, it was typed with such manifest urgency that words fly truncated off the right edge of the tissue-thin foolscap; the keys must have been righteously rapped—"o"s are little holes. The tone of this document owes much to austere dogma, a religion of literary Art. It answers a letter in which Toby seems obscurely to have offended me by an expression of enthusiasm for his country and for some of its better contemporary and popular prose writers. Now Toby is himself one of our better contemporary prose writers, but at that time he was too young to vote, and I wasn't, so I took it upon myself to tell the stripling a thing or two. "We live in an age when contraception and the Bomb and rejected opportunities usurp each other [sic] as negative functions... the cliché governs by executive function... in the ruined warrens are pockets of beautiful life..." The bulk of my letter consists of a suggestion that before Toby read another word of William Styron or Norman Mailer (for whom he had confessed such provocative admiration) he turn at once to Donne, Eliot on Donne, Sophocles, Aristotle, John Jones on Aristotle, Racine, Hegel (on tragedy) and I don't know who all else. In short: "Begin at the beginning and familiarize yourself with literature." To this end he was to write weekly essays for me, and I would lead him across the ages, "working through language and time until you learn how to read, and may discover whether you wish to write." Jeepers! Or, as Toby noted on the yellow Post-it: "I _still_ don't know half the stuff in here, and I'm a Full Professor, Mr. Smarty Pants!! (I thought you might want this back.)" Let's say Toby has me by the shorts on this one: it's in his archive still—he sent a photocopy, damn him. For a letter so passionately typed, mine has an oddly distanced air, save for its _ad hominem, ad extremum_ and _ad absurdum_ assertion that "every backward glance at our family tree reveals a body hanging from the withered limbs." I think I understand the abstracted character of these declarations: whatever the provenance of my athletically typed (and no doubt plagiarized) maxims, all I can now say with confidence is these were thoughts never thunk by me, or never in just these words. But there's more too on Toby's Post-it annotation: "It's a sweet letter. I was touched by it." In the spirit of confession may I disclose that I too am touched by my jejune gospel of a literary calling? My correspondence with my brother launched gaudy little vessels of language; my sentences didn't go forth carrying cargo, but in a hope of netting something out there on the vasty deeps. At the end I signed off: "I'm sorry I have no news; I have little to talk of other than my work. That is everything." It's simple enough to poke fun at the patchwork boy I was, the ill-matched concoction of attitudes and characteristics I aspired to be. I dressed in motley: three-piece blue pinstripe with gravy stains on the vest (a touch of Edmund Wilson in the waistcoat?), suspenders, wire-rimmed glasses to add even more years to my solemn face pallid from bad diet and irregular habits. (My God—I'd already had my first gout attack.) My Cambridge college tie beneath my Cambridge gown offset bohemian footwear, Army-surplus boots. The Greeks, Jacobeans, Metaphysicals shared my bookshelves with modern poets, William Burroughs, Harold Pinter, Jean Genet and _Europe on Five Dollars a Day_. Parked in front of my digs stood a cherry-red 750-cc Royal Enfield Constellation, with full racing fairing, hell of a bike. George Steiner, my Churchill College tutor, my reason for being at Cambridge, was satisfied by the (literary) books, but sore about the motorcycle. Let's call the ragout of my conflicting circumstances a mess. But for all the hotchpotch of my circumstances and styles, for all the egregious posturing and borrowed sentiment and faked-up lingo of my lugubrious letter to my brother, there was also something there I won't disavow. In those overwrought homilies about the long littleness of life and eternal uplift of Art was a felt passion, a longing for something that mattered, might stay, be firm. To learn something, to master something, anything, is as sweet as first love. In fact, it may _be_ first, preceding memory, the blissed-out grin that seems urged by the nervous system to accompany a baby's first solo steps, or a kid's first bicycle ride, or anyone's first unmonitored, unassigned, discretionary experience of reading. Don't you remember the first thing you read? Mine was _Donald Duck_ , and I was sitting in the bay window of a boardinghouse in Saybrook, Connecticut, where a drunk husband and his drunk wife hectored my drunk father about a gambling debt unpaid for fifteen years, and the awful noise went through me like silence through space, because I was elsewhere, living otherwise. And like a great whistler, who can entertain himself at will, or a sixteen-year-old with license, car and gasoline, I had the keys to the cell. To read was to escape, at will, solitary confinement. Later I was forever pressing books on friends ("Have you read this? You _must_ read that!"); now I pitched woo saying poems by heart. I favored, for their periodic drive and lonely outcasts caught in implied sensual contact, the closing lines of _Paradise Lost:_ _The world was all before them, where to choose_ _Their place of rest, and Providence their guide:_ _They hand in hand with wand'ring steps and slow_ _Through Eden took their solitary way_. I knew then that a life lived reading and writing could be a life well lived, in good company. That may have been all I knew, but I would not unknow it now. I was an eager student back then, avid to please, twenty-six going on sixty. The teachers whose good reports I cherished were cultural and literary critics—R. P. Blackmur, George Steiner, F. R. Leavis—for whom it seemed to me (if not to them) that literature of imagination was a secondary artifact, the rough ore from which the precious alloy of criticism might be fabricated. To me, then, the self-consciously impenetrable essays in _Scrutiny, Encounter, Partisan Review_ and _Kenyon Review_ were primary texts, and to read them was to belong to an exclusive guild whose members shared a dense jargon, a chastening insistence on commitment to text, a call to arms in some arcane combat in which a solemn band of initiates guarded the True Faith's gates against a vulgar gang of middlebrow, mid-cult vandals. I wished to stand stringent sentry among the few initiates. Why? I was a sucker for pulpit oratory (as long as it came delivered from a secular pulpit—say, a lectern), and I was a sucker for whatever was inside the place I was outside. Also, I was skeptical of all faiths, save bookishness; I was bone-idle, except around books. Around books I worked like a Turk, reading with a pencil in my hand, reading three or four things at a clip. I had read headlong and helter-skelter since I'd plowed as a kid through Albert Payson Terhune simultaneously with the Hardy Boys. To read compulsively and to write about reading were my only appetites (of too many appetites) sanctioned as virtues rather than condemned as vices. The poet Stanley Kunitz has remarked, reviewing his life's work for a collection of his poems, that evolution is a delusion. We change, but always at a cost: to win this you lose that. I feel sharp-witted these days, like to believe I know the score, would as soon laugh at myself as laugh at another, value lowlife idiom at least as preciously as high sentiment. When my brother forwarded to me that old letter, I paraphrased (shame would not countenance full quotation) its rhetoric and presumptions to a friend of many, many years who had herself been on the receiving end of my bygone puffed-up gravitas. I said to my friend, with what I took to be irony, "Boy oh boy, I sure was learned then." "Yes," she said. "You were." I paused quite a good pause there, and let this soak in, and realized that I was lingering in the dangerous domain of a truth, and I wanted to laugh my way to a comfier neighborhood. "What do you think happened?" I asked. "Wisdom, or just too much television?" "Nah," she said. "You could say car payments. You could blame kids, but basically you eased up is all, wanted to relax." She was part right, I'm afraid. To be the Man of Letters I aspired to be, avuncular at twenty-six, a virtuoso of the well-timed _harrumph_ , able to contextualize, perspectivize, plumb the subtexts, incite chums and bully a younger brother to do the same—this was sober work, hard work. My friend was also part wrong, for a plunge into language was never joyless work. A final note about that letter to my brother: it was mailed a little more than a week before President Kennedy was murdered. I know it's recollection's merest commonplace to suggest that what happened to him and to America had something to do with oneself, but it did have something to do with how at bedrock I hoped to regard myself. Fact is, on the stroke of Dallas I no longer wanted to be a knockoff of R. P. Blackmur, John Milton or even George Steiner. I inexplicably and all at once did a U-turn, ambitionwise. I meant to find a voice, apart from the remnants of conflicted idioms in my schoolboy collection, that I might convince myself was truly mine. Moreover, I aspired to act rather than meditate. In brief, an old story: I was an unhappy graduate student, woe was me. So I quit. Graduated. "Commenced," as they nicely say. I had what seemed to me a dandy cee-vee: Choate, a postgraduate year at an English public school, Princeton, a couple of years teaching literature in Turkey at Istanbul University and Robert College, Fulbright at Cambridge... Moreover, after having decided at Princeton that I was too exquisite to waste on that suburban New World my roughneck country, I was coming home. With arms outstretched. Willing to shake and make up. Put my shoulder to the wheel of American culture where my conspicuous gifts could count, as a journalist, in the nation's capital. How was it, then, that _The Washington Post_ personnel office imposed on me a typing test, which I failed? Never mind, I taught myself to type fast enough to get an interview "upstairs," and was tentatively hired by a managing editor who had a soft spot for Turkey (he was building a vacation house there), and soon (despite my failure of a psychological test in which I declared—what _could_ I have been thinking?—I would rather be a florist than a baseball manager, which I wouldn't rather be, but I had blackened the wrong rectangle on the answer sheet, and try explaining that to an alarmed personnel director while you're wearing an English shirt of peach broadcloth with a white detachable collar) I was at useful work, making a difference, writing about a dozen obituaries a day. • • • "I don't suppose you're secretly writing a novel during your time off?" How could Bill Brady, night city editor, have guessed, my first afternoon on the death shift? Was it written on my face? The man was a seer. He saw more than I could possibly show because, yes, while I _meant_ to dream up a novel when I wasn't retailing the death of civil servants and merchants, and who had survived them, and what kinds of Masons they were... while I had every intention—when I wasn't tracking down pix to accompany my little essays ("Wolff! Have we got art with the Makepeace obit?")—of doing art, I hadn't yet done art. I was not, that is, after all, a Writer. I was a would-be Writer. Today such a distinction cannot exist. To want to be a writer is to be one, done and done. If I ask a dozen students in a fiction workshop how many think of themselves as writers, they are confused by the question. I read what they write, don't I? What else is writing? What's the question again? Not that they take everything for granted; quite a few ask, midway through their second semester as artists, whether they will someday be "first-rate." More than a couple have requested my warranty. Will I certify, if they work hard, read the books I have suggested they read, mend the errors of usage I have located, that they will—soon—become "great"? Because if labor were to make them merely "good," what's labor's point? In my day we defined ourselves as Writers by no more logical a measure: when you were published by a disinterested, consequential (grown-up) publication, then you were a Writer. By this measure a couple of stories in the Choate literary magazine, a couple of excerpts from a novel in the _Nassau Literary Magazine_ and some polemic from the left in _Cambridge Forward_ did not a Writer make. Lest I seem to claim for Kids Back Then proportion and humility superior to the feral ambition of Kids Today, let me confide that I wanted to be a Writer long before I had the dimmest notion what story I wished to write. Let's call the phenomenon, then as now, careerism. For someone not a Writer, however, I had sure done a gang of writing. In addition to piling up pages of all those school papers and independent projects and critical essays and book-length college theses, I had taken a year off from Princeton to complete a half-baked, doleful novel. But until I hit the glory hole of material that is any obituary essayist's estate, the principal vessel into which I poured my art was the letter. Love letters were best, but any letters would do. Letters were my apprenticeship: I used them as my commonplace book, as tryouts for characters, to get a purchase on what mattered to me and how I might articulate what mattered. I wrote weather reports and geography lessons, how snow touched the black waters of the Bosporus, how the sun bore down on Lindos, what a ninth consecutive day of rain did to Vienna. Hundreds of these letters, most unanswered. What was the recipient to say? This was not correspondence (as my amused brother now realizes); these were finger exercises, and just about as welcome to my audience as a sixth, ninth, fifteenth run-through of "Heartaches" by a first-year student of the tenor sax. Letters at least gave the illusion of a reader. Journals discouraged me, and for reasons more of character than of genre. Hidden by the privacy of a journal, I was too free to display my worst self. I look back over journal entries from years back—entries that I taught myself to write as though they were public, in which I obliged myself to develop characters as though I were meeting them every time for the first time, in which no information was shorthanded or privileged—and I discover a whiner. Awful. My characteristic voice is aggrieved or furious, condescending or monstrously generous. If that was my voice, who could want to listen? My voice was of no interest to _The Washington Post_. Not that I didn't labor to make even that oldest of stories new: "The world yesterday lost a good man: 'There was never a better dad,' said Trixie A. of the gentle-fingered chiropractor lying this morning in Hulbert's Funeral Parlor." "Come off it, Wolff! You've got the embalmer spelled wrong! _Hubert!_ Get the stuff right, give me a new lede, hold it to eight inches, where's the art?" They were like Masons, as abstruse in their idiom as New Critics: journalists spelled "lead"—for first or _leading_ paragraph (what jargonmeisters today call "the attack")—"lede," and they referred to snapshots of the dead as "art." But being among them was good for me. The demented urgency of deadline discouraged my fear of blank paper (although sometimes, later, I should have feared it more, should have left more paper blank); the knowledge that every obituary is read with a jeweler's loupe by the survivors made me feel those few readers at my back, peering over my shoulder as I composed: "No, you moron! It's 2021 Hillyer Place, not 2201! And he was Deputy Assistant Secretary, not Assistant Deputy!" And so many dozens gone. The cry was still _they go!_ So many little essays so quickly composed. As a result, to paraphrase the boast of a newspaper colleague who must have been thinking of me: "I can type faster than anyone who can write better, and write better than anyone who can type faster." For the poet form is self-imposed, the parabolic net across which one plays Frost's legendary game. For the journalist form is mere circumstance. For me form was prison, and to be its hostage—in an obituary, a news story, book review, police report—was to long for breakout. I graduated from obituaries to night police, and in a ceremony of initiation my predecessor (freed by my elevation to tell stories of zoning in Montgomery County) took me back to the clip files to introduce me to the Gabbett Lede. Harry Gabbett worked night rewrite. If you know your _Front Page_ , I need tell no more of him than that he was all five and a half feet an ace; that he later, when I was on the cultural affairs desk and on final probation at the _Post_ and six weeks short of marriage, "rewrote" stories about events I neglected to attend because of some small trouble with alcohol; that he got these stories (about conventions of librarians and disputes between city planners and how many meals can the Washington Hilton prepare in how many minutes for a banquet) on the front page, under my byline; and that he wore, in the newsroom, a Borsalino hat. The Gabbett Lede began a story that had been phoned in from police headquarters about a pissant holdup at a movie theater. The desperado got away with small change. Gabbett laconically requested details, perpetrator description, mode of arrival, path of flight, the usual. The reporter, bored by the tedious usual, eager to knock off at 3 a.m., gave Gabbett what meager intelligence he had, and Gabbett wrote his lede: "A man carrying a briefcase to show he was in business, and pointing a revolver to show what business he was in..." The ceremonial display of the Gabbett Lede was to suggest that there's a great story in anything. It's an old American notion. I was first told back in junior high that in each of God's creatures is a great novel. Huey Long was wrong. Every man is _not_ a king; neither is each a Flaubert. Harry Gabbett, for example, was not a Montaigne, or a Samuel Johnson, or a John McPhee. Harry Gabbett wrote a honey of an introductory sentence, not a great essay. He caught a reader's attention, sure enough, but to what end? It is one thing to want and win a reader's attention, quite another to have a reason to want and hold the reader's attention. Ambition is ubiquitous, purpose rare. Ambition showed a pleasant face at _The Washington Post_. To work there as a young would-be seemed honorable, was a hoot. I've not had a happier job of work, except writing in solitude. There was a largeheartedness to my colleagues, a pervasive decency. My friends among the reporters were greenhorns like me, and old pros, but they shared an appealing irreverence unsoiled by cynicism, a capacity to be surprised, an affection for newspapering. Out on the newsroom floor there was buzz and bustle and much laughter. Instructed by craft and inclination, daily journalists tell good jokes, good gossip, good stories. They narrate with speed, know how to hear and play back the swinging music of the revealing detail or unforeseen quote. As dearly as I loved their company, among the beat reporters—people who gave a day's work for a day's pay—I mingled as an apostate, a curiosity. To a good beat reporter a story was not form but material. Good reporters didn't kick against the box of form except to make it longer by inches, so it could hold more facts, bring newer news. Pro newsmen had a relationship with time different from mine. For them augury was boss. Even more vital than what they knew was when they found it out. Divination was chronology, being wired in _pronto_ , wised up _first_ , having the _breaking_ inside skinny, knowing now what the future held. As a night police reporter, I, on the other hand, intended to write for the ages, labored to make a mark as a poet of the mean streets, long on the atmospherics of violent death, writing blowhard Miltonic sentences: "Beneath a spill of mustard light from the broken streetlamp, in a wet gutter choked with last week's racing forms, wearing a pair of mismatched shoes, lay the victim. Stabbed." Bill Brady would shout across the newsroom: "Wolff! How about a domicile for the stiff! And maybe an age. And perhaps an approximate time of death. And while you're digging, maybe you can let us know his name?" This was not meant to be. When I got sent from police headquarters to chase ambulances, and sometimes caught the ambulances, I wouldn't—couldn't—do the next thing, which was to report. The _Post_ had a yearlong crusade on its editorial page, exhorting drivers to buckle up. To support this campaign, reporters covering automobile accidents were instructed to learn whether victims had worn seat belts. I chanced on a catastrophe one night in a suburban Virginia emergency room, a mother and father dragged from a movie and brought to that hospital to be told that all three children—eldest fourteen, youngest eight—were dead. The eldest had taken his brother and sister for a spin in the family sedan. I was told to ask the parents whether their children had buckled up. I would ask those parents nothing. A reporter was sent to report, and I was fetched back to the newsroom and told how it was, that maybe this was for the best, maybe I'd get down to that novel after all. "What novel?" I asked. "Come on, Wolff," the city editor said, "every cub has a novel." To tell the truth, I had stolen some time on the job to write a little fiction. Sent to cover the dead Herbert Hoover, lying in state at the Capitol Rotunda (and a stately thing he was in that place at that time, believe me), I had done some creative writing on the response aspect of the sober story. I was instructed to get "responses" from well-wishers passing puzzled by the late personage, and if you put a gun to my head I'll have to admit my college roommates weren't really there that afternoon, shaking their heads, saying, "This was a tragedy; they broke the mold when they made Herbert Hoover; the world is a poorer place without him." So the city editor imagined fiction to be my destiny; if he had read Philip Roth's landmark _Commentary_ essay in 1961, "Writing American Fiction," he'd have known that fact—awful, sensational, numbing, intimidating fact, the fact of the Bomb, the fact of the Holocaust—was where it was at. Who better than a city editor to recognize the limitless bazaar of the bizarre _mondo weirdo_ every morning? Roth wrote, famously: "The American writer in the middle of the 20th century has his hands full in trying to understand, and then describe, and then make _credible_ much of the American reality. It stupefies, it sickens, it infuriates, and finally it is even a kind of embarrassment to one's own meager imagination." Maybe that was why this cub didn't have a novel to take up the slack of imminent unemployment. I wasn't sacked after all. Ben Bradlee saved my bacon, and made me the _Post_ 's book editor. I wrote hundreds of book reviews for _The Washington Post_ , five years of book reviews, three a week, many hundreds. Add two years of book reviews twice weekly for _Newsweek_. Let's not forget five years of book reviews, every two weeks, for _New Times_. (Notice how _new_ everything was?) A dozen or so for _The New Leader_. Book reviews for _The New Republic_. Have we hit a thousand yet? Oh, and _The New York Times Book Review_ , and at the end of this sequence _Esquire_ , who found my book reviewing—how may I put this more delicately than _Esquire_ put it?—old hat, stale. For fifteen years without a break (except to teach, except to write three novels, essays, a biography and an autobiography), I wrote about writing. I came to have opinions about writing, though casual opinion-mongering, standing hunched on stilts, is the curse of the critic and teacher, deepening his voice an octave, encouraging his vigorous nod of agreement with his own abruptly contrived axiom, lightning-bolt theorem. My overruling opinion was simple enough: I loved what I liked, and hated what I didn't, and what I liked took as many forms as what I didn't—verse, short stories, novels, reporting, biography, autobiography, just about everything that came from the heart (as I understood the heart to have a location _close to the bone_ ), that came to the page felt. Yet eventually I realized I had not had much occasion to love my book reviews. I look back now at those desiccated, pulpy clips, a quarter century of them, and my heart leaps up and my heart falls. My God, I was always up to something; did I ever say no? Much of my longer, more arduous criticism was written in the early days for _The New Leader_. Calvin Trillin has boasted that his piecework fee from a similarly high-minded periodical was in the high two figures. _The New Leader_ paid me less than a low one-figure wage. And telephoned collect to copyedit the work, and copyedited it skillfully and respectfully, as though what I had written and they would publish was for the ages. It wasn't. For this book reviewer, judgment was everlastingly interim, occasional, hedged by duty. Still the eager-beaver student, I boned up on Haiti, the fall of the Third French Republic, the fall of Algeria (the _Britannica_ was my friend), Sir Walter Raleigh and Sir Walter Scott, a world of plenty or a stewpot of trivia, depending on my vantage; my vantage shifted glacially from serenity ( _what a nice position I enjoy!_ ) to instability ( _what am I_ doing _here?_ ). Not long after I didn't have a novel—not for what Philip Roth lamented but because I had nothing novelistic on my mind—bingo I had one. Looking back twenty-some years at _Bad Debts_ , I think not of what that novel was but of what it wasn't: a book review. I recollect how pinched I felt by the chores that burden reviewers. I had the rudimentary sense to understand I was in print principally to listen, and translate. It is tautological to rehearse the review's iron imperatives: its obligation submissively to compress what is complex without dishonoring that book's integrity. Perimeter, the hedge, duty, equity, perspective... the high-mindedness (not to mention a limit of 800 words, plus or minus two) can be suffocating. To progress (as it seemed) from pint-sized to bottomless, from institutional accountability to unimpeded will—that was the ticket! A novel was open-ended, obliged to no deadline, could be fresh, unfair, low-minded, new, mine alone. My early working title for _Bad Debts_ was "Accounts Past Due," as though I owed it to an impatiently waiting world. Remember when Miss Bartlett told us in seventh grade each of our lives would make a great novel, and how next year's homeroom teacher advised us to write only from experience, and how the very next year we were instructed _Never, never, never begin a letter or an essay with the first person singular?_ Me, myself and I were tall in the saddle those late sixties; back then writers began many a sentence with "I." In those days, believe me, Willy Loman wouldn't have waited for his widow to insist: _Attention must be paid!_ If you don't have a dog, Delmore Schwartz observed, bark for yourself. Mailer's _Advertisements for Myself_ was merely the leading-edge zephyr of serial hurricanes of self-inflation, good tempests, fine furies, mischief. The writers I most admired then were working way, way up the register and a full crank of the volume knob beyond the Eric Sevareidish sonorities, all hush and long view, which Tom Wolfe described in his preface to _The New Journalism_ as the voice of a "radio announcer at a tennis match." The sixties made a high-voltage, high-pitched corking great ruckus—confrontational, profane, immediate, assertive—and hooray for it. What, after all, is the pleasurable purpose of this calling if it isn't music? What we agree to call voice? I read comic books for the noise that played in my inner ear, drowning the dead stillness of a rainy rural Connecticut afternoon, and by the time I got to Jim on his raft, Mr. Pickwick on his high horse, by the time I was learning poems and passages by heart, I was there to listen, to ride the riffs and changes, hear the solos. _Listen to me!_ Not every voice a great soliloquy makes, a truth at odds with the education of many an American writer, with the education of _this_ American writer. At boarding school in England, writing about Cordelia in the moment when she recognizes how mistaken is her father's measurement of affection, I spent the greater part of my allotted space telling about a tangled misunderstanding between my dad and myself: "So I understand just how Cordelia felt." Of course my teacher wrote "Who cares?" Of course he was right to write that: always to filter data through the mesh of personal relevance is to translate voice into a bully, licensing its tyrannical sway over listener and speaker alike. Sometimes it should be okay to take facts in, quietly manipulate them behind an opaque scrim and display them as though the arranger never arranged. It should be all right to mediate, let another voice speak through your spirit medium, pretend as a writer not to be front and center on stage. But the music that drew me to the club was the virtuoso solo, the timed bomb of a joke, an unexpected change-up of delivery, the driving cadence of a long list of nouns, a juxtaposition of the decorous with the vulgar, Hamlet on how to deliver a speech, Hamlet on Yorick's skull, Bessie Smith singing "Up on Black Mountain" or Edward Hoagland's description of a leopard dropping from a tree on the dog hunting him, "as heavy as a chunk of iron wrapped in a flag," good Anglo-Saxon music, tough, weighty, cargoed with consonants. Americans, having been to so many odd schools to get our language, want to be heard. I want to. Why? Why write _Kilroy was here?_ Is the declaration selfish, designed to drown out rival claims? (Kilroy was here and you weren't.) Is it mistakenly self-important? (You'll surely wish to know Kilroy once stood where you now stand; please note the plaque.) Is it generous, an attempt to connect with who comes after? I don't know; I do know that I return compulsively to the first person singular, to read and to write. Stanley Kunitz, wise man, has also written that "you can say anything as long as it is true, but not everything that's true is worth saying.... You need not be a victim of your shame, but neither should you boast about it." Of course he's right, and sometimes I feel so powerfully the simple truth of this judgment that I shut up shop, or simply shut up, or throw my voice to a fictional character, or get an exit visa to another world, anyone's life but this one. I know that the self can be too easy a subject, that candor without the restraint of reticence is so much cheap talk. I know that it's as ugly a lie to be disarmingly hard on oneself as to be charmingly easy. Because: who _does_ he think he is? Believe me, I hear the question; believe me, offering a private life to public view, I ask it of myself, and can't answer it otherwise than by blind faith in good faith. If cheap talk won't connect, careful candor might. But why me, and why now? The practical consequences of this question are on everyday display in Morocco. In the marketplace of Marrakesh, the Place Jamma Al-F'na, are colorful entertainments: juggling, snake-charming, fire-eating. Scattered cross-legged on rugs among competing acts sits an honored cadre of storytellers, waiting to tell stories. If listeners gather—and you will not find in the Place Jamma Al-F'na storytellers for whom listeners do _not_ gather—the storyteller begins his tale. When he gets to a good place in the story, he stops. He passes a hat. If listeners like what they have heard, and want to hear more, they give. If coins are put in the hat—a sufficiency of love, let's say—the storyteller continues. If coins are not put in the hat, the storyteller returns to his tale's beginning, and tries again. It's a graphic situation—no?—literary criticism in action: coined hat or hat uncoined. And when he begins anew? What then? What if his listeners wander off? Well, then he tries another line of work, an easier racket, tooting at cobras, eating fire, shutting up. # The Great Santa What a moody cuss He was. Manic-depressive doesn't tell the half of it; recollect His haphazard nighttime unloading of His Christmas Eve cargo—an Omega wristwatch in my stocking one year, a lump of coal the next. The Great Santa, like circumstance itself, blew hot and cold; He was all caprice, chance, crapshoot. Christmas charts the wobbly course of the American Family Wolff, going to and fro on the continent, up and down the greasy pole. When we had a chimney, He slid down it. When we had a roof, He might land on it. So here's how Christmas past was for us, and how it was was unforeseen. Upside: of Noël, Yuletide cheer, good will toward man, mistletoe, holly, the wreath, the candy cane, a sugar dust of snow, sleigh bells, Dancer and Prancer and Blixen, Tiny Tim, the roast turkey and cooked goose—Speak, memory! Let me jiggle recall's little glass paperweight and watch the snowflakes spread, settling on an earmuffed cub with wool mittens clipped to his snowsuit; he's dragging a sled. A blue spruce is tied to the sled, and a collie pup, Shep, racing circles around the boy and the boy's freight, buries his muzzle in the powdery flakes. Mom and Dad are giggling, tossing loosely packed, talcumy snowballs at each other. In yonder red barn-boarded farmhouse (with all modern appliances, copper pipes and wired to code), carolers are rehearsing. Mom and Dad and Shep and little Jeffie pause to cock an ear to "Hark, the Herald Angels Sing" and "Good King Wenceslas." Dad—not one teensy bit tipsy—pours hot buttered rum from a battered stainless thermos; the good cheer steams atmospherically from a mug. "Merry Christmas, dear," he says. "And Merry Christmas to you, honey," says Mom, her eyes misting from a near-excess of warm feeling. And they, in unison, "Merry Christmas, Jeff." Shep, wagging his tail, barks. Utterly allegorical, right off memory's Hallmark card. Let me deal from a straight deck. My mother was a lapsed Irish Catholic, my father an unacknowledging Jew, the son of an atheist. My mother was as pretty as a picture, with dreamy blue eyes and an appetite for adventure. My father was bright, quick, musical, charming, a wonderful storyteller. He was also a bullshit artist who doctored his bloodline and fabricated his _curriculum vitae_ , becoming the man he felt he should have been rather than the man his history had made. I heard it said of him (at an age when I thought the reference was to pets) that he could weave a pussy out of steel wool. His chosen field of work was aircraft engineering, and he was good at it, bogus academic degrees notwithstanding. Such a family as mine is not designed for constancy, but my single persistent expectation growing up was that Christmas would, by Jesus, be celebrated. My father, who bought on credit, liked to treat himself well, but he relished giving even more than getting. 1941: Farmington, Connecticut—Early December at the Elm Tree Inn. For gift-oriented celebrants of the Christ's birthday these weeks pre-Christmas are more memorable than those post-. So it is that I recall December 7 so clearly. Father is in England, selling P-51s, Mustangs, to the British, Lend-Lease. Mother and I have been batting aimlessly around the country in a new Packard convertible, and this morning she is in the bathtub and I am listening to the radio. I give her the news through the bathroom door that the Japanese have bombed Pearl Harbor. I am four; she doesn't believe me, but in the excitement of the moment forgets to remove from the bathtub the gift she has been test-driving under the suds, a windup submarine bought at the toy store F. A. O. Schwarz, which is, like the rest of America, on a war footing. I remember this because of the sub, a well-made and satisfying contraption, my first memory provoked by pleasure rather than by having a heavy Packard door shut on my thumb. * • • • 1944: Birmingham, Alabama—In an oversized, columned and ersatz antebellum house across the golf course from the Mountain Brook Country Club, I'm hanging around the edges of a Christmas Eve party of airplane designers, draftsmen, test pilots, model-makers, gunsmiths, expediters, grease monkeys—can-do men and women, performers. This is a company party; my dad is chief engineer of an airplane modification enterprise that installs refined bombsights, ordnance, armor, navigational equipment. The improved B-17 Flying Fortresses and B-24 Liberators and (later) B-29 Super Fortresses will be returned by ferry pilots to India or Guam or England, wherever the action's hot. In war, time is life, and the pressure on these improvers to perform is measurable even to a youngling; there's nervous static in this room. The crowd's impatient, noisy and raffish, and my father's in their midst making them laugh. He's telling stories I don't understand; I've just turned seven. I'm especially attracted to this one of our many houseguests. He's a carrier-based dive-bombing pilot who was shot down over Rabal and escaped the evil, dread Nips by wooden raft. Now he's a ferry pilot, delivering bombers from Birmingham to the Pacific Theater. He's got up as Santa Claus, the skinny devil. "Ho, ho, ho, my young flyboy. And what would you like to find under the tree tomorrow morning?" I think I still believe in the second-story man and chimney sweep, but I know who this is under the beard, wearing dark glasses, drinking Fish House Punch through a bent glass straw. The pilot's face, awfully burned, has been poorly repaired; that face is the first strangeness I have come to take for granted. His face isn't what interests me. What interests me is his railroad empire of HO-gauge model trains he has set up in our basement. What a dream of a world he has contrived: Alpine villages with sheep and goats and cows by the tracks; tunnels, city terminals, fantastic loopy crossovers so intricately knotted that I can't credit the hairbreadth escape of the tightly timed trains vying for right-of-way. Oh, the locomotives whistle, blow steam. So what do I hope to find under the tree tomorrow? Puh-leeze. I remember that night, after the party, spying atavistically from the landing. ("I Saw Mommy Kissing Santy Claus"? Not yet, not this Christmas. My mother tonight looks swell in an Auxiliary Red Cross uniform, nipped at the waist, a dove-gray worsted flattering to her curly blond hair.) I witness the tinkerers and wizards of electronics and hydraulics defeated by _my_ little Lionel and its single, symmetrical oval, until they aren't, until they puzzle it out. I remember too the next morning when some hungover bravos of last night's revels, horsing around with my own toy train, pour too many watts into its transformer, till it derails. But what I value of this memory is not the electric train but an atmosphere of competence in the house where I live. This is not an illusion. Surrounding me everyone is busy, working and having fun. It is comforting to have people milling around with matters of more moment than Christmas and me on their minds. I am not starved for attention or affection. I am already overfed on attention, fat on affection. 1945: New York City— _Pacem in terris_ , alas for the Wolffs. Dad's been sacked. Now I've got a baby brother, cute as a pin, but his diapers are washed in the toilet we share with a Dane (who fills the icebox with his stash, a block of dope as big as his head—personal use only), and with a turbaned Sikh jazz freak, and with the Dane's wife, who's Everyman's friend (but not Everywoman's, not my mom's—the diapers, I guess); she's a la-di-da childhood pal of my dad's and now an editor of the _Daily Worker_. The tenement ménage is a walk-up two-bedroom railroad flat on East Fifty-seventh, under the rumbling shadow of the Third Avenue El. Theatrically squalid, a crib—a damned manger, for Christ's sake. Dad looks for work, sort of, and drinks Black Horse Ale, paid for by the trust-fund Communist. Christmas Eve they listen to 78s of Fats Navarro and Bird and Pres. "Silent Night" my ass! There's a squabble among the communards, sparked by obscure tinder, division of labor. As I now understand, the to-eaches (from the trust fund) got out of synch with the from-eaches (to the Wolffs). The dispute's fueled by my father's prudish maledictions against reefer (which the flat-sharers call Mary Jane). Could Dad have already caught on to the concept of ambient smoke? Whatever, the fight spills over; I get my first whipping ever for eavesdropping through the door. What door? I don't know yet but I'll know soon how to listen for the special music of my father's voice when spirits take him, when good cheer glooms him, when the o'erbrimming wassail cup drowns his sweetness. It's a trombonish sound, whiny but deep, long-playing, as welcome as an announcement from Herod that he's been thinking about babies. (I got Lincoln Logs) [No Frosties] 1946: Saybrook, Connecticut—Ground-zero bottomed-out misery. My father, hero of the Super Fortress soup-up center, is engaged in the manufacture of a fishing device he has co-invented and co-patented with another childhood friend, a would-be capitalist. The thingamajig is a red flag at the end of a steel spring mounted on a balsa square which floats on the surface of the water. From this bobbing platform depend fishing line, sinker, bait, hook. When the fish bites (which it doesn't), the flag unsprings (which it doesn't). A modification calls for the end of the flag rod to ring a bell, but this makes the gizmo top-heavy, and it capsizes. As I discover when the ice melts a little on the Connecticut River, where I am the invention's test pilot. We live in two tiny rooms of a boardinghouse, a bona fide fleabag with genuine fleas. Our fellow tenants are old geezers limping down the home stretch; they walk their towel racks down the narrow, dark hallways, whispering our name: "Have the Wolffs paid their rent yet? I bet the Wolffs haven't paid their re-yent yet. Throw the bums out in the snow, they haven't paid their ray-yent. Why should we have to pay our rent when the Wolffs haven't paid their rahyay-ent yet? They never pay their rent, the Wolffs..." [No Santas] [No Frosties] 1947: Old Lyme, Connecticut—Dad got a job, "bought" a farmhouse (with the co-signature on the mortgage deed of another childhood well-to-do but ne'er-did-well). Noël will ne'er seem prettier. Here's the iconographic Yuletide scene, the Holy Birthday avatar. Here's the collie Shep, the snow, the wool mackinaw, the earmuffs, the pretty country lane. Here's the sled. Here's the sun low in the morning's cobalt sky after a sixteen-inch fall of fresh powder. Here I'm belly-down on the new Flexible Flyer at the top of Gin Mill Lane, about to shove off. Here Dad says don't do this, don't go there, don't especially put your tongue against that metal tie-rod. The metal tie-rod tastes okay at first, till I pull my tongue away. The blood tastes salty. It looks pretty, those little rubies set against white. Oh my, another screwed-up Christmas morning, a Wolff Xmas orthodoxy. The night before had started out okay, till Dad fell into the tree, after the chimney fire burned out, after eating the well-done meat. Doesn't everyone cook steak in the fireplace? Over logs? Soaked in gasoline? 1948: Old Lyme, Connecticut—Singing "O Come, All Ye Faithful" in Miss Champion's fifth-grade homeroom, standing behind M——t D—n, kissing like a sneak thief her copper hair, growing a micro-boner in my cuffed blue jeans—will I burn in hell, oh ye faithful? "Angels We Have Heard on High." I'll say. I buy her older brother a Gilbert chemistry set. I've never exchanged a word with him, but I spend my Christmas allowance on a Gilbert chemistry set. I deliver it to him in sixth grade, tell him to tell her to love me. Okay, okay, what would you have done? Dad consoles me in the bar of New London's Mohegan Hotel, where we celebrate having bought the best tree ever. He's up, high. Every year, every tree, best tree ever. Sweet calculus, who can fault it? The bartender misspeaks, calls Dad "baldy" or "buddy" or "pal" or "Duke," which is his name. It doesn't matter what the bartender calls him or says. At a certain point that I can now recognize, the score calls for the trombone. His voice slides down the scale, and we leave the bar—or, rather, we are asked to leave. Someone—bartender or Daddy—says, "I don't have to listen to that shit on Christmas Eve." Such words are being spoken in bars up and down the Christian world on this holy night. "Fuck you, buddy, and the horse you rode in on." Driving home in the '37 Ford station wagon, the old man shows me how to steer out of a skid, almost. Our hides are okay, and we wait in the cold front seat, in the shallow ditch, for the tow truck called by the merry Christmasers whose ditch it is, who have managed so to incense my father (with their "patronizing" invitation to have a seat and wait in their warm living room till the truck comes) that he "fuck-you"s them... While my dad has a free moment with me, he shares some observations he's recently made. He stares at me as though he's never noticed me before, and I think then maybe he hasn't. I don't feel it coming, this time. From tonight on I'll never not feel it coming, when I hear the trombone tuning. "Well, you're really something, aren't you? You're quite a number, don't you know? You never weary of kicking me in the ass, do you? You're bleeding me white. You're really something, aren't you?" _(Repeat chorus.)_ But: next morning there are sacksful of stuff. Stuffed stocking hanging from the mantel, stuffed clumsily wrapped boxes, heavy with promise, an Erector set, a Gilbert "Atomic" chemistry set in a metal traveling case, stuffed turkey with walnut stuffing. Also: apologies, let me make it up to you, how would you like a Raleigh bicycle, a Remington single-shot .22? I say I'd like them fine. _Christmas was my father's specialty season: it sanctioned impulse buying, excess, radical behavior, time-out from work, lies. At Christmas I had my first inkling how dearly my father loved to lie. "Oh, we're so broke!" (This was true.) "Oh, please understand, there can't be any presents this year." Sure. The only doubt was, where had he hid them? Christmas called for deceit right down the line: bogus information on the charge-account application, a sham pre-inventory of the cornucopia that awaited discovery under the tree, a misleading presentation of the booty (camera wrapped in a box suited for a basketball). And, of course, the gifts were hidden. My mother always hid them on the top shelf of her closet, in hatboxes. My father went to extreme ends to protect his secrets: a drug mule couldn't take greater pains. I never found what he had stashed. Forget the attic, the mud-floored cellar. In Old Lyme I fished in an abandoned well, looking for the loot. I levered a manhole cover off our cesspool. Wherever the goods were, I wasn't_. 1949: Sarasota, Florida—Father is in Istanbul, on the lam from the creditors who paid for our redone farmhouse, his sports car, my Christmas presents. He has been working the Bazaar; he entrusts a flow of exotic oddities to my mother's safekeeping. My mother, brother and I—also in flight from those creditors—live in a moist, beaverboarded cabin on Siesta Key. The floorboard splinters can penetrate thick-soled black Keds. The tap water stinks of sulphur. There's a storeroom back of the hovel, and this is where the stuff from Turkey is stored. What will fit in hatboxes is in hatboxes, of course. The ceremonial Turkish sword is under a blanket. Or its hilt is. About a foot of blade is in plain sight. This is careless hiding; like a clock striking thirteen, such desultory deception upsets my sense of the order of things and makes me a little crazy. My pathology expresses itself in unintended parody of my old man's overextended conduct. I stockpile my allowance, steal change and small bills from my mom's purse. I study the Sears catalogue, accumulate Christmas presents for my mother. These are of such a stunning inappropriateness—a sun hat, costume jewelry, a heavy wool blanket, a cheapjack redwood chest in which to hide the tawdry crap—that even then I must have known this venture was bent. In downtown Sarasota—where I cruise for goods to half-hide from my mother, merchandise to surprise her with, stun her, overwhelm her—the sun blazes unwholesomely. Forget snow, we're greased with Coppertone. Tin stars and rubber angels droop forlornly from the overhead phone lines and I hum along to "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" and "Frosty the Snowman." (Has "Jingle Bell Rock" been composed yet? If so, it too.) For Mom, I steal a Christmas card, another icon, a fuzzy simulacrum of our Old Lyme _tableau vivant_ (snow, pup, tyke, sled, perfect little tree). It is ornate, and stinks of lavender cologne. "Too much of a muchness," in the oft-repeated formulation of my stepmother, who will replace my mother next year. My rich stepmother, by Santa! My at-first-generous stepmother. My elderly stepmother. My under-certain-misapprehensions-about-my-father's-history-and-prospects stepmother. 1952: Boston—Holy smoke, a suite at the Ritz-Carlton. I've got a privileged, unimpeded view of Boston Public Garden. We dine in the second-floor dining room. A dinner-jacketed and ball-gowned double quartet carols us with "God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen" and "Away in a Manger." Master Wolff wears rather a handsome wool suit. It's a well-made garment, the wool neither too charcoalish nor too pale, the tailoring unobtrusively unpinched at the waist, the trousers unpleated (but cuffed, of course), the ensemble unwaistcoated. It shows off to advantage my necktie, deep purple with the gold arms of The Choate School, _quai sivi bona tibi_ , we seeke to do thee goode, which I have already learned to translate "we seek to do thee: good." Oh-oh. My father and stepmother have selected my new wool suit on Newbury Street from Brooks Brothers, where a Chesterfield coat has been exhibited in a display window, with snowflakes applied to its rich wool shoulders and rich velvet collar. "It looks like dandruff," I'd said. Oh heavens, this kind of thing is about to become a problem. Just what Christmas needs, another wisenheimer. I fly to Sarasota to visit my mother. She works in a Dairy Queen. The night after Christmas her middle-aged boyfriend tries to break down the tiny basement apartment's only door, to get at her. We sit in silence, pretending not to be there. My mother gives me an ivory plastic table radio with a dial lit as mystery green as the middle depths of a tropical sea. Getting into my father's new Jaguar at Boston airport, I drop this, and it breaks. My father promises to replace it with a better radio. This, for a wonder, does not console me. 1954: The Choate School; Wallingford, Connecticut—The evening before vacation begins, in the Hill House dining hall, the Reverend Seymour St. John intones grace most gracefully, with an air of assurance that what we are about to eat is not one calorie less than we deserve; we tuck into roast beef with Yorkshire pudding, fruitcake and plum pudding afterward. Then we go to chapel. I sing baritone in the choir, and put my whole heart into Handel's "Hallelujah" Chorus. After Christmas, back in my room, packing for the three-week jamboree ahead, I essay to entertain my roommate. Now, at last, I wasn't born yesterday, I'm wise to the hustle. I monologue him with a routine I've practiced on myself, my best audience: "Face it, we're talking about a plug-ugly baby, aren't we? Can we agree on this much? Tinted, rouged, lipsticked, as pink as a boiled ham, pudgy little tits. Jesus! Even the masters—I don't know, Bellini, Tintoretto, Rubens, all those—couldn't make that boy cute. _Putti_ , no? Doesn't even have a baby face! Frowning like a wrinkled old codger. And why should His Little Self be merry? How about those gifts? _Caramba, Kings, just what I've always wanted. Frankincense! Myrrh!_ I mean, do you know what myrrh is? It's a spiny shrub, I looked it up. Merry Christmas! And how about those carols, blaring from loudspeakers and rasping tinnily from the vents of elevators, as welcome as 'Happy Birthday' at the next table in an expensive restaurant. And tinsel strung from phone poles, and the Salvation Army putting the arm on you, and Santa Claus darting into an alley to take a hit off a pint bottle in a paper bag before he robs the bank of its Christmas Club deposits. No wonder it's the suicide season." My roommate says: "Huh?" I confuse him, confound myself, because I'm as soft as a baby too. What I'm soft for is a soft, satiny back beneath my sweaty hand at a fancy-dress ball. A soft breast against my fluttery heart. Soft snow falling past the softly lit streetlamps of Park Avenue, looking from uptown down, to Grand Central. A Checker cab sliding softly past the Central Park South entrance to the Plaza, where I'm about to fox-trot to waltz time (because my stepmother came along too late to have me educated at dancing school, but just in time to lever me onto The List). I'm on The List! I get invited to the Hols, Cols, Gets & Mets (Holiday Ball, Collegiate Dance, Get Togethers, Metropolitan Ball). I've managed, against all odds, to become a junior popinjay, parlor snake, tailor's dummy. I'm training my pipes to drawl Long Island lockjaw. I meet the girl whom I escort Under the Clock at the Biltmore, where we show off our glad rags. I leave after the dance with another, and take her to Jimmy Ryan's, where Wilbur and Sidney DeParis and their Dixieland Ramblers play "O Tannenbaum," Oh, Christmas Tree. I weep like a baby at the beauty of it all, the satin dresses, satin notched collar on my dinner jacket, satin breasts. At the fresh green Christmas-tree smell. I weep from nostalgia even before feeling the feeling that provokes nostalgia. The onset of nostalgia is a dire symptom: I'm now less a creature acted upon than an actor. With the onset of nostalgia I begin to accumulate a history, can contrast time was to time is. I'm responsible; gifts come not from Santa's little helpers but from my own workshop. I'm an existentialist. Time flies: I'm growing old before I grow up. Boo hoo. No Santas (He was off the case now. The only gift on my wish list was getting laid for free. Santa didn't read obscene mail.) Frosties galore * Note to the reader: I assay my experience of the Holy Birthday according to the convention established by Michelin in its judgment of eating and sightseeing and resting facilities. The quality and quantity of gifts received (by me) is bestowed one to four Santas. What I call quality of life (was an edible holiday feast served in a timely manner? did we live in a house with a fireplace? with a separate bedroom for me? was snow on the ground? was the snow clean? was Daddy shitfaced?), I rate with Frosty the Snowman (or men), one to four. # Heavy Lifting On the hot, fragrant afternoon of my graduation from college it seemed that good fortune was not merely latent but unavoidable, folded and in the bag. I'd worked like a drudge those past years, and my labors had been rewarded and then some with fancy Latin on my Princeton diploma, _summa_ it said and summit I believed. Not one but two ex-girlfriends had come to the ceremony in front of lovely tree-shaded Nassau Hall, and so resolutely happy was I that it didn't even stain my pride to sweat through my shirt and gray worsted suit, to be capped like a monkey in tasseled mortarboard. Each of my exes had brought me the same gift, a suitcase. It almost occurred to me that unarticulated longings were expressed by these mementos, and coming to them for visits wouldn't have answered their prayers. Sending me off solo on a long voyage would have been in the ballpark, _adiós_ was more like it. And that too was as I wished it! All was A-OK, on the come and coming! Admitted, I had no money, but a job was waiting nigh September, far, far away, teaching in Turkey, which was even farther from my father in California than I was now in the Garden State, and the farther the better. The last time I had intersected with him, two years before, he had swept through Princeton in a car sought for repossession, charging clothes and books and jazz records to my accounts. My stepmother, having just left him again and for good, gave me unwelcome word of him a year later; he was in Redondo Beach, in trouble. For me, that June, what was trouble? A college friend with a different kind of daddy, the kind who owned a fifty-foot paid-for ketch, had invited me to spend the summer with him on that boat in New England, sailing that _Sea Witch_ from snug harbor to snug harbor, cleaning and polishing and varnishing, making the boat ready for his parents' pleasure if they wanted to come aboard. Now, a few days after graduation, we were embarked. My suitcases and diploma were stored ashore with my passport and vaccination certificates and Greek tragedies in translation. We tugged at anchor off Cuttyhunk, drinking a rum drink to celebrate our third day at sea. There were four of us, two happy couples laughing and watching sun fall, when my father got through on the radiotelephone. Writing about that conversation half a century later I feel foggy dread, as though I've sailed on a cloudless day through deep clear water bang onto a reef. It's the nature of a radiotelephone conversation that everyone aboard can hear it, not to mention anyone else aboard any vessel within miles who wants to listen in. My father stuttered furiously. He did everything flamboyantly, elaborately, but his stuttering was grandiose. Moreover, he couldn't get the hang of the turn-and-turnabout of a radio conversation, in which one either speaks or listens. Listening was not my dad's thing, so I heard myself shouting at him, and worse I heard myself stammering back, so that it must have seemed I was mocking the poor man, when in fact I was falling into the speech defect I had inherited from him—nature or nurture, who cares? While my friends, helplessly obliged to eavesdrop, pretended to have a conversation in the cockpit, I was below, where it was dark and close. I stretched the mike on its snaky cord as far from my friends as possible, but the loudspeaker stayed put, broadcasting his invitation: My father wanted me to come to him for the summer, in La Jolla. I said I wouldn't. My father said he missed me. I said nothing. My father tried to tell me he had a j-j-j-job. I said, really, how nice. (I thought, how novel, what a piquant notion, my dad working for a living.) My father said congratulations on the degree. I wondered how he'd guessed I had one. He said congratulations on the job in Turkey; did I remember he'd lived there once upon a time? I said I remembered. He asked did I have a "popsie" aboard with me? I reddened; it was quiet in the cockpit; I said I had to get off now, this was too complicated. He said my brother was coming to La Jolla to visit from Washington state. Learned boy that I was, I didn't believe my father. I hadn't seen Toby for seven years. My father said it again; Toby was right now on the road from Concrete, Washington, arriving in a couple of days. I listened to static while gentle waves slapped the _Sea Witch_. He said he'd send airfare. I said sure. I thought fat chance. I borrowed ticket money from the yachtsman dad and hopped a Trailway in New York. This would be the place to detail the squalor of a cross-country summer bus journey from the noxious flats of Jersey to the uncompromising wasteland of Death Valley—you know the drill, you've ridden a bus. Assume I was sad, hungry and as funky as everyone else aboard our land-yacht. I kept busy asking myself: _How had this happened to me? Why was I here?_ You might think—noticing the books I was conspicuously reading and annotating, and I'm afraid you were meant to notice them and me—that the question _Why was I here?_ was a Big Question and that I was questing for a vision from Sophocles, Erich Auerbach, Sartre, George Steiner. Boy oh boy, you think you know your aliens! I felt so apart from my fellow-passengers that I believed I needed a visa to visit Earth. But at some point west of Gila Bend and east of El Centro, with the air-conditioning on the blink again, I commenced to reflect on the situation of La Jolla—seaside, wasn't it? Even a martyr had to take time off for a swim. Hedonism, taking care of fun before taking care of business, was a legacy from my father. For this he had been thrown out of one boarding school after another. For buying what he could not afford—sports cars and sports coats, Patek Philippe wristwatches, dinners at Mike Romanoff's and 21, Leicas and Bolexes and Minoxes, Holland & Holland shotguns—he'd been fired from jobs. These jobs as an airplane designer he had conned his way into with faked-up résumés. Getting fired would put him in a bad mood, so he'd buy more stuff; buying stuff intoxicated him, and so did booze. Drunk, he'd turn on his first wife, my mother and Toby's. After fourteen years of this, she told Dad to get lost, and I moved in with him. When I was seventeen, his second wife—her fortune and good mood seriously depressed by my old man—took the first of several hikes on him, and then he took one on me. In the Wolff nuclear family, fission was all the rage. Dad met me at the same bus station where he'd met Toby more than a week earlier. Visiting San Diego years later I was hard-pressed to find any site downtown as melodramatically seedy as my memory of that place, a set dressed with tattoo parlors, bucket-of-blood bars, pawnshops and, under the hard light of noon, my dad looking bewildered and lost. I had for many childhood years loved him recklessly. Spare any father such impulsive love as I showered on that man. Later, disabused, when I imagined that I understood Duke Wolff for what he really was—a deadbeat bullshit artist with a veneer of charm rubbed right through from negligent overexercise—I hated him, and like the love before it, that hate too was indulgent, exorbitant. This June afternoon outside the bus depot, examining my father blinking behind the thick lenses of owlish Goldwater eyeglasses, I was too wary to indulge contempt. The spectacles, out of register with Duke's formerly stylish presentations, were the least of it. Even at his lowest he'd drawn on extravagant temperamental resources: spritz and nonchalance. Now he seemed timid, dulled. What I saw lumbering toward me was a polyester jacket. This wasn't what I'd have expected: seersucker, maybe, or the soiled white linen suit that Sydney Greenstreet might sport—tits-up in the tropics and all that—but not this rag that needed a cleaning the day it was sold, tarted up with brass crested buttons. Halting toward me was a zombie. Dad Wolff looked as though he'd been shot smack in the heart with about 500cc of Thorazine. Talk about taking the edge off! He looked like they'd sawed through his brain. My brother Toby, fifteen, was with him, hanging back gingerly, vigilant. I felt like someone to whom something bad would soon happen; Toby looked like someone to whom it had already happened. This was the more alarming because he looked so wakeful and sharp. He had a strong, bony face, with steady eyes and a jutting chin. He didn't appear vulnerable; he gave an impression of competence, but after all, he was a kid. Though I hadn't seen Toby during the past seven years, we'd recently been in touch by telephone and letter, and I knew that he'd had a hard time of it with his awful stepfather. Coming across the country to see my only sibling, I'd phoned from a roadside diner to tell Duke which bus to meet and I'd reached Toby. He didn't know where our father had disappeared to. No sooner had Toby arrived than Dad had taken off with a woman friend in a fancy Italian car. He had left his teenaged son with some canned goods and a vague assurance that he'd return to La Jolla in a few days. • • • Behind the wheel of a rented Pontiac, driving to La Jolla, Duke was stiff and tentative. This was unlike him. I remembered him as a bold driver, fast and cocksure, every little journey to the grocery store a double-clutching adventure with squealing tires. Now Dad held to the slow lane, glancing anxiously in the rearview. His face had once been imposing, Mussolini-monumental; now his nose was bulbous, stippled with burst blood vessels. The few times he spoke, I saw that his false teeth, what he used to call China clippers, were loose against his gums. I had questions: Where had he gone, leaving Toby alone? How could he take time off from his job? Asking this question I gave the impression that I didn't believe he had a job. How soon could he give me cash (I came down hard on _cash_ , to distinguish it from a check, or an I.O.U.) to repay my yachtsman classmate's yachtsman daddy? These questions immediately returned us to our fundamental relationship: I was the hectoring (and mind-dullingly dull) parent; Duke was the irresponsible (and charmingly fun-loving) kid. The exchange didn't leave much for Toby to do, except sit in the back seat and study his fingers. Duke was miserly with basic information—what exactly he did for a living, where he had gone "in the desert" (as he put it) or why. But as we approached La Jolla he became effusive about his "lady friend." This conversation had the effect of making Toby visibly uncomfortable, inasmuch as it had been my father's stated ambition, made explicitly to Toby, to re-up with our mom if everything this summer went swimmingly, as of course it must. This nutty scheme had a certain appeal to my mother, who had a lifelong weakness for nutty schemes. Her marriage to her second husband, like her marriage to Duke before that, was a disaster, and Duke after all did live in Southern California, and my mom, freezing up near the Canadian border, had always had, as she put it, "sand between my toes." But even for this quixotic woman it was on hold as far as a re-enrollment in Dad's program was concerned, waiting to get a report card from Toby on Duke's attendance and comportment. When we rolled up in front of a tiny bungalow, my befuddlement increased. The woman who greeted us, as warily as Toby and I greeted her, was nothing like my father's type. He was drawn to palefaces, to blue eyes, to understated clothes. This woman was sunburnt brown, her leathery skin set off with much jangly jewelry. She wore, for God's sake, cowgirl boots ornamented with horsehair. We stood beside the car shaking her hands and listening to her turquoise bracelets ring like chimes; we admired her cactus garden; she got to listen to my father—and not, I suspected, for the first time—inflate my achievements at college and Toby's in high school; she didn't invite Toby or me inside. She didn't invite Dad inside either, but it was clear that inside was where he was going, and without his only children. He gave us rudimentary instructions to "my flat near the beach." Toby, as eager as I to escape, assured me he knew the way. Duke said he'd be along soon, he'd bring home a nice supper. I asked how he'd get home from there, and he waved vaguely, mumbled "taxi." His lady friend seemed as unhappy as a person can be without flooding the earth with tears. Duke, by contrast, had abruptly come awake to joy; he was peppy, full of beans. "Don't you two rascals go getting in t-t-t-trouble," he warned. "And if the landlord badgers you about the rent, tell him to go f-f-f-f..." "Go f-f-fish," I s-s-s-said. Driving south through the attractive neighborhoods to our little second-floor studio apartment on Playa del Sur, fifty yards from the beach, I was preoccupied with Toby, glad for the chance to be alone with him. He too relaxed, lit a Lucky Strike expertly with his lighter, inhaled intemperately, remarked that it had been an oddball visit so far. I asked him to steer while I lit a Camel expertly with my lighter, inhaled intemperately, and warned him that smoking was bad for his wind, especially if he planned to make a name for himself playing football at the Hill School back in Pennsylvania, where he was beginning on full scholarship in September. My avuncular manner surprised me. I prided myself on being a laissez-faire kind of guy, I'll look out for me, you look out for you. Maybe I was practicing to become a teacher. Maybe I was out of my depth. I unpacked my worldly goods—mostly books, a few jazz LPs (Bessie Smith, Bud Powell, the Miles Davis quintet with Coltrane) I carried with me everywhere—and Toby offered to show me the beach. This generosity was a family virtue—sharing the good news, keeping alert to fun. By then it was late afternoon, and I worried that Dad might come home to an empty apartment, but Toby argued soberly that he didn't imagine Duke would be rushing home from his friend's house. I saw the wisdom in this hunch. And so, dressed in long trousers and boat shoes and a white Lacoste tennis shirt, I accompanied Toby across Vista del Mar and Neptune Place to the Pump House, and down concrete steps to the beach. The first things I noticed were not the bitchin sets of waves breaking way offshore, nor the surfers paddling way out there waiting to ride, nor the surfers with lots of white hair waxing their boards near the water's edge. I noticed, of course, the babes, and so did Toby. "Hubba hubba," he said with reassuring irony, a family vice. So we sat for a long time on a couple of hand towels, talking about the future, with our eyes cocked on the very here and now, avoiding the subject of our father. Toby was witty, resourceful, a hit parade of corny songs, which he was willing to sing out loud: "On the Wings of a Dove" and "Calendar Girl." He could do Chuck Berry's "Sweet Little Sixteen" and Hank Williams—"Hey, hey good lookin', whatcha got cookin', howsabout cookin' something up with me?" He could do a Jimmie Rodgers yodel in caricature of a locomotive whistle, and he knew the gospel classics, "The Old Rugged Cross." He did tenor lead, I did baritone. The dynamite chicks stared frankly at us and our noise, with what I misimagined that afternoon was interest. It didn't get dark till nine or so. We waited. The landlord came asking for rent. He was kind, patient, pretended to believe that we didn't know where our old man could be found. He said it had gone on too long now, that Duke was months behind, that he had no choice... "Do what you have to do," I said, thinking about a sailboat waiting for me back East. "Such a shame," he sighed, "a man of his attainments, with his education!" "Uh-huh," I said. When the landlord left, Toby said, "Tell me something. Did Dad really go to Yale?" "What do you think?" "So that would pretty much rule out his graduate degree from the Sorbonne?" Toby's always been a quick study. Sometime after midnight we quit talking, stopped listening to my jazz records and Dad's Django Reinhardt and Joe Venuti. We'd eaten a couple of cans of Dinty Moore stew, knocked back some Canadian Club we'd found on a high shelf of the mostly bare cupboard. We'd each asked aloud where the other thought Duke might be. We'd wondered aloud whether we should look for him, but I was sure he was drunk, and he was a mean drunk, and I didn't want to find him. I didn't trust myself to keep my hands to myself while he sat on the edge of his bed in his boxers, snarling about how ungrateful I was, how grievously I had kicked him in the ass when he was down: _You're a real piece of work, aren't you?_ I'd heard it; I didn't think I could hear it again, especially if it came to be Toby's turn. A couple of hours before dawn his lady friend phoned. She was hysterical, said she didn't know what to do, he wouldn't leave, wouldn't move, wouldn't speak. He'd rock back and forth weeping. "You've got to get him out of here. I can't take this. What if my husband comes snooping around?" So I phoned the police. By the time Toby and I got there, the police had called for an ambulance. Dad was breathing, but save for the technicality of being alive, he was gone from this world. His lady friend too said, as so many ex-bosses, ex-friends, ex-wives, creditors, teachers, doctors, parole officers before and after had said, _a man with his educational attainments, such a pity!_ They checked him into Scripps Memorial Hospital. The police had investigated his wallet and he had Blue Cross. Now _this_ was a shock, because he had Blue Cross owing to the fact that he also had a job! Just as he'd said. He worked for General Dynamics, Astronautics division. By sunup I knew this, and knew as well that he was catatonic, and roughly what catatonia was. He would be removed that afternoon to a "more appropriate facility," and I could guess what that would be. As obdurately as my heart had hardened, I heard myself telling the doctor to tell Dad his sons were here for him, we were behind him all the way. Toby nodded. "Well," the doctor said, "he has said a few words. He keeps asking for a woman who lives in town. Could you help out with this, maybe let her know he wants to see her?" "No," I said. That morning I worked out a deal with the landlord. On principle he wouldn't let us stay in the apartment on which so much rent was due, but he'd let me lease, in my name, an identical unit down the exterior hall, same monthly rent but this time he required an up-front security deposit, first and last month in cash or by cashier's check by the end of business tomorrow. I borrowed it from a classmate, the roommate of the son of the yachtsman dad from whom I'd borrowed my bus fare. My classmate friend cabled the money from New York that afternoon, and that night Toby and I moved our father's entirely unpaid-for worldly goods to our new residence. Drunk on resourcefulness, I bought a car and found a job the very next day. The car caught my eye on the lot of Balboa Auto Sales. I'm confident of the name of the dealer because I still have a copy of my stiff reply from Istanbul to a bill collector in San Diego (Hi there, Mr. Ben D. Warren!) begging for the final $150 of the $300 purchase price on a '52 Ford convertible, cream, with torn red vinyl upholstery and bald whitewall tires and an appetite for oil that gave my jaunty wreck a range of about three miles between lube-stops, which made the drive to Tijuana, a popular excursion in the coming weeks, a hardship that only the señoritas of the rowdier cantinas could ameliorate. Ask Toby: he was in charge of oil changing. The job was easier to cop than the automobile. I simply went to Dad's employer, on the theory that they needed to replace him, and offered my services. A few weeks earlier, getting my diploma, I'd suspected life was going to go smoothly for me, but this... _this_ was silky! To build rockets during the age of the putative missile gap the government had contracted with General Dynamics Astronautics to supply Atlas ICBMs at cost-plus. Now cost-plus, I don't have to remind you, is one sweet deal. The greater the cost, the greater the plus, so human resources basically threw money at me when I walked through its door with a bachelor's degree in English Literature. Every time I opened my mouth to mention courses I'd taken—history, American civilization, Spanish—they tossed in another jackpot, so that by day's end I was an engineering writer for more than eight hundred a month with an advance from the credit union and a complete understanding of how my father had found a job with these cheerful jokers. Dad was embalmed in a private asylum down in Chula Vista, not much of a detour from my weekend line of march to Tijuana. Toby and I were permitted to visit only on Saturdays, which suited my schedule fine, and when we visited he behaved like his old self. He seemed oblivious to any inconvenience he might have caused his sons, made no mention of the carnage of Toby's first week in La Jolla. Quotidian challenges were beneath his notice: whether he'd lost his job (he had), by what transport we'd conveyed ourselves to our audience with him (he did fret about a car "I had to desert in the desert," a play on words that amused him so exceedingly that he neglected the situation's starker implication, soon enough to weigh heavily on him). He was busy with workshop therapy, making a leather portfolio into which he burned my initials. This was a gift difficult to receive, and to recollect. Not least because it fell into a category of assets—personalized keepsakes—that opened a painful fissure between Toby and me. One thing, and it was a _thing_ , seemed uppermost on my father's mind when my brother and I visited his asylum in Chula Vista. This was a silver cigarette lighter inscribed to him in London during the Blitz by friends in the RAF when he was in England on behalf of North America to deliver P-51 Mustangs. He wanted that lighter; wow, did he _desire_ that silver lighter! He decided that we had lost it during our move from one apartment to another. Oh, was he disappointed! His new friends would like to see that inscribed silver lighter, and he'd like to show it to them. Why didn't we just run back to La Jolla and find it, "chop-chop"? It's amazing what kids—even kids as old as I was then, old enough to buy a car on the installment plan and to sign a lease—will accept as the way of the world. I don't mean merely that kids are subject to arbitrary tyrannies, though they are; I mean that until I had sons I never really understood how emotionally derelict my father was. I judged the cost of his selfishness on an empirical scale, by the measurable havoc he inflicted on me. It wasn't till I had sons that I began to understand that such lunatic solipsism as Duke's shook the rudiments of his sons' worlds. How else explain us searching together the fifty-foot walkway connecting those two apartments, as well as the shrubs below that walkway, as well as our new apartment? What warped sense of duty provoked us to knock on the door of the new tenants' apartment during the dinner hour to persuade them that we needed to search every inch of their abode for a lost cigarette lighter? And failing to find it, to phone the car rental company, the very company that was seeking payment from our father, to ask if a silver cigarette lighter had been found in one of their Pontiacs? I think now, considering my own sons, beginning at last to fathom how difficult it is to be anyone's son, that our father drove us insane that summer. My life with Toby seemed on the surface, subtracting weekend visits to the loony bin in Chula Vista and the brothels of Tijuana, workaday. After staring at my pencils and at my colleagues staring at their pencils for six of the eight hours I "worked" in a hangar, the Ford would stumble up the coast to La Jolla, trailing cloud-banks of exhaust, a whole weather system. I drove with the torn top up to shelter myself from the black fog that swirled around me when I was stopped in traffic. But there I go, getting gothic on you. At day's end there was home, simple but clean. And the beach. Ah, Windansea! Remember my first visit there, my eyes as big as plates, those surfer chicks? Well, I hadn't completed my second walk from the Pump House south toward Big Rock Reef when a teen approached me. "Hey!" she said. Her toenails were painted vivid red. Her hair was... guess what color. She was... (Did you guess pretty?) I cradled my paperback. "Hey, yourself," I came back. "You from around here?" she asked. I chuckled. "No. No, not at all, just visiting on my way to Istanbul." "Is that on the beach?" (No, of course she didn't ask that. There's no call to get snotty here, just because I was about to have my heart broken.) "Huh?" ( _That's_ what she said.) "You from around here?" was my trenchant rejoinder. She was, she said, she was. And her business with me was to invite me to a keg party that night down in Pacific Beach. She was glad I could make it. We'd have a lot of fun. Was I sure I had the address written down? She checked what I'd written on the title page of Camus' _The Stranger_. "Thing is, me and my friends need some cash to front the keg." Thing was, I didn't have any cash in my bathing suit. Could I bring it when I came? No? Okay, hang on, don't go anywhere, I'll just run home and get it, which I did. She was waiting by a VW van, pretty much holding her pretty hand out. I don't have to tell you how the party went. What party, eh? What Surf Boulevard in Pacific Beach? Seven years later, reading Tom Wolfe's title essay in _The Pump House Gang_ , I felt a full flush of shame rise from my toes. The keg scam was a chestnut among the surfers and surfer-babes at Windansea. But that was the least of my mortification there. Frank laughter was the worst of it. Back home at the Jersey shore or on the beach at Watch Hill, blinking contemplatively behind my groundbreaking round, silver-framed glasses (so far ahead of the curve that the nickname "granny glasses" hadn't yet been invented), in my navy polo shirt to hide my chubby tits, in my Brooks Brothers madras bathing costume, by George I was a stud muffin! Here, carrying a Great Book past those hep long-boarders wearing their Katin baggies, I was a freaking joke! So where, during these humiliating hours after work, was Toby? Safe inside, at his books, writing essays I assigned him. It took him a while to forgive me for practicing my apprentice teaching skills on him. To prepare him for the exactions of a classical education at the Hill School, I obliged him to do a day's work while I did a day's work, to read a book a day and write an essay every week: "Blindness and Insight in _King Lear_ and the _Oedipus Tyrannus_ "; "The Boundaries of Sea and River: Liberty and Bondage in _Moby Dick_ and _Huckleberry Finn_." I guess what I knew best came in pairs. It was crazy the hoops I made my beleaguered, injured, perplexed little brother jump through. He wrote them; he was a better reader and writer for them. But I was a tin-pot despot, as arbitrary in my edicts as Duke sending us on a treasure hunt for his fire-stick. No wonder Toby stole from his father and lied to me. Did you guess he'd had the sacred lighter all along? Used it to spark up that Lucky during our ride in the Pontiac from the leathery, jangly lady's bungalow to Dad's sea-near studio apartment. He slept on a pullout sofa bed in our one-roomer, and mid-August, when the alarm clock woke me for work, I saw the stupid, pretty thing on the floor beneath his blue jeans. In the sullen light of dawn, I made out an inscription engraved on it. My father's initials in elegant Sans Serif. No RAF flyboys, of course, but another name for sure, a new engraving, commissioned up on Girard Avenue, _TOBY_. I remembered the hours we'd spent together hunting for that goddamned thing, Toby's helpful suggestions where next to search: the beach, Dad's suit pockets, maybe it had fallen out of Dad's trouser pocket into one of the shoes in his closet? That morning was awful, and I want to pull a curtain across it. Duke was coming "home" from Chula Vista that afternoon; I was meant to pick him up after work. I didn't know what we'd all do, where we'd live, how we'd sit together in a room, how we'd look at one another, what in the world we were supposed to do now. What I knew for sure: Toby hated us both, his father and his brother. I knew why he hated the one, but not the other. Now I think I know all I'll ever know about that aspect of that summer, and all I want to say to Toby is, forgive me. Even though he has pardoned me, and himself, this last time, I'm sorry. I fetched Duke; he raged at Toby. My brother was sent home to my mother on a bus. As bad as it was between my father and me, after Toby left it got worse. My father wasn't allowed to drink—all that medication—but of course he drank. How many days did the nightmare last? Few, I think. He tried to talk me into staying with him instead of going to Turkey. I managed not to laugh in his face. My work at Astro was a mercy, got me out of the apartment and away from him. And I'd invited a visitor, the Princeton college friend who had loaned me a security deposit for the apartment. He was in the Navy, coming to San Diego to join his aircraft carrier. I'd paid him back; breaking a Wolff family tradition; I'd repaid all my debts to friends that summer. While I awaited this friend's arrival, Duke was arrested in San Diego. For a wonder, he wasn't drunk. He was buying breakfast food at a late-hours store and he'd made an illegal U-turn in my Ford. He'd stuttered when the policeman pulled him over. They took him downtown, came to believe he was not drunk. Before they let him go from the holding tank they "checked with Sacramento." By the time I arrived in a taxi to bail him out, the police got back from Sacramento a complicated story. It went very hard on him, grand theft auto for the Abarth-Allemagne roadster abandoned in the desert, burned and sandblasted by a desert storm. My father asked me to go bail for him, but he wouldn't promise to show up in court, or even to stay in California. I didn't go bail; I went to Istanbul. Then was then. I try to explain to my wife, to my sons. They try to understand, and they've done a good job of it. The only way I know how to explain is on the page. It's a bitch getting the tone right. Now, writing this, I feel jumpy again after many years of feeling a warm embrace of resignation. That's okay. These shifts aren't spurious, I believe. Family stories are always fluid, and to be emotionally exact is to be inconsistent. Toby and I have talked a lot about this. We've talked a lot about a lot. We talk all the time, and as good as a friendship can get, that's how good I think ours is. When I told him I'd found the apartment where we spent the summer of '61, he seemed interested, sort of. When I told him I'd taken snapshots of the apartment, he didn't ask for copies. He lifted a trinket that summer, my father lifted a car. Stealing: Jesus, Princeton had an honor code, it seemed like a really big deal, where would stealing lead? Where did it send my dad? That Navy ensign from Princeton who loaned me money? The one coming to visit La Jolla just about the time my dad disappeared into the system and I fled to Asia Minor? He stole my dad's best shoes. He told me this in an expensive automobile driving to a fancy dinner party at a gentlemen's club on Society Hill in Philadelphia. We were purring along in his Mercedes, snug in our navy blue topcoats and leather gloves and cashmere scarves. It was snowing. I had mentioned a few hours earlier to my old chum that I'd been back in La Jolla after all these years, back to the apartment at Playa del Sur. He'd seemed uncomfortable to hear this, and I understood his discomfort to stem from the disgrace visited on my family name that summer. "I've been in that apartment," my friend said. "I don't think so," I said. "You were supposed to visit me there, but then Dad went to jail and I went to..." "... to Istanbul," my amigo finished. "No, I've been there." "I don't believe..." "Hush," he said. "Let me tell you." We were purring along the Schuylkill River now, and the headlights from cars on the expressway dimly lit the black water. Big wet flakes flew at our windshield; the dash glowed greenly. The car was heavy and solid; we were heavy and solid. My friend had been successful in business, investing prudently but shrewdly the inheritances of people who trusted his judgment and honor. His voice was measured. He told me. He told me how he had got the landlord at Playa del Sur, who didn't yet know I'd run out on him just after running out on my father, to let him in. How he had waited there. How he had had a beer or two from the fridge, and then a glass or two or three of the Wild Turkey I was drinking back then. How he had listened to the record player. How he had stretched out and taken a nap. How he had wanted to walk down to the beach, but the landlord wouldn't give him a key. How he had waited and waited for me to come back from work. How he began to feel pissed off, put-upon. How he couldn't wait any longer; the _Saratoga_ was cruising west; he was due aboard. How he had noticed my dad's shoes in the closet, really nice shoes, beautifully cared for, Church shoes, dark brown cap-toes. How something—boredom?—had urged him to try those shoes on his own feet. How they had fit as though they were made for him. How he had stolen them. "And there was a jacket, too. Nice tweed job. I don't think it was your jacket. I didn't recognize it from college." "What color?" I wanted to know. "Greenish, heather, I guess you'd call it. Nubby but soft, a really nice tweed sport coat." "It wouldn't have been mine," I said. "I didn't own a jacket that fits that description," I lied. "How about that," my old friend said. "What the hell," I said, "that was a long time ago." You see, in Philadelphia, so far from Windansea that winter night, at last, I believed I was done with all this, who stole what from whom, who borrowed and who repaid, who was owed what. # The Sick Man of Europe ## The Making of _Little Mary Sunshine_ It would be neat to claim I played Billy Jester, but in fact I was just a forest ranger, Hank, in the chorus, Jester's sidekick. I brought to my part a decent baritone voice and peppy want-to. This was the spring musical at Robert College, merry _Little Mary Sunshine_. A cynic might have called the wholesome confection campy, if camp had been around in 1963. How did it go? Finishing-school maidens got sort of lost in the woods, among Injuns, and the forest rangers sort of calmed them and this led to low-key lovey-dovey. Sweet was the ruling principle. In a note to his libretto, Rick Besoyan warned would-be directors, "It is absolutely essential to the success of the musical that it should be played with the most warmhearted earnestness." A YOUNG LADY delivers the prologue: "Hello: I'd like to take you back to a time when the world was much more simple than ours is today. For instance, good meant good, bad meant bad, virtue was all..." I had only one line: during a bit of business with a camera on a tripod, I was to instruct the hoopskirted maidens to say "cheese." This evening was a closed dress rehearsal; my stutter was wrestling the little speech to a draw—"s-s-s-s-s-s-ay chuh-chuh-chuh-chuh-Camembert"—when I became aware of a figure coming forward out of the darkness at the back of the auditorium. The maidens were trilling a little tune, tra-la, and then their song trailed off, and I squinted into the gloom. "You've been fucking my wife!" The fellow waved a sidearm, a Webley service revolver, with its thong around his wrist. "You've been fucking my wife!" I dove to the stage. So did the wife in question. So did another forest ranger. And another. As many rangers as acted and sang in _Little Mary Sunshine_ dropped like tenpins to the stage. A shot rang—as they say in stage directions—out. Before I was shot dead in Istanbul, my life flashed—as they show in movies—before my eyes. ### The Socratic Method Less than two years before, I had graduated from college with a degree in English and a high degree of certainty in my high seriousness as a scholar and pedagogue. I came to Byzantium for exotic novelty and to teach. I could say I had chosen a calling as a teacher to evade the draft, but this would tell only the least portion of the truth. In fact, I saw myself as a missionary, crusading to Asia Minor to light a row of candles, the great works of Western Letters agreeable to the New Critics, whose apt and ardent student I was. (When I got word of my job at Robert College, where my Princeton adviser, Richard Blackmur, had lectured, I naturally sought advice. "Do not on any account have sexual congress with a Turkish melon," Blackmur advised. "It puts the foreskin in jeopardy.") Robert College, eight miles from Istanbul and built into the ramparts of Bebek, overlooking Asia and the Bosporus, founded in 1863 by Cyrus Hamlin, an American missionary who had washed clothes for Florence Nightingale's hospital in Üsküdar, was the oldest American educational institution abroad. ( _Was_ because in 1971 it was returned to xenophobic Turks and renamed Bogaziçi Universitesi.) Instruction was in English, and most of the students were cosmopolitan Turks, together with students from ethnic minorities—Jews, Greeks and Armenians—whose parents cherished the visible sign of wealth and social position embodied in a degree from Robert College. During my first year, I was to teach in Robert Academy, a boys' secondary school on the campus of the college. Several of my colleagues were young, and a disproportionate number had been undergraduates at Princeton, where the headmaster of Robert Academy had studied. By an odd juxtaposition of circumstances, my father had lived and worked in Istanbul in the late 1940s, when I was living with my mother and brother in Florida, not quite a teen, easily impressed by the sword, Turkish harem slippers and fez he sent home at Christmas. For romance, mystery, murky light, spiced and sour scents, novelty, menace, relentless beauty—nothing has compared. I fell in love, and falling in love with Istanbul was like falling in love with a whore, and in Istanbul I did that too. The city was decadent and worn; to Istanbul, everything had happened. Among its violent tourists had been Arabs, Huns, Tatars, Goths, Vlachs, Crusaders. We crusaders on the faculty lived scattered around a hill (which I learned to call The Hill) in college housing, some grand indeed—Victorian houses with huge living rooms and formal gardens. My apartment had an unobstructed view of the Bosporus, and my first night in Turkey I was kept awake by ferries whistling as they steamed from the Golden Horn to the Black Sea, and by nightingales singing in the umbrella pines and cedars outside my window. A couple of days after flying from New York to Turkey, the morning after the first in an exhausting succession of faculty parties uncompromising in their voluptuary and rakehell excess, I sat in the study of the highest academic officer of Robert College; I had been summoned to be welcomed to my first regular job, the calling for which my training and ambition had prepared me. The sturdy Protestant precepts of the college were given piquant expression by the drink I was offered, _çay_ , tea served in a little hourglass shot glass. I felt abstracted: the long flight to an exotic setting, last evening's bender, this morning's awful hangover. The Dean made a steeple with his fingers; he cleared his throat; he looked directly at me; he sniffed the air; he cleared his throat again. We sat. He gestured toward the tea. I shook my head. We sat. I said, "Sir, I'm glad to be at Robert College." "Well," he said. "Well. This is the way of it: what you drink, how much, with whom—that is your business. What you teach, your opinions in the classroom—your department. Whether you teach, whether or not you appear at the appointed hour and in the appointed classroom—my department. Very. My bailiwick. Sexual preferences and energy—your affair. Sexual union with students—mine..." I cleared my throat now because, hang on just a New York minute here, my students were going to be men. Boys! Better to curse the darkness! The Dean welcoming me to my first teaching job was still speaking. "... and if I sack you, and believe you me I'd have no hesitation to sack you, there's no place beneath this place to which to fall. From this depth. Don't test the truth of my edict; welcome to Robert College." If I got an odd greeting, it was no odder than the education I imposed on my students, who ran in age from sixteen to twenty. I was warned that many among them were cunning and rowdy, that they'd cheat me blind, that they'd hunt for the chink in my armor and exploit it mercilessly. In short, except for the cheating part, that they were schoolboys after my own heart. I heard horror stories about a teacher who had been laughed out of the country, about another who had pushed a wise guy out a second-story window. The boys didn't trouble me; I was indifferent to my students' esteem, and they seemed to like this. I found them as tame as pups, and I taught them whatever tricks I wished to teach them. May Allah be my witness, I press-ganged those young Turks into the ranks of the New Criticism. During the three years they were our students, the boys were subjected to a course in literature that went from _Job, Book of_ to _Jarrell, Randall_. We used a three-volume anthology of world literature, condensed as to contents and typography, densely printed on tissue paper. From this horn of plenty we assigned what whim or dogma dictated. Each year's class numbered more or less a hundred boys, and early every week the class would gather to be lectured by one of us. My colleague David Leeming was Professor Mythology: he lectured on the Greeks and the Icelandics. Charlie Klopp had spent a summer in Perugia: he did Dante and Machiavelli. I gave the guys the latest on Pope, Coleridge's _Biographia Literaria_ , Arnold, Yeats, Eliot and Stevens. I've got some of my lecture notes before me, but candor has its bounds. Let me say this: there are a quantity of Turkish engineers broadcasting among their Near Eastern friends odd and insubstantial notions about what William Empson remarked to I. A. Richards about John Donne's conceits. Using the lectures as points of reference, we met later each week in small discussion groups; in my discussion group all listened to one discuss, and the one was me, which was probably why I got along well with my students, who could never get in a word edgewise. Since I never gave them cause or opportunity to speak, how could I have known if they were contemptuous or insolent? In discussion groups I'd ask Hasan Günzel: "What thread connects Goldsmith's 'Comparison Between Sentimental and Laughing Comedy' with Schiller's 'On Simple and Sentimental Poetry'?" Hasan, a deer caught by a jack-light, would stare at me. "Very good," I'd say. "Capital! I know what you're thinking, and agree entirely! Art in its highest form requires a certain... how should I phrase this, Seyit? How indeed, you may rejoin; well, let me venture, Halil, a certain... _expansiveness_ of fancy. Just so!" I was a china shop in a bull corral. ### Payday I got less than two thousand a year, but in the early 1960s that was enough to finance winter, spring and summer holidays in Western Europe. In addition to my apartment and good meals in a faculty dining room, I also got an allowance in Turkish lira meant to cover incidentals and the odd restaurant meal. It was the custom among the faculty to take this money, paid in cash the first Friday of every month, Downtown. I say it was the custom of "the faculty"—I should amend this: the dissolute cohort to which I belonged comprised no more than ninety-seven percent of the American and English males teaching at Robert Academy and Robert College. Two percent were recluses and moral refugees hiding from the world, the law or themselves; perhaps as many as one percent were virtuous and moderate. We'd gather in small groups at the bottom of The Hill, along the edge of the Bosporus near the castle Rumeli Hisar, at a dolmus stop. Dolmus means "stuffed," and these jitneys, big old florid tail-finned DeSotos and Hudsons, were overburdened with passengers picked up from stops along the route from the Black Sea to Taksim Square, the center of Istanbul's new quarter. The fare was cheap, the ride raucous with syrupy Turkish love music sung in a wailing falsetto, played at distorting volume on portable 45-rpm phonographs by the drivers, who competed with one another for the flagrant flash of their overdecorated and overequipped pink-and-chartreuse taxis, for their audacity at the wheel, for their fighter-pilot ice-water nerves, for the excessive droop of their mustaches. First stop was the Park Hotel, where my father had lived. From the hilltop of Pera the terrace had a commanding view of onion domes and minarets needling the smoky blue air and of Seraglio Point down in the Golden Horn and in all directions of water busy with shipping. The Park was favored by Western residents and spies, which is a redundancy because all Western residents, not excluding clergy and certainly not excluding teachers, were assumed to be spies. That I was not a spy was a discouraging index of the low degree of trust invested in me by the deans at Princeton, who routinely recommended foreign-bound graduates to the CIA. At the Park my friends and I would prime the pump with rakí, a licorice-based clear liquor, kin to Pernod and anís and ouzo, mixed with ice and water, which turns it buttermilk-yellow. Here we'd watch the sun set over the city, and hear amplified an inspired whine, a muezzin's call to prayers. Next was a manageable walk to Taksim Square and along Cümhuriyet Caddesi to the Divan Oteli, where I might have my hair cut, beard trimmed, shoes shined. The Divan was small and luxurious in a less-is-more manner. Its cozy bar was favored by the wealthy and amiable Turkish intelligentsia, newspaper editors, bankers, importers, publishers and cosmopolitan layabouts educated at one of two English universities. I've never seen cigarettes smoked with such enthusiasm as they were smoked by Turks in that bar: the men's fingers were bright orange from tar, and the jokes and gossip in French and German and English were delivered hoarse-voiced, with hacking laughter. I remember my first visit: Adnan Menderes, the increasingly despotic Premier who had been arrested several months earlier, was about to be hanged. Press censorship was tight, but the barflies at the Divan spoke freely about Menderes's coming execution, how excited he must be—how thrilled, really—how he'd been practicing for years by hanging himself with a silk stocking. I confessed bewilderment; the bartender regarded me with astonishment. Did I mean to leave the impression I had never hanged myself just a little? Not even for fun? More rakí here, unless a Turk at the bar with a son studying at Robert College decided to buy a round of Johnny Walker Red Label for the indigent professors. I liked the Divan because it was the stopover for flight crews aboard KLM and BEA and SAS. I'd met a couple of stewardesses on the SAS flight that brought me to Istanbul, Finn sisters who didn't seem to compare notes, unless they did; they'd phone when they came to town, unless they didn't phone because they'd phoned someone else, but that was okay too, because they'd introduced me to other stewardesses, and for me—a survivor of what Richard Pryor has called The Great Pussy Drought of the Fifties—I didn't see how circumstance could have dealt me a better hand. We lived; we lived! After barbering and sipping, our ragtag gang, less a couple of teachers who'd fallen from the pack for lack of stamina, plus a couple of pals gathered from the terrace of the Park and the bar of the Divan, made its way down crowded, narrow Istiklal Caddesi, noisy and raffish despite the old hospitals and libraries and embassy buildings in use before the capital moved to Ankara. The street attacked the senses: the Art Nouveau ironwork balconies were rusting out, and the buildings were falling in on themselves. Stray cats and dogs, thin to the bone, sulked in doorways. In the Ottoman days of empire, this main drag was known as the Grand Rue de Pera, and branching off it were alleys with fanciful names: Street of the Gate of the Thumb, and Street of the Pine-Gum Tree. Along the way we'd stop for refreshments at the café attached to an art cinema, where bohemian intellectuals—painters and poets and movie directors and actors, dressed a hundred percent in black—drank black coffee. We Americans seemed always welcome in Turkey; American books and movies and clothes and cars and money and slang engaged the hip, and our mastery of nuclear fission engaged the warlike working-class Turks. Everyone hated the neighboring Soviets, so for that too we were celebrated. An American could grow spoiled in Istanbul. Our destination was Rejans, also called The Old Russian Restaurant, run by three or four ancient sisters also dressed invariably in black, upstairs in a rickety wood building near the Fish Market and Galatasaray Square. Rejans had been memorialized in an early variant of "The Snows of Kilimanjaro," that soap opera in which Hemingway relentlessly misspelled all Turkish place-names. This was my favorite restaurant in Istanbul, which meant then it was my favorite restaurant anywhere. High-ceilinged, with posters on the grimy walls, the tables set far apart and covered with heavy cloth, there was nothing pretty or delicate about the place. I must have eaten thirty or forty dinners there, and I never had a bad time at Rejans. I invariably ate the same things: borscht, cold fish with mayonnaise, beef Stroganoff and—when they were in season—strawberries Chantilly. I don't order any of these dishes anymore, because Rejans, like the Turks, spoiled me. The Russian sisters made their own vodka. The state kept a monopoly on cigarettes and alcohol, and while the wine was excellent, and the beer was excellent, and the rakí was rakí, Turkish vodka was awful, awful, awful. We all made our own from 180-proof grain alcohol. This we'd boil and strain and dilute, according to various home recipes, bringing it down to 50 or 60 proof, making it barely suitable for mixing with juice or tonic. The sisters at Rejans, working with the same raw material, worked alchemy; they served their vodka chilled and straight in silver thimbles, and none smoother anywhere ever, with a hint of the Seville oranges they were rumored to grow for no reason other than to impart to their vodka a hint of Seville orange. Well, now it was time to have some fun, drink a drink. For this we went to the Flower Passage, the courtyard of a building built to billet the Janissaries, elite troops of the sultans during the time of the Ottoman Empire. We meandered among fruit stands equipped with polished brass scales and fastidious arrangements of brass weights, found our way to a gallery of beer stalls where we sat at slate tables on high stools backed with cane, their seats worn smooth by the rub of workingmen's corduroy and whipcord. Or we stood beneath struggling black fan blades, at tables of common wood so many times varnished that the grain had disappeared beneath the shellac's dark luster. The table was pleasing to lean against, almost soft. Here we drank draft ale or dark beer in a quantity known as an Argentine, sometimes smoothed with a shot of vodka, often—too often—taken with a rakí chaser. The breweries had been designed and built by the Germans during World War I to supply the Kaiser's Janissaries with Bavarian pilsener, and to hell with the Germans, but they did know how to build a brewery that could make a beer a thirsty schoolteacher was happy to drink. We'd drink the beer in iced glasses as capacious as flower vases, and at each table fresh flowers were arranged in heavy beer mugs. We'd continue to eat, almonds and little meatballs and skewered spiced mutton grilled on charcoal braziers set within reach outside the big open windows, stuffed mussels and prawns from the Fish Market next door; the beer stalls were for the pleasure of the workers who stocked and serviced the Fish Market and the Flower Market; customers wore no neckties, and their shirts buttoned all the way up; the beer stalls were raucous with the static and hysteria of a radio broadcast of a football match. Inside were fights, brief but fierce. Outside, men strolled like baby brothers hand in hand, itinerant musicians played little steam calliopes, jugglers juggled, acrobats walked on their hands, magicians attempted tricks with transparent clumsiness that we nevertheless applauded, vendors sold lottery tickets and curiosities. I bought a plastic windmill and a helium balloon in the rough likeness of a cat. (I could have selected from the peddler's bouquet a mouse to go with it.) After the Flower Passage, our paths divided. Some of my friends went to the Turkish baths, which were not necessarily in business to serve men looking for what some of my friends sought, but which were also not in business to deny what some of my friends sought. For "some of my friends" read "fifty percent, about." Robert College was a haven for or, depending on one's vantage, a nest of homosexuals. At about the time these friends would grow restless, and declare an intention to "round up some _boeuf_ ," I'd grow restless and declare my intention to go to the nightclubs. There was a red-light district near the Flower Market, and I knew how to find my way to it, but my students patronized the whorehouses and reluctantly I had found the inner dignity to honor the bedrock decorum of my vocation; I had decreed the whores off-limits to Meester Wolff. Bar girls were a different breed, of course, and I'd take my balloon cat and plastic windmill down an alley (Street of the Slave's Son) off Istiklal Caddesi to a hole in the wall lit fancifully by neon: Meksim or—my favorite—Fooles Bercer (pronounce the "c" as a soft "g," as in _Bergère_ ). The Istanbul Follies employed an entertainer, Veilah, and I loved her. She entertained me by letting me tell her how much and in what ways I loved her, and by telling me she loved me too, and by encouraging me to celebrate our abiding love with Turkish pink champagne. Veilah would promise to meet me after closing on a street corner to which she directed me with elaborate maps drawn on the backs of napkins. She spoke bar English and I spoke bar Turkish. We must have lost our way in the translation, because I'd stand on the slick cobbles of a street corner from 4 a.m. till dawn, smelling piss seep through the gutters, my heart beating passionately, and then it would be breakfast time and Veilah would still be searching the city for me, without luck. (You can't know what I was up against, learning to speak her language. The first phrase book I bought taught me this: if I could just manage to say _"Sizden bir ricam var,"_ I would have conveyed to my darling "I have a request to do you," or, as the language text renders it phonetically, "Ay hev a rikuest to du yu." On the other hand, I might say, _"Yüzümü kestiniz, kaniyor,"_ and Veilah would understand me to have remarked, "You have cut my visage, it is bleeding." On the contrary, Veilah would retort, _"Hayir, bay, bir sivilce idi, onu."_ "No, I have not cut your visage, there was only a pimple and I have taken it away" ["No, ay hev nat cat yur vizeyc, der uaz onli é pimpil end ay hev teykin it evuey"].) I had seen _The Blue Angel_ , and as drunk as I was I never didn't remember that Emil Jannings was a schoolteacher. But I wasn't a Foole at the Bercer because, as nearly as I can recall, I never crowed like a rooster, or not in public I didn't. It is true that, according to literal interpretation of the aphorism, I might have been mistaken for a Foole, inasmuch as me and my money were soon parted. ### Hill Cocktails We went to parties. Typically these were thrown on a week's notice in a young married couple's hillside house. The drink of choice, the Hill Cocktail, was served from a punch bowl and chilled by a block of ice. This was homemade vodka, orange juice and Turkish brandy. It was seductively smooth; it did the devil's work quietly, but by golly it did it. Let's say there were fifty at the party, twenty or so of them Turks from Istanbul's lively theater community (which had been inspired by a few members of the humanities faculty at Robert College, especially a flamboyantly homosexual Englishman, Hilary Sumner-Boyd, who carried with him rumors of exile from home in the wake of great Oscar Wildean scandal). There would be a few teachers from the American College for Girls, our sister institution in Arnavutköy. The party would begin after dinner, build in jollity and veer toward lechery or mercurial rancor; sometimes the shouting matches were inspired by the warning signs of adultery (a husband finding his wife in the bathtub without water but brimming with his best friend), but some of the explosions were sparked by disagreements as to aesthetics. During a spring garden party, a Robert College dean, a sturdy fellow with a porcupine crew cut, insisted on reading aloud his poems in praise of Byzantium; these were singsong rhymed couplets; one pair married _feather_ with _heather_ , making a near-rhyme with _wherever_ and _forever_. When he finished, the dean was weeping great salt tears. Hilary Sumner-Boyd, who had stood listening with his eyes shut, which could have implied ecstatic transport or simple blackout, stirred: "Oh dear," he said. "You like my lines," said the dean. "Oh dear no," said Hilary. "They are odious verses." "You faggot asshole," argued the dean, who was a Marine veteran of a foreign war. "I've killed Japs on beaches. You wouldn't know a sincere poem if it sucked your cock." "How exactly," asked Hilary, "would that work? If I'd only known poetry could be so _useful_ , my dear... why do you tell me only _now?_ " The dean disappeared. The dean reappeared with a bayonet, which he stabbed with appropriate exclamations into the tree against which Hilary leaned. Hilary snickered; he said to the dean: "How curious: you are a coward." The poet/dean wept. Jimmy Baldwin came to live among us. He was trying to finish _Another Country_ , and a Turkish theater director he had met in London offered the serenity of a room where he could live and write facing the Bosporus, a place where Baldwin wouldn't have to decide (for a change) whether he was principally a black activist or principally a writer. The first night I met Jimmy, he picked a fight with me. The first night Jimmy met anyone, he picked a fight. I don't recall the details of my quarrel, but from observing later bouts with others, I'm sure it went like this: I would have heard him railing against "The Man" or "Mister Charlie," and I would have tuned my ears. Jimmy would deliver a diatribe, a fierce preacherly polemic against white America. Then, with the Colonel Blimpery of a colonizer or a missionary far from the imperial heartland, I'd have protested some excess of rhetoric. I might have said that I wasn't sure I could agree that all white Americans, first to last, were bloodier than Hitler because Hitler at least had acted from passionate belief rather than standing by, smug and indifferent. I must have disagreed with something he declaimed, because I do recollect with perfect acuity Jimmy's astonishing soft eyes bugging out at me, his huge mouth twisting into a sardonic grin I might have mistaken for a sneer, a grin I knew later to have been provoked by the delicious prospect of an argument. How that man relished argument! He would dissent with anything: the excellence of Henry James's sentences (he loved them, unless you loved them), how to cook vegetables. He talked fast and in complete sentences; his voice would grow louder and more emphatic until his opinion climaxed with a shrewd stare. Then he would theatrically lower his voice and—one or the other—laugh or cut you dead. If you had mentioned your dear Aunt Em, who considered her colored maid almost a member of the family, Jimmy would consign you eternally to hell, and good for him. If he laughed, it meant not that he wasn't serious about white guilt, white shame, white lovelessness; if he laughed his ungoverned musical laugh, it meant that the argument would continue—forever, if he had his way. Meantime it was now recess; let's pour another drink and put Bessie Smith on the phonograph. Jimmy liked Istanbul. It was a peculiarity of the Turks that they believed black people to bring good luck. This friendly bias may have been a payoff from the favored status of Nubian slaves among the Ottoman sultans' palace households. Whatever, Jimmy was free to kick back in Turkey, and he soon rented what had been a pasha's library, built above the towers and ramparts and crenellations of Rumeli Hisar. During the years he lived in Istanbul, years when he wrote _The Fire Next Time_ , and visited home to witness Birmingham and the March on Washington, I'm not certain Jimmy knew or cared whether Turkey was ruled by a parliament or a pope or a king or a queen. He very well knew that the doorman at the Divan Oteli was a black man, and in Istanbul a personage, and if this combination of qualities troubled Jimmy, he and trouble were off duty. At the tail end of parties there'd be a great pairing-off, or there'd be a Great Idea. Under the rubric _Great Idea_ , maybe I'd persuade a teacher from the Girls' College to ride on the back of my fast, noisy English motorcycle out to the Black Sea beach at Kilyos where we would, conflating a Great Idea with a Great Pairing-Off, swim naked at sunrise. I spent the dawn after my first Hill party, which would have been my first dawn in Turkey, undertaking to swim the Bosporus with John Freely, a Brooklyn-born Irish-American mathematics teacher, a gravedigger's son with a doctorate in experimental physics, courtesy of the GI Bill. Freely knew Istanbul, particularly the Stamboul of mosques and Byzantine churches, better than any Westerner. He wrote the authoritative _Blue Guide: Istanbul_ , but dog-paddling across the full tidal bore of the Bosporus that night, egging me on with cries—Byron had fronted the Hellespont, how could I do less?—he neglected to guide me away from orange peels and fish heads. Seeing a Greek freighter steaming south toward the Sea of Marmara, on a collision course with my unhappy, bobbing self, I made for shore. Freely said the trouble with me was I always left the party before it really began. Since we'd known each other only since nine that night, I was determined to prove Freely a poor prophet, and I did. Who was it after all who drove with him and Bill Hickman across the border of Turkey into the no-man's-land of the Bulgarian frontier, bristling with mines and machine gunners? We'd decided to spend the weekend in Vienna, storm the goddamned gates successfully this time, to make up for Süleyman the Magnificent's miserable failure in 1529 to take that city. We had neither visas nor money, and Vienna was far, far away. The Bulgarian frontier police returned us to Thrace, dropping us across the border as though they held us with long tongs and we were turds being dropped into trash. They claimed we were drunk. What could we say? John Freely said, "Consider Sultan Selim the Sot. He'd have a drink now and then. Behold his works!" "He drowned in his bath," Bill Hickman said. ### The Sick Man of Europe That's what they called Turkey, and if Turkey wasn't, I was. I was in the infirmary. My relationship with the Robert College infirmary got off to a poor start when I put three visiting Princeton friends in a sick ward with some students after a night at the Park, Divan, Rejans, Flower Passage and Fooles Bercer. I guess I'd misplaced my key to the infirmary, or maybe I'd never had one, so my pals had had to check into their room by way of a locked window. Then, as their dinner wore off, one of them sensed a wolf in his stomach and decided he needed a snack. He opened the refrigerator; he'd misplaced _his_ key to the lock on the refrigerator door, so he had to pick the latch with a crowbar. Then he ate a loaf of bread and a beefsteak and a dozen eggs. How could you eat a dozen eggs? I'd asked him. "I just scrambled them up with cream and butter," he said. Since then I'd been to the infirmary for a jumbo shot of penicillin (before I forswore the red-light district), administered by the Robert College doctor, a Turk so fastidious in his attitude toward the human body that he conducted his examination of my sorry condition while I remained fully dressed, with a sheet draped over my zipped trousers. His investigation of my symptoms was entirely anecdotal, and entirely conclusive, both that time and the next time, about four days after my beloved Veilah found me after all at the street corner to which she had sent me, because, taking a leaf from the spy's instruction manual, I had torn in half and kept one half of the very banknote that would be her banknote if she found me. Now I was in the infirmary being treated for alcoholic poisoning. While I was there, the headmaster of Robert Academy paid me a visit. "Have you ever heard of Dorian Gray?" the headmaster asked. "You mean Oscar Wilde's Dorian Gray?" "That Dorian Gray." I said I guessed I had heard of him, saying this with the wariness a fellow might use if he'd been accused of plagiarizing _Moby-Dick_ when in fact he hadn't read _Moby-Dick_. I mean, which would be the greater offense? Larceny or ignorance? The (married) headmaster said if I hadn't read _Dorian Gray_ , I should. I might also want to acquaint myself with _The Rake's Progress_. With the picaresque in general—with _Gil Blas_ , perhaps. And how about Boccaccio's _Decameron?_ And perhaps _Under the Volcano_. And by the way, I had been put off-limits—cast from Eden, as it were—by all single female teachers at the American College for Girls. "Then that doesn't include wives, sir?" ### The Unmaking of _Little Mary Sunshine_ As the gunshot rang out, as I chewed the scenery down there on the stage, I was surrounded by wives. All the forest rangers, mostly bachelors, were surrounded by wives. It had been a merry production. There was no changing room; it was spring; the high spirits backstage had been infectious (but not, thank goodness, as infectious as Veilah). Given the facts, it was impossible to divine who was the subject of the sentence "You've been fucking my wife!" In fact, it wouldn't have been possible to know the object had not her husband made himself visible in the rim of the floodlights. He was British, which accounted for Her Majesty's Webley with the thong. He fired again. There was silence, what I would have to call an uncomfortable silence. It was broken by a sibilant English schoolgirl's soprano, the very voice whose music had enraptured us these long days and nights of rehearsal: "If I wasn't a virgin when we were married, I'm most surely a virgin now!" "How would that work?" whispered the fellow playing the part of Chief Brown Bear, cowering beside me. She called out again: "You go home, you silly boy! And don't come back till you're all grown up, till you've learned to behave yourself!" Well, amen to that. ### All Grown Up I returned to Istanbul three years later with my wife. We stayed with Jimmy Baldwin and David Leeming in the pasha's library. The city was a shock to Priscilla; there's a gorgeous Thelonious Monk piece titled "Ugly Beauty," and for Priscilla Istanbul was like that. The Turks are ugly to animals, for example, and our first afternoon in the Old City she had to watch a beastly man beat his donkey nearly to death. And it wasn't beautiful to watch _hamals_ , human pack animals, bear refrigerators on their backs. Priscilla was surely bewildered, maybe shocked. It was not only that she was young and a Yankee, and six years earlier a Miss Porter's girl with a perhaps distorted understanding of what constituted sin. She was also newly married to someone she had been warned not to marry. Her defiance of those warnings had been built on her confidence that she knew me even better than I knew me. Now she wasn't so sanguine. Standing on the ramparts of Topkapi Palace with my friends, looking out toward the Column of the Goths and beyond to Seraglio Point, she heard what I believed to be charming stories of bygone human folly: wars, and religious persecutions, and devious eunuchs, and a sultan's wife who had her husband's grand vizier strangled by mutes, who had likewise poisoned her son. It was difficult to articulate how I could take pleasure from such Adamic history, why I'd wanted to do graduate work in depravity, why the stink of offal in the streets made me feel alive rather than ill. When I'd left Istanbul for the land west of Vienna, John Freely had warned me: "Terrible things will happen to you there. You will grow old. And serious. You will be crushed by falling canned goods in the supermarket. Your wife will join a book club. And I, my friend, will be thigh-deep in wine in the Sea of Marmara, or receiving admiring glances at the Divan, where I will drink with shrimp stains on my tropical suit." A few days into our visit, Priscilla became one of us. It was difficult to locate the place and moment. Perhaps it was at a late-afternoon party given by Emin Bey, an infamously self-indulgent great-grandson of a sultan, at his swaybacked unpainted Palladian wood palace on the Asian shore of the Bosporus, just at the junction of the Sweetwaters of Asia. Emin Bey kept peacocks in his garden, and while they cooed and clucked we listened to him tell in his soft sinister Oxford-Constantinople accent about the palace across the Sweetwaters, with its façade removed one foggy spring night by a Soviet freighter. No one had repaired it, Emin Bey said. Why? He shrugged. There was the question of cost, of course. And liability. But really, it was possible, in Istanbul, to become used to anything. No? Yes. That night Priscilla and I ate with old friends at a Bebek restaurant built out over the Bosporus. Along the shore bright blue fishing nets were stretched to dry. Priscilla saw rotten fruit floating in the black water among fish heads. But after stuffed grape leaves and cheese-filled pastries and pieces of lamb dipped in cold yogurt, Priscilla ate the fish whose heads now fed other fish. It was delicious _lufer_ , bluefish, and while we ate we watched fishermen catching more, all anyone could want, from saffron and India-red double-ended rowboats lit by kerosene lamps. Now, at slack of tide, the boats converged from up and down the Bosporus, from the ruined palaces of Asia and from the Black Sea and from the Golden Horn. Then I persuaded Priscilla she had heard a nightingale, and that she smelled Judas blossoms, even though they were past their season, and so what if they were? Imagine. # The Company Man and the Revolutionary Friends? How does a friend behave? Will a pal survive in captivity? Friendship has inspired no want of homily. Ask Aristotle, he of rational First Principles: "A single soul dwelling in two bodies"; that's how you can recognize a friend. Sounds deadly as cancer, unsightly as goiter. _Two_ souls? Show me one. Am I looking at friendship or its end? Gertrude Stein dreamed up a wonderful title: "Before the Flowers of Friendship Faded Friendship Faded." She had translated a friend's poem, and he felt she had taken liberties with it, and they fell out. Stein published her version and put her own title on it, and there they were, these friends, on the rocks. But I would like to tell of a case different from the one Stein's perception describes. Mine might have been titled "Before Friendship Faded, the Flowers of Friendship Faded." My title is neither as musical nor as interesting (grammatically); my title adumbrates an odd tale of odd times—a friendship that died after, rather than before, two friends wished it to die. My friend—I'll call him Andrew—moves with deliberation and hydraulic ease, as though exploring underwater an eel-ridden cave. He is hipless and smooth, auburn-haired, with pale skin and a kutup kid's saucy freckles. He has the temperament of a cinnamon bear, by turns playful and sullen; people who have known him talk of him—he's an enticement for recollection, gossip, speculation. He has been a painter, sculptor, potter, photographer, actor, mischief-maker. Now he is a filmmaker, and such is his standing among experimental cameramen that one night in New York, when he came late to the screening of another man's movie, the audience rose to applaud what he has done with his life—his work—and what he has meant to do with it. Not long enough ago I sat beside my wife in our Vermont living room, our children playing around us, and listened to this friend forgive me for my work as an agent of the CIA and for having informed on him and betrayed him. It had been eight years since I had seen Andrew, since he first realized—or first cared—that I was a spook, a mole, a Company Man. The years had fleshed and muscled him, added power to him, and presence, but no visible age. He is of a giving nature, and now he had dropped in on our Vermont solitude like God out of the machine, to make peace with me. Between us, he told me, the war was over. What war? Had he not been best man at my wedding? And had I not loved him? What war? Never mind the past, he said, and he hugged me, took my shoulders in his hands, turned me this way and that, examined me, puzzled me as he had forever puzzled me. Since I had first met him, eighteen years before, he had liked to make appearances unannounced, materializing without explanation; and until this reunion there had never come a time (well, maybe once) when I had not been happy to find him filling my doorway, pausing in transit somewhere, heedless of whatever rhythm he might have disrupted. Now he was in the company of a pretty young woman, and he mumbled an introduction. He often appeared with strangers, wishing to share with friends his enthusiasm for new discoveries, and the strangers were usually female, often young, always pretty. He had the habit of mumbling introductions. Andrew is not one for the decorums, and his speech is elliptical, so that one listens to him leaning toward him, to catch the sense of what he says before it scatters like mist on the soft breeze of his voice. This new girlfriend must have believed her smile was beatific, but it wasn't. She appeared condescending, amused by our house and situation and befuddlement, amused by us. Andrew fussed with my boys, hugged Priscilla, hooked his thumbs in his cowboy belt: "Well, well, well, hasn't time passed, isn't this more like it?" It seemed to me, as I watched Andrew's new friend listen to him reconcile himself to my crimes against him and his cause, that she valued his magnanimity but found it soft and damp, a waste of spirit. I wondered what Andrew had told her about me during their drive north from New York. Andrew and I had met during the spring of 1958 at a Stowe ski lodge, the Round Hearth, favored by school and college kids. Andrew was a guest there, on spring vacation from Harvard, and we met in the lodge's parking lot, where I was lodging in a borrowed van. The Round Hearth wanted four dollars a night for a dormitory bunk, and these were more dollars than I could pony up. Just as I was staying at the Round Hearth (but not quite), so was I on vacation from Princeton (but not quite), having a few months earlier dropped out, to Princeton's relief, while I wrote a novel and Found Myself. I found Andrew because he had a knockout cousin who had caught my eye, just as he had caught hers. With women this set the pattern: I hunted and he fled. Otherwise we stood as equals: he was my first hipster, I was his. Neither was the other's sidekick; he envied me because I had quit college—a rope's length ahead of the posse—while he merely threatened to. I envied him too many qualities to number, but above all what seemed to me his superior values, his sure sense of the distinction between what was authentic and what was not. His ideals, obliquely articulated without solemnity, were those of an artist (I never doubted he was _that_ ), derisive of team play, nice manners and commercial hurly-burly. We needled the middle class but excepted from it anyone we liked; when we spoke of revolutions, they were cultural rather than political. We liked to believe, and assured each other, that we didn't give a fiddler's fig for the good opinion of our peers. We were young. By our precept indifferent to dress, we wore our indifference like a uniform. Our collars were frayed, but the shirts were oxford-cloth button-downs from the "346" department of Brooks Brothers. The paint- and ink-stained tweeds we wore with blue jeans and Army boots were tailored by J. Press. We looked like Tweedledee and Tweedledum. We spent the summer after we met in Boston; we were bohemian Bauhausers, spartan dwellers in a flat empty of furniture except for mattresses on the floor, a studio couch and an Eames chair. And a state-of-the-art sound system. Gratification cut to the very bone. Except the flat was large and airy, sunny, set on the corner of Charles and Chestnut across from a Beacon Hill florist whose fragrance lifted our stoic spirits. The apartment must have cost a pile. Must have cost Andrew a pile: he paid. His father was a Lake Forest lawyer, at the time a Cabinet officer in Eisenhower's administration. The family owned a handsome house on the beach at West Chop, and despite Andrew's aversion to getters and spenders, he was willing to cross to the Vineyard when Beacon Hill's temperature climbed above the comfort zone. There was always plenty of money around, and no little of it was wasted on me. Andrew indulged me—floated me—for many reasons: because I was generally tits-up broke, because he was generous, because I was trying to write even as he succeeded in painting and for reasons I can now only guess at, reasons that might even have their source in shame for his bankroll. Not to make too much of this, Andrew was not attached to the sturdy Republicanism of his father's government, but neither did he—then—loathe it or wish to undo it. We did not, in the late 1950s, trouble ourselves with politics, or economics, or much of anything apart from our wishes, which we liked to ennoble as _dreams_. Mine was to do a novel, so to Andrew—done and done—I was a novelist. And indeed, during the year I spent apart from Princeton, working at Sikorsky Aircraft in Bridgeport to support myself and my father, I did manage to complete what I fancifully called a novel, _Certain Half-Deserted Streets;_ I was twenty when it was finished. It was about a boy (I called him a "young man"), Tony, already seventeen and "coming to season" in the "brutal world," a cosmopolitan world of flashy cars and flashing teeth into which Tony, poor baby, had "never asked to be born." During the days that ran into the nights that I scribbled this thing, I worked an hour from my house in Newtown, Connecticut. I write "my house" because the rent was paid, the few times it was paid that year, by me rather than by my father. My title at Sikorsky (the helicopter division of United Aircraft Corporation) was Engineering Communications Coordinator, which meant Mail Boy. My pay was two hundred and fifty per month, and during idle moments—when I was not lugging canvas sacks, reading my employers' private communications (just like Faulkner, no?), or sleeping in the can (just like Faulkner)—I was expected to guard the blueprint cage, to assure that parts diagrams were rightly filed. So they were, except when I had stolen them. Those representations that seemed to me expendable or frivolous—diagrams, let's say, of a loading hoist or an exhaust manifold or a strut assembly—I would tuck beneath my shirt, remove to my house and boil. The drawings were on cloth and coated with gelatin, and once this laminate had been boiled off the Irish-linen backing, one was left with glue stuck to the sides of a pot and with handkerchiefs, twelve inches square, of a most elegant texture and tightness of weave. Andrew was wowed by my indifference to Sikorsky's property and security. I wouldn't swear that he esteemed me as a rebel out on the cutting edge of anarchy (we had been reading Camus' _L'Homme révolté_ , in French, slowly), but the translation of Air Force documents into linen handkerchiefs seemed to strike him as imaginative disobedience. In fact, as with all else of importance I then knew, the trick had been learned from my old man. If for Andrew my chief virtue was my poverty (as though I'd taken a vow of bad luck), and my distinction was an ambition to tell lies in print, then my principal attraction was my odd association with my father. Andrew had not met dads like mine; his was a fellow of rectitude and steady purpose, a product of Princeton and Cambridge universities. Mine was a deadbeat and confidence man who would drink through the night with us, listening to jazz or playing it on an upright squirreled away in a storeroom off the garage. Andrew at that time had cars much on his mind. His was a '53 Austin-Healey designed for a four-cylinder motor; into the engine compartment he had shoehorned a Corvette power plant and transmission. The mongrel would go from place to place with awesome noise and speed, and Andrew often fussed with it in our Newtown garage, for soon after we met he became frugal with the hours he was willing to waste on a Harvard education. I too was possessed by a folly, a 1937 Delahaye, just the contraption in which fated couples plunged to their endover-end fiery ends from the Grande Corniche. Longer than a Cadillac, the machine could just seat Andrew and me. My father had found it after volunteering to scout me up practical transportation for the commute to Sikorsky. I'd blame it on him start (which it usually wouldn't) to finish, but fact was, the automobile satisfied me. My father's was no less a silly automobile, fast-looking and slow, hideously expensive and utterly unpaid for. Its rightful owner sought its return, but God knows why, for it seldom worked. Neither was it registered, and when it did chance to run at such times as my Delahaye coincidentally would run, my dad and I had a problem, for we owned between us a single set of license plates, and these had belonged to yet another car, my quondam stepmother's. This set of plates my father and I shifted from car to car according to need, and Andrew found this arrangement quite miraculous, a bold and sassy strike by _us_ against _them_. He thought me the luckiest fellow alive to have an outlaw father, just as I imagined him the ditto to have as his father a chap positioned to discuss affairs of state or golf after a prayer breakfast in the White House with a President, even one as unspectacular as Eisenhower. As for the license plates, my father found our deception marginally inconvenient, and I was ashamed of it. There was about Andrew something childlike and sometimes childish. In this we were alike, and the first time I visited West Chop with him he persisted for several days in the fiction that I was a foreign-exchange student with little hold on English. We had just seen _The Young Lions_ , and I liked to believe I could make myself sound like Marlon Brando playing a Tyrolean ski instructor and German officer, a curious ambition for a Jew, but I wasn't much of a hand then for behavioral subtexts, and I didn't have much of a talent for accents (how could I, with a stutter?), so we merely puzzled Martha's Vineyard summer folk. Andrew liked to surprise people. At Harvard he fabricated from the innards of a vacuum cleaner a contrivance that could smoke to their nub a dozen cigars in half a minute and blow their accumulated smoke through the mail slot of the Eliot House room of any student who was in Andrew's disfavor. It was no great trick to earn Andrew's disfavor: gravity, any affectation not on the approved list of affectations, excessive care for dress or furniture—these were just some of the ways. By and by the entire undergraduate body of Harvard, together with its faculty, became the object of Andrew's contumely, and he left school—at the very time I was returning with unseemly eagerness to Princeton. So, less than a year after we met, we began to divide, although neither of us knew this then. We still saw much of each other: in Boston and Princeton, in New York (where we listened to Monk at the Five Spot, and where Andrew pronounced judgments about work hung in the Frick and the Guggenheim and MoMA, and where I chased girls whom he disfavored). Often I would telephone Andrew collect near dawn, after a night of drinking with college chums, and confess incomprehensibly that I was frightened. Of what I couldn't have said and can only guess at now. I didn't know enough to be gloomy about my life's limited possibilities; I guess I was terrified by their number. It wasn't only that I didn't know what I wished to be once I grew up—although this figured in my fear—it was that I couldn't guess which of many parts I was most becoming. With one set of friends I played high-stakes poker, drank myself insensible, ran up debts and got myself known in the Dean's office as a scapegrace. Andrew disapproved. My better performance was the scholar, or what passed with me as being a scholar. On my return from Sikorsky's mail room, I had been about my books with a will, and I began to collect grades and the approbation of my professors (in an earlier incarnation it had been merit badges and the approval of scoutmasters) with fanatical calculation. In literature I preferred the classical proprieties and among critics the New. I encouraged myself to believe I had the stamina for textual analysis and traded in the hoary anecdotes and jargon of the critical pastime; I could use with a straight face "impropriety" and "conceit" and "rigor." Another favorite was "paradox," but I failed to comprehend its application to my own case. Ask the Dean about "impropriety"! I wrote to Andrew (and to others) that I had quite decided to become Edmund Wilson rather than Scott Fitzgerald (possibilities were more limited than I knew) and would be a steady and knowing professor rather than tempest-tossed and naked to chance, a would-be artist, a mere mountebank and virtuoso. I closed this letter "Shantih." Andrew disapproved. The disapproval stung, so I tried to keep Andrew at a distance from my motivational drift and existential turmoils. Words were never Andrew's most fluent medium, and the choices before me didn't clarify when expressed by shrugs and grunts and hand signals. I also knew Andrew well enough to know I didn't wish to be judged by him. I was evasive about my past, and this troubled Andrew. He believed that I was ashamed of my parents' chaos, of my father's brushes with the law, of our poverty—and he was right. When I met Andrew, I had not seen my mother since 1952, six years before; I hadn't heard from her, hadn't written her, didn't know where she lived. To conceal the mystery of her absence, I shrouded it in even thicker vapors, telling Andrew (with visible reluctance) when he asked about my mother that she lived abroad, hinting that her reasons were political. (How did I wish him to imagine her? A Spanish Communist exiled to Russia or a Russian princess exiled to Spain?) I appeared to Andrew perversely elusive. What I was hiding from him—what seemed then my family's shameful and squalid mismanagement of its affairs, what seems now a merely human circumstance—I couldn't have articulated. One night at Tanglewood, listening on the grass to Mozart, Andrew grilled me about my history, what a suitor's prospective in-laws might call his background. As usual, I hedged and dodged, and in sudden anger Andrew told me we couldn't continue as friends if I kept secrets from him. Very well, I told him, we couldn't continue as friends. He let his anger die, stout fellow. His challenge was certainly fair, but I didn't know how to meet it. I had been in my short time a Life Scout with a full drape of merit badges, a duck-assed comedian of the drive-ins, a prep-school Mister Casual, a Princeton bookworm, a parlor snake, an Engineering Communications Coordinator, a mail boy, a novelist, a defender of academic conventions, an outlaw, a disciple eager to ape and please my elders. I didn't know who I was, whence I had come, whither I meant to go. Because I was effectively without family, I was free to choose without interference what I might become. The world was all before me, and Providence my guide... So how could I know and share some "simple truth," as Andrew called it, about myself? Well, he was right: I should have tried harder. When I would share with Andrew my affection for my teachers, he thought I was kidding. Wasn't I like him? Longing to break out? Did I trust old farts? _Like_ them? Andrew didn't. He liked kid stuff and kids, and kids liked him back. Around Martha's Vineyard he was a Pied Piper, drawing teens to the escapades and art that had his enthusiasm. Young girls had immortal longings for Andrew, giggled and blushed when he came near, and he came near. One, who lived a few houses down the beach from him, became a painter under his influence and persisted in painting long after Andrew abandoned it. As a teenager she would sit hours on the beach hoping to catch a glimpse of him, and now, decades later, he still exercises a powerful hold on her. She's not alone in his grip. When you were liked by Andrew, you felt liked by _someone;_ this felt good, like election. If Andrew favored kids, I often felt closer to the fathers of my friends than to their sons, perhaps because I was so used to my father's company, or perhaps because I sought his replacement. I looked old for my age, and took pains to seem older, yet many of my aspirations were even more childish than Andrew's. We spoke sometimes about running off with his money, taking ourselves to the Maritime Alps to open a bar-jazz club-art gallery-bookstore. It was an absurd notion, and it was Andrew who first fully understood this and let it die. For all my solemnity about the life of the mind, I was fundamentally a sensualist, hospitable to any lark that might lead to fun. It was just this appetite for novelty that led me to Turkey to teach at Robert College and Istanbul University. To get this job I had approached a teacher at Robert College, an American who had been in the OSS with a Princeton friend's father. Perhaps I had retailed this connection to Andrew? Meantime, Andrew had got himself in a jam. Less from conviction than from carelessness, he had failed to appear for his pre-induction physical exam. He did not "believe" in the draft, to be sure, but his detachment from the appointment to present himself for inspection had nothing to do with beliefs. The draft board believed in him, however, and when Andrew's father refused to bail out his boy, Andrew was soon at Fort Dix, where they asked him his profession. He said, "Painter." They said, "Great! Paint our trucks." Andrew was posted near Orléans just as I arrived in Paris to spend the summer of 1962 on vacation (as though I needed one) from Istanbul. By the blind luck that seems to fall to Americans in foreign places, I managed to set myself up rent-free in a big, sunny flat at 50 Rue Jacob, a couple of blocks from the Place Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Andrew came to visit weekends and whenever else he could escape his duties. I initiated Andrew to hashish, to which I had introduced myself a few months earlier. This commonplace of personal history is worth remarking only because hashish was the first novelty I had led Andrew to before he could lead me. Moreover, that summer was our only time together when he could be said to have been my sidekick. For a wonder, I had the apartment, the motorcycle and the dope. I wore a beard and dressed in tatters; I was a veritable repertory of props by which the hip artist in exile might be recognized. Andrew's hair was cut close, in the Army way, and he was forever obliged to leave our fun and ruminations for bed check in the Orléans barracks, like a schoolboy racing to beat the bell. The Army fast soured him, and he became even more jumpy and abridged than before; he delivered muttered monologues I couldn't decipher, so I'd nod and look sage. We had unlike attitudes toward time that summer in Paris. Andrew was stretching himself thin, giving a portion to the Army and bigger portions to pottery and photography. (He'd abandoned painting and sculpture when his taste and virtuosity could carry him no further without disciplined labor.) He was a busy dabbler, a deft tinkerer. I was idle, putting many hours into listening to the Jazz Messengers and MJQ, _No Sun in Venice_ , while I listlessly snapped cards off a worn deck of Bicycles, cheating at solitaire while I waited for day to close and the jazz clubs to open. Andrew could be a scold, and he didn't try hard to keep to himself his reservations regarding my character. "Where's the writing going, Geoffers?" Andrew liked exploration and explosive bursts of progress, kinesis, and there I was, all lassitude and delinquency, waste, and Andrew—more his frugal Scottish-American father's son than he understood—did not approve. Robert College paid me eighteen hundred a year, deposited quarterly in a New York bank. These dollars I spent in two chunks: five hundred for a month in the winter in Vienna and the Tyrol, and the rest in Paris for the summer. By husbandry (cultivating a taste for pleasures that came free) and by barter (giving a bed or floor-space to friends passing through in exchange for dinner at La Coupole or a few rounds of calvados at Lipp's), I managed to live well, but Andrew couldn't imagine how. He ate and drank less and worse than I but thought nothing of buying a five-hundred-dollar lens for his backup Leica. Observing my comfort and mobility, Andrew puzzled over my means. Where, he wondered, once or twice aloud, did my money come from? He would not believe it came entirely from teaching. In fact it didn't. I boosted my salary as opportunity allowed. I tutored the slow-witted, sometimes in literature but more often in poker. Cards and a demure trade in hashish knocked me down about a hundred a month. But I was never invited to suck at the most bountiful of Istanbul's tits, to milk the CIA. Of my colleagues on the faculty of Robert College, many—if not most—supped there. Typically, an American would be recruited before he left home for Turkey. One colleague told me how it worked—well, there's a lie: _many_ colleagues couldn't wait to explain how it worked. For a certain retainer a newly hired teacher attended a comical training course in Virginia; there the recruit was taught to memorize license-plate numbers (that's not so taxing: my dad and I knew ours by heart), how to recognize and evade a hostile tail, how to write in his pocket with a pencil one inch long. Why, exactly, one inch exactly? Because this primitive instrument could be used to calculate by elementary geometry the height of an American elm exactly one thousand feet from the calculator, and by shrewd extrapolation the height of a rocket erect on its launching pad. The spook was sent to Turkey with one-half of a banknote (the Bulgarian lev was in vogue), the other half to be brought later to Istanbul by whoever was running him. These contacts were invariably known as "Lee," though they changed from meeting to meeting. They would telephone the teacher at Robert College to arrange contact, and such was the transparency of their conspiratorial manner that I once heard a man in the faculty lounge paged to a communal telephone thus: "Mike, for you, it's your spy." Good news, payday. Payday never came for me. No one asked me to "keep my eyes open" or "keep my ears cocked" or "hang around the common room" and report the political inclinations of my students. So far as I knew, they had none and neither did the faculty, including the spies among us. So far as I could tell, every American save yrs. trly. was employed to report on every other American, and since the faculty at Robert College was a glorious aggregation of misfits and scoundrels and layabouts and dreamers and drunks and bards, I felt slighted by the Agency, an Ishmael among pariahs. The meeting with the contact was always at the Istanbul Hilton, and I witnessed many of these, including one between a Yugoslavian railroad agent and an English poet who had been recruited in transit to Beirut on a Soviet freighter by the ship's captain in the mistaken impression that the poet was an American engineer, which is what the poet's stolen passport, bought for reasons of his own at Istanbul's Spice Bazaar, said he was. American spies—"Lees"—invariably wore a black hat and black trench coat. (This is difficult to take on faith, I know.) I'd never before seen a black trench coat worn by the wearer of a black hat indoors, except maybe in cartoons that featured animals playing spies. The runner (full-time spy) would slip down the bar to join his runnee (my teaching colleague), who would show half a Bulgarian lev to "Lee," who would show his own before slipping an envelope stuffed with small bills into the professor's jacket pocket, a transaction witnessed by no more than twenty Turks and rival spies. My colleague would then speak, saying within my earshot, "I may have been followed, but perhaps I was not." To this "Lee" would reply: "Leave at once; wait for a call next month." (Oh, this is very difficult to swallow.) Then came the Cuban Missile Crisis, and many of us in Turkey were politicized, at last, by terror—the effective way. There was speculation about reprisals (what was sauce for the Cuban goose was sauce for the Turkish gander; this made sense to us), and Americans were put on alert by the consulate, whose officers brainstormed wildly impractical plans for our evacuation. My poet friend departed for Athens, wishing (he said theatrically, at the bar of the Divan) to be where It All began when It All ended. He ran out of money and returned, resolved to quit the spy business. Not that he had ever shared intelligence with his employer, but quitting was, he said, a matter of principle, and when "Lee" next telephoned, my friend demanded an immediate meeting. In deference to the urgency of the occasion, they found each other at the bar of the Pera Palas, a now seedy hotel of preposterously romantic associations, a shrine for spies, their hall of fame. My friend, having announced his change of heart, was directed by this "Lee," whom he had never before seen, to the men's room. There, standing before the urinals, he was sworn out of service, commanded to accept an oath of silence with his hand raised. "Lee" was firm on this point, most insistent, and my friend, having sworn _omertà_ , ten minutes later told me the whole story, adding that obliged as he had been to raise his gun hand, he had pissed on "Lee's" trench coat and last-a-lifetime brogans. I chose to believe this farce, and passed it along to Andrew with no small pleasure. Andrew was by then in an Army hospital, having at the close of 1962 driven his truck into a tree not far from Verdun. His leg was smashed near the hip, and when the truck began to burn he had dragged himself and his camera from the cab and crawled across the road, pausing every few yards to shoot a picture of his bloody and ruined leg, with the truck aflame in the background. The photographs, taken with a 21-mm Super-Angulon on a Leica M3, display extreme depth of field; they were startlingly composed. Andrew is nothing if not exact in such matters, an artist with a sense—in those days—of distance from his subject. The cause of the accident—or, more precisely, the cause of the cause—was never revealed. Had he merely fallen asleep at the wheel? Or had this been an act calculated to free him from what he no longer would bear? There had been hints when I had visited Andrew on post that haphazard contact with strangers, inevitable in the service, was becoming intolerable for him. He had come to despise the touch of people. I could throw an arm around him, brother hugging brother, if he saw it coming. But if a hand fell on his shoulder from behind and without warning, he would recoil. He was offended by the relentless carnality of his comrades, by their vulgar talk, by their roughhouse, by the food he shared with them and the drink he didn't. The Army was turning Andrew into a snob, and he hated the Army for this. Four months before the accident we had ridden my motorcycle to Chartres on a matchless August morning, brisk for the season, through fields of cut and stacked hay, taking the sensations in our faces and marveling that we had come so far from Stowe and the Round Hearth. We had not, had we an inkling, come so far; we two-for-a-penny American sightseers had made a routine excursion. But we were carried away that day by the day, and by ourselves, and of course by Chartres. Having read Henry Adams on the place, I played guide and scholar, and Andrew played aesthetician. I wish I were back today in that day. That afternoon we rode flat out to Orléans, and walked along the Loire while Andrew skipped stones across the water and spoke, I believed, of desertion. Or maybe early discharge; we would never be so close again, but even then I couldn't fathom his meaning. After his accident they tried to mend him at military hospitals in Verdun, Verona, Frankfurt and Valley Forge, and from one of these he wrote: "Geoffers—It has been too long. I have thought of what this time might have brought. And now years have passed. And more in these past few months. And yet I sit on the edge of a hospital bed with the approaching still distant. More certain and questionable though now there is known all that must be done. And this is not a mental hospital. I rise above all this but at times fall still behind these fences and guard houses. All that is without is within. And there has been great change through no change." That's what it said. His calligraphy is exact, bold and all uppercase, but he had at best an uneasy relationship with syntax: too authoritarian, systematic. Andrew was answering the call of Eastern systems, the Wisdom of the Inscrutables, the _I Ching_ , yoga, Zen archery, macrobiotic principles of nourishment, the gibberish of paradox. Simultaneously, he yielded to the pull of those cosmic hucksters Gurdjieff, Ouspensky and Orage. Meantime, the Army botched its work on his leg; the pin in his thigh bent. He visited his father in Chicago, where he went (inadvertently?) AWOL. He seemed eager to break free of the gravitational pull of this world and float free to another. Not I; I welcomed gravity. In the chaos of Istanbul's goatish culture I had conceived a relish for order and had begun to walk, placing my feet deliberately and heavily, on carefully picked ground. I had applied for a Fulbright to study at Cambridge, and when a notice instructed me to report for an interview at the United States consulate, I considered five minutes before shaving off the beard I had so laboriously grown and come to define myself by. I wanted that Fulbright, and got it, despite the circumstance that my interviewer wore buckskins, muttonchops and a droopy Yosemite Sam mustache. My Cambridge was a lively place, its politics expressed mostly by factional strife among faculty members, but also by earnest ideological disputation. I wrote for the radical magazine _Cambridge Forward_ about the sins of white folks, the infamy of _Time_ , the treachery of Jack Kennedy and the CIA. Perhaps because I celebrated the virtues of America's enemies, perhaps because I had known James Baldwin well in Istanbul, I was described by a _Cambridge Forward_ editor as a "disciple of Jimmy Baldwin." This irritated me: I surely didn't object to identification with a black man or with a homosexual—the first would distinguish me at Cambridge, the latter put me one with the mob—but I wished to cast off the burden of being anyone's "disciple." I hung out with King's College Communists, great gentlemen every one, Etonians and Harrovians who wore blue jeans under their gowns and bespoke dinner jackets to club dances. They were quick, those boys, and when we weren't joking, I liked to muse with them about the coming revolution, even as their porters made their beds, drew their baths, laid their fires, shined their shoes. If I _was_ anyone's disciple those days, I was T. S. Eliot's, and I believed I had learned from his example that a writer required fuel beyond language; I was hunting for a credo, and because I had no more use for God than God had for me, Marxism, for a minute, seemed a way to vault beyond myself and pick up free a reservoir of ritual and legend, of hagiography and historical reference. During the period of my revolutionary fervor, or appropriation—to be measured in weeks rather than months—Andrew came to Cambridge for a visit, and I attached my theatrical account of my conversion to a motor trip I had taken the previous winter through Eastern Europe. With a couple of friends, I had crossed the border into Czechoslovakia during the worst storm of the worst European winter of the century. As we made our way behind snowplows to Prague, we listened while the Voice of America broadcast news of the storm's terrible disruptions behind the Iron Curtain. We heard of fuel shortages, blocked roads, riots by angry workers and housewives. (In fact our VW, bearing West German plates, was attacked by men coming off shift at a brewery in Pilsen. We cried out that we were Americans and devoted beer drinkers, but snowballs were thrown at us, and our windshield was spat upon by nationalists who did not approve of German automobiles, German anythings.) Nothing of what we heard on the radio was true, and when we crested a hill and saw below us Prague, putatively without electricity or joy, in fact alit and on the move and the most gorgeous sight in Europe, we began to wonder about our countrymen as not even their double-dare with Khrushchev over Cuba had made us wonder. More precisely, I had lost my patriotic cherry: my countrymen lied. As the sons of preachers often turn libertine, so do the sons of libertines turn prig, and the prig in me despised propaganda, just as the would-be scholar in me despised inexactitude. And when the _oddest_ thing happened in Prague—strangers washed our car while we slept; is that a miracle or what?—I improbably concluded that I hated America. This I told Andrew during his visit to Cambridge, but not without adding that I also hated Communist tyranny: "Killing one generation to save the next just won't do." Oh my word: _won't do!_ What snaky twists I showed my friend. What was he to think? His accident had turned him solemn, and time had turned me to patchwork. Even as I delivered pronouncements about the masses, so had my taste in literature become increasingly mandarin. (Pope was a favorite, Congreve!) Andrew was beginning to remark aloud my unresolved paradoxes; he'd cock his head when he looked at me. For my part, something about his judgments raised a bloodlust in me; I delighted in mystifying him. A couple of weeks after Andrew left Cambridge for America, President Kennedy was shot. The news came at dinner, and that night I listened to America's theater of cruelty play out by shortwave at my tutor's house; George Steiner had invited fellow Americans to hear how it was at home, and how it was was distressingly distant. Later that night I took a young Louisville woman motorcycle riding, and managed to plow into the rear of a truck parked on the blind side of humpbacked Magdalene Bridge. The bike hit going seventy; she was not hurt, but I crushed the bones in my right hand, cut my head, had a concussion. I lay in the hospital watching the rain, listening to news of Oswald and then Ruby, to the funeral, to my country's trouble. I was ashamed of myself. Maybe the rain, maybe Kennedy's death, maybe an ambition to get on with it drove me home from Cambridge at the end of the first year of a two-year fellowship. The instant I stepped off the plane in New York, where I had gone to spend the summer of '64, I knew—to my surprise—I wouldn't go back. I had fallen in love with an American. Andrew thought this was a waste of time; he had watched me fall in love times aplenty. Falling in love was my hobby. I loved to fall in love. It was difficult to go AWOL from Cambridge; I disappointed people who had been good to me there, who had trusted me to come to something—by their lights— _useful_ , a critic and academic, by my lights a careerist. Andrew urged me to return to England. He wanted me to locate my mission, and to him marriage was no mission, but simply an indulgence. I didn't listen to him. I took a job at _The Washington Post_ , writing obits and night-police scare stories, and after a year, the week I was married, the paper traded me up to book editor. I was able to pay my way in the world, and this made me proud. Andrew, who had always been able to pay his way by the fruit of his ancestors' labor and wit, was puzzled by my pride. But he was my friend—wasn't he?—and he and my brother gave me away (what a gift!) in the wedding on the Rhode Island shore, at Priscilla's grandmother's, a tumble-down old house whose loss of glory was memorialized by its name, The Ruins. The marriage had come hard for us. Priscilla's parents disapproved; they over-our-dead-bodies disapproved, as Andrew knew, and he was cast down that I had so little self-respect as to marry someone whose parents were not enraptured to have me as a son-in-law. Andrew did a worse job than he imagined of keeping his reservations to himself, and I was irritated that he didn't seem to share our happiness. I was in love, respected my work, was fond of my colleagues, happy to have fled Cambridge. Perhaps I seemed smug. Perhaps I was smug. Andrew took the wedding photographs. I sit now looking at them and recognize how gorgeously cruel they are. Beautiful: Andrew cannot make anything graceless or pedestrian. But these images! He glued them by twos to opposite sides of mounting boards, so that, flipped back and forth, they tell a story—before and after—and point a moral. The before is a portrait of me near Chartres, mounted on my black A.J.S. motorcycle, lean and scruffy, grinning, a freebooter. Flip: I'm fat and anxious, got up in wedding rig, striped trousers and rented ascot, an involuntary rictus easily mistaken for a smirk disfiguring my mug. Here is my history with my friend, in two dozen images, sent me in a case Andrew scrupulously made from rosewood, a thing better fit for dueling pistols. Andrew went among the wedding guests like a scourge, bringing into extreme focus with his sharpest lens this lady's wrecked, eighty-year-old face and neck, that patrician patriarch's alcoholic blear. Andrew must have hated them, maybe hated us that day. For what? I could guess: he thought them unworthy of my company, and me of his. There was a nasty scene: his outlaw dog tried, with amiable gusto, to screw an in-law's pooch, and failing, discovering it to be no bitch after all, took about half a pound out of the tame creature. Shame and scandal. Some time later Priscilla and I visited Andrew in Putney, Vermont, where he had bought a farm. Andrew had become a despotic nutritionist, and we got lectured about organic processes, the yin of things and their yang, getting in touch with our cells. Maybe I was cynical. Certainly, as days passed, I got hungry. One night Priscilla and I, starved for junk food, crept down the farmhouse stairs after lights-out to sneak over to Brattleboro for tube steak with fries. Andrew caught us, and we all fell to laughing. Matters between us had not gone utterly to ruin. On the contrary, he showed us the movies he was making, inventive and playful, Bergman parodies, cops-and-robbers parodies, fresh visions of common scenes. Andrew and I played Priscilla records of the jazz—Monk, Coltrane, Miles—we had heard together at the Five Spot; we were already, only seven years into our friendship, nostalgic for its past. We decided to carry our party to Washington, where Priscilla and I lived near Dupont Circle in a perfectly precious little triplex row house, the kind of place nice mummies and daddies shared when their means were limited but their tastes refined. We had equipped it with coarse replicas of her parents' and grandparents' furniture, bought on the installment plan. Wedding-present-traditional, complete with hunting prints and ubiquitous bathroom art, cartoons of dogs queued up waiting for the hydrant. We burned pretty little birch logs—more costly by the cord than dollar bills—in our pretty little fireplace with its pretty little black marble mantel. It was Christmastime, and Andrew and his teenaged lady of the moment watched me lavish goods on Priscilla, a crazy surplus: two Pucci jackets, identical except for their dominant colors, a gold watch, I don't know what all. I wore a necktie in my own house! We ate roast beef, roast turkey, roast ham, too much of everything; during dinner we drank toasts to our well-dressed friends, appropriate wine in apropos glasses. Andrew sneered at our furniture and clothes and friends. He was as indirect in his disapproval as in everything, but he managed—difficult trick—to offend Priscilla; he insisted on cooking for himself, untreated rice in a pressure cooker, and when he consented to eat our food, he ate it savagely with his hands, to tell us something about himself and about us. There were ugly words, and when Andrew left Washington, something had been played out for good between us. It hadn't snapped, merely stretched and lost elasticity, like the back of someone who has lifted not too great a weight but a slight weight carelessly. The flowers of friendship were fading, but I continued to think of him as my best friend. As I do now, insanely. We saw little of each other for the next few years. One time Andrew came to visit and listened to me expatiate on the stratagems of the CIA. By the kind of coincidence that has now stung me with its tail, the fathers of three of my closest Washington friends were personages in the Agency. One father had engineered assassinations and coups, another had lied to Adlai Stevenson during the Bay of Pigs harlequinade, another was neck-deep in Indochina. With one of these I had had some glancing professional association. During the spring of 1965, a mere boy, an inchling low in my employer's esteem, I resolved to show the newspaper my stuff with a book review and pestered the book critic till she gave me something to judge: Morris West's novel about Vietnam, _The Ambassadors_. It was thin stuff, a black hats versus white hats simplification of the overthrow and murder of Diem. The villain was the CIA's chief of station in Saigon. A couple of hours after I had received this book, a few _minutes_ after I had read it, I was telephoned by one of my CIA fathers, recently retired. He wished to see me at his Georgetown house first thing in the morning, before breakfast. This was a command rather than an invitation, and I agreed, flattered and intimidated. I spent that night tangled in risible dreams of Istanbul and the Hilton bar and, on waking, wondered whether I should tell the man I would soon see, an OSS legend, about the pratfalls made in his institution's name. Seeing him at his door, dressed in his robe, exceedingly agitated, I knew I would tell that man nothing. He was not used to being told but to telling, and even then I reflected that such overbearing impatience was not the model temperamental equipment for a collector of intelligence. This man, mighty and consequential, revered by others mighty and consequential, astonished me by saying with immoderate anger that the book I had under review was a masterpiece of falsehood and treachery, that it posed a fundamental threat to the welfare of the United States and its allies, and that it _must_ be denounced, that I must do "the right thing." He then took inventory of the book's few factual errors, none momentous, and sent me away. He seemed satisfied that I would do the right thing, when in fact he had enhanced West's stature in my eyes. How had he learned that I was _The Ambassador_ 's reviewer? Why had he bothered—at what risk of my gossip?—trying to manipulate the critical judgment of a cub reporter? I shared these questions with Andrew, who took the episode (I now know) as evidence that I was myself an agent, a secret-sharer in a plot against truth and fair play, taking instruction from my superiors. Soon thereafter I wrote an exposé of the USIA and the CIA, both of which were subsidizing and commissioning works of propaganda put forth by trade publishers, without reference to their origins, as disinterested works of scholarship. I knew I had caught the USIA with its britches down (its scheme was memorialized by the _Congressional Record_ ), but I had no documentary evidence of the CIA's witchwork. So one night at a Georgetown dinner party, in violation of decorum and common sense, I asked my host, an Agency personage, whether the CIA paid for books and bought writers. "Sure," my friend's dad said. "Many publishers are our pals. Don't say I told you or I'll be _very_ cross." I was stunned. He was so courtly, so sympathetic to my piece and to my career, so amused, so indifferent to having poisoned wells. With his help I went forward with the story, which exposed a practice I now guess he found distasteful (and costly). The report attracted publicity and did me no harm. Andrew read it: "How did you nail down those CIA details?" I smiled a deep smile, the smile of an insider protecting a secret. I said nothing. Andrew cocked his head, squinted, tried to read me. Now I know that he believed my information came from the best place of all, from within my own company. I saw Andrew only once again before he broke in on us in Vermont years later, on his mission of acquittal and repair. He passed through Washington after filming black Mississippi farm workers who had struck rather than starve on wretched wages. They had built a commune, Strike City, where they gathered in tents to decide what to do. They proposed to organize a brickmaking factory, but there were squabbles, and too little money, and it rained and it rained and it rained, and Andrew's documentary had no happy ending. He was driving home to Putney when he decided to show us the rough cut, and also there that night were my brother Toby and the I. F. Stones. Toby was about to leave for Vietnam as an officer in the Special Forces, and he was more mindful than I what a mixed audience we made. My brother was for me my brother, no imperial running dog, no kid-murderer. Izzy Stone didn't make him feel on top of the world about his forthcoming trip, but by the standards of the day Stone was gentle that night, more eager to teach than to hector. He was grimmer in response to Andrew's movie, finding it beautiful, lovely, exquisite, delicate—but somehow beside some important point. I was disappointed that he and Andrew didn't warm to each other. Andrew was making radical noises, but he and Stone didn't seem to recognize each other as allies. Maybe Stone had already seen a beautiful documentary or two about the oppressed. It was difficult those days to sort friendships and beliefs. What a mess, the late sixties. Following a fancy dinner party one night, Nick von Hoffman and I pledged to quit our jobs at the _Post_ the next morning if the paper didn't immediately and publicly repudiate its editorial support of the Vietnam War. We were to meet at ten sharp in the office of J. R. Wiggins, to force on him our ultimatum. But when the telephone woke me at ten I was a sick and wretched fellow. "Well?" von Hoffman said. "Maybe tomorrow," I said. "Jesus, it's a big move. Let's discuss it." Von Hoffman laughed an odd laugh, and I crawled back into bed, and a couple of years later he confessed he'd phoned me from his own rack. All good people hated the war, of course, but there were elegant and clumsy variations on this rancor. I remember another dinner, at our place, with several _Post_ reporters and an editor. It was an easy, bright occasion, what we'd come to expect with journalists, quick laughers and late-nighters. One of the reporters had brought along a knockout date, eighteen, maybe younger. She was sullen and mute, picking at her food; thinking to draw her out, I remarked on her ornate ring, and paid it a compliment. "This is a poison ring," she told the table, with no smile, "and unless that bastard McNamara has stopped bombing by Tuesday, I will poison myself with it." (I checked: on Tuesday, and two weeks from Tuesday, McNamara had not ceased bombing. I forgot to ask my reporter friend where they buried his date.) Sometimes, after too much drink on such a night, after the guests left, I'd turn morose, decide I'd lost my chance at something. Then, near dawn, I'd phone Andrew and wake him from his sleep in Putney to bang his ears with my beefs, or to orate against the war, or to knit a tangled narrative of the CIA's real and imagined intrigues. I'd ask Andrew what did he make of the Company, that snake ranch of knotted motives and interlocking plots? I couldn't understand his response—surprise, surprise—because he was too drowsy to speak other than gibberish, or I was too crocked to interpret him. So then I'd ask the commonplace questions. Where have you been? What have you been up to? He'd tell me, with some reluctance (as I now recall), that he'd organized a filmmakers' cooperative called News-reel, and someone else told me that its short movies, shown at communes and on campuses, were introduced by a logo spelled out with machine-gun bullets. I heard that Andrew had been in North Vietnam and had made a movie there and that some of his undeveloped footage, shot on Chinese stock, had been seized by customs officers, opened and destroyed. And that the rest had been saved because Andrew had had the cunning to suggest that the customs officer telephone the CIA, and tell the Agency what they were destroying. Later, he would blame me for having informed on him, and would remember a question I had asked—"What's coming up next?"—and his reply: "A trip to Hanoi." I heard that he was teargassed at the 1968 Democratic Convention and that he returned to Chicago to film the Days of Rage. The year before that, he had broken with me. The occasion was the levitation of the Pentagon by the Fugs, attended by many a thousand but principally by Norman Mailer. I heard Mailer do his Southern-sheriff number at an abandoned movie theater; there was a light show, and Robert Lowell did a drunk act, and the following day kids burned their draft cards and driver's licenses and stuffed flowers into the rifles of perplexed soldiers. While this theater was in progress, I was in my study at home, winding up an essay for _The New Leader_ about Ezra Pound, trying to explain why a writer, by design subversive of the common interest, must nevertheless function as a social animal. Two-thirds through this piece I got a demonstration of its conundrum: Andrew phoned to announce that he required the use of my house the following few days, beginning _tout de suite_. He was in Washington with forty or so protesters; they would need a place to crash and food within the hour. I told my best friend that he would not be welcome with his mob, that my baby boy was teething and wailing, that there were other complicated reasons, that I was busy, that I had no choice. I didn't see or hear from Andrew again for eight years. Andrew's Putney farm became a commune, and its communards were often rousted by the state police or the FBI during dragnets and manhunts for Weatherpeople or for Angela Davis or for lesser, more local public enemies. I heard tales of a lack of comity on the farm, that while Andrew assailed the values of the middle class, so did his collective brothers and sisters assail his own. One friendly neighbor—there were unfriendly neighbors in abundance—believed Andrew was a patsy, but that he knew he was being used. The tribal women struck and accused the men of treating them like chattels. Then communards of both sexes faced Andrew down and demanded that he share his fortune with them, all of it. They wanted clear title to his farm, and he refused to yield it. Hearing this, I recollected a hoary political fable: a man of high ideals applies for membership in the Communist Party, and during an admission interview he is asked questions. If he had two houses, would he give one to the Party? "Of course," he responds. And two cars, would one go to the Party? "Naturally," he says. How about two shirts, what if he had two shirts? "No way," he says. Why? "Because I got two shirts." Assuredly, the brave new world bristled with paradox. • • • Andrew never told me how he had found us in Vermont, or why he wanted to. At dinner he spoke of his new movie, described by its blurb as a "vast, sprawling fresco whose subject is birth and rebirth in these United States in the mid-1970s." Andrew said it was about the Movement and its "survivors," about loose ends, truces, navigational checks, interregnum, pardon. It had, he said, "done well at Cannes." I was surprised by the show-biz locution, as later I would be by his familiarity with the ins and outs of hype, his accurate sense of "key" reviews and promotional timing; the film was about to open at the New York Film Festival at Lincoln Center. Andrew was warm to us, sweet and condescending. I suspected that for Andrew I was a loose end, to be forgiven, a figure for the New Peace. I began to think, as I drank my wine, that mine was a role I did wish to play, and I asked Andrew why he had abandoned our friendship. The question made him squirm, as though it were a social climber's gaffe at a formal dinner. His friend cleared her throat, and Priscilla cleared the table. No one spoke. "What happened, Andrew? Where did you _go?_ " "That's done, Geoffers. Forget it." "No, I don't want to. Why did you give up on us?" "Well, on you. I gave up on the side you chose." "What are you talking about?" "During my friends' march on the Pentagon, you said you didn't want to see Washington burn." "I didn't." "I did." "You were wrong." "You were wrong." Then he explained that he couldn't afford to trust me. He told me of the Movement's betrayals, of drugs planted by brothers on brothers to rig charges. He told of COINTELPRO, informers, seditions. I was sympathetic, asked what all this had to do with our friendship. "Look," he said, "I know what you were and what you still are, I guess." "And what is that?" And he told me: I was a spook, a mole, a Company Man. I had been recruited at Princeton, perhaps even before I met him. I had been an agent in Istanbul and in Paris. My Fulbright had been arranged by the Agency so I could infiltrate the radical movement at Cambridge. _The Washington Post_ was notoriously a collaborator of the Company and so was _Newsweek_ , where I'd worked. Andrew's friend nodded vigorous agreement with these judgments. "How about Princeton? I taught there. Is Princeton wired in?" "Are you kidding? Of course. My _father_ went to Princeton." "And my Guggenheim?" "Howard Hunt had one." "And now. Here? Perched on the edge of a meadow beyond the back of the goddamned beyond? What am I doing here?" Andrew shrugged. "I don't know. Hey, Geoffers, I don't care! Deep cover, who knows how you guys work? This isn't why I came, to dredge up these things." "And my books. My life?" Andrew shrugged again, made a wig-wag gesture of dismissal, shooing flies. Two of my novels had minor characters in the CIA. Had I been trying to warn him? Anyway, the books were a side issue, not important, of a piece with my strategy of cover and deception. He told me this cheerfully, and I tried to remember that I had loved this man. His companion spoke, from some deep well of contemplation: "Hey, Andrew? Guys like this [and here she made her own sweeping hand gesture, taking in pets, bric-a-brac, my wife, my sons, my furniture—I mean the furnishings of my life, our tangibles—as well as my countenance] weren't the kinda guys who ratted us out. The pricks who sold us out didn't wear neckties." "I'm not wearing a necktie," I said. "Yeah," she said, "but you look like a guy in a necktie. The worst finks were the coolest dudes." Doubt creased Andrew's brow. Could she be right? And then an odd feeling swept me. I didn't want to be a fellow in a necktie, some square who was no other thing, neither less nor more, than he seemed. I welcomed Andrew's faith that I was deep, a mole-like creature of secretly held codes, a masked man, underground man, slant deceiver. So when my friend, suddenly again a hanging judge, inquired how I had managed to afford my house, to quit _Newsweek_ and Princeton, I could have told him. Instead I shrugged: "That's my business, Andrew." He recapitulated his doubts about me, my preoccupation with spies and their plots, my friends in the Agency, my freedom from conventional responsibilities (in contrast, say, to his bondage?), my questions about his own wartime comings and goings. "I was your friend, Andrew. Friends ask friends questions." He shook his head from side to side. Studied his fingers. "I don't know." And then I was furious. The error was gross: he thought of me as the lowest of things, capable of betraying him and doing him hurt. In my anger I defended myself on the narrowest grounds. Had I not excoriated the CIA in print? (Andrew smirked: what better way to burrow deeper? Anyway, who cared? He was right: who cared?) Had I not... had I not... had I not _what?_ Well, hadn't I many times taken the hide right off America in my essays and reviews? Andrew said: "What did that cost you? Just words. Did you help? Name someone you helped. By name. What did you change? What did it _cost_ you?" Andrew had no right to this. I owed him nothing now. Once, but not now. Now my debts were to others—Priscilla, my boys. I would justify myself no more to this old friend. I wanted to go to bed. Andrew and I grabbed each other's arms from reflex or learned habit—"Good to see you again, pal," I said; "Good to see you again, my friend," he said—and we parted, he downstairs to bed and I upstairs, where I would lie till sunup staring at my ceiling. A few days later I wrote Andrew a letter, told him he was crazy: "I know not without reason. I know that you have had reason to suspect people, many people of many things. I can't worry about that: you chose a risky life, and I respect you for that. But I have never done anything, ever, not once, to betray you, hurt you. Imagine if you will, try to imagine, what it means if you have been utterly wrong about me all these years. Imagine that I am _not_ an agent of the CIA, FBI, Amerika, of anything except myself and what I believe in. That what I have said to you over the years has had no subtext. Jaysus, I'm stunned, just bowled over. I feel as though I've been McCarthyed, Stalined, Pintered. But I think you know all this. And that you weary of judging people so harshly. But we won't get anywhere until you know that you have been wrong, wrong, wrong about me, who and what I have been, and why I have done what I have done. What I seem is what I am. [!] I hope that's enough for you." I received a reply, friendly enough, ignoring what was between us. A postcard showing a war scene busy with soldiers, dive-bombers, trenches, red flags. The painting is hung in the Imperial War Museum and shows Lenin and Stalin looking down, as though—improbably—from heaven. It is captioned: "Under the banner of Lenin and Stalin onward to the west!" I went to New York to see Andrew's movie. Alice Tully Hall at Lincoln Center was filled, and before the lights went down Andrew came onstage to read a plea that we cease murdering our brothers and sisters in Indochina. He read without evident passion, mumbling; the audience was bewildered by his purpose, for America had at last left the field to its enemies. There were a couple of intermissions, and at the first more than half the house took off for good. By the end only a few remained. _The New York Times_ liked the movie, and I wanted to, but it was a mess. It had radiant sea- and landscapes, shots of sunsets and snowfalls, mountains and coastlines. It got the grubby look of American cities; the photography was professionally—let's say, slickly—executed. But the movie ran past three hours, of which forty minutes showed a natural childbirth that will go far to rouse sexual partners to the banner of contraception. Andrew was co-director, co-screenwriter, co-photographer and co-editor. He also played a blind homosexual potter and saxophonist, the best acting in the movie. There was my old friend: he had somehow learned, during moments stolen from the Revolution, to play tenor sax, and he was good, doing a fair imitation of Coltrane's sheets of sound. What gifts! He still relished playacting, showing off, clowning. _There_ was his curiosity: what's it like to be blind? Let's pretend, stumble here and there, roll back the eyes, sniff the air for clues, cock an ear to whispers. What a ham! How proud I was of my old friend, those few minutes he was on screen. The rest was cant and jargon, mindless, humorless crap: "You kids have a better relationship to your feelings than I did," a character characteristically verbalizes. The movie was a prolonged complaint by "society's victims" against the crummy cards they had been dealt. What a parade: nudists, acupuncturists, Maoists, Trotskyites, dopers, middle-class hoboes on the lam from the burbs, gorp eaters, crybabies. I wanted the movie to fail; I didn't want it to fail. And then, as I saw Andrew's face—still boyish, no meanness in it—looking over the almost empty auditorium when the lights at last came up, I thought I understood him. For a moment he had come aboveground. He was himself a mole, but for the moment he was a movie hustler up from underground to walk among us, looking to put his finger on our systems, wishing for his movie success and a long run. Had he powwowed with his comrades about a "media blitz" even as they discussed how to raze our corrupt society and its office buildings? Did they speak communally of "points" and "net of net" and "turn-around"? Had they "shopped" their "property" at the studios? They had. Well: there would be none of that, as the empty theater foretold, and Andrew looked relieved, a slave emancipated from success and his secret vice, a longing to be well loved and loved by many. There are worse vices; there are few better. I saw Andrew the next afternoon. I was staying at the apartment of a friend who was in Europe. I telephoned Andrew at his Greene Street loft and was answered by a PhoneMate. Think of it: taps on tape! What revolutionaries these were! I left a number, name and title: "Wolff, from the Company." Andrew returned my call, and we agreed to meet where I was staying, not at all Andrew's turf; I gave him an address on Central Park South. "Whose apartment?" "Ask for Joe Fox," I told him. I heard him sigh, a kind of whistle of admiration. Joe (Geoffers) Fox (Wolff): the network spread wide. Double blinds, safe houses. When he came over, I talked of his movie, and I was more cruel than candor licensed. (There's repayment for your indifference to _my_ work. Shame on me.) Andrew was itchy to leave, looked this way and that at Fox's estimable antiques and paintings, things such as Andrew's father cherished. "I like pretty things," I said. Perhaps Andrew thought the sideboard had been liberated from Allende's drawing room by some of the boys in my command. What had undone us? Bad times, the cruel, silly melodramas of the 1960s. Marriage unbinds friends, surely, but I don't believe mine had. It would be easy enough to conclude that we had never approved of each other; Samuel Johnson described the pathetic circumstance whereby "dislike hourly increased by causes too slender for complaint and too numerous for removal." That wasn't us: I remember how it felt to laugh together, and to share—what wasn't too costly to share. Perhaps we never understood each other's interiors; surely we were preoccupied, as the young are, with surfaces, style, affects, manners and short-term consequences. For me art was play—and singular. For Andrew art showed itself as play, but its purpose was to disrupt the conventions he had received; it was political, always had been for him. Because no resistance was raised against either of us, we were not revealed to each other by tests. I would hate to believe that we merely drifted away from what we had loved in each other without even noticing. Such ignorance would be indifference, bad character. I would prefer to believe that we were casualties of that damned war, but I know better. Time, simple time, did us in. I glanced at my watch, and Andrew asked me for the time. We spoke listlessly of another meeting later in the year. There came a knock on the door, someone to see me on business. He wore sturdy brogans and a black raincoat. We were not friends, merely professional associates. I introduced him to Andrew, who shook his head sadly. My associate was anxious—perhaps he had interrupted... perhaps he should return later? No: Andrew said he was late, had to dummy up an ad for the _Times_. The movie had a short run in the Village. I have not seen my friend again. But I think about him. Not so much anymore of the wrongs we did each other. I think that whatever friends may be, that's what we were for a while. I think that he taught me, and I taught him. I think, given the odds, that we were lucky to have had as much as we had. And I miss him. Not enough to try to win him again, or to try to be what he would have me be. But enough to have written this. # Drinking I'm looking at a bookshelf lined with spiral notebooks, my journals. Writers keep journals; I was an apprentice writer so I kept journals, daybooks, night books. I kept them current obsessively, you might say addictively. If I read it, saw it, thought it, ate it, overheard it—in it went. If I drank it, into the record. I began this solipsistic account when I graduated from college, on the theory that my life had just begun; what I did and was done to me thereafter counted. Thereafter was _material;_ as writers sometimes say, it's all material. The thing of it was, inventories were a drag: one meal got to sound much like the couple of dozen that came before in my journal. My sustained narratives were protracted whines: the torts varied in their particulars, but pared to essentials my journal entries tell of lackwits who failed to appreciate my virtue, warmth, tact, candor, generosity. Bad actors who made me mad or sad. I could have written "October 3, 1961—Istanbul: Screwed again" and saved time and ink. Woe was me. My journalistic tic was pathos—pathetic!—and seeing this when I read what I had written made me unhappy with myself. But I reasoned that we're stuck with ourselves; we're our prisoners, no? Back then I was a _que será será_ kind of guy; if my privately revealed posture was put-upon, so be it—character was destiny. As time passed, my journals relentlessly multiplied one pastime or hobby or pursuit, or what should I call it? My journals came to read like cocktail menus and wine lists written with a hungover shaky hand. They told so persistently and similarly of excess, loss of control and morning miseries that their accumulated burden cast me down, finally spooked me so alarmingly that I quit. Keeping a journal. I wonder, if I can articulate how I got to be a drinker, might I understand why I wanted to be a writer? At seventeen, sixteen, fifteen, I haunted New York jazz clubs, Jimmy Ryan's on West Fifty-second and especially Eddie Condon's down in the Village. Cranked by music and an atmosphere of the illicit (the places where my school pals and I liked to drink were said to have been speakeasies: this seemed interesting), I drank rye-and-ginger by the yard. I was charmed by the ruined faces of Condon's house band: the awful pallor and florid noses ("grog blossoms," we called them) on Cutty Cutshall and Pee Wee Russell and Wild Bill Davison and Eddie Condon himself, virtuoso and entrepreneur of ill-spent nights. Believe an adolescent envying a bad complexion and you might credit the high times we enjoyed later at college, making an institution of dissipation. Our campus well was a garbage can filled with fruit juice, a fifty-pound block of ice and gallons of vodka; we drank from it, dipped our heads in it, were known to puke in it. This was fun. Heavy drinking in the 1950s was what we did; not to drink heavily was provocative, off the reservation. My Silent Generation prized moderation in schoolwork and career ambitions but practiced passionate excess at the Nassau Tavern and Spring Houseparties blowouts. Our syllabus sang of Achilles' armor but our own epics were tales told of horror shows, blackouts, cars wrinkled or misplaced. Monday's sagas were of dates ditched and dates who ditched. We behaved as though we were monarchs, beyond the laws of physics and physiology; we behaved as though we were monarchs' jesters, with a sacred duty to distort the tame proportions and decorums of the Eisenhower years. We saw ourselves, upside down and bottoms up, as mockers and mocked, as childish fools sent to liberate our postadolescent old selves too wise for our own good. I'm not here to tug my forelock, scuff my toe, put on a long face and tut-tut-tut who I was and what I did. If I can't remember why it was a ball to stumble headfirst into a garbage can brimming with grape 'n' grain, I remember very well why it was agreeable to hang around men who had known the mighty Bix, horn players in worn double-breasted worsted suits who slept till sundown and smoked Camels or Luckys and drank and jammed till sunup. Oh, I miss those nights! I'd sit again at a small table below the bandstand, eye-level with Ralph Sutton's feet pumping the piano pedals, squeezed next to a honey whose complexion wasn't in the least pallid, whose silk stockings rubbed against my flannels, who smelled of perfume and tobacco, who knew better than to tap her swizzle stick against her highball glass, who drew a nod of appreciation from Peanuts Hucko while he noodled "Someday You'll Be Sorry." How can I be sorry, how can I pull my beard and say I wish I'd spent my nights more profitably, in better company? I want to shut down this recollection now, and crank up the turntable and listen to "Just Friends" and "Yellow Dog Blues" and "Davenport Blues" and "What-cha-Call-'Em Blues" and "Indiana" and "Minor Drag" and "That's A-Plenty" and "Someday You'll Be Sorry." I'm back, and I'm sorry. I couldn't play the cornet like Wild Bill or the clarinet like Peanuts or even the four-string guitar like Eddie, but I could stay up all night making a kind of music, and I think staying up all night and sleeping all day was half why I came to write; the other half, I hope, was the music. The drinking was incidental. Many writers drink. Maybe it's the irregular habits, the off-the-clock hours—many writers are drunks. Maybe some ultrahigh frequency in writing's music screws up the liver's works, queers the kidneys, but many writers are alcoholics. Correction: many American writers are alcoholics. How many? Too many. The dead cannot sue, so I'll name the dead: F. Scott Fitzgerald, Jack London, Hart Crane, Conrad Aiken, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Thomas Wolfe, Dashiell Hammett, Truman Capote, Tennessee Williams, John Berryman, Ring Lardner, Dorothy Parker, John O'Hara, James Agee, Robert Lowell, John Cheever, Raymond Carver. I think I neglected to mention Jack Kerouac, Edgar Allan Poe, Edward Arlington Robinson, Ambrose Bierce, J. P. Marquand, James Thurber, Robert Benchley, Theodore Roethke. Oh, and five of seven Americans who won the Nobel Prize: Eugene O'Neill, William Faulkner, John Steinbeck, Ernest Hemingway and Sinclair Lewis, who once in conversation asked, "Can you name five American writers since Poe who did _not_ die of alcoholism?" The vocation sounds as perilous as stripping asbestos, mining coal. So who'd wish to be an American writer? Incredible question. A credible question: who wouldn't wish to be an American writer? But why? For the art of it? (Eventually, if the aspirant hangs in there, for the art of it, maybe.) For the fame of it? (Seven and a half minutes of experience added to seven and a half of reflection will teach the densest careerist that Warhol was wrong; everyone doesn't get fifteen minutes of street recognition.) For the money? (Get serious.) For what, then? Why did I want to write? For the romance. At eighteen I traveled back and forth across Spain for the spring season of _corridas_ , carrying _Death in the Afternoon_. Central to this experience—you might say its ruling purpose—was squirting wine from a _bota_ approximately into my mouth. I can taste it now on my tongue, a coppery bitterness, the nasty rotgut _roja_ in no way improved by having been decanted into an unseasoned goatskin sack. This was glamorous. Lady Brett was glamorous. Jake Barnes was glamorous, although, in fairness to my generation's general good sense, I'll concede that no one I knew got himself emasculated in order to be glamorous in just the way Jake was glamorous. Does this sound mannered? Farfetched? After the stock market crash, after Zelda's crash, after the crash of his reputation, F. Scott Fitzgerald took account of his wrecked health and cracked-plate spirit and wrote in his notebook: "Then I was drunk for many years and then I died." Trying without much luck to dry out, jittery and bone-tired, he was roused from shaky sleep in the Great Depression gloom of 3 a.m. by a mighty banging on his door. There he found a stranger, a young college boy, drunk: " 'Here I am at last,' the young scholar said, teetering triumphantly. 'I had to see you. I feel I owe you more than I can say. I feel that you formed my life.' " That's an old story about Fitzgerald. I read it in _The Crack-Up_ when I was a schoolboy. I thought it was a funny story then. I saw the brash kid, understood his quixotic mission. I knew what he meant, too: I already had a hunch I wanted my idea of Fitzgerald to form my life. I wanted to ride up a great New York avenue on the roof of a taxi, maybe even steal a dip in the Plaza's fountain. Was that inspired or what? Now of course I see another scene on Fitzgerald's stoop, 3 a.m. Now I see a man with the shakes, in a seedy bathrobe, his hairless paper-white stick-legs scuffling a pair of slippers to the door. Now I see Fitzgerald in the pre-dawn sick and scared and bewildered by the ruckus. But if I had seen then what I see now, would I have ever begun? Writing, I mean. (Drinking I would have begun.) Sure, because it was all wonderland back then. Dissolution was romantic. Death by consumption was Keatsian, fervidly true and beautiful. Self-destruction was visionary. Baudelaire had written: "Always be drunk. That is all: it is _the_ question... How? Use wine, poetry, or virtue, use your imagination. Just get drunk." No religion could have been as unyielding in its commandment: Go Too Far. Appetite and carelessness seemed to me in the fifties and sixties to be indispensable properties of literary writing. Getting drunk did. How? We used wine, tequila, Pernod, Hudson Bay rum, dimies, whatever. Why did self-ruin seem such a fine idea? You might say self-sacrifice was at the root of it, the notion of the writer so feverishly called to his art that he burned himself on the altar of its exactions. You might say this if you're full of crap. You might say the writer is fundamentally an outsider, outlaw, outcast, outlandish, out of bounds, out of phase, out-and-out outrageously out of his mind. This gives excess an audacious air of derring-do, a refusal to be bound. This would be a glamorous explanation of drunkenness, were it not for the reality of William Faulkner passing out on his toilet in the Algonquin, falling back against a steam pipe, so drunk the pain didn't stir him, cooking the flesh from his back, suffering a profound third-degree burn, getting skin grafts, feeling the pain for the rest of his life, telling a friend who asked why Faulkner did it, why he drank himself insensible, "Because I like to!" A place to divide here is on the question of whether you find Faulkner's reply heroic or flip. I can hear a previous incarnation of myself reading "Because I like to," nodding approval concurrent with feeling an uncomfortable frisson of recognition. My father liked to. My father was not a glamorous drunk. Sober he could enchant, charm, bewitch, con; Duke was a stutterer with a gift of gab. Drunk he was a stumblebum. Late at night as a kid, I'd hear the front door open, listen for the step. If his step was deliberate, we were in for it. After my mother had enough, and then my stepmother, I was in for it. We lived many places low and some high, but when he was high, high was worse. The stairs: he'd pull himself up a step at a time, muttering. There'd be a failure midway: he'd knock a picture off the wall, or lean too hard against the rail and break a baluster, or trip. Then he'd be on my bed reminding me what a miserable pismire I was, how I'd failed him, betrayed him, held him back, kicked him in the ass: _OldLyme... Sarasota... Seattle... New York... Wilton... La Jolla: Screwed again_. Then he'd be on his knees, driving the porcelain bus, heaving up his Dutch courage; then, next morning, he'd be on his knees, begging forgiveness for words he claimed he couldn't recall, words he maybe couldn't recall. I could recall them pitch-perfect, and what I wondered then: Is _veritas_ in _vino?_ If so, the truth had been said last night: I was a miserable pismire; he'd been sapped by me. Come morning, my dad wasn't interested in my metaphysical inquiry, but in his: "Why do I do it?" he'd ask me. Maybe he liked it. Maybe he had a disease. Who cares? I'm sorry: _now_ who cares? What I care to ask is why—knowing what I knew—did I do it? I could say genetics. I could read my journals and hear his melodramatic keening and explain: DNA dunnit. Raising a glass black with Wild Turkey, I'd cry cheers, to your health, bottoms up... just like Dad. Like him, I'd drink myself sick and call it a toot. I'd be _overtaken_ , or say, like Duke, "It got drunk out last night and a little fell on me." But I know—I mean I _know_ —genes didn't dunnit. I'll forever be the prisoner of my memory of him, and sometimes that memory is as sweet as sometimes it is foul. But I'm not him. He drank from leaden despair, and I drank revved from excitement, elation. He got potted (again) the night he got canned (again); I got lit on Publication Day. He'd scowl; I'd sing. He'd insult his best friend among a rapidly diminishing store of friends; any stranger on any stool beside me was my best friend. As an apprentice writer, I had a drinking buddy, an apprentice writer. Now we're friends the way people are friends, but then we got together to drink together. We'd meet in the city at dinner parties and together drink up the hosts' spirits and patience, and then we'd go back to his place and keep his wife awake all night, or my place and keep my wife awake all night. We'd put jazz on the turntable and talk above Billie Holiday or Ben Webster or Fats Navarro. We'd talk about the things closest to our hearts; no one else could understand. We'd talk about art, vision, restlessness, recklessness, sacrifice, a sacred calling. Scotch for him, for me bourbon. One would confess his highest hopes, deepest fears; the other would listen, nodding. Unless of course the confessor's or the confessee's drink went dry mid-confession, in which case so much for highest hope and deepest fear: to the kitchen mid-sentence, to the ice bucket, to the bottle. Boozing was ever a matter of timing. Time came when cities were too ruinous for me, when I took to the hills and did my serious drinking solo. I'd put the jazz on the turntable, gather my mixings close to hand. Earphones were available; my wife could pretend to sleep after midnight, two, four... you know. What was the harm? I was never never never never never mean. I was sweet as pie: fat, dumb and happy. I'd fill my glass at two in the a.m., and play Side A, Track 1, John Coltrane's "Cattin'." By the time the needle got to the end of Side A, I'd still have an inch in my glass. I needed music to wash down the drink, so I'd flip to Side B, "Anatomy." Before the needle reached Track 2, "Vodka," I'd run out of bourbon. I needed bourbon to appreciate Coltrane's "Vodka," so I'd reload. The timing was a bitch. At four I'd laboriously dial my brother in San Francisco—shank of the evening out there—and get the wrong number, and dial again, all thumbs, till I got him awake, and bring him the Good News, he was about to hear John Coltrane play "Lush Life," long distance, just for him, this was going out to my brother in California, "Lush Life," a long, long track. This was before fiber optics, before you could hear a pin drop over the phone line. It was difficult to get high fidelity out of the earphones into the telephone mouthpiece, so my loudspeakers were rumbling "Lush Life," and my wife wasn't pretending to sleep anymore, and she thought it was time to end the last set. That was always a tricky moment, the Jiggs & Maggie confrontation. "That's enough, now. Come to bed." Standing on my dignity, I'd weave; I'd squint, maybe think, Who's she to talk to _me_ that way? But I'd obey. And next morning, wrung out and sick and of no use, I'd apologize for stealing sleep from my family, but for sure I wasn't my father. Of course once upon a time my father wasn't my father. Once upon a time he drank to loosen up, giggle, tap a toe to a tune, tell a tale. Once upon a time he didn't brood out loud. The day came when I felt ready to brood out loud. It came over me like a low-grade fever. Well into a fifth of Mount Gay, I'd been laughing with my wife; abruptly, the effect of no knowable cause, I felt aggrieved, began to simmer. I was on the edge of giving words to my grievance, looking for just those words that might most forcefully deplore the bad cards I'd been dealt, been dealt _by her, by God!_ And on the edge of finding those words (in _vino_ is for sure not _veritas_ ) I put a sock in it, corked the bottle, shut up, turned in. That was years ago. The plural makes for a nicely vague personal history, suggesting a then too far gone to locate now. Fact is, that was several years ago. I drink a little; I don't get drunk. Whether I am or ain't is not a question I want anymore to ask, not a question I can answer. I met a few times with a counselor expert in these matters and I was eager to attest to the malady, but he kept raising the stakes on me. Our meetings declined into disputes about semasiology, diagnosis, inference, exegetics, veiled subplots, the meanings of meanings. There were the Ten Danger Signs (I scored a mere nine, never having had a yen on waking for what put me to sleep) and AA's Twelve Steps. I quit for a summer, drank nonalcoholic beer unfortunately called Moussey, pronounced not like Mighty's surname but like the diminutive of a great antlered creature, but still. My counselor was alarmed about the nonalcoholic beer, said it was confirming evidence of my addictive personality, that if I didn't stop drinking near beer I'd soon be a slave to cocaine. Really and truly. He was most anxious about my future with cocaine. I was eager to give him confessions as lurid as those I had heard at my AA meeting (one meeting only: its narratives were so extravagantly squalid—and so polished from repeated tellings by out-of-town ringers imported to the basement of a pretty little church in our pretty little village—that they humbled me, held me at arm's length, made me ashamed to pretend to belong in the same room with maestros of misery), but cocaine was beneath my interest and beyond my means. _Just wait_ , the counselor warned. If I continued to drink nonalcoholic beer, _just wait and see_. He had a point. I was going through twelve and fifteen bottles a day, and this bewildered me until I studied the label and discovered that Moussey was _almost_ nonalcoholic. After all, Beck's was a simpler solution. For me. Still, whatever I was, I'm not it now. This wasn't jogging or throttling back on spareribs or eating oatcakes; this was a turnabout. But I wonder still why so many writers drink? I think some drinkers, from solid self-knowledge, knowing what will come of them working nine-to-five in the company of others, choose to write, to keep their own counsel, hours, company. But it can be a drag, keeping your own company. Samuel Johnson, asked by his friend Spottis-woode why he chose wine for his companion, answered for me: "To get rid of myself, to send myself away." Writing is hard. I don't mean it's harder than everything, because it's not; I mean only that it's uphill work to write. And what's toughest is the din that echoes in a writer's ears after day's work is done. A writer can't shut down the damned noise, his characters' voices, their competing complications. You walk from the desk rubber-legged and sit picking at dinner like a zombie, coming awake to scribble a note on a napkin or on the palm of your little boy's hand. Day's work's done, but you can't keep your fiddling hands off the pages; the book's machinery diesels on long after you've turned the key to shut it down. It won't shut down, won't shut up. And this is why I write? To hear those insistent, nattering voices? To lie on my back, staring at the dark ceiling, imagining disasters for make-believe characters? To turn on the reading light, scribble a note at 3 a.m., edit it at four-thirty? To race the mind into sleeplessness? To see a dim unfocused light and then to focus it on the back of your mind and turn it up so bright it stabs your eyes and clamps a vice on your head? Malcolm Lowry, who wrote himself to glory and drank himself to miserable death, said he felt as though he had been born without a skin. Indeed. I write to take off my skin, lay my nerves bare. I write to hear unwelcome voices. Booze will send me to never-never land, dress me in thick wool, earmuff me against the voices, blink off the light, give rest and sleep and peace. Just what I must have wanted. Just what I don't want. # At the Fair: Dairyness and Human Sacrifice From the Ferris wheel it's possible to experience the fair's schitzy character, bucolic and menacing. The seat's slats have been cracked and many times painted over, bright blue, bright red, bright green—what's the use?—bright blue again. Grease has congealed at the joints where the seat swings on its groaning axle, and light rain leaks from a dismal sky that presses like an iron lid on the rusty mud below. The air is cold today, Saturday, nearly two weeks past Labor Day. The wheel has stopped, and from this prominence the Vermont hills cupping the fairground at Tunbridge seem almost companionable. To the west, the sun—were there a sun to see—would be setting, and the trotting races have just ended, and the sheep and swine and oxen have been returned to their stalls from the judging runs. A few children ride the Ferris wheel, and their earth-bound parents are anxious to scoot them home; night brings mischance to the "World's Fair" (people have come from the known world's far corners, from Canada and Connecticut even) here in Orange County. The wheel has not moved, and the rawboned operator wearing a greasy duck-ass hairdo is busy scouting the mud with a metal detector—hoping, I guess, it will buzz with the discovery of coins fallen from the riders' pockets. The contraption's mute, and the young operator returns to his levers and spins the shaky wheel a half-turn. I've been riding long enough and I'd like to dismount, but the kid's mind is elsewhere, not on my wishes. Others have been revolving longer than I, and some are visibly uneasy. There's no government here, and I'm spinning on a huge and complicated contrivance casually knocked down and reassembled by people indifferent to me. The young man cocking his eye for windfall from our pockets is no airline pilot. Now he lets the shuddering wheel rotate untended, leaving his controls to bullshit with a buddy who pulls on a smoke from the pack he's unrolled from his T-shirt sleeve. Our operator drinks from a half-pint of something. Aren't there rules outlawing this kind of thing? No one shouts at him to stop the damned wheel. I feel, grinding round and round, like an organ-grinder tethered to a monkey. Lights have been winking on along the midway, and the noise is reaching higher. Motorcycle engines, barkers, customers working their damnedest to fill the night with laughter. I hear the sad falling note of bells rung in the heavy air. To the left down there, strong farmers from hereabouts and workers from the marble quarries up in Barre are trying to ring the bell. They pay four bits for three swipes with a sledge, driving a weight up a column; the weight may or may not strike a bell; if the bell rings, a guy who never looks at anything except the cash—in his fist—hands over a nickel stogie. The challenge is to ring the bell with one arm, and then with the other, weaker arm. But these strong men are too drunk on beer to drive the weight high, and when the bell doesn't ring, they shrug, pretending not to care. They care. The wheel on its rounds passes the loading platform, and I let the operator know I've had enough. What does he care? I spin away from him, feeling as silly as a tot in a swing-set, go through an almost full revolution, slow, fumble with my safety catch; he grins and pushes the lever to full throttle and up I go again, _knowing_ it's dumb to give this jerk the finger, giving him the finger. This wheel and my vantage are creaky fabrications: I'm riding it to establish a point of view _du haut en bas_. I don't so much want to grasp what I'm about to tell as poke at it with a long stick, which I'd like to hold in a gloved hand. Now I'm on high again, looking down at a concession called GIRLS that has brought me to this place. The year before, I was on this wheel with my kids, one on each side, looking down at three or four near-naked women taking a full shot of noon sun on the Lord's Day. One of my boys was looking at farm animals, or daredevil drivers, and the other was looking with me, at GIRLS, listening to the barker's cry. _Calling all the men—girlie-girlie show time for the men! Red-hot and ginger, spice is nice. Hootchy-kootchy, carnival-style, get your tickets, we're starting right now, get right down there in front, right down there in the baldheaded row. Right down there in the finger-lickin' good row where you can look up and see the hole, I mean the_ _WHOLE_ _damned show. Show time for the men, no ladies and no babies, people as wears pants and looks like men, calling all the men..._ The year before, like now, there had been two girlie shows. One had big girls, the other had young girls, and the "bally call"—the name carnies give their pitch—was for one much as for the other, same phrases, with kindred internal rhymes and singsong rolling cadences. Last year I had left my kids with my wife and bought a ticket to the show featuring big girls. I entered the tent with a couple of pals, smirking, recollecting burly-que I had seen as a teenager in Florida and Tennessee, all come-on behind feathers and fans, as innocent as the unveiling of Little Egypt. Inside the tent were cops, sheriff's deputies armed with maximum flashlights and billies but no revolvers, and my friends and I smiled at the police like accomplices; we meant to have the law understand we were here to look at the lookers rather than the girls. We kept our hands out of our pockets and stood near the deputies, who didn't smile back, who moved from us as though plague bells hung from our necks. Beneath the canvas, men pressed as close as they could, chest-level to a makeshift stage. These men, mostly past middle years, made up the baldheaded row, and behind them, far enough apart to announce themselves as a different class of being altogether, lounged younger men, lady-killers. And behind these I stood with my friends. And behind us the cops. There were no women in the tent except the three whose business it was to show us whatever we had come to look at. For a wonder there were no teenagers, with their hands in their pockets, clamping down on their boners while the performers' gauze and boas swirled. The show lasted less than ten minutes, and before it ended it wiped the smirk off my face. My friends and I didn't look at one another when we left, stooping to exit under a flap at the rear of the tent into bright sun. Our wives asked for a rundown, teasing us, mock-scolding with playful libby jargon about chauvinist boys and their sex objects. My friends and I didn't want to talk about what we'd seen, less to laugh about it. An old guy, drunk and witless, without teeth, had tried to pull himself up on the stage and the cops had chucked him out like a spadeful of manure, tenderly lifting the tent flap so he wouldn't soil it. He was wearing a red sombrero with cotton tassels, a prize from the dart-throwing booth, and I told Priscilla much about the sombrero. She must have wondered what about the sombrero so amused and interested me. I couldn't say to my wife _I don't want to talk about it_ , as though I'd been traumatized in war, but I _really_ didn't want to talk about it. For months I thought about what happened under that tent, and then began to talk about it, and then talked too much about it. So I came back alone to look again, and try to make sense of this pipsqueak World's Fair. So here I am, orbiting back to earth on this Ferris wheel, whose operator sets me free. I stare at him; this is meant to be a baleful look, a terrifying squint. He looks right through me; if I didn't know better, I'd swear I haven't terrified him. I loiter with the crowd in mud while the rain falls, looking up at two women moving more or less in time to distorted rhythm and blues amplified way past the capacity of an overloaded loudspeaker. A third woman, half her body backstage, licks her lips and humps a curtain, conventional striptease moves, garden variety. Meantime a barker with patient eyes paces leisurely back and forth giving the bally call. _Don't hesitate and don't be late, they're gonna shimmer, shake and vi-bo-rate. The big one the bad one the long one the strong one the red-hot one. Red-hot ramble, shake it up, shake it down, shake it all the way to town. Charge your battery, wind your clock, they're gonna put pepper in your pepper pot. You know what you wanna see, they know what you wanna see, that's what you're gonna see. That's exactly what you're gonna see. Shake it loose like a bucket of juice—they're gonna do it. Have no fear, these girls are here. Racy, spicy, horny and red-hot. Hootchy-kootch, a red-hot ramble waiting for you. They're gonna shake it to the east, they're gonna shake it to the west, they're gonna shake it down the middle where you boys like it best. Come on, boys, when the line breaks, the show will start. When you walk out of this one, boys, your hands are way down deep in your pockets, you have a smile on your face and a brand-new grip on your life. It's raining, boys, come in out of the rain..._ Carnival is fundamentally case-hardened conservative, a process of repetitions lockstepped into the condition of ritual. Surprises: rain, a police bust, gear breaking down, a dancer angry or in tears—these are not welcome. Actions slip into grooves and polish themselves slippery with use. Thus bally calls vary only subtly from barker to barker and are said by carny legend to have evolved from a black man, the Urballyhooer, a genius of insinuation. Carny legend tells too of the first girl—Georgette—who decided in the middle of striptease to hell with the tease part; they say she was nothing to look at, pop-eyed and skinny, the daughter of a girl-show impresario; they say that one night in the way-back time she quit dancing, stripped, and shoved her crotch into a man's face and said, "Here it is, jerks, this is what you want, this is what you got." The better mousetrap. • • • So now a huge woman, her pale flesh lapping like seas, removes a patron's eyeglasses, hearing aid attached, and wipes them between her legs. There is music, but she pays its beat no mind. She straddles another consumer's face and coos, "Ooooh, baby, don't bite." Another customer fingers her; she doesn't seem to notice; the man feeling her wears an abstracted expression, as though he's wondering whether his left front tire might be losing air. Men throw their hats on the stage, and their pocket watches, to have them touched to the magic place. The performer is good-natured. The next dancer is not. She of the erstwhile come-hither look, so recently doing it outside with a beaded curtain, is not pleased to be here. She concentrates on the music, counterfeits something like a dance, scowls when the clients shout at her to be friendly, be nice, come close. Even the women who'll be touched don't like to be held. The story goes that not so long ago a performer removed the eye of a customer with her spiked heel when the sorry joker grabbed her ankle and wouldn't turn loose. The sullen dancer splits and the third hootchy-kootchy comes on stage, and about a dozen men, who seem to know her, call her a pig, and then eat her out. She seems not to take their abuse seriously. Boys will be boys, nothing personal. She grins. Hey, it's a hard dollar, but who said a job was all strawberries and cream? What am I doing here? Well, at this time I live in Vermont, near the Mad River, a couple of valleys over; I might say I have come the better to understand my neighbors. Nah. I've come to reckon some puzzles about myself. Even before I was a Boy Scout, I'd thought of sex as black comedy, the carnal as carnival. Throughout my adolescence, and the prolonged adolescence of college and bachelor years, I'd regarded women as angels or whores, as tricks to be mastered. To "get in," to get "it," to "grab" it, to "bang" it had been my boss preoccupation. During a lecture on _The Faerie Queene_ , I'd make a list of girls I had known, ranking them on which base I'd been allowed to reach. According to this calculus, I'd regarded progress as manifest destiny, base to base, a kiss today followed by two tomorrow, covered tit by bare. This was a campaign, but fundamentally farcical: the would-be loverboy prayed in the back seat for three hands and composed himself with the lexicon of "lover's nuts" and "huge huggers" and "hand jobs" and "rubbers" and "boners"; on the battlefield we suffered geographical confusion (here? there? is it in?). As in any combat, we soldiers armed ourselves with bluster: to the besieged's archetypal question—"How can it be fun if you know I don't want it?"—came the besieger's archetypal response—"You supply the pussy, I'll supply the fun." Now I'm here at the fair investigating my complicity in a grotesque, Bosch-like model of men and women together. Am I, after all, like these troglodytes, merely less drunk and more discreet? I plan to explore as though I am a disinterested reporter this straw man of a question, this scarecrow I have fabricated. I show a press card: I interview the performers. The girls don't class themselves with hookers or even bar girls. This is show biz, they're dancers. One lucky break and next week it's "Tony Orlando and Dawn." Hoofers. "It's freaky," one said. "The men are better performers than the women, honest to God, the men are the performers, the women are the audience. It's not like I'm doing it, it's their show that I'm going to see, it's not mine. The guys are getting into it, the guys are pulling each other's pants off." With an occasional time-out for war or hurricane, the Tunbridge Fair has been held since 1847. Its purpose is to give folks an occasion to let themselves go after a summer of hard work, after the crops have been brought in, before winter screws down on them. Tunbridge is a handsome little town in central Vermont with a couple of Federal brick houses—sure sign of bygone wealth thereabouts—and a covered bridge contiguous to the fairground. Shirley Jackson could have set "The Lottery" in Tunbridge. Ask a local woman about the fair in her town and she'll tell how it brings a nice wage to the locals to provide services. Ask her when's the best time to bring children and she says, "Almost any day, never at night, never on Saturday at any time." Ask her what goes on at night, on Saturday at any time, and she shrugs, and tries to grin. "You know." No one can know—can guess—without seeing. What happens inside the tents of the girlie shows has no bearing on sex and everything to do with violence, with ritual sacrifice. "It's really scary," a dancer said. "You don't know whether they're going to laugh at you... you're afraid they're going to laugh at you, or else the men're going to leave, or else they're going to demand their money back, or else they're just going to stare and look at you, or else they're going to—I don't know what all." Inside Whitey's girlie show the tent is cold and damp. Two black performers and a white, basic routine. Young men stick out their tongues at the stage, give war whoops and laugh, "Come here goddammit, let's see them tits, my hands are cold, bring on them muffs!" It costs three dollars this year. The young bravos shoulder aside the old coots who come down once a year from the hills for a peek and a taste. Two days ago the girls got off easy; Friday was raw and Saturday—today—is unspeakable. The men are pinching the women, biting them, pulling their pussy hair. Sometimes it seems they'll eat them alive, truly eat them. Dionysian rites called for such orgiastic feasting, the tearing apart and consumption of sacrificial animals. This bacchanal connects with some such primitive free-for-all. License is the purpose. Chaos makes these men feel great. What's happening here in this pretty New England town is fundamental, ancient, base. The law watches disgusted—that much is clear—and stands motionless, fingering his billy. The performers look confused, unsure what is expected of them. Nothing can satisfy these men. The more forthcoming the women, the more savage the men, snapping at them. I mean it: wanting to bite. The men are farmers, druggists, salesmen, motorcycle hoods, construction workers, accountants... I see a farmer from my valley, one of my town's selectmen; when he wears a jacket and tie to Town Meeting, he looks like an ambassador to the Court of St. James. Now he's not wearing a jacket and tie, and he's here in the tent. Together with a policeman. And by the way: me. No, whatever else I may have been, I am not and never was these men's accomplice. These men scream: "One, two, three, four, we don't want your fuckin' whores!" What _is_ this? Remember "The Lottery"? In just such a pretty town, the narrator tells in a rational voice, a citizen is selected by lot, in an annual ritual, to be stoned to death. It's possible, I guess, to press this too far: cannibalism, rites of expiation and sublimation, Bacchic festivals, low-down barbarism. It's possible to argue that this is no more than a gamey county fair, the boys a little too far gone on beer. Old-timers refer to the Tunbridge Fair as the "drunkards' reunion" and tell apocryphal yarns of years past when any man found sober after 3 p.m. was ejected from the grounds. A newspaper from 1901 reports that "there was liquor on the grounds and several arrests were made late in the afternoon of both the hilarious and the stupid." The men come to booze and fight. There's a beer hall beneath the grandstand of the stadium where Chipwood Brothers Daredevil and Hell Riders do their thing. It's brightly lit, with a cement slab floor and long tables covered with oilskin. There's an entrance and an exit, where the police cluster, ready. The windows are protected by wire mesh, and from the outside looking in you have a vision of bedlam, of the bear pit. Ditto from the inside looking out, at the midway. Sots sit jammed together on benches, puking and pissing in place from time to time, swilling beer as fast as they can grab it. Mostly they have come to fight, with one another or with the cops. The game is to try to enter through the exit or exit through the entrance, provoking hard words and a billy upside the head. An arrest. Loud cheers. Victory sign. Blood. A Vermont bard, Mark Whalon, wrote some lines titled "The Saddest Sound at the Fair." (He had in mind "the last toot of the merry-go-round.") His second stanza catches an idealized vision of such a festival as the Tunbridge Fair: _The youngsters are tired and whine and fret_ _With the stomach-ache from all they've et_. _Your woman starts in a-jawin' you_ _Because you took a "swaller" or two_. _She's mad clear through because you went_ _Into that Hawaiian hula tent_. _What makes her maddest is just because_ _You didn't come out when you seen what it was_. The fair is sweet, too. Sheep and poultry are shown, usually by kids. The best plate of eight plums, any variety, wins a premium of a silver dollar. Exhibitors show their rutabagas and kohlrabi and Swiss chard. The biggest sunflower, grandest pumpkin and most distinguished display of gourds do not go unremarked or unrewarded. In Floral Hall one will admire embroidery and needlework, handmade dolls, doilies, crewelwork. In these exhibit halls people are easy with one another, admiring, chipper. Little kids wander here and there, munching cotton candy and fried dough. Chelsea High School sponsors a monster barbecue, and the students work hard to make it nice. Out behind the barbecue tent animals are being judged; this is serious business, the improvement of the breed, class tells. Four teens, two girls and two boys, lead fawn-colored Guernsey cows before the judge. He studies them, hefts their full sacs, praises one especially for her "dairyness," for her "useful kind of udder," for her "impressive teats." "Swing those tits, you fucking sow! Give me a feel, goddammit." A baldheaded man in the girlie tent yells at his friend: "Luther, looky that nooky. Ain't them titties too much?" "No such of a thing as too much, Curly." Luther's motorcycle jacket commends him as a member of the Happy Swallows. He and Curly each fastens himself to a tit, Romulus and Remus. Curly's tattoo says "Born to Lose," of course. Another man, like Luther and Curly middle-aged, watches the performers with a critical eye, periodically muttering _sheee-it_. His jacket displays a dragon, for some reason upside down, above the legend "Born at Sea, Baptized in Blood, Crowned in Glory." Many of the bumper stickers read "I'm Proud To Be A Farmer." This pride is palpable. The migrations from the farms of Vermont have been devastating, but those who have stayed and held the line are as tough and serious as the people who improbably settled this state, removing tons of rocks for every acre of mean clay they managed to put into cultivation, settling here when land was open to the west, facing this damned climate—"eleven months of winter and a month of hard sledding," as the playful saying goes. Future Farmers of America, teenagers who present their beasts for judgment, are expected to wear khaki or white clothes, and they'd better be clean. They are judged not only by their animals but by mimeographed standards nailed to every barn door at the Tunbridge Fair. These include "proper manure disposal; pails and tools—neat, adequate, practical; cooperation; willingness to cooperate with rules and regulations; assist with other exhibitors and have a good attitude toward management." Ed Larkin's Old Time Contra-Dancers draw a decent crowd. Local people from Tunbridge and Chelsea get themselves up in antique costumes—beaver toppers, swallowtail coats, bonnets and shawls—and dance to a fiddle and piano. The calls are as intricate as the steps. The dancers dance up near the old schoolhouse on the Green. Preservation is the purpose, instruction, community. They dance to "The Moon Is Shining Bright on Pretty Redwing" while urban runaways and communards—of whom there are a surplus in these parts—clap their hands gravely, or photograph them. Farther up the Green, antique buggies are aligned, and antique farm machinery, and antique steam engines puff, lovingly preserved. There's a museum of antique crafts. A blacksmith shows how to beat horseshoes into shape, and Vermont's recent pilgrims from the big and bad cities sigh in wonder. Blacksmithing—what a folkway! Someone is blowing glass, another hammering silver, another weaving cloth. The weaver and the blacksmith wear costumes maintained with unimaginable care and handed down through generations of Green Mountain Boys and Green Mountain Girls. The people from the cities look at these exhibits as though they were pressed between the leaves of an anthropology textbook, or behind glass, or displayed on a stage. Back in 1958 a local minister harangued and scolded, and managed to get the girlie shows shut down. Next year the shows were back, as raw as ever, and the preacher had been run out of town. (After a decent interval of eight years, a special service of worship was instituted at the fair; it is well attended.) This year the Orange County state's attorney shut down the gambling concessions—a minority of them, fifteen. Most games of chance are dice games that pay two-to-one against three-to-one odds. There are also variations on roulette, played for a quarter or dollar a spin, the money flying from the pockets of shrewd, squint-eyed farmers and horse traders to the pockets of edgy, baffled-eyed carnies, the money moving in huge amounts. The losers know they're being jobbed and don't give a damn. The Tunbridge Fair comes once a year. The state's attorney shut down some gambling concessions because he had had complaints of flimflam, would you believe it? Not about the dice and roulette games but about the pick-a-duck, knock-over-the-milk-bottles, pop-a-balloon cons. They're nominally played for small coins, for fun, to win a stuffed animal or a plastic statuette of Jack Kennedy. Someone lost more than a hundred dollars. He picked a duck, won a prize. Picked another, won another. Again. The operator said, "Okay, let's cut the crap. You've got me boiling. I'll play you for a sawbuck." The operator lost to the player. Again. Up went the ante. There went a hundred dollars. Great was the hubbub when the state's attorney shut down these enterprises. The carnies cried foul, the lawman was playing politics with a way of life, with their livelihoods. Not even political ambition would mislead him to interfere with the girlie shows. The girlie shows "disgust me," he says. He gets "occasional complaints," he says—say, from a mom who feels bad to have had her little girl have to watch a stripper hump a beaded curtain on the way from the parking lot to the Contra-Dancers. But what happens inside the tent: that's First Amendment stuff, sacred. The menfolk of Vermont will not abide dictation. An acquaintance from my valley, a veteran of a quarter-century of Tunbridge Fairs, says it's not like it was. "Cops here, cops there. What the hell's going on these days? I come to do what I want, drink as much as I want to drink, have fun. Now someone tells me I can't sit here, can't piss away my money on a bet. Why?" He weighs maybe three hundred pounds, and has the touch of a pianist with his backhoe and bulldozer, and when I saw him at the fair his face was badly cut. I asked him what had happened. "A little scrap with my wife," he said, and winked. "What do you think of the girlie shows?" I asked him. He was stunned by the question, visibly insulted. "Do you think I'd watch that crap?" He comes mostly to watch the oxen- and horse-pulling. A yoke of oxen must pull its load—up to eleven thousand pounds—six feet forward, on a sled called a "boat." The concrete weights are added in slabs weighing half a ton each until all the teams except one have been eliminated, and the winner takes home seventy-five dollars, not enough to pay for feed and transportation. The men driving these teams spend maybe a thousand dollars, sometimes three thousand, for one animal, and they beat them with their fists to encourage them to pull. The teams used to skid logs through the woods, or pull plows, but now they pull metaphorical loads for their owners' diversion and metaphorical pride. This is a brutal attempt to hold to old ways, and what impresses a spectator is the near-hysteria, the killing rage of the drivers. Beating those animals to pull those weights has no comprehensible end except noise and violence. It is a rite played out within earshot of Ed Larkin and the Old Time Dancers, within sight of the schoolhouse preserved with its antique map, globe, potbellied stove, _McGuffey's Reader_. But my God what a distance is one rite from another; you can't avoid the connection—the performing girls and their consumers, the ox drivers, the pointless beatings, the queer humanish look of inhumanity. Across a footbridge from the main fairground, guarded by a couple of police now armed with shotguns, is a huge parking lot. Bonfires smoke and smolder in the drizzle. The license plates on the campers and motorcycles are mostly from Massachusetts and New York. Here are the hard guys, Billy Bad-Ass and his gang, pissing on someone's fire, showing the ladies his pecker, offering to whip anyone's ass. These boys fight, of course, mostly with their friends; they listen to Hank Williams, Merle Haggard, Johnny Cash. It isn't fair: the music's too good for assholes. Their bellies are acts of aggression. They swallow beer in a gulp and crush the cans, naturally, worth a nickel in Vermont. They make noises: roosters, bulls, wolves, swine. One of them gives me the finger as I walk past looking straight ahead, and his friend throws him on the fire. This interests me, which is my mistake; I look at the drunk man lying on the fire, and he says to his friend, "Be nice, Jesus, be nice." His friend stares at me: "What the fuck are you looking at, fuck?" I say, "Nothing, nothing." I thought I'd been in bad parking lots before, tailgating at the Yale-Princeton game, the Maryland Hunt Cup. I'd never been in a bad parking lot before. The girls are outside now, Larry and Whitey have brought their girls outside. Something weird is happening. The rain is driving hard now. Guys search in the mud for money they think they just dropped, money they lost hours earlier, maybe when the gambling joints mysteriously reopened. There are women among these men standing in mud, being rained on. Regular women, amateurs, hooting at the performers: "ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, WE DON'T WANT NO FUCKIN' WHORES!" The chant grows louder, even meaner. Whitey looks at Larry. Larry shrugs. Whitey shrugs. One of the performers makes to a young buck a plea I just heard elsewhere: "Be nice." No dice. This is a mob, near midnight, ready to tear the place apart. "What do you guys want, anyway? What are you guys after?" But no one answers the stripper, and Larry and Whitey shut down their shows and the mob melts away. Next day the sun struggles back. It's Sunday, family day, cold and clear. The carnival is being torn down, but Whitey's still hawking his show. His call is fundamental. He sounds like a plumbing contractor quoting an estimate for a job he knows he won't win: "Buy your tickets. It's a good show. It's a girl show. It's a sex show." This he follows with a sentence oddly beside the point of a sex show, precisely to the point of some other existential axiom: "The strong walk over the weak, they've always done it, that's how it is." Inside the tent, one of the girls has connected with a customer who is, as she says, "oh so sweet!" He tucks his head between her legs for five minutes, climbs right up on stage with her, you might even say performs for her. That seems fine by her; she says, "Bring on another girl, I'm done now, I'm not moving from here," and her newfound friend keeps at her. Partnership, a grace note to close with, a gentle valediction. # A Day at the Beach I'd be the last one to brag up my vacation, show slides of Mustique's Cotton Club, Curtain Bluff you, Bitter End you, call Petit St. Vincent by its initials (PSV). As for chitchatting my physiological bona fides, my regime, pulse rate at rest, systolic upper (let's talk through the roof), and diastolic lower (shoot the moon), my SGOT abnormalities, the uric acid settled in gouty crystals at my extremities—would I impose the particulars? But to reveal both beach and body: here reticence yields to candor. All too soon you'll know of Sint Maarten and cardiac catheterization, of La Samana and acute aortic valvular stenosis, of the Wolff Family Christmas, of surgical procedures, of the very heart of me. Not long ago I flew with my family from New York to Antigua. The jumbo jet was full, and occupied principally (my two teenage sons noticed) by people old enough to drive but young enough not to know what is an IRA. These travelers smiled and had good teeth. I was old enough (then) to have all the friends I wanted, but my sons had another perspective, and they smiled back. Until we descended to Sint Maarten, our stopover, ten flying minutes from Antigua. The airplane unloaded every person with perfect white teeth, leaving us to fellow passengers plenty old enough to know their 401(k) retirement strategies. Golfers, hatched from madras eggs. Oh, my poor boys! They pressed their noses to the Boeing's windows and watched the smiling young people skip toward Sint Maarten's terminal. "We'll visit Sint Maarten someday," their mummy promised, calling it "Saynt Martin." Not so fast! By June, all seats had been booked to that island for that Christmas vacation. I tried to pull strings, making my way up a chain of command to an executive of one of our most venerable international airlines. He wished to serve, but I heard in his voice a quality I couldn't then put a name to; I think I could now, if only I knew the exact antonym for "ballyhoo": would it be "demotion"? Perhaps "derision"? He suggested Jamaica. How about Barbados? Why not try Trinidad? He boosted other islands, to which his airline did not fly. For a fellow with almost as much experience living well as I had of living, I wasn't hearing the music. We would go to Sint Maarten, by God, and so, with a sigh, the airline executive accommodated us. An alarm bell rang a few days before takeoff during a phone talk with my mother, who had on some dreamy caprice visited during a single journey every Caribbean island with an airport, and some without, returning thereafter to none. "Saint Martin?" my mother said, "or Sint Maarten?" "What's the difference?" "Sint Maarten is the Dutch part. Saint Martin is French. The French have fun, and eat good food." "Our destination is Sint Maarten," I said. "Oh," my mother said. "Huh." "What do you mean, 'huh,' " I asked. "Well," my mother said. "Did you not care for the island?" I asked. "Well," my mother said, "it has beaches. The French part. Or it did when I was there." "Why would the beaches not be there now?" "Oh, the construction. There were buildings going up all along the beaches." "Pretty buildings?" "I think I liked San Juan a little more than Saint Martin," my mother said. "Did you like San Juan?" "Not at all," my mother said. "It was tacky." I concluded that Sint Maarten might be just the place for my sons, and I felt virtuous thinking this, the way St. Sebastian must have felt when the arrows came. Travelogues and medical logs first intersect at Theodore Francis Green Airport, Providence, Rhode Island, 6:15 a.m., Saturday, mid-December. I am famously efficient, dependable. I use the old noodle, pack early, remember to bring tickets, passports, extra eyeglasses, maps to be studied en route, the novel by Dostoyevski I have still not read, medication— _all_ the necessaries. These I arrange in a canvas briefcase, and leave it in our driveway. Priscilla, for a wonder, had taken upon herself responsibility for the tickets and passports, so we were not grounded. But I was destined to fly away without my drugs. This was the conventional pharmacopoeia of a fellow of late-middle years: Benemid and colchicine (gout), Vasotec (hypertension), Inderal (heart rate). I didn't like flying to an island, at the beginning of a weekend, without these medicines: a general practitioner in our little town had a few days before, during my first visit with him, expressed quiet alarm at my blood pressure. I had visited him because, seized by a fitness fit, I had labored several months to row nowhere fast, and the more often I pulled on the handle of that Concept II Ergometer, the very machine favored by Olympic oarsmen, the less my stamina. My older son, Nicholas, can row the unmoved contraption more than twenty miles, and take a telephone call, and talk. I'd row three and double over. This didn't seem fair; it wasn't fair, my new doctor agreed, asking by the way did I know I had a heart murmur. I told him I had been told this since childhood, but it was nothing, it had been checked out. "Checked out how?" I explained, perhaps condescendingly, that in the metropolis of Providence I had not three years before been tested hi-tech with an echocardiogram, and the results had shown I had the heart of a baby. Those were my city doctor's very words, I explained, "heart of a baby." My new doctor said very well, but my blood pressure must be diminished medically and, by the way, might he send away for those echocardiogram test results, just to see them, satisfy his curiosity about the clamorous mutter he had heard listening to my heart? Just before and after this physical examination I had been preoccupied with photographs, arranging the slides and prints of twenty-one years of marriage and nineteen years of daddydom in albums, to give as Christmas gifts to my kin. I am obsessive, but in the process of finding and sorting these pictures of a life, likenesses of my father and mother, their fathers and mothers, this innocent labor radiated out and became even by my tolerant lights weird, alarming. I dropped business and pleasure to sort, hunting through trunks and cartons in the attic several nights till dawn. Priscilla, whom I had meant to surprise pleasantly with photographs of herself, asked what I thought I was doing. Meaning to answer truthfully, I said I didn't really know. "I'm arranging things," I said. "It's as though I think I'm about to die," I said. "I don't find that amusing," she said. "I don't either," I said. In truth, I think I thought no such thing. I didn't imagine dying, or didn't imagine dying any more often than I usually do, which isn't that often. But I'd felt _something_ , and it had sent me to trunks in my attic and to a doctor, who urged me to take my medicine. Flying to Sint Maarten I considered Vasotec. Landing at Sint Maarten, Saturday afternoon, I brooded on Benemid. I am not famously even-tempered; our bags, minus the carry-on of essentials snowed under in our driveway, were delayed. It seemed to me, elbowing through throngs to the baggage carousel, that I was being elbowed back. Irritable, I felt a bellicose rush of blood to my face; I was showing my fighting colors. Our taxi was no jitney daubed pastel but a businessman's sedan; the driver was all business, no _Welcome to de Islands, mon_ , but "Where to?" We told him where. He seemed amused. Leaving the airport, he turned left and drove beside a chain-link fence bordering the runway. Left again, beside a fence bordering the end of the runway. Left again, along a rutted mud road, deeply puddled, with mosquitoes skimming the puddles, beside a fence bordering the runway. The fifteen-minute ride had brought us thirty yards from the place our jet's wheels had touched down. More to the point, as we soon learned, it had brought us thirty yards from the place wheels would lift off at that moment when the pilot shouts "Rotate!" above the din, and mighty engines go to full power. (We had noticed during this journey a large hotel set near our own lodgings, behind a stucco wall, the "Caravanserai," let's call it. A friend who had stayed there during a business convention later told me of his terror his first afternoon, having shed his New York clothes down to his boxers, standing in those thunderbags looking seaward from his ninth-floor picture window, seeing fly, right toward his window, a widebody, sliding into its landing path. On approach, aviators say, "Pan Am heavy." No amount of time, my friend said, would delete from his mind's eye his first sight of a jumbo at eye-level, coming at the conversation pit of his suite, at _him_. Not that there weren't other experiences to share with me later, like his first dip in the pool, an announcement coming over the hotel's public-address system: "Please, peoples. We have many complaints about pee-pee and doo-doo in swimming pool. Please don't forget to sign up for tonight's barbecue and salad bar on the beach.") But I'm making Sint Maarten sound like Iwo Jima, Bataan. I'm not writing _Guadalcanal Diary;_ mine is a story of a heart murmur during a tropical vacation. That first late afternoon we had a few unpleasant surprises in our seaside condominium, nothing acute: low water pressure from the taps and high voltage from the refrigerator door (we learned to pry it open using a mop handle). Otherwise, subtracting huge, lurid oil paintings of black-and-Day-Glo swans, the lodgings were dandy: slide the front door and there, fifteen yards dead ahead, was the sea. Our view across the bay was dominated by a rusted dredger moored offshore from a monumental and immoderate time-sharing project, a mausoleum of doomed real-estate speculation, the Pyramids of our time and that place. The half-baked and half-finished concrete resort and casino had been erected on land called Billy Folly, and was named Pelican Resort. Pelican because pelicans fished our common water, flying in threes, throttling back to stall speed, diving in a wings-back free fall, gobbling the catch. We learned to watch this process hours at a whack. That's what a Caribbean vacation is for, in my book, to zone out, narrow the concentration to what is least my own business. To buy a breather. The pelicans' swooning fall and frantic takeoff reminded us of the enterprise at our backs, as though we could possibly have forgotten. The din began before breakfast, and quit during dinner. It was a stunning racket. What you hear at an airport isn't a patch on that uproar, because at an airport you don't pass your time in the open air a few feet from the runway. The blast shook the condo, shook us. It was not a Caribbean noise. There was also a suspicion, vaguely perceived as a slickness to the epidermis, of oil finely sprayed at each takeoff. This was not Coppertone. Afterburners would cut in at full power, and those three or four great GEs or Pratt & Whitneys would go pedal to the metal, and we would cover our ears, and a fine mist of jet fuel would settle in the planes' wake, skim-coating my expensively vacationing family. Call it a "vapor trail" if you prefer; I call it kerosene. The folks next door were untroubled by this phenomenon. They hailed from Queens, within easy earshot of JFK, and the takeoffs and landings made them feel at home. Our condominiums appeared to my untrained judgment identical, two-bedroom "units," but there seemed no end to this neighboring family. Each morning, as with passengers piling from a circus car, the cry was still " _they come!_ " As many as they were, so were they similar, one big happy family. Big! Here in Rhode Island there was a restaurant of legend, Custy's, all-you-can-eat. A few years ago it changed management, and on his first Sunday the new owner saw an out-of-state charter bus swing into his parking lot. As the bus unloaded its freight, anxiety turned to horror: a banner stuck to the bus's side proclaimed its origin and mission: THE BUFFET BUSTERS OF NEW JERSEY! (Custy's is out of business.) Our neighbors were buffet busters, and we were at first standoffish when they approached us to share Sint Maarten dining lore. They had in their generous company a dog; his collar named him Butch, and he wouldn't be stood off. He would come to the _terraza_ of our unit to scratch his ass against a chaise longue while we watched the rusty dredger and listened to planes take off. Butch would curl up, a hint of a smile baring his canines, and languidly masturbate, until we left him to his self-absorption and took our piña coladas indoors, where the swans hung motelly. It didn't take long to notice that our Buffet Busters were having better fun than we. They laughed, and when they weren't laughing they smiled, like Butch. They seemed to love one another (but less ardently than Butch loved himself). Every morning they took a group picture, one member of the dozen or so grams and moms and in-laws darting out of the great assembly to memorialize the rest. Even their sunburns seemed to amuse them, and these were _sunburns_ , the kind to be got only by spending hours without moving, floating belly-down staring at sand through a fogged face mask, or lying belly-up staring at the sky. While these good and happy people took their ease, I was about my business. To protect myself against the consequences of hypertension, I boiled my blood driving crowded potholed roads searching for a doctor to give me a prescription. Failing, I wandered from town to town to town (there are three: two French, one Dutch) to entreat pharmacists for drugs, and to be insulted by them. At length, sweating and shaking like an addict from my frustrated mission, I found a worldly French druggist, all shrugs and tropical sophistication, dressed like Bogey in _Casablanca_ , a coffin nail dangling from his lower lip. He was willing to sell me anything that wasn't what I had been instructed to use. I settled on reserpine, from _Rauwolfia serpentina_ , Indian snakeroot. Potent. After looking for The Man, finally making my connection, shopping in a supermarket whose linoleum floor, slick with spilled daiquiri mix, gave me a tumble amusing to other shoppers, I paused at one of the island's thousand or so casinos to lose my folding money to the wheel and my coins to the slots. At "home," going for a Heineken to wash down my drugs, I forgot what I had urged those in my care to remember, and got a hundred-plus volts, and this caused me, more in anger than in sorrow, to sweep my prescription Vuarnets violently from my brow to the floor, where a lens broke. That was my second full day in Sint Maarten. The following days we fended off the friendly approaches of the Buffet Busters and the amorous urgencies of Butch. We swam. Mostly we spent money. We spent at casinos, with workaday stupidity. We could as easily have blown a wad at Nice, or Baden-Baden, or in Venice; I'm not even saying the company would have been classier in Europe. But the Sint Maarten casino crowd was very Atlantic City, _muy_ San Juan. We spent money eating. I mean _money_. We hadn't flown to the Islands to eat. We'd eaten in the Islands. We knew about Island cuisine. We'd tried veal birds at Bequia, "rack of jambon au mustard" in Antigua. We wished to eat and run, snack, go the simple route. So it was pizza for four at a fast-food place in Philipsburg, $83. American dollars. Dinner in Marigot, the French port, $200, plus tip ( _sans vin_ ), not an unwholesome piece of local fish, _très nouvelle_ , teensy. The most pleasing restaurant in town we were told but did not, alas, believe, is _at_ the airport, soundproofed against the din. Instead we chose a place set at the far end of the runway, very _intime_ , popular with return visitors (who could they be, and what could they be thinking?), called Mary's Boon. It has evident charms: old wicker, a macaw in a cage (or maybe it was a fish in a bowl), guests got up in natural fibers, a single menu served take-it-or-leave-it at long, communal tables, an "honor bar," which means guests pour their own drinks, whose number they are honorbound to report, and for which they are charged several dollars apiece, which imposed, to be honest, a heavy burden on my sense of honor. We ate at Mary's Boon with friends who knew the owners. Let's say the bill was $300. (We ate some shrimp was why.) When it came time to pay, we asked—discreetly I thought, so the other guests didn't have to see the ugly transaction—if we might pay $150 a couple. It was a matter of American Express traveler's checks, you see, because credit cards—nasty plastic things—were not... honored. "I don't want to get into this," said the owner. "One bill, one person pays." "Well, it's quite simple," I said. "We aren't asking for a mathematical computation, just that you take half in checks from me, half in checks from my friend." "Must I speak more slowly?" the owner said. "What you do to each other with your 'traveler's checks' is quite your own business. I wish to have three hundred dollars, and I wish it from _one_ of you." Cross my heart. Two days later, Christmas, my wife and I stopped for a couple of drinks at La Samana ("untypical," the brochure says, "uncompromised") where movie stars stay, but weren't staying that day. Our check was $16. I offered a $50 traveler's check. "Haven't you got something smaller?" asked the waitress at the least compromised al fresco resort in the Caribbean, $520 a night double, no meals, plus service. But I run before my story. Back to Mary's Boon, or the hours following our honestly drunk drinks and $6-per-shrimp seafood at the runway's end, so complexly paid for. Sometime that night someone broke into our unit, patrolled our bedroom while we slept, and stole what was worth stealing, and much that was not. Now we were deep in it: no keys, identification, credit cards, cash, or traveler's checks. The Buffet Busters, worldly old hands, were resigned to our bad luck. "See the plywood screwed over our slider?" (Indeed, we had remarked to ourselves the oddness of this use of a sliding-glass door fronting the ocean.) "Only thing to keep the fuckers out. And I keep a loaded hogleg on the night table." But of course! How silly of us not to have thought of it. "They come in boats. Swim ashore, grab the loot, they're gone. Did they get your medication?" (My medical adventures were not unknown to our immediate community: the single phone nearby worked according to the volume put into it, like a tin can connected to a tin can by string.) "They love drugs. One drug looks like another to those fellows." We were told how lucky we were: it was Christmas Eve morn; another day, and the Island would be shut tight till after New Year's. Many a red-letter day in the Lesser Antilles. Karl Malden was on the money. We had the providence of having had stolen from us not just any traveler's checks but the right kind, and sure enough, American Express has a Philipsburg office, and I found my way to it. I stood in line to tell my grim tale, behind half a dozen or so other desolates, similarly deprived at poolside, on the beach, asleep in their hotels. I asked an agency employee if it was always like this, and was told, runically, that where there are casinos, tourists lose money. Perhaps experience had educated the traveler's-check-refund people in their brisk manner, their refusal to say, as I might have liked to have heard: _This is tragic. Let us sit upon the ground and tell sad stories of the theft of cash_. Or, at least: _Gee, downer, you must be bummed_. Let _me_ say it: I felt awful. Angry, hot, panicked. (I saw for the first time the glimmer of an improbable possibility: that a fellow might come to this island, get picked clean and never leave; such a fellow would wind down drinking Jamaican Red Cap beer, wearing white clothes that weren't white anymore and not caring that they weren't.) I was also short of breath, as though a barber were wrapping a steaming towel around my face. I had felt this several times the past few days, and mentioned it to Priscilla, who took it more seriously than I took it. I wrote it off to heat, and stress, all those double sawbucks flying pell-mell from my pockets into the pockets of strangers. When I at last got to the head of the line of wronged ones, I learned that American Express would have no business with me until I filed a police report, which a policeman must sign. The American Express agent looked meaningfully at her watch, and explained that I had wasted much time in line, and the office closed, for Christmas and other holidays, in two hours, and I had better move with dispatch to the office of detectives, at the other end of Philipsburg's main drag. Oh my! A speedy walk past the duty-free boom boxes and porcelain kitty-cats to another long line. As this crept, winding indoors from the hot alley where we miserables stood gnawing our lower lips, it dawned on me that to get a signature on a piece of paper was not so casually done as demanded. "We hab no crime on dis island," I heard a detective explain. "Mainland peoples bring de trouble. And Dominicans." (As Turks are to Swiss, and Koreans to Japanese, the people of Dominica, who labor with their hands, are to the entrepreneurs of Sint Maarten. It is a time-worn story.) Lacking criminals, the detectives made do with victims. The victim immediately ahead of me was an Islander. His story was sadder and more complicated than mine. It seems that the night before, a person or persons unknown had invaded his property, taking advantage of the peculiarity that it was without a cyclone fence ringed with razor wire, and made away with the man's dog. The detective stopped writing, and looked up. The dog could be identified, the victim explained, and began to give an account of an animal I could have sworn was our neighbor Butch, until I heard a final detail: "My dog got three legs." (Butch had five, always.) My interview was not successful. The detective, studying my lack of composure, the red-faced urgency of my manner, concluded that I was a confidence man, and he was no stranger to "devices," as he assured me. We were soon on the subject of signatures. I wanted his, in any form, on anything. I had an easier time getting the Splendid Splinter's when I was a boy. I believed I might weep. The detective saw something in me that made him wish I would go away, as the former master of a three-legged dog had gone away, and I explained that I _would_ go away, but only with a detective's signature. And that is how I got a name written on my airline ticket, which the cat burglar(s) had neglected to steal. This signature I rushed to the outskirts of Philipsburg, a town composed of outskirts, to a Dutch bank. Here, American Express had sort of suggested, the detective's signature would be exchanged for traveler's checks. Waiting in line, I was offered a fruit punch—rum-and-cherry Slurpee, with a custard garnish. These were served by a Dutch bank officer who was busy drinking most of those portions of the concoction she was pouring for her puzzled customers; I thought I saw a pathway to her sympathy if not her heart, and invited her to enjoy the cup she extended toward me. In turn she invited me to sit at her desk. Her fingernails were too long to make it possible for her to open ledgers, but she invited me to her cabin after the close of business to "happify Yuletime." I promised that that cabin was the only place I longed to be, and got new traveler's checks, and the residue of her lurid lipstick on my nose. (She had removed her bifocals to cuddle me.) The rest of our holiday was less fun. Well, let me be fair. Putting aside an episode with our rented automobile in Marigot—where it was sideswiped while parked and while we ate a hundred dollars' worth of sandwiches on Christmas night, a mischance that would cost me two (maybe three) hundred, and resulted in a fight so terrible between Priscilla (who parked the car) and her husband (who signed the rental contract that left us nakedly exposed to the driving skills and honor of other people) that my children preferred to hike to their runway-side villa, from France to Holland, by shank's mare so they wouldn't be obliged to listen to a Mr. & Mrs. that ended only because I ran out of breath to prolong it—Christmas was mezzo-mezzo. During our holiday disagreement, I asked speculatively: "Will we ever get off this miserable island?" The next day I found a way. For a consideration a catamaran, the _Bluebeard_ , chartered on a head-boat basis (charging per passenger to all comers), would sail us from Marigot to Sandy Island, a reef-girt sandspit two hundred by fifty yards, a couple of miles northwest of Anguilla. Anguilla, under British colonial rule, is the place to which people flee when the pressure of Sint Maarten screws too tight on them; Sandy Island is where they go when the bustle of Anguilla mills them down. The arrangements were businesslike. In the shadow of a casino I bought three tickets (Priscilla was left to guard the few remaining dollars and, especially, the plane tickets), and we were to surrender these dockside next day to the crew of _Bluebeard_. We were up early; I felt hinky, wanted to leave time aplenty for the untoward to waylay us before boarding. I believed two hours would be adequate for the seven-mile journey to Marigot by sideswiped car, time enough surely to find a bulletproof parking place. I wanted this to go smoothly. It did not; we were rained out. We took it well. Yachtsmen we were, sports. There was always tomorrow, our last full day. And tomorrow, in fact, came without intervening tragedy. We never left home, and remembered to open the refrigerator with a long wooden stick, and took baths instead of showers, so we wouldn't fall down and injure ourselves, and kept our doors and windows shut and locked, all day, even after the rain stopped, so our tickets and passports would not be stolen by foreigners who come from the sea. No pelicans fell on us while we swam. Come next morning, I got Nicholas and Justin up with the sun, and packed, and found we were just that little bit short of suntan lotion. We stopped at a convenience store along the imperfectly executed "road" to Marigot, and bought Sea & Ski, for only fifteen dollars. I rummaged for the money at the bottom of a canvas bag holding our _Bluebeard_ tickets. I had examined these tickets several times that morning, had held them in my hands, had stared at them and read their promises: the bracing sail, the "dazzling white beach, the coral reefs that teem with bright, colorful tropical fish set in incredibly blue waters." I had not failed to note that after "complimentary beverages" the "magical sound of a conch horn announces the readiness of a plentiful barbecue" on the beach. So: we parked the sideswiped vehicle in Marigot and walked briskly toward the yacht basin, and then—half an hour before we were to sail—I felt an inkling that we and our tickets were no longer together. A cursory look in my canvas bag revealed this horribly to be so. Throwing the bag to a son, yelling over my shoulder "Beg them to wait," I ran to the car, and drove it, in violation of sense and law, careening around curves, ignoring a red light at a drawbridge, _fast_ , to the "convenience" store. Breathless, I broke in ahead of other customers. "I left my tickets." "What you talking about?" "Hey, we were in line." "Tickets. Suntan lotion. Counter." And then it dawned on me. To black people, white people look alike. I am bald, and wear a white beard, and stutter, but the woman who twenty minutes earlier had instructed me to have a nice day did not know me. I tell you: it hurt. "Could my tickets be in your wastebasket?" And then I was behind the counter, rummaging through trash, while her husband or co-worker or brother or son or father came toward me with a look that would have frightened me had I had the composure to feel fear. "You stole our tickets," I reasoned. "I will never shop here again," I promised. "Fifteen dollars for Sea & Ski is not right. I will tell about this. I am," I explained, "a _writer!_ " And then I drove back to Marigot, weeping. There would be for us no "magical sound of a conch horn," no "plentiful barbecue." I may weep again, maybe ten minutes from now. But I had not wept for many years until then, and have not wept since, and while I wept, I drove as recklessly as a teenager, with the difference that by then I knew as I had not known when I was sixteen that I could die, or kill, driving like that. Parked and ran, and again found it difficult to breathe, but now there was an iron band under my arms, cinching my chest. The boat was preparing to sail. "She stole the tickets." "Chill out," Nicholas said. "Take it easy," a crew member suggested. "Have you looked in your pockets? Checked that ice bag?" "Of course I have!" Now I was yelling, while Justin dug his hands deep into the bag and found, where I had put them for safekeeping, the tickets. It was as promised. Free drinks, sunshine, cool breezes, grilled fish. I apologized to everyone, blushing, my heart pounding with shame, I thought. The passengers were not boors. The crew were not cynical beach bums. They forgave me. I put aside a twenty-dollar bill to tip them generously for the trouble I had put them to. I wanted them to know I was not as I seemed. I began to relax. I could be a good guy. Tomorrow we'd be gone. My tip would go far to set things right. As we approached Marigot at day's end, I lay on deck, rolled to my left, and watched a twenty-dollar bill, the only money any Wolff had aboard, blow from my pocket, and bob in our wake. Justin saw it all, and looked away: "Wow," he said. Our flight was to leave at four. We had been forewarned of chaos at the airport, long lines at the ticket counter, passport control, customs. We agreed to arrive at two. We packed. At noon my wife prepared to take a shower. My sons and I decided on a final swim. In the sea, for a reason I cannot fathom, I decided I wanted a water fight; I wanted the kind of water fight _they_ fight once a year, the real McCoy, not just splashing, but dunking, wrestling, slick violence. Me versus them. They played horse, and wrestled me down, and I remember my head going under, and coming up trying to catch a breath, and not getting a full load in my lungs, and then running toward them in deeper water, my legs heavy against the surge, feeling not right, turning toward shore, walking deliberately toward a beach chair set at the sea's edge, understanding that to reach that chair not thirty feet away would be to get somewhere I _had_ to reach, not as though my life depended on reaching that aluminum-and-plastic chaise longue, but as though it were an important goal, in the sense that one might run to board a slow-moving train that was not the last train ever to roll to one's destination, but what the hell, one had not come so far to miss trains. I got there, sort of. I was trying hard to breathe. I managed to say to my older son, "I can't breathe." But I couldn't find the posture to inhale what I wanted so badly. Upright, dignified: not enough air, something pinched off. Slump-shouldered, sagging: the diaphragm wouldn't deliver. I tried to lie down. "Lower this chair for me, Nick." What happened then, I didn't witness. As far as I know, I asked my son a favor, and the next thing, just a blink out of my life, there were people standing above me, and I heard a little girl crying, and asking, "Is he dead?" What bad manners, I remember thinking. Much later I was told that was no little girl, but my wife. I had no trouble recognizing the voices of my sons, who were saying, not in unison but at the same time, two incantations, a fugue: "Be all right. Don't give up. Come back." And much else. It was embarrassing, all those strangers. A Buffet Buster was holding my wrist. "He's got a pulse again." She knew her apples. I tried to reassure them. I wanted to walk away from all this, and even then I knew it was important to escape that island. I didn't try to stand, but when I spoke I made my voice purposeful: "I'm okay." No one seemed interested in my opinion of myself, because they had seen what I hadn't: gray skin, eyes rolled back under my lids, convulsions—to the untrained eyes of my wife and sons, death. Now—soon—came a doctor, Dutch, running. I mistook him for a jogger. Then the ambulance, a wild ride to Philipsburg, just wild; what a trip, lying on my back below the scream of the siren and seeing, blurred beyond the distracted nurse, palm trees shoot by. "Where are my glasses?" "Just calm down, Dad. We'll be there. Please be quiet. Don't worry." But, my God, Nicholas was edgy, the laid-back one, a grace-under-pressure boy. What was going on? I was, as they say, beside myself, trying without success to share a secret: _I was okay_. The Dutch physician from the beach was met at the emergency room by a Dutch cardiologist, and they laid me down and hooked me up and asked questions. Was I in pain? (No.) Where had the pain come? Shoulders? Arms? Now this called for a more complicated reply than seems invited by such simple questions. My situation with the doctors was a bit like the situation of someone guessing which hand holds a coin. If the tempting obvious guess is _right hand_ , a simpleminded guesser will say _left_ , a more subtle mind _right_ , subtler still _left..._ I knew what story was told by pain radiating from the shoulders, and the doctors guessed I knew this and would deny it, and I denied it because I had not felt it, but the doctors had to decide whether I denied it because I had not felt it or because I didn't want to have had a heart attack. The vocabulary of pain is discriminating. I aimed to illuminate rather than disguise my difficulty, but the emergency room of a Caribbean hospital is not precisely the site of choice for precise lexical delicacy. A patient's diction can express, and it can delude. Words, we do not tire of reminding ourselves, count. There is "sharp," "dull," "throbbing," "hot," "unbearable," "steady." I had experienced none of these sensations; instead, hurried, I chose an approximate locution, inaccurate in fact, but in the spirit of my experience: "It felt like a heavy person kneeling on my chest." Oh, how vigorously I would later try to retract those words, to delete them from my transcript, to change my grade. But they were my words, and I said them close to the moment, and they went from English to Dutch back out to English, and they added up to the single conclusion I least believed or wanted to believe: _heart attack_. Now the EKG. I lay in the emergency room, watching the terror on Priscilla's face and Justin's; I couldn't imagine what they were thinking. My attention was in the present tense; now a nurse was exclaiming impatiently that the monitor cups wouldn't adhere to my white-haired chest; now she was shaving my chest; now I felt the cold shock of jelly rubbed on me to hold the cups. I listened to doctors discuss, in a language I could not have understood had it been English, what it was with me. I knew I was just fine, that once this rigmarole was finished, I'd fly home and put paid to this fiasco of a holiday. The diagnosis was heart disease. Syncopes here and abnormal repolarizations there. I tried to argue them out of it, explaining that I had been using reserpine, a drug new to me. That must have keeled me over, the reserpine. My instinctive distrust of that drug was not, I later learned, as desperately farfetched as you might believe. Reserpine is potent, can provoke suicidal depressions that hang on for months. More to my point, it so slows the heartbeat as sometimes to cause fainting, not to mention rashes, weight increase, lethargy, troubled dreams, blurred vision, nosebleeds, premature ejaculation: let's conclude that depression is a side effect of these side effects. I explained about my medications: they were in my driveway, all could be traced to that ill beginning. The Dutch doctors were curious as to how I managed to prescribe for myself a drug so potent as reserpine, and I mentioned Marigot, a pharmacy there, and they looked at each other, illuminated. "Ah, the French." The doctors shrugged, so predictably that I laughed, but I found myself laughing alone. It was decided, without interest in my opinion, that I would be checked into the hospital and observed until more was known. The stethoscope, the charts, did not suggest the side effects of reserpine. I gave in. Tame as a puppy. Fact was, I wanted to be in a room alone, with the door shut. I was done now searching for better words, wondering _what next_ , reckoning how we would escape that botched island. I wanted to nap. I was wheeled into an air-conditioned room, with a window fronting the harbor. I was getting my hand held by one and then another of my family, and that was nice, but—I thought—theatrical, uncustomary. More familiar was the nature of Priscilla's question to my sons after I was hooked up to a monitor by wires leading from my breasts, ankles; the monitor, just like the television monitors you've seen (I mean the ones _on_ television, "St. Elsewhere," say), clicked busily but irregularly, sketched peaks and valleys, jagged yellow lines. My wife asked my boys, the cardiologists: "Does that look right to you? It doesn't look right to me." And then they left me to rest. Immediately came a nutritionist, asking was I hungry; I said no, not a bit hungry. So she produced for me to eat—half an hour after the emergency room, an hour beyond the ambulance, an hour and fifteen minutes after the water fight—chicken creole. There were French fries, and butterscotch pudding, and a huge breast of chicken with tomato sauce and okra. There were thick slabs of white bread. A bottle of Orange Crush. If I had asked for a St. Pauli Girl, I could have had it, and a squash racquet too. When the food was removed, I thought I might rest. I remembered a story a friend told me about his adventure in Jamaica thirty years ago during spring vacation from boarding school. Shy around girls, he was quite a diver, so he had put in hour upon hour diving from cliffs to amaze them but was then unable to hear their amazement. Water had collected in his ears, and he did what we do: shook his head violently, jumped on the left foot, jumped on the right, whacked the sides of his head with his palms. He bought Jamaican Q-tips, cotton swabs just the wrong size, and they seemed to drive the water deeper in his ears and to cause some small pain. His roommate knew a remedy, was surprised it was not a remedy familiar to all divers: "Pour bourbon in your ears. Melts the wax, and flushes out the saltwater." In Jamaica, thirty years ago, bourbon was scarce, but there was 151-proof rum, and my friend poured this in one ear and then, despite the sensation you may guess at, poured some in the other ear. He spent time in a Caribbean hospital. The hospital stay made an impression on him—changed him even. "Do you believe in Our Lord Jesus _Christ!_ " She was immense, a figure only Flannery O'Connor could have imagined, breasts like shoats squirming to escape from a croaker sack. Black she wore, and a florid hat, and plum lipstick. Rouged, bearing a Bible. "I say, do you _believe_ in Him!" For a moment, I almost thought of thinking whether I believed in anything the way she needed to know whether I believed in Him. Instead I thought, I don't need this. "No." "I say, will you _declare_ your belief in the Son of God!" "Please go away." She was astounded. She was rattling off a rap from memory, let's call it a litany. This was not in the script, getting shown the door, on _Sunday_. "I do this by the commandment of the Lord Jesus Christ! This is my day off work." "Take a load off," I said. "Enjoy a day of rest. I'm a bad customer." "I'll tell you, mister, you are sick! They told me." "Go away." The apostle dropped to her knees. Her hat was ornate, almost interesting. "There ain't no hospital beds in Hell, mister. Pray with me!" I rolled over, away from the missionary's hat, and looked out at the harbor. A cruise ship was coming in. My eyes without my glasses saw it all blurred. I was infirm, unwell. But I could hear the clanking anchor chain and a bustle below my window on the beach, the excitement of people near a place where money will soon be redistributed. I never heard the proselyte leave, but I knew she was gone, and with her the Good News. Later that night, Priscilla came back with the boys. Justin thought it might be interesting to touch together the two electric paddles, those things you see in television emergency rooms, when the intern yells "clear!" and gives some luckless sod the juice, and the patient's chest heaves, and his legs buck like a bronc's, and his monitor line goes wavy ("We've got a pulse; his blood pressure's coming back!") and everyone smiles, or it goes flat ("I need a drink. Sometimes I hate this job! Anyone coming?"). Anyway, Justin was bringing the resurrection paddles together, Priscilla yelled at him, I jerked, my own life-sign line went kind of jagged, and Priscilla and I argued. Was what I might have had on the beach properly called a "myocardial infarction" (my choice), or "myocardial infraction" (Priscilla's and, once they heard the two side by side, the boys' choice). I was right, but let's concede "infraction" makes a world more sense. Then Priscilla, just before they left me for the night, said, "I'll never be mean to you again." She meant it, too. It made me laugh. "Don't say such a thing. It makes me sad to hear it. I can't do without." "I mean it. I'll never be mean to you again." Well. Near midnight, finished with a junk novel I was reading to keep my mind off my worries, which were worrying me less than they should, I got to my window, stretching to their farthest reach the wires connecting me to the heart monitor. I was drawn by lights in the harbor, and friendly shouts from the beach. I leaned my nose against the pane and tried to focus. Below on the beach I could see what looked like fireflies, wavy flickers seeming to signal to the sparkling cruise ship offshore, dressed with lights; to my blear vision the vessel seemed afire. My attention was drawn to a noise below, and I realized what I must seem to anyone looking in my window, an old geezer with cups stuck to his tits, wires leading out. The fireflies came closer, and I thought someone was waving sparklers at me in a friendly way, and then I saw the orange trail of a comet arc toward me, and then felt an awful concussion, full explosion, and I heard glass break, and by the time the nurses were there, in response to that monitor honking like a French flic's car, I realized someone had lobbed a cherry bomb at me, and the outer of the two windows had been shattered by it. So I lay awake waiting for the blood test whose results would tell me whether I had had a myocardial in _farc_ tion, killing a region of my heart, or whether something else had made me eat sand. I lay tense, looking toward the open door where the evangelist in black might appear again with her Holy Book and Glad Tidings, and then toward the window, waiting for another bang. Staring out the window, I saw the nimbus of the sun rise, and had blood drawn, and heard a doctor tell me the blood test revealed none of those enzymes that accompany a death of heart muscle; I had probably not had the experience called heart attack. "How soon can I get off this dangerous island?" "Next week, five or six days, after we observe you." "Today," I said. I was warned not on any account to show signs of malaise at the airport, or the airlines would never carry me off that unspeakable place for fear I'd make trouble for them: die, say, or—worse—litigate them. It was an odd sensation, but not at all unpleasant, to be coddled by my family, to have my bags toted by Justin while Nicholas checked us in, to have Priscilla deal with the wrecked rent-a-car, and gesticulate, and argue, and by sweet advocacy save a buck or two. (I would have fought to win a moral judgment, which is one reason, I guess, I have high blood pressure. Priscilla just wanted to get the damage payment down a little, bless her.) In fact, I felt fine, okay, not so bad. Tired, distracted, but I managed to watch the sappy holiday movie, a colorized _It's a Wonderful Life_. I began to notice, as Jimmy Stewart finally noticed, the decencies manifest around me. Flying north, into the teeth of a winter whose forthright sharpness I welcomed, I thought how kind the Buffet Busters had been, how quick to help, how competent. Even Butch, watching me heave back to life on my beach chaise, cocked his head, concerned more about me, it seemed, than about his pecker. I didn't like the news the Dutch doctors gave me, but they gave it, on a Sunday. The appraiser at the car rental—LUCKY (!) CAR RENTALS—had been just. As our stay at the condo was necessarily lengthened, instead of bills we got checks, refunds to atone for the nastiness of the refrigerator; the extra night was on them, they insisted cheerfully. I was learning lessons. Not the kind that is taught with a club that knocks you down: that kind of lesson I had always expected to have forced on me, and in fact it taught me nothing, except to remind me, around my family, of something Priscilla had read, that the one thing nobody says on his deathbed is "I wish I'd worked harder." I was looking ahead to complicated news, though on New Year's Day I didn't guess how complicated. The messages coming in were about ratio, proportion; everywhere I turned people tried to smooth things for me. Near-strangers would write. Friends with whom I had nursed antique grievances—feuds blossoming black from disputes over how many portholes in a 1951 Buick Special, or why didn't you like my book better, or pick up that dinner check, or phone earlier when you knew you couldn't come for the weekend, or help with the dishes when you came? These people were kind, wise, on call. Snow fell with us on Kennedy. In the customs shed the boys fought for luggage, and Priscilla tried to learn whether Providence was snowed in, whether flights would leave for that place, whether the parking lot there had been plowed. I telephoned doctors. I telephoned my father-in-law, a surgeon. For many years he had wisely dismissed as beneath serious discussion his family's anxious questions about sore throats and aching feet. To this story he listened. His interest did not reassure me. Neither did the product of a late-night conversation with my new doctor. He wanted me in his office tomorrow, no kidding. I got a crash course in cardiology. While I was keeling over in Sint Maarten, my doctor at home had been studying pictures and numbers from that echocardiogram administered three years earlier; these had not shown him "the heart of a baby"; these had sufficiently alarmed him that he was telephoning our house while I was snorkeling off the _Bluebeard_ , losing money at roulette, all the rest. He was not surprised, alas, by what I told him, and brought forth cutaway pictures of the heart, and especially of the heart's valves, and especially of the aortic region. Priscilla and Nicholas sat through his patient explanation. I had found books about prescription drugs, and had photocopied—let's say obsessively—the dire, possible (improbable) side effects of reserpine. Surely this explained everything. A reflex had evolved: at the end of every test I expected to hear: _Go home, you silly goose! There's nothing wrong with you. Reserpine tossed you a curveball, is all_. The doctor listened. The doctor said, "Anything's possible." The doctor got me an emergency appointment with a cardiologist. The cardiologist was laconic, self-assured. He resembled Hal Holbrook, and gave off that same aura of prematurely gray-haired competence. This was not the man on whom I wished to exercise my reserpine theory of fainting. The cardiologist didn't at first seem to have, as Priscilla put it, "a heart as big as all outdoors." (We were compiling an omniumgatherum of clichés; I didn't resist the temptation to call friends on their expressions: "You'd die to see her," "My heart's with you," "I feel heartsick for you"; my favorite, after a chest X-ray revealed my abnormally enlarged pump—"You're all heart.") The cardiologist listened, and listened harder where other doctors had listened hard, and listened there some more. He was brisk; his hands were delicate; as he finished with me, he patted me on the head. I could have wept with gratitude for that gentle touch; Priscilla, watching, said it was like a man patting a dog. She was right; I was right. The pat was perhaps condescending, but if ever I wanted to be touched from above, from Olympus by a god, it was that day. I didn't want a cardiologist who was my equal; I knew what I was and was not. I knew how inaccurately I could parse a paragraph, or misdiagnose a meaning. I wanted to be in the hands of a master. This master didn't like to answer questions. He especially winced at _what-if_ questions; they made him less terse than silent as a tomb. He knew what he knew, would tell when it came time to tell. He knew what he _thought_. He thought I had acute aortic valvular stenosis, which meant my aortic valve was defective, narrow, failing properly to open, which meant I was not pumping sufficient oxygen-rich blood up my ascending aorta, the great artery, to my body—to my brain, for example. (Thus one faints, falls down, and the head—if all goes according to the inventor's plan—lies below the heart, and is fed by gravity.) But I learned what aortic valvular stenosis meant from _The Book of Knowledge_ , later. In that office then, I learned only that the cardiologist wanted me to get a chest X-ray and have another echocardiogram, immediately. I had been warned that I might have to undergo a procedure called "cardiac catheterization," which I loosely understood to be the threading of a long tube up an artery and into the heart, where pressures could be read, and dye injected and photographed as it snaked through tributaries. An echocardiogram, by high contrast, is performed in Rhode Island Hospital's cardiac "non-invasive" wing. Oh, I liked "non-invasive." Give me "non-invasive" any day. It uses Doppler, a radar that can translate sound waves into pictures and numbers. The snowy Saturday morning Nicholas drove me to the hospital to have my heart televised, we found in the waiting room an aged couple. It was no trick to know which of them was there to be tested: her face was gray, and she trembled from stone terror. Later, I would think that to have seen her was to look into a mirror, but now it seemed I was on one side of a high fence, and she on the other. Nicholas talked to her. The weather. The Patriots. How 'bout those Celtics! His college courses and summer jobs. Smart boy: she was forgetting here and now; forgetting herself, almost. This was life, talking this way. "Does it hurt?" her husband asked me. I wondered whether he thought I was a doctor. I wondered what they had been told, whether they too had thumbed an encyclopedia. I thought how needless _this_ terror was. "Not a bit." In fact it did hurt, a bit. Not me, as it turned out, but the nurse who made her way by microphones up and down and across me. The examining room, all electronics and monitors, was dark, so only the green light of the monitor lit us dimly, as murky pale as the floor of a shoal sea. I heard the murmur, a surfy snuffle, a wet whisper, like this: _be at peace, be at peace, be at peace_. Say it fast, honest. That's what my heart, amplified and sounded, said. The nurse working me over was teaching the procedure to a nurse from another hospital. The student was bored and distracted; she chewed gum loudly enough to have the noise picked up by the echocardiogram mike, and was asked to give her jaws a rest. "Where do you get these handiwipes?" she asked her teacher. "I love these; they're pre-moistened. I wish I had some at home," she said. "They sure are handy." My nurse was annoyed. She wasn't seeing the pictures she was told to shoot. "Aortic stenosis has terrible mike angles. It kills, really hurts my hand to have to hold the mike this way. What a hassle!" "For me, too," I said. "Quiet," she said, but the gum-chewer didn't obey. "One thing for sure," I had told Priscilla that morning. "No one, _no way_ , is threading anything up my arteries into my heart. Go to the bank on it." In fact, walking a short distance from a Newport parking lot to my bank, less than two blocks, I had felt a catch in my lungs, a want of something. Breathe as I would, I couldn't get a full shot. (I popped a nitroglycerine tablet under my tongue, the time-honored remedy for victims of angina, but because angina wasn't my problem, the "nitro"—as it's known to its friends—was no remedy.) Two days later, two weeks after my felling in the Islands, I tried to drag a garbage can fifteen yards up my driveway, and I couldn't. I stood in the cold that day, alone in the small town where we live, and put a hand under my jacket and under my shirt, and tried to feel my heart, as though it were willing to tell me what it wanted, what I had done to it. As soon as the chest X-ray was in the cardiologist's hands (confirming that my heart was abnormally enlarged, from laboring to pump blood through a bum valve), together with the echocardiogram, I was told the next step was to thread a wire up my arteries into my heart. "How soon?" I asked. "Beginning of next week," he said. My cardiologist would not discuss what lay beyond cardiac catheterization, which would confirm his suspicions, or—lots of luck—confound them. I knew. The encyclopedia explained it all under _Cardiac Abnormalities_. Next they "crack your chest," and the knife goes to work. But, for now, we weren't to discuss sharp knives. Our topic was catheterization. This we discussed in the cardiologist's office, examining a model of a heart, organs cleverly fit within organs, a contraption of hinges and lurid colors. I watched him manipulate it, and pretended to understand what I was being told, much of it in Latin. But about the procedure he couldn't have been clearer. He told me everything, because this was not speculative; this would happen. He explained hospital admission, and what and when I would eat, and when I would begin my fast, and when and where they would wheel me down to the catheterization ("Cardiac Invasive Unit," presumably) room, and what would run through my IV, tranquilizing me, and who would do what, and for how long, and what I would feel. "It will hurt when you get the local anesthesia. We'll give you a shot right next to the groin. Then the pain will dull. We'll insinuate a tube up your femoral artery; it is about the diameter of linguini; no nerves there, so it won't hurt. Then we'll thread another into your coronary arteries, to look into heart disease." (Blocked coronary arteries; insufficient blood _to_ the heart; bypass country.) Before I could ask, he told me: "We have problems a few times for a hundred procedures. These can vary: heart attack, stroke. It is possible to puncture a vital artery." My cardiologist is known both vulgarly and respectfully as a "cath jockey." If there was anyone in the neighborhood I was prepared to trust with wires the size of pasta, and with my vital stuff, there he sat. He smiled; I melted with gratitude. What he said would happen, happened. It was an operating room, with a jungle of wires and screens. Many technicians, two cardiologists. The IVs had been run into me, thinning my blood, or thickening it, tranquilizing me. I got the shot, and never felt the deep incision about two inches from the jewel box ( _my_ jewel box), where they cut into the artery. I felt pressure. I was awake, and was to remain awake, eyes wide open, so I could issue reports, and "cooperate," holding my breath, exhaling. Meantime, the team talked. They were all business, looking, judging what they saw. A time came when I knew the wire was at my aortic valve (such as it was), because they told me, and because I felt something I didn't like, a crazy quickening of the beat. This called for a shot, right into an open vein, and mechanisms calmed again, and I heard the subtlest change of pitch and attention in the cardiologist's running commentary into a tape recorder. I had been all smiles, believed I was getting a good report card. Then someone whistled and said, " _That's_ tight!" _That_ was the valve. Then they warned me they were about to inject dye, to get pictures, an angiogram, to see whether my coronary arteries were silted with fat, whether maybe they needed to be bypassed with a length of vein from my leg, _my_ leg. I had been warned the dye ("contrast medium") would give discomfort, a few-second hot shot through my body. Precisely as foretold: discomfort rather than pain, and great heat, which soon passed. "Let's get the stuff out now." And bingo, after an hour's work, about noon, they were done with looking. In the hall outside, while they did another customer inside (we were parked like cars on a full lot), an intern leaned for twenty minutes with his full weight on my groin's bleeding artery. He explained I'd have a sandbag on it the following twenty-four hours, and if there were no complications, I could go home tomorrow. My cardiologist told me I'd be thirsty when it was over. I'd fasted twelve hours—neither food nor water—so the dye could do its thing without making me puke, and the dry surgical theater... I was thirsty. And just as my cardiologist had promised in his office last week, he appeared with a root-beer popsicle. I hadn't eaten a root-beer twin-stick popsicle since I was a kid. Had they been out there all this time? Oh boy! It was sweet, and on the instant I was hooked. "Where do you get these?" I asked. The cardiologist looked at me as though he had something else on his mind. Why so closemouthed? Why not share his connection? Who needed him: if Chasen's flew chili to Rome during the filming of _Cleopatra_ , I could get root-beer popsicles sent to Rhode Island. Not twenty-four hours earlier I had told Priscilla: "One thing for _damned sure_. No way, José, are they 'cracking' this chest." I had banged my breast for emphasis. "I'll go to the dye and linguini, but beyond the pasta, count me out." I knew a thing or two myself: how a local cardiologist, Dr. Belasco, had got himself in the steel château the year before for putting pacemakers in people whose hearts needed no pacing. I had just seen a report on _20/20_ about the failure of mechanical mitral valves, with consequences you don't want even to imagine, and you haven't got one in you. And I had read a letter to _The New York Times_ on the subject of heroic rescue of heart-diseased patients, from a Florida woman who wanted next time her heart played tricks on her to wake up dead. Called "Don't Save Me Again," the letter said, in part: I had open-heart surgery after two years in bed with congestive heart failure. I was a pioneer in valve replacement. This was followed by hepatitis (bad blood transfusion), coronary (valvular clot), hysterectomy (bleeding from anticoagulants), loss of vision (cerebrovascular accident), loss of ability to read (stroke), open-heart surgery (replacement of first mitral valve), more open-heart surgery (bleeding in chest cavity), cranial and internal bleeding (anticoagulants). Call me a stubborn fool, but I thought I'd take a pass on the chest cracking. The cardiologist spoke: "Your aortic valve is badly stenosed." "A mess?" He nodded. "How soon can we get someone to cut it out?" • • • _It_ was a genetic botch. It would be tidy to believe that the defect was a patrimony, given my persistent labors to memorialize in written and oral history my father's peculiar legacy to his sons. I had thought that his estate—twenty-five dollars—shared equally with my brother, was the last of him. Save for memories, it was. If my poor excuse for an aortic valve can be blamed on either parent's genes, I'd have to choose my mother's; her own unlucky mother died at forty-one of mitral stenosis and regurgitation, the failure of the other principal heart valve. In fact, even that sad end probably had nothing to do with my state, inasmuch as my grandmother was known to have had rheumatic fever, a common cause of heart-valve disorders. No, this was no one's fault. Not my father's, not my mother's, not even mine. The " _why me?_ " mechanism never kicked in. It made all the sense in the world that my aortic valve was stupid. It was just a thing that happens sometimes to some people. The night before my operation, the surgeon was very clear about things. To have my chest sawed and cut open, to be put on a heart-lung machine, to cut into the aorta to remove something, and replace it with something else—man-made—this was not without risks. Maybe five of a hundred patients don't come out of the operating room alive. Improving these pretty good odds were my otherwise good health, his celebrated skill, his faith in the valve he meant to sew in me. He was serene, a late-night reader, _very_ late-night, after a day of scheduled heart surgery, followed by the unforeseen: shotgunned chests, ice-picked pumps. He was too busy for a bedside manner, but he admired good writing. I hoped he liked my prose. I thought if maybe he admired my writing, maybe I'd have an edge, maybe even get what a friend in a similar fix got from his heart surgeon, a written guarantee that my friend would _never_ die. That kind of edge. On the other hand, maybe I'd do without the edge, and the cutting. What then, I asked the man who was next morning to hold my heart in his hands. Oh, for sure, without a valve replacement, I could expect to live maybe another year, probably less than half that. What was to decide? The morning Nicholas drove me to the hospital, I sat at my desk in what an in-law had called our "Terminal House" (because it is commodious enough to store a lifetime collection of junk), paying bills, working on—can you believe it?—taxes. Deposited (I know, I wouldn't believe it either) a "kill-fee" for a failed commissioned essay that was—as editors sometimes say—lifeless. The night before the dawn cutting-in, considerate nurses and counselors said what they needed to say, clarified, explained, explained again. While they were "in," as they said, "there," they might do that bypass, but probably would not. Time, I was told, is precious on a heart-lung machine. I feigned comprehension. Priscilla and Justin and Nicholas had come and gone and come and gone. They were great. Justin saved the occasion from sobersidedness. I mentioned that I needed bifocals. "Dad," he said, "did it occur to you that you were twenty-what—thirty, maybe—when Nick was born..." "Twenty-nine..." "Twenty-nine. _Old_. Too late to have kids. Irresponsible. You can't even throw a ball to your tykes. Now from four-eyes to six-eyes. Lousy foresight." To them, I had something that was bust, and could merely be fixed. I took peace from them. They wanted to see me as soon as it was over, in the intensive care unit, seemed to look forward to it, as to a happy ceremony. The surgeon had not exactly discouraged them, but I could tell, and Priscilla could tell, he'd sooner they waited. He suggested that I would make an alarming sight to people unused to seeing a person fresh from open-heart surgery. (Later, when I was thought well enough to be told such stories, I heard about a woman who came to see her husband—immediately post-op, as they say—minutes after a valve replacement. The shocking sight of him—his color, facial slackness, less man than junction box for wires and tubes—blew her heart, killed her dead.) Alone, I willed myself to think _de profundis_ about what was about to be done to me, to happen after. It has been a point of dispute between me and people I love that I suffer from a failure of gravity. I excuse myself by believing it wrong to confuse seriousness with solemnity, to pull a long face when I believe, believe right in my heart, that most things are funny. I do not exclude death, entirely. I know (but have had little experience) of deaths that were not approximately funny, but I won't dishonor them with easy pieties. My own imagination, for worse or better, inclines toward absurd ends. I was once in a near-collision at sea, aboard a famous Mediterranean steamship, flagship of the fleet, in the Straits of Gibraltar on a clear and moonlit night, when she altered course to draw close and salute her sister ship. It was a very close escape, and I knew in that moment that had it happened, my friends would learn of it and feel awful, but that part of the story, an important part, would be difficult to resist as comic narrative. Or difficult for me. I'm sorry. Now, though, I wasn't laughing. On the other hand, I wasn't frightened. (I put this down to consoling ignorance, but I also put it down to a temperamental abhorrence of theatricality.) What _would_ have frightened me was root canal. I don't have any notion what root canal is, and I don't want to know. Lying alone that night, I thought ruefully that I might miss by more than a little my ambition to check out debt-free and penniless. Let me just say that as difficult as it would have been for pals and kin to walk this planet without me, it would have been catastrophic for Visa and Diners' Club. Sears, had it known my situation, would have sent specialists from Mass General. American Express would have demanded a second opinion. On the telephone, my mother reminded me, perversely, how frightened I had been of the needle. Not just as a baby, but in sixth and seventh grade, when I needed a tetanus booster, how I'd had to be dragged from beneath the examining table. My sons—stitched up, down and sideways from bike accidents, rock fights, skiing accidents, falls from heights—had put some steel in me. Time had. And, finally, with sleep coming down fast, near midnight, I made myself think _what-if_. And I told myself, without tricking myself (I think), that I was ready for whatever, truly. It came down to a simple question. Did the people I love know I loved them, and were they apt to remember who had loved them? I thought so. If Justin were nine instead of seventeen, oh how I would have bawled that night! I would have known that he'd try and try to recall me, that my likeness would dim, and this would make him feel as though he'd betrayed me, or I'd betrayed him. And then I'd be merely an idea to him. But Justin knew me, Nicholas did, Priscilla in and out. They'd float without me, and if I died they wouldn't have to live with the strangest story ever told, but with a story that could be told, and explained, and accommodated in a sane scheme. The terrifying part, seeing a standing man tip over, seeing their father fall, and quiver, and drool: they'd seen it, and come through it. That night I was kind of the same, but they were not. Whatever happened next would be better than that day at the beach. After all, here I am, down the road from my valve job. I don't remember the morning hours before they did what they did. Such amnesia, induced chemically or physiologically, is commonplace. I remember waking, and that my wife and boys were there, and that I couldn't talk past the tubes down my throat, and that I wanted to talk. I remember a nurse in intensive care who fed me chips of ice through a whole night, a chip at a time, like a kid feeding an abandoned bird. They sent my miserable excuse for a valve to pathology. Rhode Island is a teaching hospital, so they will show off what was meant to be paper-thin fluttering valves and was in fact a chunk of calcium with a pinhole. _What do you think_ this _is?_ Students will scratch their heads. _Knuckle? Pig's foot?_ This way students will learn just how bad it can get before it can get no worse. I got an easy ride. It was not more fun than a day at the beach—let me be frank—but it was supportable. No nurse addressed me in the first person plural. Morphine rubbed the edge off for a couple of days, and then I went for a week to industrial-strength Tylenol, and then household strength, and within a few weeks nothing. For quite some time Priscilla leapt to my croaking pleas for ice water, crossword-puzzle assistance, a little help changing channels, or plumping my pillows. Pretty soon it was "Get it yourself." Of the get-well cards, I liked best the generic: elephants in doctors' offices, and puppies in baskets. Trust Hallmark. My breastbone is wired and stapled like a packing crate, and they say I'll set off metal detectors in airports. My scar is a beaut. Purple, visible at a good distance. It's not like that show-off LBJ's gall-bladder scar, a twisty chaos, map of Southeast Asia; mine is reasonable, straight as Park Avenue, the cross streets running at right angles—to Madison one way, Lex the other. When I remove my "Life's a Beach" T-shirt, the scar should make an electric impression on suntanners with a few days off from mortality, dreaming of wieners and fried onion rings. Me? I've got a _bad_ root-beer twin-stick jones. I wear a Medic Alert bracelet, engraved with dire warnings. It jangles cheaply, and I can hear my valve tripping seventy-to-the-minute, ticking over like a Baby Ben, or a tuned '56 Chevy, idling. My aorta is carbon and Dacron, simplicity itself, and it's called a St. Jude, after the saint of the impossible, patron of hopeless cases. When I asked my cardiologist how valve manufacturers handle recalls, he said (was that with a smile?) he hadn't really given the matter much thought. ("I'll tell you this," he told me; "I worship at St. Jude's in Pawtucket, and I haven't noticed any dead people manning a picket line in front of the church.") The valve was made not in Korea (or knocked off in Southern Italy, where craftsmen would have mis-stamped it "arctic value"), or worse luck by the Heart Valve Division of General Motors (I'd want to shun models built on Mondays and Fridays). It was fabricated in St. Paul, Minnesota, where they haven't even heard rumors of recreational drugs, and people wash their hands after using the lavatory, and quality control ( _I don't like the look of that weld, Sven_ ) is top-of-the-line. It comes with a lifetime warranty, I'm quite sure. I think of what happened on the beach and after as training for the future. But some questions I didn't ask. While I was in the land of Nod (they use curare, the stuff little people put on their blow darts), my heart was chilled (frozen?). Okay, where _was_ it? What's your hunch? Was it in me, or was it _on another table?_ Would that not be a prudent way to work on a pump, as a mechanic might repair a carburetor, on a bench, handy to the tools? What's your best line on this? I could straight-out ask, but I won't. I could ask how much time I bought, but I won't. # Matterhorn There came a moment when I needed to climb a mountain. Not just a mountain, a _mountain_. My notion incited some friends to unbecomingly undisguised incredulity. This I expected. I did not expect the response of other friends, and some kin: my ambition seemed to insult them. They either disbelieved or mocked me, sometimes to my face. Others close to me, wishing to seem gentler, fretted in that avuncular way that can end friendships: _What's up with Geoffrey? I wonder, Does he know it's difficult to climb a mountain? Who does he think he is?_ They "worried" that I didn't remember I had passed fifty, and they "worried" that I had forgotten my open-heart surgery the year before, a new aortic valve, the contingencies. Well, exactly: downslope of middle age, bionic heart, narrow escape—what better provocation to stir things up? I'd never climbed before or dreamed of climbing; I was quite sure I would not climb again after this once (just as young Nick Adams, of Hemingway's "Indian Camp," having witnessed a suicide, was "quite sure" he would never die). But what about duty, responsibility to others, to my wife and little ones? Well, the little ones are growing older than their old man (or, at least, less childish). They thought to climb was a high idea, and if they hadn't thought this, so what? Priscilla knew I wanted to do this, and she understood why mine was a solitary rather than a family ambition, and while laissez-faire would not customarily describe her policy, she had no wish to stand between me and the uphill path to the summit of a high mountain. Well, not just any high mountain, the best high mountain, the Matterhorn. Some very few sights are self-evidently what they are: New York's skyline and the Eiffel Tower require no elaboration. The Matterhorn is of this tight family of marvels, recognized in the blink of an eye. It's not the highest mountain in the world, or in the Alps, or in Switzerland, or in the Valaisian canton, or within view of Zermatt. So why is the Amai Dablang, higher by six thousand feet, called the "Matterhorn of the Himalayas"? And why do likenesses of the Matterhorn dress up wrappers of chocolate bars and Jamaican cigarettes? Why did Walt Disney erect a 360-foot model of the Matterhorn in Anaheim for Disneyland's roller coaster? Why would Baskin-Robbins name its grandest ice-cream sundae a Matterhorn? Why is it the logo for Paramount's motion pictures? Because the Matterhorn _is_ paramount is why. To think mountain is to see Matterhorn. Unshouldered by nearby mountains, it diminishes higher peaks. I mean it stands _alone_. The Matterhorn has been likened to a ruined tower, a sphinx upon a pedestal of ice, the bust of a giant, an obelisk, a rearing horse, a masterpiece of Art rather than a blind accident of nature. Guido Rey, Italian mountaineer, author of _The Matterhorn_ (1907), understood the limits of language in the face of that formidable thing: "Every time the Matterhorn appears upon the landscape it is wise for the writer to cease his description, and to refer the reader to—the Matterhorn." Well, I could tell you that the Matterhorn is 14,691 feet high. A great rock pyramid with sheer faces, razor-ridged, saved from an illusion of artificiality by a hunched, off-true peak. In clear light, with feathery billows pluming like vapor trail from its bent crest, the Matterhorn appears unearthly. In hard weather—the summit disappearing in furious black clouds, then, stabbed by lightning, abruptly materializing—the Matterhorn seems ungodly, and to climb it unimaginable. What the spicy Indies were to Columbus and the North Pole to Peary, the Matterhorn was to mountain climbers of the nineteenth century. A local Italian guide, Jean-Antoine Carrel, attacked the heap of stone as if by ambush, shrewdly advancing, year after year, always higher. Otherwise the assaults were mostly by the British, who elevated the climbing of mountains from the arduous necessity of high-altitude travel (in the service of religious missions, warfare, smuggling, scientific curiosity) into an immoderate passion. Al Alvarez, a poet and mountaineer, uses Jeremy Bentham's phrase "deep play" to describe the enterprise of climbing. Bentham, celebrator of utility, despised deep play, in which "the stakes are so high that... it is irrational for anyone to engage in it at all, since the marginal utility of what you stand to win is grossly outweighed by the disutility of what you stand to lose." During Victoria's toplofty decades of Empire, improbable conquest was useful and quotidian. Young British athletes, who regarded discomfort as a virtue almost as fine as understatement, challenged summit upon summit, cutting notches on alpenstocks at higher and higher altitudes, climbing from rough, isolated valleys where travelers seemed to have no reasonable business, where hospitality—let alone the concept of Swiss innkeeping—was uninvented. London's Alpine Club, founded in 1857 with members drawn from the professions and peerage, from universities and the clergy, was joined by a wood-engraving son of a wood engraver, Edward Whymper; Whymper was commissioned by a London publisher to prepare illustrations for a record of Alpine explorations. The issue of this enterprise is Whymper's _Scrambles Amongst the Alps_ , perhaps the best account of mountain climbing ever written. Whymper has been called a "hard goer in an age of hard goers." Indeed. During eighteen days early in the summer of 1865, he ascended almost 100,000 feet. Fifty-five hundred feet of vertical a day— _up_ —every day! And then down; some say down is harder. Whymper was known to have walked eighty-six miles in twenty-four hours. Precise, imaginative, he had ingenuity, knew languages, invented many climbing devices. But above all, above even his stamina, Whymper had will. Oh, did he have will. Beginning in 1861, Whymper made seven assaults on the Matterhorn's Italian side; four years later it remained the last major Alpine mountain still unclimbed. Whymper was adding to his reputation for courage a quality more dangerous than courage: reckless compulsion. In 1862, during his fourth of five attempts that summer, he fell two hundred feet in seven or eight mighty, destructive bounces and still he flung himself at the thing's implacable stone face. As Whymper well imagined, there was hubris in any contest with the Matterhorn. He wrote that "there seemed to be a _cordon_ drawn around it, up to which one might go, but no farther. Within that invisible line djinns and efreets were supposed to out of sight exist.... The superstitious natives... spoke of a ruined city on its summit wherein the spirits dwelt; and if you laughed, they gravely shook their heads." (And hurled down rocks.) Mid-July of 1865, Whymper's urgency was fueled by envy. He learned that an Italian party was readying an attack from their side of what they know as Monte Cervino, with a high probability of success. He made pell-mell for Zermatt and checked into the Monte Rosa, where he happened on two other British climbers: Lord Francis Douglas and the Reverend Charles Hudson, the latter accompanied by a nineteen-year-old friend, Douglas Hadow. Whymper's favorite guide, the Frenchman Michel Croz, was in the service of Hudson, and Lord Douglas had arranged to be assisted in his try at the Matterhorn by a couple of Zermatt guides, the now infamous Peter Taugwalders, father and son. Whymper liked to climb alone, or with a single guide, but the pressure of the Italian venture tempted him to join forces with his countrymen. So after dinner at the Monte Rosa an _ad hoc_ and ill-considered alliance was struck, casually, as British gentlemen liked to agree to grave matters. Nevertheless, Whymper was uncomfortable with the inclusion of young Hadow, who was inexperienced in high-risk climbs. He took Hudson aside after dinner to inquire about the boy. An artisan, Whymper wasn't the Reverend Mr. Hudson's and Lord Douglas's social peer, so it may be imagined with what deference his questions were asked, and how they were answered: by arched eyebrows, with nods and grunts between pulls on the cigar, sips of the Madeira, "Fine chap," Hudson would have assured; "game, a gentleman." "Oh quite," Whymper would agree; " _rather!_ " And thus was born a catastrophe. The ungainly party set out on July 13 from the Monte Rosa in perfect weather to attack the Swiss (Hörnli) Ridge. Conventional wisdom had held this route to be unassailable: viewed head-on from Zermatt the ridge seems knife-blade-sharp, and sheer. Whymper, as an illustrator so well trained in observation, came to see this as an optical illusion caused by foreshortening. The climb began with gorgeous ease, as though to mock the trials of Whymper's earlier attempts: the lightning storms that had pinned him, battered and exhausted, to some toehold crevice; the cannonades of rocks and boulders falling randomly as the mountain, freezing and thawing, came relentlessly apart. The group bivouacked at eleven thousand feet, and the next morning, Bastille Day, as though climbing a natural staircase, they gained the summit—piece of cake!—and, spying the rival Italians twelve hundred feet below, Whymper heaved "a torrent of stones" down toward them. This uncharacteristic meanness of spirit, a belligerent mix of war-rush and spite, marked the beginning of Whymper's awful descent. A month later, writing to a stranger, Whymper told his sad progress after conquering the world's most spellbinding mountain: "For five years I have dreamt of the Matterhorn; I have spent much labour and time upon it and I have done it. And now the very name of it is hateful to me. Congratulations on its achievement are bitterness and ashes and that which I hoped would yield pleasure produces alone the severest pain." The plunge was morbidly portrayed at the time by a Gustave Doré drawing showing four men tumbling toward space at the onset of a half-mile free fall. What went wrong is in dispute, but Hudson, Douglas, Hadow and the revered guide Michel Croz fell, and died. A postmortem and any number of amateur investigations agree that the proximate cause of the accident was the inexperienced Hadow, who was so unsure of his feet that Croz was obliged to place them properly with his hands. Still near the summit, Hadow, roped together with the other three, stumbled at an easy place, for no evident reason, and took his fellows with him. Old Peter Taugwalder, tied to the luckless four, took the weight of the fall, and the rope parted. (The rope that broke is on display in Zermatt's Alpine Museum; it's fit to tie a package, but not to hold the weight of a climber, let alone two, three, _four_.) Taugwalder fled Zermatt in infamy; many Zermatters suspected him, forever after, of having cut his fellows loose. Whymper, who judged both Taugwalders to be swinish cowards, denied that any such crime was possible. The tragedy put Zermatt on the map, and confirmed the Matterhorn's sinister magic. My corner room at the Monte Rosa looked to the south at the Matterhorn's Hörnli Ridge and cast across the main drag, the Bahnhofstrasse, to the boneyard. No sooner unpacked than I was down there, walking the rows of graves where more than eighty climbers were buried, marked by headstones embellished with bronze coils of climbing rope, or ice axes. Some of the stones were mountain-shaped, Matterhorn-shaped. Jonathan Henry Convelle, 27: "... fell from the North Face of the Matterhorn on 29th December, 1979." Donald Stephen Williams, 17: "I chose to climb." (Breit horn, 1975) French: four young men on the Breithorn, " _morts accidentellement dans l'ascension..._ " A couple of Spaniards: " _desaparecidos en el Monte Cervino..._ " A young man from Stuttgart: _"Gefallen am Matterhorn."_ But mostly the dead there (and in the graveyard of the English Chapel, a little glacier garden of granite set on a hill behind the Alpine Museum) were Whymper's countrymen, Oxford and Cambridge boys and their chums memorialized in Latin ( _Per Ardua Ad Alta_ ) or plain English, telling of this one "killed in a crevasse" in 1925, or by "falling stones" in 1895, or "during a terrible snowstorm 18 August, 1886." I meant, I have said, to climb the Matterhorn. Why? Let's say because _I_ was there. No: I'm being flip. I meant to climb the Matterhorn because to climb it was for me so improbable. For too many years now I had failed to surprise myself, to reach beyond my grasp. Not that the Matterhorn was Everest, or the Eiger. No less an authority than the Alpine Club of London's official guidebook, the _Pennine Alps Central_ , calling the Matterhorn "the most sought-after [mountain] among climbers in the world," told that it has been climbed by "cats, dogs, monkeys and a bear, and by children (one of seven reached the top in two hours)." Of the Hörnli Ridge, which turned the honey to ash in Whymper's mouth, the Alpine Club remarks casually that it is "monotonous, especially in descent." After a summary of stunts on the Matterhorn—speed climbs, successful attempts to girdle the summit, winter climbs, the ascent of all four ridges in a single day—the guidebook concludes its patronizing theme by quoting a remark of Guido Rey: "Its slopes are still considered unsuitable for skiing." (Not so: the Japanese fellow who skied down Everest has also skied from the summit to the base of the Matterhorn, incidentally causing the escapade to be filmed.) Guido Rey had also written that despite the commonplace conquests of the mountain, "the Matterhorn will never be a vulgar mountain." My first afternoon in Zermatt I was given cause to wonder about that. Put aside the Disneyish knickknacks, disregard the Japanese wonders-of-the-world collectors photographing the knickknacks; regard Zermatt's goats, bells jangling cutely at their necks as they are driven along the Bahnhofstrasse by a bucolically tricked-out goatherd. The goats work on commission—farmers are _paid_ to drive their bewildered beasts through town, a round-trip promenade without destination, with no end other than quaint photographability. And the goaty mess they drop? Not to worry: the streets of Zermatt are cleaned—I mean _cleaned_ —every six minutes or so. During a visit to the town tourist office to learn the telephone number of my guide, I found a young Swiss woman being assailed from across the counter by a countryman of mine, a primitive with a smoker's rasp and a blended-whisky-drinker's nose. This fellow held in his left hand a tourist brochure, which he smacked emphatically with his right fingers. "Look here, missy! It says, 'See the Matterhorn up close, from the comfort of your air-conditioned bus.' Now where does the bus _leave_ from?" "As you see, sir, we have no cars or buses on our streets..." "I want to ride in a _bus_ to the _top_ of your darned Matterhorn!" He was invited to dart out on the Bahnhofstrasse to examine the elevation at issue, and judge for himself whether it seemed suitable for assault by (air-conditioned) bus. He waved his brochure. The patient lady explained that while it was possible to rise by cable car to the flanks of the mountain's steep summit, the only way to the top was to climb the thing, one circumspect step after another. "No way! Iris will never sit still for that!" Iris, wise lady, nodded her vigorous assent. So the Matterhorn's ubiquity may breed a kind of offhand contempt, and the would-be climber is torn between the scorn of well-wishers who deride an old hubby/daddy's audacity and mountaineers' derision for a well-worn path, overtramped by amateurs clinging to fixed ropes. Josie Furrer, my guide, put the matter in fit perspective. The Furrers have farmed the valley since the Middle Ages; the past century or so they have climbed, and some Furrers have died climbing, and two Furrer guides have died on the Matterhorn. The Alpine Club's dismissal of the mountain as "monotonous" was not my guide's view. Josie is tall and ropy thin, with a cowpoke's easy lope. He once made a long visit in the States, coming like many Swiss mountain men to ski-instruct; some deeper instinct drew him to a Durango, Colorado, ranch to herd cattle. As a kid, he was a shepherd (the kind who later goes to college), tending sheep and goats in the mountain pastures above Zermatt and Winkelmatten. To ease the boredom, he and his young pals—on dares and double-dares—would climb whatever was handy, and up there above the tree line, rocks were handy. Like many Swiss and most mountain men, Josie is taciturn, his energy and irony radiating from his eyes rather than his words. Taciturnity is a luxury, the fruit of Zermatt's prosperity. In older times, during the pioneer days of climbing, Zermatt's guides (many of them smugglers and mule drivers) gathered along a wall facing the Monte Rosa, touting their strength and valor, showing off books of testimonials from previous climbers. In not-so-old days, most of a Zermatter's family income came from guiding, and every able-bodied young man and boy set up outside the Monte Rosa with his book. (Josie has his, a keepsake rather than an advertising medium.) For decades Swiss guides have been stringently examined and licensed; a dozen people, more or less, die every year on the Matterhorn, but none in the company of a guide these past thirty years. In the bar of the Monte Rosa, Josie inquired, delicately but directly, into my fitness. I made no vainglorious claims: I do what the doctors order, and a little more; I walk, row, ride a bicycle, play squash. He knew my mountain-climbing biography: _tabula rasa_. We did not discuss a certain medication I must take to thin my blood, a remedy for clots on an artificial aortic valve at the heart of me. Coumadin makes me an abundant bleeder, an easy bruiser. Some informed medical opinion holds that Coumadin users should avoid hammers and screwdrivers, let alone ice axes, crampons and sharp stones. "I'd like to climb the Matterhorn," I said. "Yes," he said. "So you said." "What do you think?" "There's ice on the rocks. The guides aren't climbing it." "But if there weren't ice, what do you think?" "Tomorrow morning we'll climb some rocks, try the Riffelhorn. We'll see." We caught the earliest morning cog train to Gornergrat, as far as Rotboden. (At the end of the nineteenth century porters carted well-fed tourists up here and higher in sedan chairs. Four francs! I know, a franc then was a franc, but this is a forty-five-minute train ride.) Along the gorgeous way, through forests of ancient larch, past waterfalls and sheer drops, Josie seemed stimulated by the scenery as though he'd never seen it before; he pointed out glaciers and peaks, but always our eyes returned to the Matterhorn. (It's odd, the relentless pull of that mountain. First thing every morning, last every evening, I glanced out my window to verify it was still there.) We swung down at a little station and walked a path to the base of a rock cliff, and at the base Josie helped me fix a harness to my chest, and to this he connected one end of a long coil of rope; then he began to climb, and told me to follow, and that was that. (Oh, he also exhorted me to "trust my boots.") The Riffelhorn is a serious hunk of rock, used by Zermatt guides to judge their clients' upper-body strength, dexterity and, above all, their tolerance for "exposure," that great emptiness below and to the sides through which one would fall should one fall. Climbing the Matterhorn's Hörnli Ridge, one looks a foot or so to the right to a half-mile drop, and to the left a ditto to a ditto. Some people don't enjoy this. Some, climbing the Riffelhorn, looking beneath their toes jammed in smooth and minuscule dimples in the rock, looking down a couple of hundred feet and more, know they won't enjoy what they see on the Hörnli Ridge, and there's an end to that: home we go. The exposure didn't trouble me; my eyes were fixed near, on the handholds and toeholds inches away; concentration effaced imagination. Not that I wasn't frightened by the here and now: to climb that face seemed at first out of the question. I found myself spread-eagled, a fly on the wall, always fixed (as Josie insisted) at three points. I would have preferred four, but such a system makes progress difficult. "A few inches to the left and up, there's a _nice_ grip." How, above me, looking up, did he know? He beheld the way as intimately as a person comes to know the route from bedroom to bathroom. His voice was patient, serene. We began to climb faster; the progress seemed easier—but Josie said later the line became more difficult, modeling the Matterhorn's demands. I felt exhilarated, and then we were up there, the summit. Josie shook my hand, and I felt like a million Swiss francs. Looking toward the Matterhorn, Josie said, "I have to tell you, you didn't do badly." I slipped out of my harness. "Can I climb the Matterhorn?" "First we'll climb the Breithorn, and then we'll see." "Are the guides climbing the Matterhorn yet?" The weather had been clear and warm the previous five days, and it was difficult to imagine the Matterhorn's upper rocks varnished with ice. "No. Others have tried. Two Belgians fell yesterday." "Hurt?" "Dead. Coming down, it is thought. The trouble usually comes on the descent. They set out too late, become tired, light-headed. Now, we must descend." Coming down you face out, like having a ladder's rungs at your back, and it is impossible not to regard your miserable possibilities; you are _meant_ to look down. Josie was above me, and noticed I had failed to put my harness in place, and I paused to secure it, then began to lead down fast, showing off. Just as he suggested I slow the pace, my rucksack jammed between my back and the cliff face; using my heels as a fulcrum, I felt the rucksack wedge me forward, and I was already beyond the point of recovery when I observed (if that isn't too incredible an understatement), "I'm falling," and Josie snugged down the rope. I was trapped (his rope pulled what the rucksack tried to push), and Josie had to pay out line till I was facing down, secured by the rope and my heels, better educated than a few minutes before in the physics of this pastime. Then my rucksack fell back where it belonged, and I knew why Josie's was secured at his waist. At the depot we made an appointment for the Breithorn climb two days later. Josie said he would like to observe my stamina. Climbing the Riffelhorn, I had not felt spent; rock-climbing is deliberate, requiring many pauses to calculate the route, enforcing rest. The Breithorn is a snow-and-ice climb to almost the same altitude as the Matterhorn. Dawn was midsummer temperate in Zermatt, and I felt preposterous in my long johns, wool socks and knickers, with mittens and cap in my rucksack, to which were strapped crampons and an ice ax. (I also carried glacier cream, glacier glasses to prevent snow blindness, a chocolate bar, water, medicine for altitude sickness.) Thus burdened, I clomped in heavy leather climbing boots to the cable car that would lift me by stages a half hour from Winkelmatten to the base of the Breithorn. By its simplest route, in good conditions, the Breithorn is said to be the easiest four-thousander (4,000 meters plus) in the Alps. I met Josie at the staging area for our ascent and without small talk or delay—to assure that this would be a climb in good conditions (the snow's crust too hard to break through)—he roped us together, walked ahead ten or fifteen yards and commanded me to follow. The first hour or so—descending gradually to a valley between two peaks, leveling off, walking on firm snow—was effortless. (In warm, soft snow a Breithorn climber can sink with every step to his crotch, and that can very quickly get to be a very old story.) The view was stunning: the Breithorn has a rounded vanilla crown, massive, toward which I moved freshly, feeling frisky on my leash, wondering why Josie walked with such slow, considered steps. The rope, I knew, was to save me from the consequence of crevasses, which were, with whiteouts (and lost routes), the mountain's principal peril. After an hour, at the foot of an ascent, Josie directed me to strap crampons to my boots, and the following hour offered a full curriculum of my middle-aged limits. By now the wind had come up, and at our altitude it was cold in the bright sun, and still I was sweating from the labor of a steep climb up a narrow ice path. The crampons' teeth, extending forward from the toes as well as down, made for clumsy going, and occasionally my right boot tangled in my left, and then Josie, climbing relentlessly above me, would unintentionally tug my leash, bringing to mind a conceit altogether different from master and pup; now I was on a chain gang, and I began to wonder, for the first time since I had hatched this plan a year ago, what in the world was I doing in that place, tied to that young man, being towed uphill? Swiss guides climb taking dainty steps; the rule has it that however strenuous the ascent, a climber should be able to talk in a normal voice, and continue up without pause, and in that way those wee steps cover great distances. We went up mutely, saving our breath; what we were doing was difficult. I was determined not to complain, to be a stand-up guy at 13,666 feet, but soon I was pausing every thirty seconds or so. My calf muscles burned, and the air was thin, thin, thin. I watched climbers strung out below, gaining a little on us. Gray clouds were sweeping up from Italy, and the light had gone flat. Josie looked unhappily at the sky. I thought he might suggest we go back down. He blew warm air into his mittens, and said, "We should move on. We can't stay long at the summit." Looking where he pointed, I saw we were there, almost. And seeing this I breathed easy, and felt a rush of unwarranted pride. And just short of the summit I heard footfalls behind me. Let me say these were rapid footfalls, and someone, not at all short of breath, said in several languages "Excuse me," and a young man passed us as though he were walking a city street, late for a romantic appointment, grinning, all bounce and cheer. He was carrying _skis_ on his shoulder, and through his eyes I saw myself—an antique person. But I got my handshake, and ate my chocolate bar; the sun punched a hole in Italy's smoggy clouds, and there was the Matterhorn. "Do you think I'm fit to climb it?" "Maybe," Josie said. "But not yet. It's still iced. Crampons go badly on rocks." Indeed. That afternoon a young American died on the Matterhorn. Two weeks in Zermatt, two weeks of perfect weather, and up there on the mountain that mattered the snow clung to sheer faces and ice glazed the rocks. After the American died, I asked Josie why they didn't close the mountain, and he looked at me with wonder, as though he had just then learned more about me than he wanted to know, that I was a sea-level flatlander through and through. _Close the mountain?_ What could I mean? To climb was to risk, a personal choice, deep play. My final day, I wearied of looking at the Matterhorn from a middle distance, preparing for it, reading about it, studying the tombstones it had sowed. From its base at Schwarzsee I hiked two thousand feet to the Hörnli Hut, where climbers spend the night before taking the thing on in the cold dark hours before dawn, setting off with headlamps to get up there early enough to get down again alive. It was a hard walk up to the hut, but the way was well traveled, and I was not alone. Below the sheer cliffs I saw the glacier gardens fan out; great crows climbed and fell on the thermals, and then I made my studied, solitary way along iced patches, and through new-fallen snow. The Matterhorn makes its own weather, and last night it had made bad weather. At the hut the sun drilled down, and young climbers fiddled with their equipment, preparing for the morning. Some were jittery, laughing too often and loud; others were grave, like bullfighters waiting for it to begin. I sat on the terrace of the simple hut, trying to strike up talk, but I didn't belong there, and so I moved along, climbing, till the hut had disappeared. I was looking for a hand-lettered sign Josie had told me about. It had been erected a year or two ago—maybe three, Josie said—by the mother of a young American who had died on the Matterhorn. The sign was a warning to take the mountain seriously. I never found the warning. Maybe it was set higher than I wished to climb, or maybe someone had removed it, spooked by the bad vibes it gave off, or maybe time wore it down, as it wears down mountains, and us. I cranked my head back and back, looked up. No. This was not to be. I turned my back on the summit, and moved out, down. My feelings were complex: I had dragged myself to the bottom of that wonderful mountain, just this once. I drew cards, once. I was dealt a low hand, and now I'll stand pat with it, at sea level. # Waterway ### The Deal One May afternoon, end of Nicholas Wolff's junior year at college, drinking beer so cold we needed mittens to hold the cans, aboard our boat reaching rail-down into the sun and toward the beach at Mackerel Cove on the island where we live, himself at the helm giving orders (ease that sheet a tad, you might want to tighten the luff line on the main), we struck a deal. Or I dictated a deal, simplicity itself: on graduating from Bowdoin he would take this boat, the _Blackwing_ , to the Bahamas, with one or two chums. There was nothing to it—other than taking full responsibility for our boat, which _I_ pay for, and teaching his friends to sail, navigate, cook on a galley stove without blowing up the unfortunate boat; other than maintaining the sails and gear and engine and electronics, and troubling that the dinghy wasn't stolen, and earning enough money before he sailed from home to keep himself afloat without work for six months, and making certain the anchor didn't drag when autumn and winter gales blasted him, and learning first aid, and keeping his friends out of the ocean and clear of the boom... why, there was nothing to the venture but a nod, a wink, another beer and a faraway look on Nicholas's face that I took to be gratitude for my trust, but was in truth cogitation. During the following year, when friends would remark what a generous fellow I was and how trusting (how could I bank on a mere boy with so much boat? wasn't he grateful?), that circumspect countenance would steal on Nicholas's face, and he'd catch my eye, and I'd shrug. In fact, I had every reason to trust him: he was handy; he didn't get seasick; he knew (as I didn't and don't) celestial navigation; he'd been trained to strip down and repair a diesel engine; he'd sailed offshore weeks at a time on a tall ship; he'd been aloft in great seas and screaming winds; his instincts on the water seemed flawless. We'd been together on the water since he was ten, and in trouble he had never failed to come through. Besides, _Blackwing_ would either winter over in my backyard (while I paid the bank and watched her cradled in blocks, swathed in tarps and crusted with snow a few yards from a blue spruce) or in the Bahamas. Which would she prefer? Also besides, any trouble Nicholas could get into was the same trouble his father could get into. That the 30-foot cutter would suffer battle scars I had no doubt. There was no end of things to go wrong. So what? An anchor could hook an obstruction and be twisted or lost, a winch could freeze up, a mainsail rip; Nicholas and his friends would fix or replace what ingenuity and their thin wallets could make right. While Nicholas seemed to consider it was not his boat to be philosophic about, I was philosophic. _Que será_ and all that. And besides, I had an interest: if my son got _Blackwing_ to the Bahamas, my wife and I would have a boat in the Bahamas. He got her there. He and two college buddies provisioned her and prepared her for sea in September, while hurricane Hugo made its way up the East Coast from the Caribbean. When it passed, Nicholas gave them a crash course in the rudiments of sailing, and slipped our Jamestown, Rhode Island, mooring the first day of October. Block Island, Fishers Island, The Thimbles, Long Island, City Island, the East River, Sandy Hook, Mannasquan, Atlantic City, Cape May, Chesapeake City, Sassafras River, Annapolis, Smith Island, Norfolk, the Dismal Swamp, Elizabeth City, the Alligator River, Okrakoke, Oriental, Beaufort, Wrightsville Beach, Waccamaw River, Charleston, another Beaufort, New Teakettle Creek, St. Simon's Island, St. Augustine, Daytona, Cocoa Beach, Vero Beach, Fort Pierce, Palm Beach, Fort Lauderdale, Key Biscayne, the Gulf Stream, Gun Cay, the Bahama Banks, Chub Cay, Nassau, Allan's Cay, Hawksbill Cay, Sampson Cay, Pipe Creek, Staniel Cay, George Town, Eleuthera, Governor's Harbour, The End of the Road. That road was six months unwinding, bristling with pitfalls and drug dealers and drug agents and anxiety and shoals and snags and reefs and the worst gear-busting winter winds ever recorded in the southern Bahamas. Priscilla and I had agreed to meet Nicholas and _Blackwing_ at Governor's Harbour on the 100-mile-long island of Eleuthera on March 20. Such time-tabled rendezvous are laughably chimerical. On our end we had flu to avoid, blizzards to pray against, semi-tropical airlines with semi-tropical attitudes toward confirmed reservations and clockwork schedules. On Nicholas's end was a complex of nautical machinery, his body's machinery, weather systems, kismet. On March 20, we landed with Nicholas's brother, Justin, at Eleuthera's little airport, and took a taxi to the harbor. In the harbor, swinging from a mooring thousands of miles from home, our boat and our son. The boat was impeccable, the sun shining, the son tan and grinning, the family Wolff fused, trust repaid, the outcome agreeable. It was difficult not to feel smug: I'd told them so, and it was so. With what mixed feelings Nicholas surrendered command of _Blackwing_ might be imagined. With what mixed feelings I took responsibility for safely returning Priscilla, the boat and me to Rhode Island might be imagined. The idea was to take it easy, to laze three hundred miles through the islands of the northern Bahamas and back across the Gulf Stream; then to push more than a thousand miles up the Waterway to Norfolk; then to bring her the final six hundred miles home, reading the seabagful of paperbacks we'd brought, catching some good rays, watching the handsome world float by at five miles per hour—less, if we wanted to hang out. I had finished and revised a book; Priscilla was on leave from teaching. We felt we deserved this, and we knew we needed a jolt to our routine. Back home we were owned by a house, and trees, and gardens, and processes of maintenance that had become habitual, were becoming reflexive, feckless. We'd begun to sleepwalk through the seasons, constricting with work and relaxing with our eyes closed. I was beginning to look forward to figuring our income taxes: the novelty of the year was a story narrated by spreadsheet; had we done better or worse this year than last year? We had begun to worry ourselves. It wasn't a "rat race" we had entered. "Rat race" is too vigorous for how it felt; "Getting and spending we lay waste our powers" was too verby for how it felt. Pulling the covers over our heads was how it felt. We were past due for a sea change. I sensed a danger in the serene regularity our life together had become: what I happened to know at my age could too easily become all I thought I needed or wanted to know. I needed a good shaking up, wanted to see anew, with sharp eyes, beyond my accustomed range and field of vision. Not that I welcomed obstacles or difficulty, the friction that makes for good narrative and bad marriage. Let it not be assumed that my appetite for refreshment was mere midlife crisis. No: I was well beyond the hammy clutch of crisis. I needed to sharpen my edge, and I thought I understood that a sea passage—scary, chancy, variable—was a sovereign honer. I would—by Neptune!—relax with a vengeance. ### The Islands During the transition week, we stayed in Eleuthera at a friend's beach house, and swam and played Ping-Pong and read and played Ping-Pong and walked on the beach and argued about politics and played Ping-Pong and played Ping-Pong. I guess I mean to say we had fun. Most mornings that week, Nicholas instructed me an inch at a time in the foibles of the boat I had taught him to sail. This felt less like usurpation than succession; call it evolution. When Nicholas took _Blackwing_ , he had understood that to have the engine break down—and carelessness of many kinds could cause it to break—would be a tragedy of uninsured Force 10 magnitude, a five-thousand-dollar mischance. So, I had reckoned, Nicholas would not be careless with our engine, with what he seemed to regard as _my_ engine. He was not careless, but his pinched means and pinch-fist ways had motivated him to learn certain ugly chores I had paid others to do. So now he taught me the perversities of the fuel filters, and how to change the engine oil without having to steam-clean myself and burn my clothes when I was finished. He showed me how to tighten the stuffing box, a duty so ghastly I don't even want to tell you what it is or how it's done or why. A job I did once after Nicholas took me through it a step at a time. A job I again pay others to do. I felt like a stranger on our boat: not only because I was being taught her ways as though I were chartering her, but because _Blackwing_ looked different. The boat looked better. It had always looked good, I think, but Nicholas had made it look better. He had finished the cherry interior bright, laying up coat after coat of varnish. (And where did three six-footers sleep while the varnish was drying?) Above decks he had taken all the brightworked teak down to bare wood, and brushed on eight coats. Below, the bilge was dry, smelled sweet. The sails had been cleaned and spot-mended. You would not guess looking into my son's bedroom at home that _Blackwing_ 's icebox would have been scrubbed, but it had been scrubbed. (The ice chest was also empty. Dry. Hot. They had sailed more than two months in the Bahamas without ice. Ice cost money. Those boys had been strapped for cash; cleaning out detritus from _Blackwing_ 's forward shelf, I'd found a want ad torn from a Florida newspaper: "Fair recompense paid to subjects offering services for scientific study of Jock Itch." Six weeks ago Nicholas had phoned me from the Exumas. Overcoming my terror of the cold and uninflected voice I heard when he guessed I was meddling, I had asked him how his money was holding up. "Great. No sweat. I've got almost a hundred dollars!" He's not a hedonist.) He had made our boat sound and clean, and made us happy. There was nothing more that he could do, except sail with us and Justin twenty miles north up the west coast of Eleuthera to Hatchet Bay, and say good-bye. The day, like all Eleutheran days so far, was clear; the wind was fair; _Blackwing_ moved fast through twenty-five feet of water. We could see the bottom—could we ever see the bottom! We could identify a thin dime on the bottom, but we weren't looking at the bottom, pretty as it was; in the way of victims of vertigo, we disciplined ourselves not to look down. We instead stared ahead, trying to make out distinguishing features along what seemed to be an undifferentiated coast. But in less than the time it takes to tell, we were sailing through a hole in the wall, and making our way to a mooring of the Hatchet Bay Yacht Club. A few feet from the mooring pickup Nicholas said the water looked to him "thin," and I was on the point of requiring him to define his terms when I ran us aground in soft mud. I don't run aground. Ask anyone. Maybe I _used to_ run aground, in Chesapeake Bay, but I DO NOT RUN AGROUND. "Dad, we're high and dry. Tide'll ease you off in a couple of hours. Mix a Mount Gay and juice. Be mellow in the Islands, mon. Gotta blaze, Ma. Justin and I have a plane to catch." This was what a father does when he throws his son off the deep end (I guess here the conceit would call for shallow end), and yells _Swim!_ There was water enough to float the dinghy, and I rowed my sons ashore, and asked Nicholas how often this had happened to him. "Well, that's a weird thing. Never, actually." (Well, actually: would _you_ believe him?) After Nicholas rescued his brother and said good-bye—jumped ship, took French leave, abandoned his mummy and daddy—Priscilla and I had a long, hard look at our hole cards. Neither told the other then, but both wondered what did we think we were doing? We had loran, a pinpoint navigational device. I punched in Jamestown, Rhode Island, to see our range and bearing, how far and on what course was home from Hatchet Bay. The loran scratched its head, added sums on its fingers and said go north about eleventy zillion miles. Uh-huh. After Priscilla reminded me of our agreement, that she could jump ship whenever she was fed up with _Blackwing_ or its crew, we decided to put a Zoot Sims tape on the deck, were pleased to have verifiable corroboration that a rising tide floats all ships, ate a fine meal. The harbor was snug and pretty, bordered by the little settlement of Alice Town. This Saturday night a volleyball game was being played under arc lights against a neighbor from the archipelago called the Family Islands. It was a sweet occasion: we could hear bellows of enthusiasm, and Priscilla and I smiled a private smile, happy to share (at a little distance) the Bahamians' pleasures, to hear their boisterous huzzahs. We were moored beside a spanky new ocean racer of about fifty feet; she was named _Tranquility_ , which is probably—after _At Last_ and _Finally_ —the John Smith of boat names. All was tranquil on _Tranquility_ , just as you'd hope at bedtime. The next morning we were wakened before sunrise. The anchor was being raised on the ocean racer. The anchor rode was chain, and to run chain through a windlass and into a chain locker is to make a satanic clamor, skeletons slam-dancing in Hell. But that heavy clanking was as nothing against the nasal, boyish whine, speaking Southernese, in response to the captain's invitation that his deckhand "get that fucking anchor off the bottom!" "You fucking get the fucker up, Dad! The fucker's muddy!" "Haul that fucker up now or you'll spend the rest of this fucking cruise down there with it, on the fucking muddy bottom!" I poked my head up from below in time to see the deckhand's mom smile a joyless smile at the people of Hatchet Bay, and make a shruggy gesture of surrender ( _Y'all know how it is, boys on boats_ ), and thus _Tranquility_ slipped away before sunup. In transit to Royal Island, trying with what would become comic inefficiency to get a weather forecast, we heard a news report. Dozens of people injured last night during a fracas at halftime of a volleyball match in Alice Town. A melee. Bottles had been thrown, police and ambulances sent for. The attention of the government in Nassau had been drawn, and by today's executive fiat there would be no more volleyballs spiked in Alice Town; the arc lights had been snuffed at Hatchet Bay. How the world seems is not how the world is. Royal Island was the jumping-off harbor for a tricky passage across Northeast Providence Channel to Little Harbour in the Abacos, the northernmost Bahamian chain. We anchored in a palm-fringed lagoon that resembled a movie set of Eden. Water as clear as crystal, abandoned plantation, coconut palms backlit by a Tintoretto sunset. Sixteen boats were anchored in the large, nearly landlocked harbor. The moon rose, showing its sharp-edged silver face like a cheerful, goofy neighbor peering over a fence: _Hey, guys, what's cooking?_ The nautical almanac had said the moon would rise and it was so, the spheres in their regulated cycles, time and tide right with the world, natural law beside me in the cockpit. The night lavished softness, the moon spilling such unpolluted light that we could see by its beams our anchor dug into the chalky-white sand below our keel; as the breeze piped up, we heard the voices of wine and beer and rum drinkers float across the water, singing the songs sung in the backs of school buses ("Roll Me Over") and around campfires ("Row, Row, Row Your Boat"), and by God we joined in. Was this okay or what? We were gathered into the anything-goes euphoria of strangers sharing a discovery. Then it got rowdy, as though the whole harbor were drunk on liberty. Someone shot off a parachute flare, and we heard chivvying gasps. Bad Form. This Is Not Done. Flares were reserved for Mayday emergencies, to signal grave distress. To set off a flare back where we thought of as _back home_ would bring the Coast Guard down on a mariner. Back home playing with flares was much deplored; horsing around with flares was a rum job, a hanging offense back home. But we weren't back home. For sure. So another boat lofted a parachute flare, and another, and soon the lagoon was bathed in moonlight, starlight, phosphorus. Phosphorus in the velvet water, phosphorus aloft. The harbor was lit, and so were we. I went below, and spread out the charts. Again. I'd been studying the ungiving things since the night we met Nicholas in Governor's Harbour and, to my disenchantment, they weren't more inviting tonight than a week before. The dilemma was simple: we had to navigate the fifty-three miles in ten hours, from dawn till sundown. _Blackwing_ could do 5½ knots under power in calm seas and neutral (or offsetting) current. We had to hit Little Harbour Bar on the button, and I spent the next several hours calculating courses and tidal sets. There were no buoys out there, and we'd spend most of tomorrow out of sight of land. At home I'd use tidal tables and current charts to calculate the effect of tides on our course. Here, now, I sought instruction from the _Yachtsman's Guide to the Bahamas_ and was casually informed of an unpredictable phenomenon (cause unknown) of a powerful tidal set "at times," _either_ northwest (onshore) _or_ southeast (on our nose). It made a difference which. This tidal set had a reported velocity of up to three knots. Whether we could expect three knots or two or none of help, or three of hurt, this also made a difference. If the wind (or tidal current) was on _Blackwing_ 's nose, we wouldn't make it. On the other hand, if the wind was behind us, or abeam of us, we probably would, unless something went wrong. Moreover, if we _almost_ made it, there was no escape hatch, no harbor of refuge. (A sort of anchorage, called Hole in the Wall, at the southernmost end of Great Abaco, was notorious for wretched protection from the prevailing wind and for an anchorproof bottom.) The rum was beginning to wear off. I had shut down Jimmy Buffet for the night, and was playing a tape of Pablo Casals doing Bach solos. He was working his way through a threnodic patch, and I explained to Priscilla that I was "apprehensive." She cocked her head at me. I said I was "anxious." She asked me what I was talking about. I said it was going to be a "chancy" passage. Not "tranquil." In fact, I was looking at alternate routes back to the coast of Florida. An easy passage would take us home by way of Nassau and Freeport, shitholes. Priscilla said she'd hang her head in shame. When it came down to it, Priscilla seemed always to be the one of us who put the thing in gear and stepped on the gas. She likes to know the pros and cons, but I'm not sure why; it takes a lot of cons to turn her off course. So next morning we got our hangovers out of our berth an hour before dawn. While Priscilla made peanut-butter sandwiches with Ritz crackers, and packed them in zip-locked bags, I tried to tune in Charley's Locker on the transistor radio. In the Bahamas, on weekdays, at 6:45 a.m., maybe, if reception was good, it was possible to tune in Charley's Locker from Coral Gables, Florida, to get a rough prophecy of weather in the Caribbean. This followed a roundup of sports news from Trinidad and Jamaica, and was preceded by a maddening hornpipe chantey, "Barnacle Bill the Sailor" or the like. It was possible—if the boat was pointed in just the right direction, and if the seas were quiet, and wind wasn't shrieking in the rigging, and no casuarinas blocked reception, and Priscilla remembered not to talk while I listened, and I kept alert despite a numbing chatter of cricket scores—to hear every third or fourth word. The velocity of Charley's weather report was remarkable; someone was paying by the second. He sort of seemed to bring passably okay news. Windsouthwest-somethingknots-somethingelse-by-afternoon. Then, slow and sure, every syllable enunciated: "Sat-is-fy alllll your boat-ing needs at Char-ley's Lock-er." "Let's go," I said. So we went. It was a hairy passage. We jumped off at the first hint of light, got up in oilskins and wool caps and gloves. The wind was up and at 'em, twenty knots at first, gusting to twenty-five. The day was gray and ominous, with low clouds scudding in from the west-southwest. The rusted wreck of a fertilizer freighter at Egg Island cut was the last vessel we saw that day. We were headed due north, shoved by great cresting rollers; _Blackwing_ is a notably dry boat, but as the wind increased, spindrift blew off the tops of the surge, spraying us with warm water. When a gust hit, it came from the west. The wind was beginning to clock around, and I was tense, racing the sun to cross Little Harbour Bar before dark, and safely. Priscilla noted nautical miles accumulated on the log, an odometer that gives a roughly accurate account of speed through the water, which is (because of the effect of tidal and wind currents) less interesting than speed over the bottom. We seemed to be making six knots, and that was good. _Blackwing_ is cutter rigged with a large mainsail and two jibs; we were sailing with a double-reefed (radically reduced) mainsail and the roller-furled jib, called a Yankee, and we were flying. Priscilla kept me equipped with hot tea and peanut-butter crackers. I hadn't eaten peanut-buttered crackers since I was a kid, and neither had Priscilla; she reinvented them for this voyage, and this is why she's so smart: she knew that a quantity of those crackers, dry in zip-locked bags, would give our wind-swept, water-soaked cockpit a milk-and-crackers-at-recess comfiness. This passage was a trial for her. All these years she'd fought seasickness, and now we were trying a timed-release drug taken by way of a patch worn behind her ear, and either it was working or she was too busy hanging on and helping out to be sick. That was the good news. The bad news: I was working hard to keep _Blackwing_ on course in those willful seas, with the wind building and coming more and more off her beam. Plus: beginning just after noon, past the line of no return, we could see lightning on the horizon, and hear thunder. Plus: the steering felt sloppy, and I heard the rudder creak when I adjusted it to counter the violent push of a roller on our port stern quarter. Other than being stove in, or catching fire, there is no worse destiny in heavy seas than to lose a rudder. _Blackwing_ is steered by a wheel that moves the rudder by stainless-steel cables rove through sheaves to a rudder quadrant, and I knew that our trouble was more likely the connection between wheel and rudder than the rudder itself. Nicholas had had a steering cable break a few weeks ago in the Exumas, navigating a tricky reef. I had an emergency tiller, but it would take all my strength to keep _Blackwing_ on course with it, and I was cold and tired. I felt shorthanded; I _was_ shorthanded, and I elected to keep my anxieties about our steering system to myself. A simple truth we couldn't ignore: Priscilla—smart, brave and calm—is not strong. She has an unerring sense of place, so that she could thread us through a reef. She would cheerfully go below and make food in wild seas. But to ask her to douse and furl a sail in huge seas, or to trim a sheet, or to wrestle the wheel out here where all was too big for our britches—this was to ask too much. Unspoken between us was an agreement: I sail, she thinks. Her will wasn't in question, or her nerve; she was overpowered, and I wasn't, quite. But there was only one of me (alas, alas!), and that one was now wearing out. Thunder and lightning exploded at four in the afternoon, just after we'd caught sight of a landfall on Great Abaco. When the wind-driven rain hit us in horizontal sheets, we could see nothing but gray wet, and evil electric bolts, and the concussive thunder scared us silly. I wondered what it would be like, if I couldn't find Little Harbour Bar, to ride this out at sea, through the night, waiting for dawn, hoping to find my way across. Wondering this, I heard Priscilla say, "That's it." The "it" she referred to was a reef, forbiddingly named The Boilers, a mile or so south of the bar. If "it" wasn't "it," all bets were off, and we'd rolled snake eyes, crapped out. Time was short now. "It" _was_ "it," and now all that remained was to follow the _Yachtsman's Guide_ , which Priscilla read to me above the scream of the wind and the thunder and the smash of the sea: Little Harbour Bar should be negotiated with care, according to the following directions. Approaching Little Harbour Bar from the south, stand off the coast not less than one mile until Little Harbour Point and Tom Curry's Point are in transit. (See sketch chart of Little Harbour.) They will then be bearing roughly 305°. Alter course to port to keep them on this bearing until in mid-channel between the point and the line of breakers on the reef that extends south from Lynyard Cay. Then alter course to north, running parallel to the land for about 400 yards, in order to clear the reef that extends for about 300 yards north from Little Harbour Point. You will then be in 18–24 feet. As you alter course, rounding the reef, to the port a cove behind the lighthouse will open up. This will be easily recognized by the white sand beach and a group of coconut palms in the eastern corner. This is not a good anchorage. See what I mean? Clear as mud? If you don't see what I mean, if you see instead what the _Yachtsman's Guide to the Bahamas_ shows, if you see it with utmost clarity so that you could put a hand on _Blackwing_ 's wheel and guide her over the reef, then you're of Priscilla's tribe. We made it. The storm was passing, Priscilla grinning. "Look," she said. "Look there!" I looked, terrified what I might see. It was a pretty beach, our anchorage, a very good anchorage, pink sand beach. And over it, arched from way out at sea—near the ungodly depths called The Tongue of the Ocean, to the spot off Lynyard Cay where we dropped anchor—a rainbow. I thought of it as her rainbow, and do. When I met Priscilla in 1963, she was temperamentally unlike anyone I'd known; I fell in love with her for the inexpressible reasons people fall in love but also for a character I can try to articulate, her unimpeded clarity of vision and expression. Of course Priscilla had understood the _Yachtsman's Guide_ , and of course she had translated its dense instructions into a rational course of action, and of course she had seen how this coconut palm related to that coral head. If I couldn't have counted on Priscilla to continue to see and say unambiguously, we wouldn't have come to this place in this way. Imagine someone who sees things and systems whole, and who articulates precisely what she sees. Such a person can neither be fooled nor fool, and to live with her is to live with the recurring surprise of hearing a sane consciousness expressed with insanely serene candor. It is frightening to be wholly understood; it is bracing; it is fun; it keeps me off reefs. Because Priscilla's relentless good sense has no interest in prudence, only in knowing the odds so the odds may be disregarded; because her comprehension is a renewable resource driven by curiosity; because to see the world through her eyes is to see a misbegotten human comedy rather than a blighted human tragedy; because she said something crossing Little Harbour Bar that made me laugh; because I associate her with light, with warmth and buoyancy and illumination—that was her rainbow, and is. It is worth feeling wet and cold to feel dry and warm. It is worth being scared to be secure. It is worth leaving sight of land to make a landfall. More than a few times, _Blackwing_ had been an instrument of instruction in these lessons, but to be safe aboard her, with Priscilla, in the lee of those very reefs that caused such dread, was to feel the kind of gratitude that it is irrational to feel for inanimate objects. Perhaps this was why Priscilla—bringing a tray of rum drinks and cheese to the cockpit—found me below in the engine compartment, tightening the steering cable. It had been well secured and abundantly greased by Nicholas, but it had stretched, as new cable will, under the strain put on it today. "Come on out of there," Priscilla said. "The sun's setting." "I know," I said. "I need the last of the light to adjust her steering." I saw Priscilla make that ancient sign of schoolyard and marriage, eyes rolled upward while forefinger circles ear clockwise. "What's the matter with you?" she said. "What's wrong with tomorrow?" The question was sensible, as far as it went. It failed merely to accommodate how I'd feel tonight leaving undone what ought to be done to thank our boat for bringing us safely to this place, whose rainbowed and sun-downed glow I was missing to thank our boat for bringing us to this place. Well, it confused me, too. We'd seen through our open hatch stars clear and sharp in the flawless atmosphere—Arcturus, Spica, Regulus, the Southern Cross—and the next morning came in clean and bracing. I had fallen asleep in my clothes, and by now was too funky even for me. Bathing on _Blackwing_ was a trial: one squatted in the slippery gloom of our tiny head compartment, dribbling cold (and precious) freshwater from a comically forceless telephone shower. Conventional New England wisdom had it that soap and shampoo wouldn't clean in saltwater. Nicholas had commended a Lemon Joy saltwater bath and shampoo (dip bucket in ocean, stand in cockpit, invert bucket over hair and torso), a plunge in the soft warm sea for a rinse. It worked; I was his student again. Studying the charts, planning our next complicated passage, I noticed over the tops of my sunglasses an inflatable dinghy, pushed by an outboard, grinding toward us. The irritating noise (irritating when someone else was making it but not when I was making it) reminded me how quiet the world was here in these Out Islands. We were anchored off a pretty beach; when we were anchored, it was always off a pretty beach, so I'll describe the generic pretty beach now, and next time when I write "beach," you'll read, "talcy sand fifty yards off our bow, a deserted island, palm trees, great seas crashing against the barrier reef of pink and purple coral"... Not a boat or person in sight, except this one, nearing from Little Harbour. It was churlish to resent company; call me churlish. Here he came: "Ahoy, _Blackwing!_ Where's the cap?" "I'm the captain. And owner." "Oh." The fellow bobbing alongside, a little more or less my age, was disappointed. "Where's Nick?" This question would be repeated all the way home: _Where's Nick?_ To meet returning north the people he had met migrating south was an odd sensation. He'd made many friends, and these were not the friends I predicted he'd meet. The Inland Waterway is sometimes called the Blue Flag Expressway, for the blue flags flown from boats whose owners are not aboard. I had predicted that Nicholas and his friends would meet the paid hands of boats much bigger than _Blackwing_ , crews of young men and women not much older than Nicholas. In fact, the boys of _Blackwing_ preferred the company of people like us, oldsters looking for an adventure, middle-class couples (with an occasional remittance man or woman thrown in to raise the tone of the venture) who had cashed in their chips, sold the pencil factory or software patent or house in Shaker Heights, to quit the world and wander. It was an oddity of many of these people that they brought with them vestigial Polonius- or headmaster-inspired wisdoms, so that many felt compelled, especially after a dinner served on their boat, to clear their throats over a glass of brandy and ask Nicholas and his friends when they were going to settle down, get with the program, start on their careers. They evidently detected no irony here. They may have been provoked to counsel by Nicholas's vague version of his recent history and his plans. He was less than forthcoming with newly met friends about the title to _Blackwing;_ when asked who owned her, he knew he couldn't say he did, or he'd be mistaken for a drug dealer or—worse!—a rich kid. He also wouldn't for sure confess the plain fact, "My daddy let me have the keys." So he'd take on a cryptic mien, shrug, look at the night sky, say, "Some guy in Jamestown asked us to bring her south." We met dozens, scores, of people along our way who told of kindnesses done them by our son and his friends (without telling us of the kindnesses they returned). We heard stories of Nicholas's ingenuity with tools, his eagerness to lend a hand, his seamanship, his curiosity, his friendliness. We heard about get-togethers, and especially a huge Valentine's Night potluck blowout in the Exumas for hundreds of live-aboards who'd convened at Staniel Cay, just up the beach from the Happy People Marina. These happy people had shared their food and experience and stories with Nicholas and his friends, and what other situation could have given our son a window—through which he wished to look—into the cluttered interior of American middle age? If the sailors hailing _Blackwing_ displayed undisguised dismay to find us rather than our son, we could endure paling by comparison. If envy is the wasting sickness of the middle class, nature offered a remedy in children, teaching how good it can feel to wish for another better luck than one's own luck. The fellow in the dinghy, a long way from his home in Tulsa, declined our invitation to come aboard. He said to tell Nick he'd really done it this time. "This one's worse than Wax Cay Cut; he'll know what I'm talking about. We screwed the pooch this time." What happened: the sailor and his wife had bounced across the bar of Little Harbour lagoon at high tide of a full moon. Now they'd have to wait for the next full moon to bounce back out. We drew five feet, and it was too close a shave for us to try Little Harbour lagoon, so pretty it constitutes an attractive nuisance. Nicholas's friend's boat drew more than six feet, and he'd been using its keel to dig trenches in the sand during every daylight high tide of the waning and waxing moon. He left us to try again. We saw him later, motionless in the water, his mast at that telltale ten-degree angle we would soon have reason to recognize up close and personal. The Siren who entices sailors across reefs has no seductive power over me. I plot a course for deep water, steer clear. Solo voyagers and racers court extremes; some cruisers enjoy the chest-cramping test of a shoal bar at high tide, or shave this side of a buoy meant to be taken on that side. The dare might save fifteen minutes, which isn't the point; the point is the frisson when the keel taps. For me the point is serenity, a limit to surprise. I shun ambush. _Have a nice day?_ You bet, a nice day's just the day for me. I trust nothing and nobody, including myself. I know a bit about myself, including what I don't know, so I ration trust miserly. I have my compass swung, update charts, tighten what's loose, reef too soon. A thirty-percent chance of thunderstorms is one hundred percent to this meteorologist. The only surprise I welcome at sea is a wind shift in my favor. _Uneventful_ is my favorite notation in the log. I do not sail boats to pump adrenaline or to grow an ulcer. My desideratum at sea is elementary: to cause no harm. To cause no harm is no passive ambition. It requires an imagination for disaster; it demands that the master of a vessel not put his vessel (or his family, say) in harm's way, needlessly, improvidently. I expect to be surprised at sea—I am not a fool (I think)—but I want surprise to come of natural law rather than my carelessness. Wanting to do no harm, I discovered I had translated myself from the quondam Hotspur Priscilla had married into a very clerk of a sailor, fussy, a look-before-you-leaper. This fever of caution had alarmingly spread inland to other enterprises: I now balanced my checkbook, "maintained" my shoes, did a fall lay-up on my body, would have put a spring coat of varnish on the lawn mower if I could get the Z-Spar to adhere to grease. Sometimes I came to believe I was no yachtsman; I was a grunt laborer. I sailed a mop. Was this Commodore Wolff? White-flanneled skipper of a sailing yacht? On my knees in the head, scrubbing piss and puke from the moving parts of a plastic toilet? I had become a prig. I took cleaning and fiddling over the top. I became a master of the domestic arts: scrubbing, scouring, sanding, painting, varnishing, greasing, adjusting, worrying. If my car failed, I'd stick out my thumb. Boat: I'd inflate the raft, shoot off a flare. So I learned to test this and check that, looking for the bite-sized surprise now, at anchor, so there would be no great ugly surprise later, out there. It seemed a possible dream, to comprehend the universe of a 30-foot boat, my 30-foot boat, possible even to control _Blackwing_ 's destiny, in a modest way. A 30-foot boat is not after all a five-ton timepiece. It could be got into, wrestled with, maintained, fixed. If, hanging upside down in the engine room to adjust something, I heard a little noise, the terrible plop of my Ray-Bans falling into the greasy and carnivorous bilge, I had a handy-dandy magnet with which to fish them out, at the expense of only a few hours. Of course the magnet raised hell with the compass, which then needed reswinging. To keep _Blackwing_ fit, I'd merely pretend I was Sisyphus and put my shoulder to the rock, or let Nicholas take _Blackwing_ on a long voyage so he could put his shoulder to it. Sailing the southern Abacos was a strained pleasure, more pleasure than strain, but a trial of attention. To sail is to attend: in New England the eye squints to pick out a buoy or the loom of a light. Here, as there, we watched the sea's surface for the telltale ripples of a shifting wind, and studied the sky for its lessons and warnings. But now we looked down as well as up; it is said of the Bahamas' shoals that the most valuable skill a navigator can bring to their successful circumvention is an aptitude to "read" the water. By this is meant an ability to distinguish between the dark blue of deeps, the turquoise and aquamarine of adequate depth, the green of a grassy bottom often safely deep, the milky pale yellow of sandy shoals, the white of a sandbar dry at low tide, the dark patch that looks like coral but is only a shadow cast by a cloud, the brown of coral that can tear a hole in a boat's bottom (not to be confused with the harmless brown of "fish muds," caused by bottom-feeders eating dinner, stirring up the marl). Nicholas, who is colorblind, nevertheless learned to read the water from _Blackwing_ 's bowsprit or, in especially perilous waters, from up her mast. (The downside of that upside, he told us, was a clear view of sharks working the bottoms.) Learning to read thin water is an incremental adequacy; the apt scholar of shoals depends not only on memory and common sense, but on sunlight from above and behind. Sailing into the sun, it is impossible to distinguish between the consequential shades along the sea's spectrum. So we had to plan our passages, which demanded snaky course changes through erratic channels, according to the sun's declination, which often warred with felicitous tides. (The tidal range in the Abacos was as great as four feet.) If we came to distinguish between water that would float us and water that would not, I never accustomed myself to sailing fast, hour after hour, with three feet and less beneath our keel. Is it reliable that what we don't know won't hurt us, that ignorance is bliss? Or is it incontestable that seeing is believing? I don't know why we found it less settling to see the bottom beneath our keel than to sail by faith in charts, as we do in New England's murky brine; to see the bottom near Rhode Island is to be on the bottom. In the Bahamas, sailing at a hull speed of six knots, the unnatural clarity of the water gave us the willies, an illusion of boiling forward into decreasing depths, as though the bottom were rushing up at us. We trained ourselves to disregard our terror, to pretend to know better, to smile as we sailed into what seemed to be five feet, four, two. But I'd reach the end of an Abacos passage, strike the sails, line up a casuarina with a church steeple, triangulate that line with a line bearing 287° to the butt of a dirt road, dodge a sandbar, home in on a water tower (looking sharp for the submerged pilings of a wrecked pier), drop the anchor and uncramp my white-knuckled hand from the wheel and a dumb unfelt grin from my face. What we have here is a point-of-view problem. Up close, through my eyes, the seascape looked one way. Passages were treacherous, and their timing required exacting precision. Our clock was still on northern time; I had crossed from Royal Island as though I were running to catch the 7:06 from Pleasantville. So what if the worst had happened, if we'd been holed up for a week or two in one Eden in place of another? Or the other worst: we had had to spend a night at sea, floating two and a half miles above the bottom of Northeast Providence Channel? After all, I wasn't a single-handed Joshua Slocum dodging growlers, icebergs and pirates in the Roaring Forties. I wasn't commanding a convoy escort on the Murmansk run. Seen from above, we must have made an enviable picture, sailing like gangbusters through pristine water under a warming sun. This was the Bahamas, as in the Sunday newspaper supplement ads. And if my keel hit sand? _Blackwing_ would float off on a rising tide. And if she didn't? We'd wade ashore and phone Allstate. As these verities sank in, we settled into what became (for a time) a tranquil routine. The sun would wake us; we'd drink coffee and orange juice; we'd laze in the cockpit waiting for the tide to do the right thing. We'd make a shopping list: this required much consideration. Not since we'd lived in Brittany twenty years before had we invested such prodigal gobs of time in the contemplation of what exactly we'd put in our mouths during the coming twenty-four hours. It wasn't as though a Brittany-like horn of plenty awaited us ashore: we were deliberating what we'd have with the tuna salad, whether taters or rice would go best with fried chicken. (It's an oddity of life aboard a small boat with a two-burner camp stove that it requires discipline to exorcise the temptation to prepare a meal of four or five courses, nuts to soup, fish to cookies. Priscilla and I were old enough to know better: we'd learned to eat lean.) Our lists made, we'd take the dinghy ashore to search for ice and bread and beer and fruit and cheese; we'd find what we came for. We'd take the dinghy back to _Blackwing_ and laze in the cockpit; we'd observe that it sure was a nice day; we'd think aloud that it was almost warm enough to swim; we'd say we were thinking about taking a swim; we'd swim; we'd sit in the cockpit letting the warm air dry us; we'd notice it was coming on toward the lunch hour; we'd discuss lunch; we'd make lunch; we'd eat lunch; we'd say we were considering a little nap; we'd take a little nap; we'd pull up anchor and sail a few hours to the next pretty beach (see above); we'd drop anchor; we'd make rum drinks; we'd take the dinghy ashore for a dinner of fried or sautéed or grilled grouper or flounder; we'd bring the dinghy back to _Blackwing;_ we'd put a tape in the deck, maybe Dave McKenna, maybe Thelonious Monk; we'd sit in the cockpit, looking at the night sky; we'd go below to our berth; we'd lie on our backs talking, looking at the night sky. We'd sleep. If one island in the Abacos looked like another, the islands were culturally distinct: a vacation paradise, where it's safe to let Muffy and Biff roam with pail and shovel, can be one island over from a drug terminus upon which it would be worth your skin to stumble. Along the west coast of Great Abaco (whose east coast is as tame as a tourist) is the Bight of Abaco, whose mainland and island settlements, menacingly called The Marls, are so hazardous to outsiders that charts of the area carry notices that passages through the wilderness islands are "specifically NOT recommended." (Emphasis NOT added.) We met a sailor who had stumbled into the Bight of Abaco in search of solitude, who found greater solitude than he sought, and less. He was set upon by a clan of natives with whom he left his wristwatch, dinghy, outboard, transistor radio and blue jeans; these people titled themselves "the meanest people in the world" and shared a single Scottish surname, a name I'll refrain from printing not from vigilance against litigation but from dread that they'll bring their outboard-powered skiffs over the ocean to Little Rhody and find me tucked under a down comforter and murder me in my sleep. These McKillers dwelt ten miles away as the buzzard flies, but at the antipodes from our destination, sweet Green Turtle Cay. We darted outside the protection of reefs to make our way north to Green Turtle Cay from Don't Rock Passage to Whale Cay Passage. Unsettled weather could have made this moment a trial: the unholy phenomenon of onshore winds piling huge seas onto shoal bars from the off-soundings ocean deeps (almost three _miles_ deep!) is called a "rage." But today was fine, the wind light, and Priscilla read aloud to me from the _Yachtsman's Guide:_ "Caution: Never pass close to the west of Whale Cay, where there are dangerous swells even in settled weather. Never underestimate this passage, as several boats and lives have been lost here in recent years." Talk about your wet blankets. We gave the west of Whale Cay what I'd call a _wide_ berth, and snuck into Green Turtle Cay's White Sound on a rising tide, and anchored. Now this was a pretty island. I'd describe it as having a pinkish-white sand beach beyond which casuarinas grew, and palm trees. But wait, Green Turtle Cay was different from the rest. Along its west coast were bluffs; these soared from the sea to a great height. We got the dinghy ashore; to achieve that summit was worth the risk of nosebleed, and so—without guides or bearers—we climbed past oleanders and hibiscus to the Bluff House and finally, on the roof of our immediate world, at eighty feet, we stood, Goombay Smash in hand, looking down our snoots at reefs and bars and sand bores and the sun, sinking. After trading a grand view for a bad dinner, we surveyed the memorabilia framed on the inn's walls, and the first to catch our eyes was a recent article from _Cruising World_ retailing the loss of a sailboat out in Whale Cay Passage, within sight of where we stood: The breaker arrived completely unexpectedly. On this beautiful sunny November day in the Bahamas, with winds not more than 15 knots from the north, I could not have imagined that a huge wave could break right on top of us, throwing me against the steering wheel... bending the wheel, breaking my right upper arm in four places, and leaving me with a cracked rib, a black left eye and both hands severely bruised.... We learned later that a 30-footer had been lost the day before our misadventure. In retrospect, I blame our coming misadventure on that cautionary narrative. Descending from the heights after taking aboard a quantity of rum and table wine, climbing with exemplary grace into the dinghy, I said offhandedly, "Let's have a drink over at the Green Turtle Club." "We had a drink at the Bluff House." "Well, I was thinking we ought to have a drink at the Green Turtle Club." "Well, we had a drink at the Bluff House." "I was thinking of prolonging the pleasure with a digestif." "Oh boy," said Priscilla. "I was thinking of hitting the hay." "We'll have our whole lives to sleep when we're dead. Come with me, we'll have a fine time." Priscilla said, " _We'll have a fine time?_ You sound like the jerk in 'Hills Like White Elephants.' " Priscilla teaches literature; she knows her modern American short story backward and forward. "I think I need a drink to relax me." "From what?" "You've got a short memory," I said. "I just brought us through Whale Cay Passage." "But it was as calm as a bathtub." "So it seemed," I said. "To you," I said. By Priscilla's silence I knew that she had come—most reasonably—to see the wisdom of my proposition. To motor us across the harbor to the Green Turtle Club, I got the Seagull outboard started (with ignobling difficulty), and we were necessarily silent in the din of its single piston banging like the hammers of Hell against its single cylinder. I began to brood: I had _never_ liked the goddamned outboard; it had _always_ been false, treacherous... selfish! I wasn't going to take it anymore. I would _... replace_ it. My revenge fantasy was cut short by our arrival at the Green Turtle Club's docks, lit by twinkling oil lamps. Here was the place! Priscilla had her back to me, where it had been since we agreed to have a fine time at the Green Turtle Club. She was climbing out of the little rubber boat. She was—oh-oh. This was an old story, and none sadder. She was pushing out rather than up with her legs. Her hands were fixed on the dock, her feet to the bow of the little rubber boat, which was moving away from the dock. When the little rubber boat was about as far from the dock as Priscilla is tall, Priscilla was very wet. I helped her back into the dinghy, ferried her back to _Blackwing_ , helped her aboard, and left her. I had not spoken. I had a hunch Priscilla did not prefer that I speak ("Would you please please please please please please please stop talking?" says the woman in "Hills Like White Elephants." Ray Carver called his turn on _please_ "Will You Please Be Quiet, Please?"). I was bound for the Green Turtle Club. It was what Priscilla would have wanted, if she'd thought about it. In the open-air bar of the Green Turtle Club I found myself alone with a party of two badly sunburned men my age with two women less than half my age. I sat two tables away, positioned so I could see but pretend not to look. The men were drunk, I noted with disapproval as I took a long pull on my Beck's. I was in a tetchy humor. Any drinker or ex-drinker will recognize the symptoms: an exaggerated sense of what's now called "entitlement"—I Deserve a Better Time Than I'm Having sort of thing. I eavesdropped. The young lady facing me was theatrically beautiful. Literally: she made references to her work on stage and screen. She was British. The men, and a woman hidden in shadows, were asking the starlet her analysis of contemporary films. The starlet's critical judgment was ever the same: "Boring." _Rain Man_ was "boring" and _Robocop_ was "boring" and _Predator_ was "boring." The starlet would brush back her gorgeous black hair, as though she were hot. (She was hot, I'll admit, but the temperature hung in the 60s, and there was a whispery breeze.) By brushing back her hair she could arch her pale throat, and show off her arms and shoulders, and pucker her lips and blow strands of hair away from her mouth and eyes. She couldn't have been prettier. "Oh, I walked _out;_ it was so boring." A gent asked her verdict on _My Left Foot_. "Yuch! Talk about boring! Who wants to have your date buy you tickets to watch sick people gross you out?" This made the party laugh. I recollected those snapshots of our erstwhile Presidential candidate and his friends on Bimini, dancing the limbo, wearing parrot shirts and those awful sunburns. What reminded me, _Monkey Business_ had passed us a few days before, heading north. I wouldn't mention it, except the captain didn't slow down, and his wake near swamped us. On the stern, _Monkey Business_ had been painted over, but you could make out the old name underneath—what Lillian Hellman calls "pentimento," a rethinking, a repentance of a still visible first instinct. Anyway, the tender still wore its name on its backside; _Monkey Shines_ , I think it was. " _My Life as a Dog_ is extremely boring." In the old days I would have ordered another Beck's; I would have dug in, leering, glowering, leering, glowering. Thanks for small favors, the old days aren't the new days. When I came aboard, Priscilla said, "We're a couple of bozos." So it would be okay. And next morning it was okay; it was okay right up till we dinghied to the dock of the Green Turtle Club where we thought we'd eat breakfast. Priscilla's hands were fixed on the dock, her feet to the bow of the little rubber boat, which was moving away from the dock... There's nothing easier to break than a good mood or harder than a bad habit. It was time to get out of the Abacos and across the Gulf Stream to Florida. North of Green Turtle Cay, casual yacht traffic thins almost to vanishing, except for live-aboards transiting from north of Palm Beach into the Bahamas in the late fall and early winter, and back home in the spring. The northern Abacos are mostly uninhabited, with a desolate end-of-the-world atmosphere, especially on a cloudy day during a blustery northwest passage of twenty-five miles, driven by a northeast wind of twenty knots to Allans-Pensacola. This was an abandoned Air Force missile-tracking station, populated by moray eels in its reefs and barracuda in the mangrove flats. Oh, and sharks. Did I forget to mention sand fleas? Sand fleas weren't a worry when the wind gusted to thirty knots, but anchoring was. I use a heavy anchor called a plow, made in England by CQR ( _secure:_ get it?). I swear by it; I swear by anything weighing twenty-five pounds that can arrest the drift of another something weighing ten thousand pounds when another something is being hammered by a north wind. The holding power of an anchor is a function of physical properties that can be mathematically calculated, once that anchor is set. To set an anchor is an art I believed I had mastered. Priscilla would bring _Blackwing_ into the wind under power, and slow her till she was dead in the water, and I would nonchalantly, imperturbably lower the anchor to the bottom (no undignified heaving, no tangling myself in chain); I would then aloofly pay out anchor rode while _Blackwing_ drifted astern. When five times the water depth had been unflappably payed out in rode (I had marked it in twenty-foot increments), I would snub the rode to a cleat, and observe diffidently how, as usual, the anchor had CQRly bit into the bottom. I would then nod to Priscilla an almost imperceptible nod (no wild oaths, please, no despotic commands) to shut the engine down and start chipping ice for the rum drinks. I would sit quietly in the bow, triangulating lines of sight on various objects ashore—casuarinas, say, or maybe palm trees. Meantime I would casually pay out more rode as _Blackwing_ drifted astern, till I had achieved the desired ratio of 7:1, rode to depth. Except at Allans-Pensacola. We were dressed in oilskins, weary, lonely, wet and cold from the front's spill of rain. It was late in the day, and the sun was too low to light the reefs that ringed both shores of the harbor, the only harbor within reach, a harbor said to be marginal ("a hard chance," in the idiom of cruising guides) in a northerly. Two boats were anchored close to each other, farther up the harbor, where we would like to have been. Priscilla brought _Blackwing_ into the nor'east wind; I lowered the anchor; _Blackwing_ drifted fast astern; the anchor bounced uselessly along the hardpan sand bottom. I could see it bouncing. It made me angry to see this, and to haul in rode and chain and twenty-five-pound plow also made me angry, and made me reflect on how lucky Priscilla was to have in her hands a varnished teak steering wheel instead of a muddy length of chain. This process was repeated for the next hour or so: the helmsperson, following the anchorperson's despotic commands, maneuvered _Blackwing_ into the wind; the anchorperson lowered the anchor, which skipped along the hardpan bottom, provoking from the anchorperson wild oaths. This routine did not proceed in solitude, unobserved. To watch a couple anchor a boat is one of the sea's great entertainments, way more satisfying than a world-class sunset or moonbeams filtered through casuarinas. It is proof of one's superiority to observe—from the CQRity of one's own steady state, with one's own vessel tugging fruitlessly at what holds it, with a beverage cooling one's hand and perhaps a dish of beernuts nearby on one's cockpit table—a couple less evolved hurling oath, command and anchor. The world at such a moment is starkly binary, split between the anchored and the would-be anchored. Up at the head of the harbor, one of the two anchored was pretending not very successfully to be not watching us. He was smoking a pipe! This pipe-smoking shook me to my rubber Wellingtons. It was not right. And then, as though that were not enough, the pipe-smoker turned toward _Blackwing_ , languidly, and motioned _my_ helmsperson, to whom _I_ gave despotic orders, to approach. And then, as though that weren't enough, she did his bidding. "Holding's bad down there," said the skipper of _Enshallah_ , a heathen corruption of _que será, será_. "Anchor here, between us." Priscilla commanded me, tyrannically, to lower the anchor, and I did, and it held. There was marginally room enough for our three boats to swing, if they swung together, without hitting. The skipper of _Enshallah_ had violated a first principle of the Law of First Anchored: he had welcomed us to his sanctuary. This generosity was a breach of all anchoring protocols. I didn't know what to say, so I sulked. Priscilla said, "Thank you." The skipper pulled on his pipe, which he smoked upside down. "I'd dive on that anchor," he said. "To make sure it's set." To examine an anchor in the Bahamas was always advised, because in the clear shoals it was an easy chore, sometimes even fun. (No one dives into Block Island's New Harbor to counterfeit study of his anchor dug into mud and beer cans and shit.) I eyed the mangroves seventy yards from my bow, and mused on the barracuda feeding there, in competition with sharks. I wondered whether the little food fish that lived among mangroves ever toured seventy yards to sightsee a plow anchor, and whether the bigger diners followed them on such a safari. "You think it's a good idea to dive on that anchor?" I said. "Well, I do think it's a good idea," said the master of _Enshallah_. "I think it's a good idea," Priscilla said. "You want to dive on that anchor?" I asked Priscilla. Priscilla looked at me; she cocked her head; she shook her head slowly. I had a hunch she was thinking about where she was spending her sabbatical and with whom. "What I think I'm going to do," I said to Priscilla and to her pipe-smoking friend on _Enshallah_ , "I think I'm going to slip down there in the water and have a look at that anchor." The water was warmer than the air, and the wind was blissfully uninteresting below the troubled surface. I stayed down, looking sharp for predators, glancing behind toward the reefs and eels. A dozen feet down, the anchor rested on, rather than in, the bottom; its flukes were tangled in a furze of eelgrass, and each time the wind blew _Blackwing_ astern, the rode went taut, and the flukes strained at the grass, and held. I dived, and labored to dig the flukes in the bottom, and it was like trying to dig them into the surface of a parking lot. So I tangled them thoroughly in the grass, and broke the surface gasping, and told Priscilla and her best friend that I wasn't all that impressed by what I'd seen. I didn't want to lean too hard on this, because night was coming on, and I couldn't imagine anything I less desired than to raise anchor, go elsewhere and try again. This was weak of me, and imprudent, and in violation of all maritime usage and decorum, but I was of a mind to say _what the hell_ , to say, as it were, _enshallah_. Our neighbor pulled at his pipe and remarked that he had been in this very spot four days, diving among fish, and he sure hadn't dragged. "I'm dug in so deep I'll have to blast my way out." I would have responded with appropriate awe, but his other neighbor, his friend, had just arrived at _Enshallah_ for cocktails, having rowed a little dink into what was now a thirty-knot gale. That night, all night, while the wind gave _Blackwing_ a battering, shaking her mast, rattling her rigging, bringing her to the end of her anchor rode with a jarring shudder, I stood anchor watch. I didn't have fun. I wished I'd never examined the anchor on the bottom; faith thrives on blindness. I had lit an anchor light, in deference to doctrine, so we wouldn't be run down by anyone coming on Allans-Pensacola by night, which of course nobody would. Our nearby neighbors also showed anchor lights, and a few hours after midnight I saw _Enshallah_ move to leeward, farther and farther astern. I watched, and wondered what to do. The pipe-smoking, among-man-eating-fish-diving, anchor-dug-in skipper surely knew what he was doing; he was no doubt paying out more anchor rode. He was not; he was dragging down on the reef, and as soon as I realized this, his neighbor began to shout and to blow a foghorn at his friend. The skipper of _Enshallah_ was standing at his bow. No, that was the skipper's wife; the skipper was rowing his anchor and chain back upwind. It was an extraordinary feat, and he got it done, and got his anchor down in time, and did not lose his boat on the reef. No thanks to me. I made a mental note: next time you see an anchor light move, holler, the way Nicholas would. I made another mental note: no man is an island. And another: be nice. The next afternoon, at three-thirty, within easy sight and less than a mile from our next anchorage at Great Sale Cay, two hours past low tide, we ran hard aground. Our loran had guided us flawlessly through the reefs and sand bores of the Little Bahama Bank. We were tired, as usual, and relieved to see a dozen masts at the anchorage just across a sandspit to port. We felt smug, probably, but we weren't so stupid that we didn't follow the guidebook's instructions to stay well offshore of a sunken blue sedan (search me!), and to sail a couple of miles southwest of the entrance to the harbor before we turned northeast. This was to avoid a sandbar. The day was overcast, and I couldn't see the bar; I guessed I had sailed two miles; I had instead sailed _almost_ two miles; the depth meter read eight feet, six, five, four; we hit. This was not good: we were in open ocean, exposed to a high wind, bang up on what was said to be sand but felt like asphalt. I tried everything I knew: I lowered sails, of course, and attached our anchor to a halyard that ran through the masthead, and took the anchor to seaward in our dinghy. I brought the dinghy back, and cranked on the halyard run through a sheet winch. By this stratagem I hoped to heel _Blackwing_ sufficiently to float her off. Might have, too, if the anchor wasn't skipping uselessly along the bottom. No dice. I sat in the cockpit and wondered if it would feel good to weep. Meanwhile, Priscilla worked the radio, talking to sailors a couple of miles—alas, not quite a couple—distant in Great Sale's Northwest Harbour. Conversations on VHF radio are not private conversations; in fact, they give pleasure to strangers in just the way that listening in on a party line to parties discussing divorce or bankruptcy might give pleasure, and for the same _Schadenfreudesque_ reason, with the added stimulus of legitimacy: maritime code rules that one is obliged to monitor, eavesdrop on, a sailor's broadcast misfortune. Priscilla's audience counseled patience; the tide was rising. Priscilla got advice from _Enshallah_ and from others: _Soleil:_ we recall you! _Leisure Gal:_ what's ours is yours! Time crept; the wind built; the seas slapped; the sun fell. With an hour of rising tide left, Priscilla and I decided to ask _Leisure Gal_ to relay a call from her powerful radio to BASRA, Bahamas Air-Sea Rescue Association, to ask for a tow off the bar. This was complicated, because the nearest towboat was at Walker's Cay, fifty miles away. The colloquy was between Priscilla and her relay, her relay and BASRA, BASRA and a towboat with a piquant name. The discourse went like this. _"Leisure Gal, Leisure Gal!_ This is _Blackwing, Leisure Gal_. Get us _Love Bone."_ "BASRA, BASRA! This is _Leisure Gal. Blackwing_ wants _Love Bone_." _Love Bone_ wanted five hundred dollars cash, "win or lose." We pondered this arrangement. _Blackwing_ was beginning to pound against the bottom, and in my exhaustion I misread the meaning of that evil banging. I told BASRA to bring on _Love Bone_ , and no sooner had this been arranged, night now, than I sensed I could power _Blackwing_ off the bar, with a few lucky bounces. And I did, and _Leisure Gal_ instructed BASRA to take its payday another day from another sailor. And so we crept sheepishly and most cautiously up Northwest Harbour, lit by searchlights and mast spreader lights and foghorns and good cheer on the radio. The crew of _Soleil_ sent over a casserole, and after dinner Priscilla said gently, "I think we better have a chat." I guessed what chat was coming. Seven years before, we'd had a chat aboard _Blackwing_ at the west end of the Cape Cod Canal the night before we were to go east through the canal, and thence a hundred and forty miles down east to Maine, a beeline to Monhegan, in the Gulf of Maine as much as eighty miles offshore. That chat was about navigational skills and our young crew—Nicholas was thirteen, Justin ten. Priscilla took one position on that adventure, I took another, I prevailed, we went. I sailed us beyond the Dry Salvages, beyond a pod of cavorting sunlit humpback whales and into the pure terror of a fog thick as buttermilk. What I recollect better than our dread lost in the Portland shipping lanes waiting for some tanker to crawl into our cockpit—and lost off Monhegan, and lost on the Green Ledges, and lost somewhere west of Portugal—was my shame, the awareness as sudden as stroke that none of it was necessary. Now, before Priscilla had begun to make her gentle case, as soon as she began to wrap my pride (such as it was) in gauze, I cut her off: "I'll do whatever you think best. We don't have to do this. None of this is necessary." Saying so, I knew that it was not, at a fundamental level, true. _Some_ of this was necessary: it was necessary to get from this uninhabited cay to the next place. But the thrust of Priscilla's profound (as in _deep_ , as in five feet of water below a boat that draws four feet eleven) reservations about our situation was irresistible. This was supposed to be fun. Our imagination for discomfort and disaster, a prophetic inclination toward doom and gloom that had turned us into stay-at-homes, was supposed to be asleep now. Now our senses were meant to be awake, and gleaning good vibes. We were to have been sun-warmed and sea-bathed and easygoing. _Who needed this?_ It was a question any sailor will recognize. It is a question impossible not to ask when the wind hauls around the wrong way, when that same wind goes past the limit of "bracing" into the Force 7 territory of "gale." When seas begin to break. When a line squall appears on the horizon. Maybe, depending on a sailor's limit, when the sun goes behind a cloud. When a sailor grips the lee rail and pukes into the scuppers. When the main halyard jams in a masthead sheave. When a sailor is lost in fog somewhere near the toothy coast of Maine. When a sailor spends an afternoon aground on a sandbar. Priscilla said, "I think we should get Nick down here." I didn't have to say how it would be for me to make that phone call. And how would that phone call be made? It would be broadcast by radio, patched into Freeport by _Leisure Gal, Soleil, Enshallah_ , whomever. The relay would tell an operator to tell my son that he'd have to leave the job he had just started in order to fly to Florida, and from there to Grand Bahama Island, in order to help us bring _Blackwing_ across sixty miles of Gulf Stream, because we were scared, in water way over our heads (figuratively speaking, of course), not sufficient to the tame adventure we had set ourselves. I said, "Whatever you think." And I meant it. Knowing I meant it, Priscilla said, "Let's sleep on it." I knew, and she knew I knew, that because I had meant "whatever you think," what she now thought was _I think we shouldn't get Nick down here_. The next morning, warm and dry and sunny, we rested. Great Sale Cay abounded with sand sharks along the edge of its mangrove banks; here were rays and snapper and bonefish and barracuda. And here, seeing the benign world lit by benign sunbeams, doubt bleached invisible by the sun, I spent a couple of hours in the fishy world, cleaning _Blackwing_ 's bottom; it was the last chance I'd have to see it in clear water before we crossed to Florida. Besides, it made me feel valiant. After lunch we stowed deep in the bilge the library of paperbacks we had lugged to Eleuthera. We had now been aboard _Blackwing_ almost two weeks and neither had read an opening sentence. Nor would we: keeping the boat afloat, plotting courses, casing hazards, shopping, cooking, cleaning, maintaining, staring at the bottom, squinting into the sun, napping, waking to check the anchor, studying cruising guides, studying charts, reckoning distance made good from Hatchet Bay and distance to go to Narragansett Bay, forecasting the weather, talking, remembering aloud, missing our boys, shutting up, listening to Pablo Casals or John Lee Hooker, laughing, fretting, beachcombing, sometimes sleeping—set against all this, reading cried uncle. Our passage to West End across the Little Bahama Bank, in ten or twelve feet of water, had two jeopardies, one of which especially distressed me: reading about the jumping-off port for Florida in the _Yachtsman's Guide_ , I had charted my way almost to our destination when I reached an italic passage regarding Indian Cay Rock: _"Important: Please see caution below regarding this channel before proceeding."_ Set off in a box, using boldface caps and italics, as typographically alarming as cautions get in the _Yachtsman's Guide_ , was this _"Caution Regarding Indian Cay Rock/Barracuda Shoal Channel:_ _At this writing all navigational aids for the Indian Cay Rock/Barracuda Shoal Channel are missing. We have no word as to when or by whom they might be replaced."_ I mentioned a second jeopardy: mysterious tidal sets had been observed in the vicinity of Barracuda Shoal Channel. Yeah, yeah: I'd been warned before about tidal sets. Hadn't been bothered yet by a tidal set. _Blackwing_ was tidal-set-proof. We set out at first light on a perfect day, the last day before a front was due in from the west; we were headed west; if we didn't plunge now, we could be pinned down for a week by foul weather at desolate Great Sale Cay. We were out of ice and fresh food. We were low on water and, worse, Mount Gay. Now we had the sun at our back, where we wanted it. I hit my loran (an electronic navigation device) destination on the button north of Mangrove Cay; we were halfway to West End; in twenty-three miles, four hours, we'd be sitting pretty at Jack Tar Marina before the cocktail flag flew. "Damned loran's on the blink." Priscilla had heard me fret about the loran's waywardness many a time before; today she couldn't care less. We were navigating by what's called dead reckoning, observed landmarks (Mangrove Cay) checked against compass course and distance sailed. Two hours later the loran seemed to go crazy, telling me that I was far to the south of the rhumb line to Barracuda Shoal Channel. Occam's razor is a principle in rudimentary philosophy and science that holds that the simplest explanation of a phenomenon is the favored explanation. That is: if the loran has functioned with unerring accuracy, and it now warns that _Blackwing_ is off course to the south, then the simplest explanation of this message, since the navigator wishes _Blackwing_ to be right on course, is "Damned loran's on the blink." Within view of West End, a couple of miles off course to the south of Barracuda Shoal Channel where I'd been set by the tide, in seven feet of water, surrounded by sandbanks drying out in the ebbing tide, I dropped anchor. We were afloat in a maze of sand bores, rocky shoals, coral heads. We worked the radio, calling Jack Tar Marina, groveling for advice. We were advised to await high tide, and eyeball our way in, reading the water. I wondered aloud how that would work, since high tide would arrive a couple of hours after nightfall. "Well, mon, you could get a pilot." I had trouble understanding my interlocutor's Bahamian accent. I'm not being snotty here; they were his Bahamas long before they were mine, and how he chose to talk was his business. I mention my difficulty only to underscore the situation of a couple of folks with one boat between them, a single _Blackwing_ to their name, floating in a little pool of water, their anchor dug into bone-dry sand. Such a couple longs to interpret, is avid to fathom, its choices. "Please send us a pilot," I said. I knew about pilots. In Julius M. Wilensky's _Cruising Guide to the Abacos and Northern Bahamas_ (1980), a pilot is discussed in reference to a grounding at Fox Town on Little Abaco Island. This pilot had come with friends in an outboard to lead Wilensky and his crew to safe water. He had spent several hours at his work, and Wilensky notes that "he never mentioned how much he wanted. You should ask first, before you engage a pilot. The $5 we paid him might seem too much..." Well, not _that_ much too much, considering the alternative. Making allowance for ten years' inflationary pressure, call it $10 or—let's shoot the moon—$25, I asked Jack Tar Marina how much a pilot would charge to guide us in. There was quite a long silence, and Jack Tar said we would have to negotiate directly. By hand-bearing compass I triangulated my position, got the pilot on the radio, gave my position, asked for help, and—almost an afterthought—asked how much he'd like from me. He said something that sounded like "fifty," and I laughed. I asked was that fifty _dollars_ he wanted, to come a couple of miles to show me the way in? He said "two fifty," and I thought that inflation was slow to impact West End if he wanted half what Wilensky had paid ten years ago. But you've guessed: that would have been "two fifty" as in two hundred and fifty dollars for half an hour's work. Not in a million years. "Done," I said. "Come," I said. "Chop-chop," I said. These negotiations were less simply sealed than reported. The more we talked to the pilot, the less we conveyed. He had asked our position, and he was meant to be approaching us even as his voice faded. He confessed, in a diminishing whisper of static, he couldn't find us. It seemed he couldn't understand my accent, and he was looking for us in another ocean, down the Atlantic coast toward the casinos and duty-free shops of Freeport. As an egalitarian enemy of hierarchy, I had trained myself to repudiate the commandment _know thy place_ , unless the place I didn't know was near the coast of Maine, or on the Little Bahama Bank south of Barracuda Shoal Channel. My radio voice transmitted a high reedy panic until an intermediary with a familiar articulation and idiom contacted the pilot, and translated my urgencies into useful loran coordinates. The pilot found us. He didn't lead us in. He towed us. He towed us with his brand-new twin 250-horsepower Mercury outboards mounted on the transom of a brand-new Boston Whaler Outrage fishing boat; he pulled us over sandbars, and through sandbars. He dragged us into the Jack Tar Marina basin, and didn't cast us off till I'd signed thirteen twenty-dollar traveler's checks. He didn't have ten dollars change on him (or a peg leg, or an eye patch or a parrot on his shoulder), but he did have a gold front tooth, and a great smile. Tied to slips in Jack Tar Marina, ringing us like pitlings around an arena stage, was an audience of sailors. It was the cocktail hour, and they were relaxed in their cockpits, listening to their ship-to-ship radios, regarding us. We recognized them: _Leisure Gal, Soleil, Enshallah_. Oh, and more, many more. The skipper of _Enshallah_ , lighting his pipe, said: "Now _that's_ the way to travel. No wear and tear on the sails, no wear and tear on the engine, no wear and tear on the crew." Jack Tar Marina, sixty or so miles from Lake Worth Inlet in Palm Beach, is a tight artificial harbor dug out to serve cruisers crossing the Gulf Stream. The hotel that owned it had gone bankrupt a week or two before we arrived; now high chain-link fences topped with razor wire bordered the marina; our only exit out of Jack Tar Marina was through a padlocked gate beside a security shed manned by guards bearing sidearms and shotguns. It seemed the hotel had abruptly shut its doors and laid off the huge staff that had been brought there and housed nearby in migrant camps. The staff, understandably desperate, had looted the larders. When security guards caught and punished them, the hotel was vandalized. The neighborhood was on edge. A couple of days earlier a huge chain had been laid in the water across the entrance to Jack Tar Marina; the chain had been removed this morning, but think of being towed into it by the pirate-pilot with 500 horsepower of Mercurys and a Boston Whaler Outrage. At Jack Tar we waited out a front. Every afternoon we'd meet in shifting cliques at Baby Grant's, a little restaurant in the settlement strung along the westernmost end of Grand Bahama Island. Snugged into Baby Grant's, we'd drink beer and eat fried grouper or pork chops at long communal tables, and the crews stuck with us in West End would strike up deals, form flotillas to voyage in concert to Fort Pierce or to Cape Canaveral or to St. Augustine or to Lake Worth Inlet, where we were bound. These cohesions followed a good deal of throat-clearing and sniffing around; sailors wanted to be helpful, but no one wanted to be hindered by a sluggard or a fool during a Gulf Stream crossing. The Stream is a great river within the Atlantic, and between the Bahamas and southern Florida its axis moves north at six knots. A wind from the north, countering that swift current, builds seas of ferocious steepness and short periodicity. Put simply: a Gulf Stream norther breaks boats and sailors, and no one at Jack Tar considered crossing to Florida till the wind came around to south of west. We were smaller by ten or twenty feet, and slower by a knot or two, than any but one of the boats waiting to cross. And I had not forgotten how _Blackwing_ had arrived at Jack Tar Marina, so I had no stomach to thrust us on anyone, and I have to confess that our new friends didn't work to convert us from standoffishness. Nonetheless, we became friendly with the crowd piling in from the northern Bahamas to wait out the contrary wind. We ate potluck dinners at the picnic tables near our slips and heard great fish stories told with the eternal gestures of hands spread and spreading away. People used first names, and didn't mention the real world across the Stream. After a few days the crews began to rib us about our grounding at Great Sale Cay, so I told about the poor soul trapped in Little Harbour lagoon when we came over from Eleuthera, and someone said she knew that guy: "It had to happen, he never goes anywhere without bringing trouble with him, can't trust any place to have enough trouble to suit him." And then the stories rained down of bona fide trouble out there in the Gulf Stream, and after a couple of days of those lurid tales of lost rudders, swamped dinghies, engines torn off their mountings by the pounding of Promethean rollers, fingers smashed by gear busting loose, drownings.... The captain and crew of _Blackwing_ waited to cross with opposing emotions of impatience and dread: I felt like a kid who, with his first electric train assembled and plugged in, throws the switch only to learn the electricity has failed. I also felt like a death-row prisoner strapped in the hot seat who realizes, just as they throw the switch, the electricity has failed. We began to wonder if we sold our house and cashed in our retirement funds, could we hire that gold-toothed pirate to tow us home to Rhode Island, or tow _Blackwing_ home while we supervised from above, from window seats on American Airlines? On the fifth afternoon of our layover at Jack Tar, the weather gave signs of breaking, and the group split up and each crew went about its private business on the eve of battle, putting affairs in order, double-securing secure gear, checking the rigging for hairline cracks and the sails for unraveled seams, cleaning and oiling weapons to combat the cruel sea. The atmosphere brought to mind the anxious, quiet preparations in the mountain hut on the Matterhorn, when climbers fiddled with their axes and crampons and ropes while they looked at the sky, wondering would they go up tomorrow? Tomorrow dawned. We crossed a Gulf Stream as untroubled as a goldfish pond. There was no confusion about the boundary of the Stream, from the bright green of the Little Bahama Bank into the deepest blue in nature, a saturated azure of stunning clarity. The Stream is a warm river rushing north from the Yucatán Channel, gathering speed from the Coriolis force and from prevailing winds, bottlenecked between Florida and Bimini, crowded with sea creatures. I remembered the observation of a _National Geographic_ photographer whose dives had been frustrated by sharks: "When man enters the Gulf Stream, he enters the food chain. And he doesn't enter at the top." Our worry—and we had to have a worry or it wouldn't have been a day on the water—was being pushed so far north by the Gulf Stream that we couldn't make (or _lay_ , as navigators say) Palm Beach. To take the influence of the current into effect, I had charted a vector course, pointing our nose way south of Palm Beach in order to be crabbed north and hit Lake Worth Inlet on the money, which is the only thing you can hit if you hit Palm Beach. The accuracy of this vector course depended entirely on a constant speed forward through the water. If something slowed or stopped us, we'd miss our landfall. I was the alpha wolf in a pack of three fools; the other two boats depended on the accuracy of my loran readouts, and on my navigational shrewdness. One skipper decided he didn't believe we had to point so far south, and so he veered off my course, heading closer to the rhumb line (straight line, loxodrome, least distance between two points); he drifted north of Palm Beach and was last seen bobbing toward Labrador. (We were in radio contact until he declared he was resigned to his destiny; _enshallah_.) There was lightning on the western horizon, but I didn't care about lightning. I cared about the United States Coast Guard. Let me tell you, sailing in the Gulf Stream is like sailing into a war zone. Coast Guard vessels were evident at all points of the compass. I mean big ships, ghostly white, with anti-aircraft batteries, and machine guns and cannons. My dread was to be approached, stopped, boarded and searched. Not that I was running cocaine or weed or guns or—bank on it—money: if we were boarded near the axis of the Gulf Stream, we'd be driven north at six nautical miles per hour, and that would make us sad. I intended to make us inconspicuous, nonchalant; I did this by looking casually in the direction of the Coast Guard vessels—on the theory that they'd be suspicious if we pretended not to notice them—and by talking to Priscilla about poetry. I assumed they could hear us through their directional microphones, and I'd never heard drug dealers discuss poetry with Sonny and Rico on _Miami Vice_. Live-aboard sailors had ascribed to the Coast Guard and DEA uncanny deductive powers, and I hoped that the Coast Guard had deduced that drug runners would on no account discuss poetry running drugs across the axis of the Gulf Stream. Nicholas had been boarded by plainclothesmen in Key Biscayne's No Name Harbor. This didn't surprise us. He and his friends and _Blackwing_ fit a provocative profile: they were too young to own the boat except with ill-gotten gains, and _Blackwing_ was too small to be a professionally crewed yacht. Nicholas had taken the dinghy ashore and was walking the beach at Key Biscayne with a bad case of cabin fever. He noticed an overdesigned and overpowered and undermuffled speedboat bearing down on _Blackwing_ at anchor; he watched a couple of slick customers come aboard wearing fancy sunglasses and carrying fancy automatic weapons. He saw his friends point ashore, at him; he watched the speedboat come toward him, and he told us he was pulled in quite a few different directions, and one of them was not toward the bow of the speedboat. Before he could run like crazy, they were on him; he was ordered to return to the boat of which he was the putative captain; there he watched while _Blackwing_ was searched, though what she might have been smuggling _to_ the Bahamas (except beer, which sells in the Islands for thirty dollars a case) was a mystery. The boys were lucky: the DEA chose not to tear her interior apart. So when the _federales_ hopped in their speedboat and roared off in a tidal wave of wake, all hands felt relief. Until Nicholas remembered the dinghy. "Who's swimming ashore to get it?" ordered Cap'n Nick. "I guess you," volunteered one of his crew. "That would be my guess," volunteered the other. "How do you figure?" commanded the captain. "Well, it's your dad's dinghy," conceded the first mate. "And you took it ashore," offered the second mate. Leaving Governor's Harbour, we'd been boarded and delved by the Royal Bahamas Defence Force. Half a dozen uniformed men bearing automatic weapons had materialized in a fast inflatable runabout. They'd made a thorough search, opened a few tins of food, studied the bilges, looked through our duffel bags. This had been courteous: the enlisted men had teased Nicholas about the Boston Celtics; when they left, the officer in charge had wished us _bon voyage_. Courtly, but with locked and loaded firepower at port arms. We knew we were being watched. Unmarked planes flew frequently and low over our anchorages; it was conventional wisdom that the blimps we saw every day were equipped with high-resolution cameras of the kind used in satellites, and that if we were questioned by the Coast Guard where we had cruised, it was best to remember exactly, since the feds had our itinerary thumbtacked to their bulletin board. It got to be a drag, drug stories shouldering aside a more human-scale Island mythology. We wanted to hear sweet stories, funny stories, stories out of the repertory of human comedy. Instead we were warned about yachties being shot or burned to the waterline for poking a bow into the wrong cove, and we were told of hijackings and unsolved murders and beatings. We would stand foursquare against the drug scourge, but please not along the axis of the Gulf Stream. In the event, we were left in peace until we were coming through Lake Worth Inlet in a thunderstorm, zero visibility, and a Coast Guard patrol boat radioed us and the other boat in our mini-convoy (the third having been set a little north of Greenland by now). We were naughty: we had entered the territorial waters of the United States of America without flying a quarantine flag, which is a little yellow triangle beseeching the Coast Guard to come aboard and rummage for contraband. Nicholas had warned us to fly that flag, and now the Coast Guard was cross with us even before we'd touched home plate. Life is a crapshoot: the Coast Guard decided to search one rather than both of us. In the rain. And the wind. Under thunder. And lightning. Half an hour before night. The pointer pointed to our companion. _Adiós, amigos!_ We were out of there. Home. Home? ### The Ditch Come what came, we were safe. Snugged down below, drinking tea, we felt as smug as Magellans. We'd mounted a snapshot of Nicholas and his friends just above the loran readout, and I was studying it. Priscilla was reading Nicholas's log of his passage down the Intercoastal Waterway, an eleven-hundred-mile-sequence of rivers, lakes, bays and land cuts vulgarly titled The Ditch, an inland waterway (protected from the Atlantic mostly by barrier islands) from Norfolk, Virginia, to Miami. We were eighty-three statute miles north of Miami, at Mile 1017. Powering at five knots (the Waterway is too narrow and tortuous most places to sail), we had two hundred hours of travel ahead of us. And that was just to Virginia. Beyond Virginia lay Chesapeake Bay, Delaware Bay, the New Jersey Coast, the East River, Long Island Sound, Fishers Island Sound, Block Island Sound. It was raining hard now, and I'd lit the kerosene lamp to give us some light and warmth. _Blackwing_ has a wood-burning stove that extends the cruising season in New England, but here in Florida a candle cut the damp cold. I liked being below. I thought we'd feathered our nest quite well. Our house is a rambling Victorian, too big for us, with spare rooms and redundant outbuildings. The place is stuffed with stuff: book cartons that haven't been opened since the mid-1960s, tools and machines to maintain the yard, ancient tennis rackets, closets of clothes held like Confederate war bonds in a profitless speculation that they might make a comeback (bell-bottoms, wide ties, white flannels); I've stored variant versions of manuscripts, students' short stories and essays and grades; I've stored empty shoe boxes in case they might be useful for storing something smaller than empty shoe boxes. You know; who doesn't know? But down here, below on _Blackwing_ , the concept _necessary_ was subject to ruthless revision. What I brought aboard, Priscilla would trip over; things stood trial for their lives. It was comfortable, and comforting, to strip down, to experience what could be lost in a burglary or foreclosure without diminishing us. As the weeks had passed, we had cleaned up our act, and we had learned the acrobatic tricks that made it possible to move with a show of practiced grace from the forward vee-berth (as big and as comfy as a queen-sized bed), through the main cabin (with opposing settees, a drop-leaf table between them, a small galley aft on the port side), to the head (tucked tight behind the companionway steps, and under the cockpit's bridge deck). The main cabin was white and clean, with varnished cherry doors and trim, a varnished teak and holly cabin sole, plenty of light. We knew the inches and dark corners of the place where we lived, and cleaned what was dirty, fixed what was broken, polished what was dull. Our boat was simple, and within the tiny universe we inhabited on _Blackwing_ we had the experience rather than the dream of control and competence and—sometimes, now, protected from the driving rain—perfection. We'd expected, living days and weeks in close quarters, that we'd get on each other's nerves. Nicholas had confessed to feeling cramped, and so had his crew. Three had made a good number of friends to share confinement; one could always break off from two to brood, or sulk, or silently scream at the (a) inconsideration, (b) incompetence, (c) imperfect hygiene of the other two, who would not notice, or could pretend not to notice. Pretty soon the surly tired one, the furious one, would pop a cold beer or tell a joke or see a funny sight, and the little storm passed. Now, silent below, watching Priscilla read, no place to go other than the place we had chosen as our prison cell, I wondered how we'd do. "We'll go right where he went," Priscilla said. "It's all here in the log; he'll tell us what to do. It'll be perfect. If we follow where Nick leads, we'll do just fine." It was so. Nick had been where we were going. Talk about displacement, reversal of customary order. A father says, "Here are the keys. Drive carefully." Nicholas, in Governor's Harbour, had said, "Here are the keys, be careful with the boat." In fact, Nicholas's log was more explicitly cautionary than most fathers would dare. A father might say, "Watch out for speed traps in Connecticut." Nicholas's log said: "The chart shows that Green #45 should be left to port northbound; the chart is _wrong;_ beware a shoal spot fifty feet northeast of #45." If we didn't beware, we'd hit it, and that was a fact. There were encouragements, too: "Went to old hotel near Cocoa Beach Bridge and had a few. Funky joint, like hotel in _The Shining_. Check it out, but don't try to write a book there." It was pure pleasure, taking Nicholas as our guide; it was relaxing to let the son become the father, not to resist this inversion. He had been where I had not been, and he knew what I did not know: where to anchor, what bridge tender would open the draw on request, who grills a good hamburger, where to keep an eye open for otters, or laughs, or beauty. From this place forward, Palm Beach to Jamestown, we were in his hands. How did we feel to follow rather than lead? We felt swell. We spent a day tied to a pier at Sailfish Marina on Lake Worth. We'd thrown in our lot with sportfishermen; marina life had its busy charm: we gaped at heavy-metal sportfishing boats, 60-foot Bertram killing machines as sleek as F-18s, gleaming white fiberglass and gleaming stainless steel and gleaming varnished hardwood. These showed off Brobdingnagian rods and reels set near audaciously complicated fighting chairs; aloft rose monster tuna towers, up and up, as high as follies. The boats rumbled with twin-engined Caterpillar diesel throatiness through Lake Worth Inlet from the Gulf Stream; approaching Sailfish Marina, they'd gurgle at low rpm to the weighing dock, and dump bravura loads of swordfish, tuna, marlin, sailfish and shark. While paid hands performed a three-hour wash-down of salt and scales and blood and gore from the sportfishermen, Priscilla and I, like kids, like a couple of retired geezers, would gawk at a deckhand slitting open the belly of a shark, and we'd take pictures of each other gawking, and, in unison with everyone else gawking, cry out _jeez!_ Priscilla said, "Let's phone Justin and tell him a college sophomore slid out of that tiger shark's belly." Justin had a special relationship with sharks, since seeing _Jaws_ as a little boy, against our better judgment. So we phoned Justin at Bowdoin and told him we had watched a college sophomore slip out of a tiger shark's belly. He laughed politely. It was a worn-out joke. He'd heard us report sharks in whose guts were found college frosh and high-school juniors and seventh-graders. He asked, sounding anxious, "You guys showing each other a good time?" What Justin meant: What do you find to talk about when you don't talk about us? What Justin meant: Take a vacation from your boys, The Boys, our boys. Justin, we heard you loud and clear. We suffered the (maybe) benign disorder of nonstop recollection. Priscilla and I put too many hours into riffling the pages of memory's scrapbook, and the pictures were forever the same: The Boys. For them it must have become an oppression; for us our fixation with recall was ceremonial. Like most ceremonies, it gave pleasure. Like most habits, it limited what we did because we did it instead of something else. We were never-endingly doing our sons' biographies: remembering them, analyzing them, telling their fortunes. This was a way to escape the self, to look elsewhere than at the here and now. But the here and now was the purpose of this voyage. We were here to respond to now. Moving through the water, finding the channel, looking immediately ahead, responding to what we saw... This was not a prophetic enterprise, nor retrospective. The Waterway, in its slow unwinding, had no narrative thread evident to me then. Winding north, I forgot how to write, literally: my minimalist log of our progress is barely decipherable. I memorialized our voyage by notes on wind direction, tides, weather (put down "sunny," and add "ibid." to each change of date), bridges and mile markers. The miles were marked on stakes laid out at frequent intervals, port and starboard, marking our course, our biography. Leaving Palm Beach, floating past people's front yards, peering into their kitchens and bedrooms from a distance of yards—this was a hoot. Americans—even the marginal fortunates living waterside—make a motley cohort. North of Palm Beach along the Gold Coast, fool's-gold coast, we saw expressions of preening grandiosity that refreshed the concept of kitsch. In this Xanadu—where gators dwell in the water traps of golf courses and catfish stroll the boulevards—were decreed by arbitragers and Subaru distributors pleasure domes, monumental humps of pink stucco; into the extravagantly watered lawns edged by flamboyant (I'll say!) trees were cut little canals, to float motor yachts as grand as the caretaker's house. We couldn't escape the privileged sense that this silliness was arranged for our entertainment, that we would be discourteous and ungenerous not to stare frankly at what had been set port and starboard to refresh our senses. Palm Beach's swank displays were merely predictable, as old-money Hobe Sound's affectedly unaffected Attic restraint was predictable. We were on the lookout for the capricious, and we found it everywhere. In Eau Gallie, on the tip of Merritt Island along the Banana River, we came upon an immense green concrete dragon guarding the homeowner's front lawn. The day we passed, the dragon's mouth was belching smoke and sparks and flame, the outcome of a barbecue cooking in the beast's torso. Did you ever? The Intercoastal Waterway, ICW, completed an uninterrupted hookup from Norfolk to Miami in 1935, though portions had been undertaken as long ago as Colonial times. It was dug to excite commerce, but meanwhile barging along The Ditch was overtaken by trucking along the interstates. Now it was used by pleasure boats as an alternative to offshore passages along the mid-Atlantic coast, especially to escape killer shores between Cape Hatteras and Cape Fear. Seven thousand boats a year transit north and south along the ICW; seven thousand are too few for a crowd, just enough for company; most are powerboats. Powerboats and sailboaters are trapped in a Tom versus Jerry cartoon of reflexive mutual antipathy; to powerboaters, sailors are snobs and eccentrics, inconsiderate slowpokes absurdly insistent on exercising their right-of-way in accordance with the finest of fine print in seagoing Rules of the Road. To sailors, stinkpotters are boorish speedhounds indifferent to the huge wake they churn roaring clamorously through narrow channels, swamping sailboats and eroding the fragile shoreline and chewing up defenseless manatees. In fact, the powerboaters we passed bow-to-bow, who passed us from astern, were almost invariably considerate and friendly; it is unsettling to surrender a prejudice to experience, but if we'd brought anything to the party, it was a willingness to be surprised. We were surprised most by the navigational exactions of traveling up The Ditch. When we'd planned the trip, we'd noticed a fallacy of logic in our dream to upset the uniformity of our home routines. What could be more sleep-inducingly uniform than to rise at dawn and plow north till dusk, along a narrow waterway, the diesel turning a steady 2700 rpm, following the magenta line on the chart, measuring progress by counting off regularly spaced channel marks, even numbered reds to port, green odds to starboard? Looked at narrowly, our would-be experiment in ultimate cohesion and attention had merely exchanged a regularity of days ashore (from which we fled) for an extreme regularity of days afloat (to which we fled); in this model a monotony of gardening and writing became a monotony of fïve-point-fïve-knot long-haul trucking. But it wasn't like that. Our senses were engaged: if negotiating the Bahamas without navigational aids was by inference and eyeballed best guess, navigating The Ditch meant understanding not only where we were going (to a spot between green stake #3 and red stake #4), but whether we had been set by current out of the narrow line connecting where we were going with where we had been (a spot midway between green stake #1 and red stake #2). Priscilla had a swell feel for our situation, studying it on the abstract environment of a chart; I had a feel for _Blackwing_ 's tangents and drifts. Priscilla knew where was center channel; I knew how to steer us there, and feel our way through deep water. Together we worked our way ahead, and I mean _worked_. Happy work, though, and Priscilla knew how to feather our nest: she had bought us a yellow beach umbrella rigged by a patented contraption to the steering station. She was expert in fetching and raising this at the first blush of discomforting sun. Iced tea materialized one beat before iced tea was desired. If I had been silently calculating our day's run to Fort Pierce, Priscilla had made an itinerary, subject to her daily revisions, home to Jamestown. Some micro for me, macro for her; some vice versa for vice versa. So we were team players, but we were also characters in what Hemingway believed was our first and last novel, Americans on a raft. We were a precious and privileged distance off the everyday verities of our crazy quilt of a gorgeous and tacky country; we believed we could see our country fresh from that little distance offshore, and so we looked sharp, and looking sharp we did not sleepwalk; we felt alive to that narrow band of our country, and to ourselves, and to each other. Our routine aboard became regular—a hum of conversation, shared responses to the passing circus (or from the passing circus, depending again on point of view), shared silences that we didn't mistake for brooding or discomfort; ashore we were often surprised, when I had the sense to look beyond what I believed was inexorable. It's an ironist's vice, it's this ironist's vice, to look for discord, error, the good idea gone bad: looking along the Waterway, I found confirming evidence of botched design, of will opposed and impeded by circumstance. So now I read in my notebook a notation regarding Fort Pierce's grim and seedy downtown, where competing office-supply stores, facing each other on the main drag, were boarded up, had evidently driven each other out of business. I must have found in this joyless sight some confirmation of barbarous human nature: then I thought it would be of use in a piece of writing; now I think it's of no use. Our best moments were unanticipated. We had docked in Vero Beach on a hunt for supplies. Back when, waiting on the shoals short of West End for the pirate-pilot to lead us toward the Gulf Stream, I had noticed a dreamy look in Priscilla's eyes. Later she told me it wasn't that distant a dream; it was a sixty-or-so-mile westward conjury of the US of A, home waters, asphalted terra firma. She was thinking safe dry land, but she was also thinking supplies. It had been satisfyingly simple to find the thin rations we sought in the Bahamas, because Bahamian bakeries and icehouses and liquor stores were clumped in harbor settlements (and if they weren't, who minded the walk?), or perhaps because we expected to find so little. Stateside, by contrast, industrial-strength foodstuffs were out along the highway at the Publix and Winn-Dixie, and we had to settle for convenience stores, and so our quality of life had been much depressed by the change of waters to bountiful America, even though we were well trained to eat lean aboard _Blackwing_. This afternoon we had walked from the Vero Beach municipal marina to buy beer. Along the way we'd passed a codger walking his foppish little dog. _Walking_ isn't exact: the old man was mounted on an electric tricycle equipped with a high whippy mast topped by a bright orange flag. He controlled his yippy wee pooch by the agency of a kite string. The animal, no doubt practiced in the synergistic arrangement, was nevertheless unresigned to it, and strained vainly against the half-pound-test line. "That's quite a system you have there," Priscilla said. The old man said, "You must be tourists." Priscilla said, "How can you tell?" He said, "You're kidding!" He asked where we hailed from, and when we told him, he said that was one hell of a coincidence, his son lived there too, "in Delaware." Easy to believe he required remedial tutelage in geography, but I came to adjust my view to his, and to understand that a neighborhood of weensiness was as good an association as a proximity of latitude and longitude; whatever brought us together was jake by me. The old man had directed us to a fish and bait shop on Bethel Creek, where we would find "good, cold beer." Priscilla asked the rough-looking tattooed counterman lurking in the dark cave of his fishing shack where we might buy milk and orange juice. He stared at her, and threw something toward her. "Here's the keys. It's the Dodge in the lot." He told us where to shop, and what sights to see along the way, and I believe if we'd let him he would have come with us to pay for our groceries and bag them and carry them to _Blackwing_. We learned to assume that people would be other than we assumed. It is a term of opprobrium among live-aboards that a novice boater is so poor a mechanic he can't screw the cap on a bottle of Mount Gay without crossing the threads; he "can't even adjust his stuffing box." In a Florida marina I hired a mechanic to adjust my stuffing box. He was a rougher-looking customer than the fellow who gave his Dodge to strangers off the street: similar tattoos, a Harley T-shirt with its sleeves torn off, a patina of grease on his exposed skin, a fine full belly of the sort termed "Milwaukee goiter," a plumber's wrench in his back pocket. As soon as he came aboard, he demanded a beer, and when he finished the beer he crunched the can one-handed, and if you don't believe me, if the crunched can's too perfect for words, I'll understand. Then he fixed things. He dived back into the tight engine compartment, and while he called every part of _Blackwing_ a bad name, and hammered those parts with his wrench, he fiddled and adjusted and tuned and advised. I asked him a couple of times how much all this was adding up to, and he said, "Gimme another beer." When he was finished, he said, "Nice boat. Very pretty boat." When he said "pretty," the word sounded pretty. And then he began to reminisce about our home port. He asked us if we drank in the Narragansett Café; he asked if we knew Nick, who owned Central Garage. Sure we knew Nick; he worked on our cars, worked also on the conveyance I now drove instead of sports cars and Norton motorcycles, a Wheel Horse riding mower. "Tell Nick Nigger says hello," said our new friend. Priscilla said, "What a world." Our new friend looked hurt: "That's what they call me. That's my nickname." Restaurants were museums of human unpredictability. In a Daytona waterfront restaurant with ambitions of refinement, we stumbled on pre-dance senior-prom-goers from New Smyrna High. They gave good value. Watching them was like doing an exegesis of the _National Lampoon Yearbook_. The prom queen wore a ball gown and a rhinestone tiara and smiled every second; we heard her say to a fat boy in a white dinner jacket a lot too tight on him, "You look great! You look _so_ cute!" (To put her prevarication in context, a girl about her age said of my Reef Runners, silly rubber shoes meant to protect the tootsies against nasty coral, pebbles and hot sand at the beach: "Those are the _cutest_ shoes! I got to _get_ me some!") The seniors had found their places: at the jock's table were crew-cut boys and clear-skinned girls with a lot of bouffant to their dos. At the literary magazine's table were unclear-skinned, pallid, angry, cigarillo-smoking boys and girls who wore no evening gowns or dinner jackets: black turtlenecks for her, black leather for him, sour misery vibes coming off the poached bass. The rich kids looked bored, jaded with the Chart House and its Polynesian drinks with umbrellas sticking out of them; the rich kids ordered Wild Turkey, "straight up, and, honey, ask the bartender to give me a twist." How did they get so young? How did we get so old? Maybe not so old. Daytona gave me an odd baseline reference for "old." I got carded in a convenience store that catered to golden-agers. I was essaying to buy a six-pack of beer, and the young lady behind the counter asked me for ID. I said, "Look at me. You can't be serious." She was serious; she showed me a notice that said she'd be checking the age of anyone who purchased beer; she'd have proof that I was twenty-one-plus, or I'd put the beer back in the cooler. "But I don't have ID with me." She said that was too bad for me. I said, "Look at my white beard. My bald head." She looked. She saw a guy nineteen, maximum twenty. Either she'd seen many a guy older than I, or she'd seen some twenty-year-old carrying around a monster load of worry and bad luck. In Titusville, along the Space Coast, we tied up with a mess of boats that had come north and south to watch the first shuttle launch after _Challenger_ went down. The boaters' kids clustered around a couple of manatees that floated around the gas dock, drinking water from a hose. The animals' backs were scarred from propeller cuts, and you could see their lassitude was ill-adapted to powerboaters in a hurry to get from one Chart House to another; the manatees had cute whiskers going for them, and the boaters' kids photographed them, and exclaimed over them. The scene was busy for our taste, so when we saw an ad for the town's "finest Italian restaurant," Lorenzo's, to which we would be carried by courtesy car, I got on the telephone. Lorenzo said to get myself and my wife out in front, "the limo's on its way." In Southern California I'd come to associate conveyance in limousines with dashed book-into-movie dreams, with the snapping shut of checkbooks and the awful putting away of billfolds. I associated limousines with broken promises, and when I saw this stretch limo, white and waxed, I felt a little premonitory hitch. Along the way to Lorenzo's the driver complained bitterly about the _Challenger_ "trouble." The "media" had "blown it out of all..." Out of all _what_ would you guess? You're right, out of all "proportion." Spin again: the Shuttle "trouble" had been "a bummer" for... Right you are, for "business." Lorenzo's was in a shopping center next door to Chicken Delight. It was not a stretch-limo kind of exterior presentation; inside was in keeping with outside. This was a shoppingcenter Italian restaurant, with cannelloni from Weight Watchers and garlic bread from the microwave. Driving us home, our uniformed and becapped driver said, "I've got one question. How do you figure the mayor and our fair city council?" "I'm sorry," I said. "I don't want to butt in," the driver said. "Your opinion is your business, but me—I got to believe someone's on the take." "We don't know what you're talking about," Priscilla said. "We don't live where you live." "I read you loud and clear," the driver said. "You're entitled to your private opinion. And if you're not into politics, that's also your right as a citizen. In my opinion." "In my opinion," I said, "they're both on the take." "I catch your drift, Cap." We had a fight at a Greek pizzeria near the St. John's River. The dinner began well, with a carafe of retsina; the only warning bell to ring was Priscilla's uncharacteristically pugnacious insistence on ordering for us not only a large Greek pizza, but two large Greek salads. She's a light eater, and I'm not. I amended the dinner order, instructed the waiter to bring me a small rather than large salad; I said my wife, despite her initial order, would also prefer a small salad. My wife said, "Mind your own business." She told the waiter to bring her a large salad. We'd had a good day, had put many miles under our keel. I congratulated us for owning such a swell boat. In fact, having ordered a second bottle of retsina, I toasted us for having ten years ago had the perspicacity to purchase such a commendable vessel. Priscilla's face abruptly clouded: "It was outrageous the way you bought the boat. Unpardonable." "Huh?" "You didn't even ask me my opinion." "Of course I did!" "You did _not!_ You didn't receive my permission. You just said, 'I am _going_ to _buy_ that _boat_ , and that is _all_ I have to _say.'_ Like some macho jerk." "Priscilla!" If retsina was talking on her behalf, she was also fed up with the delicate courtesies required of our relentless proximity. She was fed up with me. Later, walking home, Priscilla let me have it again, for allowing her to order about twelve pounds of Greek salad as a side dish to twelve pounds of pizza. "You're such a wimp!" she said. "A mouse!" "I thought I was a macho jerk." A block later I caught her smiling, then laughing. "Think of it," she said. "This is the best fight we can come up with. A grievance ten years old." In fact, there was a strain between us. During the several years before we treated ourselves to this escape, I had finished a novel, had accustomed myself to writing rather than to publishing, to baking bread rather than to casting it upon the waters. It had always been my professed desire to toss a book like a bomb over my agent's and editor's garden wall, and run for my life, and this time I had done just that. Whether my work gave good vibrations, or bad, or none—I was beyond vibrations' range. No small part of Priscilla's willingness to undertake this journey was my implied promise that while New York cast its various verdicts on my value, I'd shun telephones. If I was a mendicant (and I was, despite cloudy title to a pocket yacht), I might as well be a tramp. But recently I'd begun to hang on telephones at the dockmaster's shed and outside supermarkets called Piggly Wiggly. Would X buy the French rights? Did Y just love it to death? What I heard over the wires gave no joy, and too soon I was traveling the Waterway with my upper lip curled down and my lower lip stuck out. This made Priscilla angry. To check the temperature of work over which I had surrendered control was to her self-indulgent, and perverse, and profitless. It was one thing to do something irrational (write); it was a different and truncated thing to expect strangers to do something irrational (buy it, love me). When I feel sorry for myself, Priscilla takes it as her mission to give me even better cause to feel sorry for myself, so that in time I might learn that it is happier not to feel sorry for myself. At the most improbable moment—watching a baby porpoise learn to dive by swimming loopy "S"s so close to its mama they touched, hearing them catch their breaths with a unison theatrical chuff like health enthusiasts swimming laps—I'd let my thoughts drift to the advertising budget, first print run, advance reviews. Priscilla said this was a sickness; she was right. They call the Georgia portion The Big Wiggle, because the Waterway snakes through wetland creeks in byzantine loops and oxbows, so that _Blackwing_ 's stem might move in an hour through all points of the compass. So twisted is the route that a great distance over the water might represent a tiny distance over land; we might see the mast of another boat less than a straight-line mile distant, and eight miles by water, as though the water route we traveled were the stretched rubber twine wrapped around a baseball's core. Navigation through those marshes was taxing: creeks and bayous and sloughs and cul-de-sacs branched off the narrow main channel. The tidal range was great, nine feet in places, and to go aground at high tide would make a monument to high-and-dryness. The Florida Waterway had been crowded with local boaters and with snowbirds migrating north. Now the crowds thinned out. We journeyed entire mornings without passing another boat or seeing a human being or habitation. The grass was pale green and yellow, and unfolded to the horizon, and the spring dawnlight was filtered through patchy fog. We saw otters swimming on their backs, cracking open mussels, being cute; when a water moccasin, convoluting alongside _Blackwing_ (and to my inflationary eye near half her length) put itself on a course intercepting the otters, we called out a warning. Our alarm sounded intrusive and silly hollered into that wilderness silence; the snake and otters went about their business. Meantime egrets and blue herons waded on the marsh banks, and ospreys, nested atop channel stakes, brought fish to their fledglings. We saw wild horses running the beach at Cumberland Island, and at low water birds lined the water's edge waiting for the tide to drive small-fry fish to them, while smaller birds stood behind, waiting for the bigger birds to finish their lunch: the Chain of Being. One afternoon, just as we anchored in the bend of New Teakettle Creek, a golden eagle glided to the water surface right in front of our bow, and got what it had come for. But Priscilla's eye was elsewhere: "It's one of them. Look! Look there on the bank!" Priscilla's manner is laconic, unless she's laughing. She wasn't laughing, and her manner was not laconic. She had spotted, napping on the mud bank of the narrow creek, a very adult alligator. Alligators down here were, if not a dime a dozen, no more than a dollar the half dozen, but not to Priscilla. I'd like to avoid superlatives, but I've never seen Priscilla so excited by anything. She wanted to watch that alligator do something. I'll be plain: she wanted to watch that alligator eat something—a ship's cat, or a skipper, whatever alligators like to eat. The alligator wearied of Priscilla's attentions, slid off its bank, swam under our stern and took up a position on the opposing mud bank, slightly more distant from my wife. All through that night, whenever we heard the wild sounds of a wild place—an owl screech, a heron cluck, a rabbit shriek—Priscilla would nudge me. "There it is. It got something!" she'd say. And I did not think about the advertising budget, or first printing, or advance reviews. During a tornado watch, we waited at Lanier Island for the front to pass through. It was Saturday; the marina bar's parking lot was filling with muscle cars and black Jeeps with roll bars and dark blue Volvo wagons bearing family initials on nautical semaphore badges and carrying golfers from Sea Island, two islands to seaward. This was a mixed gang of weight lifters, fighter pilots, nabobs; old salts danced with chipper youngsters to a local rock band's fave raves. I don't care if southern ease is faked; I'll take it. Way off to the west, even as the moon lit us from above, I saw electrical storms. The horizon crackled like cluster bombs, and set the world's edge ablaze with menace, and while the dancers danced looking at one another or down at their feet or above at the moon or east or south or wherever, I stared off to the west and wished I were jollier, easier, better fun. I heard a woman behind me, with a honey Georgia accent: "Are you a Christian?" I turned east. She was pretty. "I beg your pardon." "Are you prepared for the hereafter?" No menace: a sweet patient smile. I had been asked that same question three years before, so at that rate I guessed I'll be asked it seven times again. It was time to have an answer, and I explained that I cared too much for the _here_ to fret about the _after_. She nodded sadly, serene in her disappointment; where was Priscilla's gator now that I needed him? "Take care now," she said. I promised to try. Beyond Moon River (as in "Muuuuune _Riiiver_ , dah dah dah dee dah, dah _dah_ dee dah dah dah, dah _duh_...") we tied up at Thunderbolt, and got a taxi to Savannah. The fare was seven-fifty; I gave the cabby a twenty-dollar bill, and asked him to keep nine. "I can't make change, pardner." "You have no change?" "Just a ten and three ones." "Tell you what: take my twenty, and why not give me a ten and a one." "Well, how do I come out there?" "Well, I give you the twenty to keep, and you give me a ten and a one to keep." "All right! That's mighty generous of you, pardner." Set beside the wide Savannah River, Savannah had been overwhelmed by a seven-story Mussolini Modern convention Hyatt, and inland had a desperate bombed-out character: an impeccable antebellum townhouse sat next door to a Western Auto. Hustlers panhandled the unkempt public parks, store windows were protected by metal mesh and doors by a locksmith's inventory of dead bolts and chains and padlocks with hasps as thick as my wrist. We were reminded: the Waterway is not the real world's way. Despite its riverside situation, this city was inland, with interior preoccupations. Back along the riverbank we were on the point of dining at the Shrimp Factory when a drummer spotted us looking at the menu and reached for my elbow. "Come on in. Come on, now! You won't regret it! We got the best food in Savannah and we got the food in our kitchen to prove it!" "Isn't that a non sequitur?" _"Argumentum a fortiori,"_ said Priscilla. "Let's go home to _Blackwing_." Nicholas had warned us; the log said of Savannah, "Savannah: wait for Charleston." Southeast of Charleston, we hit Elliott Cut on the last of a flooding (favorable) tide. The _Waterway Guide_ warned us: "If you're in a sailboat with only auxiliary power, don't try to buck these currents; it could put you out of control." At three-fifteen we were shooting for a restricted bridge that would be closed from 4 p.m. until evening, when I did not want to navigate Charleston Harbor. As usual, we were tired. A Coast Guard runabout with five crew members aboard passed us, and I waved a distracted greeting, calculating whether we'd make the last bridge opening. The runabout did a U-turn and came alongside; four young men climbed aboard _Blackwing_ wearing brogans and the damnedest life jackets: the life vests made Mae Wests look like Audrey Hepburns. An officer asked questions while three enlisted men searched below; as I tried to answer questions, the current slacked and turned immediately against us. ("... it could put you out of control.") I laid it out: "I'm not running drugs. I've got no weapons aboard. If I'm lying, you can throw my wife in prison." "Sir, we've got a problem down here." The young officer stared at me, smiled and went below. He soon poked his head up as I bucked the current whipsawing _Blackwing_ 's bow; we crept toward the bridge soon to close, trapping us in the narrow cut, without an anchorage. "Captain," asked the teenaged officer, "where is your Pollution Control Placard?" "My what?" He explained: I was meant to have posted a placard "in the vicinity of any overboard discharge mechanism"; the proclamation on this placard was to condemn in the strongest (and Coast Guard–approved) idiom the jettisoning of oil—what tankers do when they blow their tanks. "You're in violation here, Captain." Scolded by authorities, I'm tame. But this was a pissant offense, and I was climbing on my high horse when I heard an enlisted man whistle from the engine compartment. The pre-adolescent officer, a cub of a boy, a rosy-cheeked Sea Scout of a law-enforcement person, said, "I'm afraid we have an explosive situation down here, Captain." There was a slight skim of diesel fuel on the bilge water. This was no big deal: diesel fumes do not explode, which is why we have a diesel auxiliary. I had found and plugged the fuel filter leak. But the Coast Guardsmen, finding no cocaine in our eggs, no hashish in our beer cans, decided to save our lives. They climbed back into the cockpit, where we were now half a dozen, plus four engorged life jackets. "Your vessel could explode at any moment, Captain. We're going to accompany you to your destination at Ashley Marina." "Why, if we could explode at any moment, are you all so calm and friendly?" "It's our job, Captain." The bridge closed. I said, "Shit." No: I said, " _Shit!_ " The Coast Guardsmen looked at one another, and at Priscilla; that kind of cursing in the company of a lady was deplorable. They were darned disappointed with me. I said, "The bridge just closed. We're stuck here. The current's running so hard against me I can't keep a good course. The odds of an explosion must be gaining on us." The enlisted men turned to the baby officer, and he seemed to be turning the enigma forming in his mind this way, and then that way. "We've got an emergency here," he said. "I'd better get that drawbridge opened." And he did. We entered Ashley Marina horsed violently by a sideswiping current; Coast Guard regulations forbid boat-handling, I guess, because they didn't help us maneuver alongside our neighbor at the pier. This was a powerboat named _Black Knight_ , which is the committee boat for the New York Yacht Club during America's Cup racing in Newport, two miles from our home mooring. _Black Knight_ is the handsomest powerboat in the world, and its crew is not the boat's crew to whom one most would wish to present a forceful impression of having been confiscated by the Coast Guard under Zero Tolerance provisions of controlled-substance statutes. The crew aboard _Black Knight_ made a show of looking elsewhere, as though to spy on our infamy were shameful. "I don't know that we can handle this kind of thing here," said the dock boy. Priscilla explained our situation while the infant officer worked up my ticket for reckless driving. The explosion potential seemed to have been forgotten. "Eyes?" asked the toddler officer. "Brown." "Weight?" asked the suckling officer. I told him. He looked at me, at my sunburned and very high forehead. He smiled. "And what should I put down for hair?" asked the fetus. As the gang clomped across my deck and dropped to the pier, I said, "This was a Mickey Mouse bust. You could put a fire out with diesel, if I had enough diesel in my bilge to get a fire wet." "Happy trails," the embryonic officer promised. The dock boy at Ashley Marina said, "You people don't look like drug dealers, but smart drug dealers wouldn't look like drug dealers. Would they?" We passed awful hurricane damage north of Charleston; along Isle of Palms the cabbage palmettos had been swept clean, and at McClellanville remnants of the shrimp fleet were aground, and passing this devastation made me protective of our boat, aware how lucky we were to have come so far unscathed. I was considering our good fortune as we approached Georgetown Landing on the Pee Dee River when suddenly, coming up fast from astern in a runabout, the United States Coast Guard, five men and an officer, life-jacketed and sturdily shod. When they drew near, I shouted at them to bug off. Priscilla was alarmed, and the Coast Guardsmen seemed dumbfounded. "I've _been_ boarded! I'm a good guy! I'm not a drug smuggler! I'm a citizen! Get off my case! I'm middle-class! I'm a prudent mariner! I'm..." "Probably fucked," said Priscilla, under her breath. They were alongside. I said, "Look at me. Do I look like a drug smuggler?" I explained to The Law that I'd just been put through the wringer in Elliott Cut, and the officer, a mature and reasonable man, asked to see the citation I'd been given, and when Priscilla produced it, the officer asked whether I had installed an anti-pollution placard, and when Priscilla said that was definitely an affirmative, Sir, because it was, because she had insisted we track down and install the stupid thing, the officer saluted her: "I'll take your word for it, ma'am. Have a real nice day, Captain. At least you know we're out here." But the day's bad luck hadn't begun. While Priscilla and I were food-shopping, the wind came up. We realized we'd tied _Blackwing_ hastily to a badly protected pier, and by the time we ran back to move her the hurt had been done. Waves and wind had worn her hull against an exposed nailhead in the pier, cutting deep ugly gouges in her topsides. It had been dead calm when we'd tied alongside, and we'd been in a hurry to tie up, shop, get on our way; we'd let our guard down just for a moment, just once. Here, charged against my account, was the only damage done to that boat since she'd sailed from Jamestown more than seven months ago. "What can we tell Nicholas?" Priscilla said. "How can we tell Nicholas?" I said. We sailed downwind and up the Waccamaw River to Prince Creek, and if there was a lovelier patch of Waterway, we didn't see it. The river was wide and deep, the color of hot chocolate; along its banks canals had been cut into abandoned antebellum rice fields. First-growth forests of live oaks were bearded by Spanish moss. The river was quiet and unthreatening, and I couldn't stop thinking about what I had let happen to _Blackwing_ , and every ten minutes or so I'd lean over the rail and look at the hideous scars, and rub them, as though I could make them go away. Priscilla doesn't like to brood on what's amiss, but she wasn't immune. "Do you think we can fix it?" I said I guessed it could be fixed. Priscilla said it would be nice to make the injury right before Nicholas saw it. Shortly before dusk we anchored in a deep narrow creek, under cypress trees. The sky was clear; the wind had died and we could hear every creature on the riverbank. The low sun was casting pastels on the glassy water. Or so I was told; I was upside down in the cockpit locker trying to reach a broken electrical switch. The switch controlled our running lights, needed only when we moved at night, and we planned no night sailing south of Chesapeake Bay, so there was no need to repair that switch today. "Why are you doing this?" It was a question Priscilla had asked back at Lynyard Cay, after we crossed Northeast Providence Channel. "I have to fix it while I've got sunlight." "What's wrong with you?" I explained that I wanted to make a little right what I had made a lot wrong; I explained that if I had broken something, I could at least fix something. "You're hopeless," Priscilla said, eating in the near dark. "You don't know how to take pleasure from anything. You've spoiled Prince Creek, and I'm not waiting for you to finish your dumb project; you've let our bucket of fried chicken get cold." "But we bought it four hours ago." "Don't be a small-print artist." The next day we negotiated the ugliest and most treacherous stretch of the Waterway, Pine Island Cut, called by its many enemies The Rock Pile. The narrow land cut had been imperfectly blasted by the Corps of Engineers, which left rock ledges below and just above the water. The channel bristled with snags and deadheads and submerged logs. So narrow and dangerous was this stretch that to meet a tug towing a barge through it would be to kiss _Blackwing_ good-bye. There was no room to spin around and turn back or to pass: southbound train and northbound train on one track. Edging The Rock Pile were shacks with wood or plaster statues in their yards—life- or bigger-than-life-sized grizzly bears and zebras and giraffes and dinosaurs; the displays had been put there to give passing boaters pleasure, to astound, to up the ante on the neighbors' bestiaries. There were other likenesses: seated cast-iron statues of lazybones black boys equipped with makeshift fishing poles, angling from the ends of The Rock Pile's docks; these astounded, too, and gave no pleasure. "How far to Wrightsville Beach?" asked Priscilla. When Priscilla was ashore, she'd stop in front of every garden she met, and stoop to study and smell, and take on a faraway look. Measurably far away: two hundred and eighty-three miles of Waterway, plus the distance to Rhode Island, Jamestown, Narragansett Avenue, her flower beds. Since he left us in Eleuthera, Nicholas had been living at home, and when he and his mother talked while I waited a discreet distance from the phone booth, I overheard mulch and weeds and diagnostic consultations and corrective remedies. We had put in bulbs the autumn before we left, and I knew Priscilla was unhappy to be far from home when the daffodils and snowdrops and tulips—some of them annuals—poked through. As long ago as his second-grade year in Vermont, Nicholas had planted gardens with his mother, and he understood her aggravated feeling that to be elsewhere when her plants bloomed was to have slipped a cycle; he had been making time-lapse stills and videos of Priscilla's flowers. Now, in Wrightsville Beach, they switched places. This was no mutiny or MAYDAY; it was not unforeseen. We had planned as far back as the Florida–Georgia border to make what is bloodlessly termed a crew change in the middle of May. It made sense. Priscilla knew, or believed, she wasn't physically equal to the marathon Waterway runs and nonstop offshore passages that lay ahead to put _Blackwing_ within striking distance of home. Because she sensed she was approaching the end of her leash, and because she trusts what she senses, and because her flowers were newborn, and because (so far) what one wants both want, this part of our voyage was done now. We wanted to quit the game winners, take chips from the table. I had always believed that interesting stories were necessarily about failure; this story was not about failure, but it interested me. I had no illusions about the obstacles we had mastered: shallow water, reefs, treacherous anchorages, storms, the thin skin of fiberglass between us and the bottom of the sea—these were what Herbert Gold has named happy problems for happy people. On the other hand, we had overcome difficulties more interesting than trouble at sea; we'd behaved well to each other; we had hung in together day-to-day; we had hung, as they say, _tight_. This had required attention, not exactly the kind of attention required to maintain and navigate a boat, but akin to that kind of care. Nicholas flew to Wrightsville Beach the day before Priscilla flew home. While she was packing, I busied myself paying the bills Nicholas had delivered. Maybe that was all there was to it, the dumb facts in dollars and cents of our intractable responsibility to a life of first-of-the-month obligations, or maybe it was the logistical exaction of manipulating checkbook and calculator on the little table better used for navigational reckonings, or maybe it was the concrete metaphor of watching Priscilla's locker empty, and become Nicholas's, but whatever provoked me, I felt more solitary in the company of Nicholas and Priscilla together than I felt with either alone. My first boat was an eight-foot Penn Yan dinghy with white canvas topsides and varnished mahogany strakes and seats. To be free of land and landsmen has always figured in my fever for boats. At ten, living on the Connecticut shore of Long Island Sound, I'd row as far off Point o' Woods beach as my parents would allow, to an imaginary line connecting one headland of the little bay with the other; I'd rest on my oars and wonder what it was like beyond the line, one bay over. When I was not languishing over my oars, I'd row as though in flight from danger, backwater abruptly, spin in circles—the demented ballet of a kid in a rowboat. I was a would-be passage-maker, and a single-hander. I singlehand _Blackwing_ , and it's bracing to manage alone, to show off in the anchorage at Block Island or Cuttyhunk, getting down the sails, setting the anchor by my lonesome. But the point of it isn't to get away from home; the point is to get home away from land. To behave well in front of witnesses: Justin, Nicholas, Priscilla. To have them aboard is to feel in my bones the imperative of care, the good fun of good will; the point is to take pleasure from taking pains. Priscilla said good-bye at dawn from the marina dock, waving us up the Waterway. She looked envious; she looked relieved. Without her I felt incomplete, as though a sail had bust out along a seam. But I felt, if I couldn't then articulate, consolations. We'd just written much personal history together. I was sure of us. Now I was ahead of where I'd begun when I pushed the Penn Yan off from Point 'o Woods alone: I had company; we could go to sea, and float. The night before Priscilla left we had had a snug night aboard; Nicholas is tall, the boat is tight; Nicholas was proprietary, and self-consciously considerate. Priscilla was proprietary, and self-consciously considerate. _After you; no, I insist, after_ YOU! In no setting other than prison can the concept _my space_ have such manifest substance. I was surprised to catch myself resenting Nicholas. It hadn't been his choice to displace his mother; he'd seen the Waterway; he had business elsewhere. I knew all this, but during our first day and night together I heard myself saying, "Priscilla doesn't stow the cushion there" or "Priscilla likes to lash the boom more to port" or "Priscilla says the beer's coldest on the other side of the ice chest." Nicholas held his tongue, managed not to remark the obvious: then was then, now is now; she's there, I'm here. Our first day together I was too solicitous of Nicholas's judgment; I'd ask him if he agreed with actions and courses that were unambiguous. Nicholas wisely kept his distance. At the end of May he was to fly to Alaska to work as a wilderness ranger in Wood-Tikchik Park; he could give me eight days, and wherever we'd got to then, he'd trade off with Justin. If _Blackwing_ was to be brought within reach of home by June 1, we had long legs to make, dawn-to-dark long legs. Priscilla and I had thought we were doing well to put forty miles under us, but I hadn't cruised the turnpike till Nicholas came aboard. He had the preposterous notion that I could deliver _Blackwing_ from the south coast of North Carolina to Rhode Island in two weeks. I knew I couldn't. We did seventy miles to Beaufort. Sail hard, shop hard: we tied _Blackwing_ to the town dock and went in search of a handheld urinal. This was of value beyond calculation to a helmsman taking long watches at the wheel, especially offshore night passages north of Delaware. (A large fraction of the sailors lost at sea go overboard pissing over the stern rail; you can look it up.) We'd had a urinal aboard since I came home from heart surgery a few years before (waste not, want not), and Nicholas was disconsolate to learn it had been blown overboard in Northeast Providence Channel. He was determined to replace it, and along the waterfront we found a pharmacy where my son invited me to ask for, fetch and pay for the thing we desired. I put the mission in his capable hands, because I stuttered, because my stutter made it difficult to express some classes of desire, because I was his father and because I had money and he didn't. Nicholas looked, Nicholas found, Nicholas slid to the cash register. He wanted this to go smoothly, quickly, quietly, but, like a boy buying his first rubber, he faced a venerable checkout clerk. She began a colloquy with the pharmacist: "The urinal doesn't have a price on it, Roy. How much for the urinal?" Roy said, "That urinal is four-ninety-five." She said, "I'm charging you boys four-ninety-five for this urinal. You want me to wrap this urinal for you boys?" Nicholas said that would be nice. "Well, son, the thing of it is I don't have a sack the right size for this urinal." So Nicholas had to tote it, its hinged lid poking out of the sack. We visited a bar. Shop hard, play hard. Between racks of 8-Ball, we sat at the bar of the Royal James Tavern eating ninety-nine-cent chili burgers, and drinking frosted mugs of Bud. The bartender tried to break my son's heart: "Hey, who belongs to this plastic pisspot in the paper sack?" Nicholas said, "It's mine; I hate to leave the stool when I trade liquids." The next day we motorsailed sixty-six miles to make the final seating of the legendary buffet at Belhaven's River Forest Inn. The morning after, we woke to dense fog, and at five-thirty pushed out into it, with a lift from the tide and the wind. By afternoon we reached Albemarle Sound; it had an ugly reputation for steep seas, but wind and tide had shifted, again to our favor, and we were piling up miles. In the Alligator River, Great Santinis flying Marine Corps Harrier jets, simulating bombing and strafing runs, came in low over the water and wingwagged us. We tied up to the last free berth in Elizabeth City half an hour past nightfall: we'd logged eighty-five miles in fourteen hours. Whatever you called what we'd done, you wouldn't call it cruising; call it people-moving; call it hauling ass. We'd missed the evening cocktail party. Elizabeth City is the layover town for boaters entering or leaving the Dismal Swamp Canal; George Washington designed and underwrote the twenty-two-mile canal to open trade (rice, white-cedar shakes) from the Carolinas. Perhaps to endear the town to visitors, perhaps just another of the irregular courtesies offered all along the Waterway, the Elizabeth City Chamber of Commerce began long ago the custom of a nightly wine-and-cheese party hosted by the mayor in honor of transient boaters at the docks; this had been Nicholas's first taste of Waterway life when he came south, and he missed chatting up the town's personages. An Australian family on the motorsailor beside us, returning their boat from South Carolina to a Maine harbor a couple of miles from Bowdoin, urged ale on us; we sat in their pilothouse telling adventure stories. Or I did; Nicholas preferred hearing to talking. Nicholas woke me before dawn. Maybe it was the ale, maybe it was my pollen and sap allergy, maybe it was too much distance covered too fast, a kind of five-knot jet lag—whatever it was, I felt rocky when we backed out of the slip to make the first opening of the Dismal Swamp Canal's locks. The system of locking through was complicated, and if we missed the early opening at eight-thirty, there was little chance we'd make it today to Norfolk, Mile One. I was fuzz-headed, so I gave the helm to Nicholas. He asked some small favors—to get him coffee, to switch the battery banks, to put sun lotion on his nose—and I didn't execute them well. We missed the opening by five minutes: the lock tender at South Mills saw us coming and shut the lock at 8:28 a.m., and we had to throw the engine into reverse to avoid hitting the lock bulkhead. The next opening would be in two and a half hours; we were in a narrow throat of the Pasquotank River. We knew that boats would come up behind us, jamming the river with traffic. Sailboats do not maneuver predictably in reverse. The morning was humid and hot, with a strong breeze blowing across our beam, setting us toward the riverbank; Nicholas needed my help, and I couldn't keep my eyes open. He was perplexed and irritated with me, and I was irritated with me. We weren't supposed to let each other down. I felt light-headed _and_ heavy-headed, and my muscles ached. I was too tired to drink water. I told Nicholas I guessed I had spring fever; Nicholas said that was a great pity, he was spending the least enjoyable morning he had ever spent on _Blackwing_ , so he might as well make it sepulchral and adjust the stuffing box. He anchored; I asked if he thought we could retrieve the anchor from the river bottom dense with snags; when I said "we," he gave me a look, and shrugged. He stained himself with grease in the oven of the engine compartment, cut his hand banging and adjusting. Boats were stacking in around us, and the sun was hot, and I didn't care about anything. When Nicholas came up to the cockpit, the wind died, which was nice; when the wind died there was a fly hatch, which wasn't nice. The flies had materialized from nowhere, sticking to every exposed surface of sail and hull. They were in my ears and nose, and I saw them annealed to Nicholas's lips. He didn't bother shooing them away. When the canal opened, we had to be lifted eight feet by water flooding into the lock, and to avoid damage to the hull, the boat's lines had to be expertly tended. Nicholas was trying to do this alone, running from bow to stern and back; when I stood to handle a line, I went dizzy, and had to sit. The lock tender wouldn't help, and Nicholas found himself single-handing _Blackwing_ , and shouting (he _never_ shouts) at me and at the lock tender. We got through, and into the canal. We heard thunder, and I knew Nicholas was speculating on the physics of a fifty-knot gust taken broadside in a canal forty feet across. I guessed Nicholas wished he were in better company. I tried not to take this personally. We squeezed through the lock chamber at the other end, and fifty miles after Elizabeth City, Nicholas was piloting us through Norfolk Harbor, coping alone with charts, drawbridges, barge traffic, Navy traffic, a marina reservation. He had his eye on an oxford-gray anvil of thunder-head, and when it burst he piloted us through the squall and asked me a final favor: to tie him a bowline at the end of a dockline he'd have to use tying up. I can tie a bowline in the dark, but not that day. I held the stupid line in my hands, and studied it, and said, "Sorry. Can't." So Nicholas did that too, and, at the marina, the dockmaster made the mistake of suggesting that Nicholas turn the helm over to "the captain there." I said this was not a good idea. As soon as we were alongside, Nicholas jumped ashore. He said he wanted to take a walk, alone. I said get us a hotel room. He said, "Cool." I said buy a thermometer. He said, flushed with anger, "Cool." A couple of hours later Nicholas wanted to call an ambulance. My temperature was above 104°; he was scared. We got a cab from the Holiday Inn to the city hospital; the taxi driver played a rap tape and smoked a stogie. Nicholas asked if he'd snuff the cigar, and the driver said, "Walk." Nicholas said, "Please. Just get us there." The driver cranked the volume, rolled up his window and took a huge hit off his Dutch Master. We'd come north, the way I saw it. The climate had changed. The idiom had gone from _what cute shoes to walk; fuck yourself_. It was a weekend night; the emergency room was crowded with people having a hard time of it, but the reception nurse took a look at me and said, "This guy's in shock." Nicholas explained my St. Jude heart valve, certain medications. The nurse was a comedian; taking my temperature, seeing it spike 105°, he told Nicholas that Jim Henson, the man who brought "you kids" Miss Piggy, had died of something like this just the other day. "Wait a minute," Nicholas said. "Knock it off now." The nurse was leading me back to the doctors, and Nicholas was trying to hold my hand, and the nurse said, "You stay, Junior." "Not in your lifetime," Nicholas said. They ran IV fluids into me, cooled me with alcohol. I was out of it. Nicholas told me later some things he'd heard waiting. A bloody patient was on the gurney beside me; he'd been shot in the foot and ankle with a shotgun, and a nurse and police officer kept asking, "Who did this to you?" The victim kept answering, "How the fuck would I know? I'm drunk, in case you didn't notice." Nicholas heard a mother deny kinship with her son dying of knife wounds. She wanted to know: suppose the bleeding kid _was_ her bleeding kid, and he was underage, what was her financial exposure in such a situation? While that boy waited for surgery, Nicholas overheard a surgeon on the telephone, shouting above the mayhem to his contractor: "I want a _real_ doghouse. Not some bitty peewee shack, but something I can _stand_ in when I visit my animal. Don't let me down, now—I've got a temper." Nicholas realized after midnight that they'd lost a heart-attack patient. Not _lost him_ euphemistically, _lost him_ lost him. It was the principal conversation back there among the trauma unit. The Desaparecido's wife had sent him by ambulance at teatime; now it was coming on morning and they had his paperwork but no one could find him. "Try the morgue," an orderly suggested. They let me go after seven hours. It was a viral infection, good news. It wasn't a big deal; I was merely sick and in debt five hundred dollars to the hospital. After a couple of days in bed I was returned to myself, weak, chastened and cast down. We studied the charts of Chesapeake Bay. We looked to the right of the chart, to the east, and had the same idea at the same time: "Let's go outside," Nicholas said. And so it was decided. We'd scratch Chesapeake Bay from our itinerary, sail along the Atlantic coast the hundred and sixty miles from Norfolk to Cape May, New Jersey. That was a lonely ocean out there; we were shorthanded and could expect to be exhausted; if anything went wrong, there were no deep-water harbors or safe inlets along the Maryland–Delaware shore. But we would cut many miles off our trip, and we could sail through the night. After breakfast, at the fuel dock, just before casting off, Nicholas said, "I've got bad vibes about this passage, a creepy feeling." I tried to pin him down; he wouldn't amplify. I felt stretched, as though I couldn't calculate either my reach or my grasp. I took a deep breath and listened to the weather radio. We seemed to be promised twenty-four hours of unsettled but manageable weather. "Let's go." ### Coasting Home It's an experience familiar to anyone who's dived off the high platform, who's put an arm around a first date at the movies, who's dropped an angry letter in the mailbox, who's told the boss "I quit." Once begun it's okay. Sailing into the Atlantic that afternoon, settling into the mostly wordless groove of competence that keeps a boat on course and out of harm's way, we were happy. It wasn't until dusk, off the Maryland coast, that Nicholas called up to the cockpit from below: "Dad, bad news; I've got a fever. It's only a hundred, but I don't feel great." Of course. It made sense; we'd talked about what we'd do if it happened. So Nicholas took the helm while I slept in the cockpit; he'd stand watch for four hours or until he felt too sick and wasted to steer, whichever came first. As the sun set over Virginia, we scanned three hundred and sixty degrees to note the range and bearing of shipping we'd have to beware. We didn't have radar, but we hoped they did, and that our radar reflector lit it up bright and clear. I saw nothing; Nicholas said he could make out a fishing boat on the horizon, way astern. I slept uneasily, worried about where I'd brought my son. I questioned my own judgment; we were out here tonight because six months ago I'd promised a stranger I'd show up in San Francisco on a certain day to expatiate to other strangers on a topic titled by strangers "World Literature," a notional genre without existence or reason to exist. What would I say in San Francisco...? "Dad, you're on watch." Nicholas was shaking me gently. "You were snoring." "I was dreaming about a literary conference." He offered a mug of coffee. I saw that the sky was clouded, the wind light from the southwest. We were gently lifted and gently dropped by greasy groundswells. We were motor-sailing. "How do you feel?" "So-so," Nicholas said, helping me into the safety harness that we attached by carabiner to a cleat when we sailed offshore, or at night, or alone. "If anything, my temp's a little lower." I didn't believe him. I asked him to take his temperature and to show me the thermometer. "Don't treat me like a kid, Dad. Okay?" "Okay." Shortly before midnight I heard Nicholas ask from below, "Is that boat still following us?" I had noticed running lights astern, but they seemed far away, and we were running along a kind of loran highway, following the rhumb line between sea buoys; it didn't alarm me that other boats followed this obvious route. Truth was, I wasn't practiced enough at night sailing to distinguish between running lights on a huge ship far off and running lights on a small boat close by. Nicholas came on deck. I pointed astern. Nicholas said, "He's following us." I doubted this, and said so. Nicholas suggested I change course to the east and see if the boat changed course. I did; it did. Nicholas said he was going to call the Coast Guard. "Oh no! Not them! It probably _is_ the Coast Guard. Call the boat astern of us; ask its course; say we want to keep clear." Nicholas went below and got on the radio to the Coast Guard. I could hear his voice low and steady. A pearly light mist was coming off the water, nothing that deserved the name fog, but it was eerie, like the steam-machine atmospherics used as props in horror movies. The rigging dripped. My eyeglasses clouded; they were greased with wet, and the gray seas seemed oiled. It was chilly now, and I shivered; not for the first time, I wondered who I thought I was. Nicholas was in the companionway, looking astern through binoculars. "Bring us into the wind and cut the engine," he said. I did as he said. We were dead in the water, locked in silence except for the gently shaking mainsail and staysail. We looked astern, saw above the low mist a red light, green light, white light; the lights didn't move. "I think we're in trouble," Nicholas said; he went below to get the flare gun. I took it from him, and wondered aloud if we were being shadowed by the DEA. Nicholas said they wouldn't dick around with us; they'd approach and board us. But he got on the radio again to the Coast Guard, and I could hear him ask if the mystery boat might be the DEA. Now I heard alert care from the Coast Guard's end; they assured Nicholas they had no knowledge of any official vessel in our area. They asked our position, and when Nicholas gave it, they said they'd send a patrol out to us, and as soon as they said it, the lights astern winked off. Whoever was back there had either moved or shut off their lights. Who was it? Maybe a fishing boat, thinking it was following another fishing boat to a good haul? (Nicholas said they'd know by our masthead light we were a sailboat.) Okay, someone playing a game with us, for fun? (Nicholas said, "Does that make sense to you?") Maybe the DEA, after all? (Nicholas shrugged; why would they flee?) Then who? The Coast Guard never came. We moved on in anxious peace. Justin arrived in Cape May to take over from Nicholas. He'd just finished final exams at Bowdoin and was dead beat after the long drive from Maine. A cold rain was sweeping us. Who cared? It was a supercharged occasion; the brothers are distinct but tight. It's what anyone would wish for sons, an uncanny intimacy between them, together with a capacity for surprise. They had each other's number; they perplexed each other. Except for our short stay in Eleuthera, Nicholas and Justin had not seen each other for almost a year, and I could see them measuring each other, marking growth the way fond parents record kids' height on a storeroom wall. I took satisfaction from this reunion: because I'd made us all sail boats, and had engineered this adventure, I had given myself the power to command us to join together. We'd been having a high old time, chatting up barflies and shooting pool with fishermen. Thinking my smug thoughts about my wizard synthetic powers, I had a hunch I was thinking through my hat, that my reasoning was circular. That we were happy tonight owed nothing to my calculation; what we had tonight was as fleeting as a fair wind with a fair tide on a fair day, and all we could do with it was run with it. We had blundered on a wake for a Cape May fisherman lost that week at sea, and the fisherman's comrades bought drinks for the house, and challenged my sons to a game of pool. It was time for me to go home to _Blackwing_ , chart our course for the next day's sail alone with Justin. Tomorrow morning Nicholas would drive home, and fly away to Alaska. Much later that night, half asleep in my berth, I heard my sons walking down the dock, talking. Often they communicate in a slurred, breakneck idiom as inaccessible as code to outsiders and parents, but now they must have believed I was asleep. "You'll have a swell time with him," Nicholas said. "Of course," Justin said. "Just be patient," Nicholas said. "I know Dad," Justin said. "Of course," Nicholas said. Justin and I beat into a cold easterly, forty-four miles up the coast to Atlantic City. Like his mother, Justin was resigned to being made miserable aboard _Blackwing_ by seasickness, but now the prescription ear patch rescued him too, and he was in a jolly mood as we thundered past the breakwaters and up to the marina that serves Harrah's. Justin was a gambler. The look in a gambler's eyes is a gorgon look: get out of my way; don't think of standing between me and that jackpot. So how was it that a few hours later we glanced at each other and shook our heads? We'd done hard time at the slots: it was like making five knots through the water against a five-knot current; at the end of several hours our little plastic buckets held about as many quarters as they had held when we began, and our arms ached. So we tried the wheel, but it was crowded; we had to hurl chips in the general direction of our birthdate numbers. After four hours we were eight dollars down, maybe up. And if up, how long at such rates to become high rollers? We looked at each other, nodded and made our way, dodging wheelchairs, into the mob of golden-aged sports. "Let's bag it, Pa. It would take forever to make a couple thousand. Easier to write about it, don't you think?" It was cold out in the shipping lanes converging on Sandy Hook. We kept warm with mittens, ski caps, sweaters, parkas, tea and jokes. We saw the Jersey shore lit up, but we were well off it, avoiding fish traps that could catch our rudder and foul our propeller. Justin had sailed aboard _Blackwing_ since he was nine, and he knew his way around her. But till now I'd felt his enthusiasm for sailing had often been dutiful; seasickness explained more than I could know, of course, but he'd been willing, not always eager. He'd deferred to his older brother's sometimes fraternal authority, had distanced himself from the underlying system of sailing, had come along for the ride, doing what he could to make the ride safe and pleasurable. But now, out there in the shipping lanes, he was different. Now he was soaking it up, asking questions, laying courses, entering data into the loran, trimming sheets. He showed the exhilaration of someone who—long after comprehending gyroscopic theory—suddenly realizes for the first time he's riding a bike without training wheels. At dawn, a hundred and twenty miles later, _Blackwing_ swept us into New York Harbor, past the Battery, up the East River to Hell Gate and beyond, dodging tugs and ferries. We cruised up the East Side at rush hour, pushed by a fair tide. Helicopters buzzed around the UN Building. Justin had the helm. Twenty-four hours after leaving Harrah's, we were in Huntington, north of Cold Spring Harbor. As soon as we were snugged down, the sky opened, the wind howled, we lit a fire in the Tiny Tot fireplace, changed into clean clothes, cooked a pot of soup, put Lightnin' Hopkins in the tape deck, broke open a fresh deck of cards, played. Nicholas had commended an anchorage on the Connecticut side of Long Island Sound, near New Haven, west of Sachem Head, a collection of Maine-like rocky islands called The Thimbles. Justin and I anchored midafternoon in deep water tucked in the alley between two islands. We were alone in our anchorage, except for teenagers water-skiing and showing off for each other. Justin said to watch them made him feel like an old-timer. It was a wonderful day. The pressure was off; we'd get _Blackwing_ home before June. We lazed in the cockpit, reading. Justin was reading a novel; I was reading _A Cruising Guide to the New England Coast_ , and he suggested I put the cruising guides away for a while. It wasn't like Justin to tell another what was best, but I took his suggestion as a thrust with purpose, took seriously what he might have noticed about my narrowed field of vision. Later, we grilled burgers and dogs on a hibachi that hung off the transom, and watched a perfect sunset. The moon came up, and we lay in the cockpit looking at it. We played music, trading tapes back and forth, listening to his Van Morrison then my Billie Holiday then his Eric Clapton then my Bucky Pizzarelli. In the silvery wash of moonlight he told me things I'd never guessed before, and I told him things. We were in a free zone together, out of range of our entrenched lines of authority and privacy, not facing off but facing the same sky, same moon. Such concurrence is rare; I'd experienced perfect concord with my sons far from home, or driving at night lit by the sea green of dashboard lights. Kin can wait a lifetime for whole intimacy, and to have it once is to keep it. Credo. We sailed in freezing rain to Saybrook Breakwater, up the Connecticut River to Essex. We played gin rummy in the rain, swinging from a rented mooring. In the rain we went ashore, and ate at the Griswold Inn, shad with roe. We shopped in the rain for groceries and the bag tore and emptied itself into a gutter before we got to the dinghy. We played gin rummy. We tried to nap; the rain beat us awake. The boat below smelled of wet wool and of us. The rain fell. We drank beer and played gin rummy. We took the dinghy ashore and ate at the Griswold Inn, shad with roe. We got a good soaking going back after dinner in the dinghy. We drank beer and played gin rummy. (Later I found our gin-rummy scores penciled into a wet notebook; I owed Justin a couple of thousand dollars, or a couple of million, depending on where to put the decimal. There's an observation below an interim score: "This man can't be for real; is he hustling me?") Justin put Van Morrison on the tape deck. I'd heard Justin's Van Morrison tape. I put Billie Holiday on the tape deck. Justin had heard my Billie Holiday tape. We went to bed and listened to it rain. When we woke up, it was raining. The wind was howling from the northwest. "Let's eat a fish lunch at the Gris," I said. We were less than an hour from home by car. "Let's get out of here," Justin said. It wasn't prudent to leave our mooring in such conditions. "In my considered opinion," I said, "weighing probability against experience, let's get out of here." It was foul out there. We banged into the biggest seas I'd faced since we left Eleuthera. We were bucking a tidal current, making good 2½ knots, but way off in the distance was a ribbon of clear sky, and if the current was against us now, it would be with us later. And then it turned with us: we screamed up Fishers Island Sound to Stonington, dropped anchor at dark, rose at dawn, sailed past the Texas Tower into Narragansett Bay at the lunch hour and turned the corner at The Dumplings and tied up to Conanicut Marina at the foot of Narragansett Avenue, the street where we live. Justin ran home to get Priscilla, and by the time she raced down to the dock to greet _Blackwing_ , I was cleaning our boat. We ate a picnic in the cockpit, and traded sea stories, tales of legendary groundings and gear-busting gales in a far-off chain of islands where the moon was full thirty days a month. Soon I returned to scrubbing, and Priscilla said to our son, "Let's leave him to it." She said this patiently. I scoured and fussed and oiled and adjusted and mended and prettied _Blackwing_. She had been good to us, and we had been good to us. At the end of the day I took _Blackwing_ to her mooring; she swung into the wind, facing south. I covered the sails, tied off the running rigging, locked the helm amidships, closed the hatches, shut her up tight. If, as she tugged on her mooring, the sense of an ending was a romantic illusion, it was a benign illusion. So too the illusion of having done something valuable by taking a boat to sea, and bringing her home to port. Maybe I had felt no more, no less, than any layabout in a beach chair? Was it a trick I played on myself to regard this draining of my mind as healthy? Of course what I felt wasn't the whole point, was it? I hadn't been alone out there. Sailing up Narragansett Bay, Justin had said, so quietly I could just make it out, "I think I'd like to take our boat on a voyage."	{ "pile_set_name": "Books3" }
Republican National Committee Chairman Reince Priebus faces an uncertain future after the November election. In an interview with The Hill at RNC headquarters in Washington, D.C., on Saturday, the three-term RNC chairman outlined a handful of scenarios that could unfold for him after the election. He might run for a fourth term irrespective of who wins the White House. Donald Trump Donald John TrumpBiden leads Trump by 36 points nationally among Latinos: poll Trump dismisses climate change role in fires, says Newsom needs to manage forest better Jimmy Kimmel hits Trump for rallies while hosting Emmy Awards MORE could become president and ask him to stay on for a transitional period to pave the way for a new chairman, or he might move on. ADVERTISEMENT When The Hill asked Priebus directly if he intends to run for a fourth term, he responded: “It’s possible, but I’m not going to figure that out until the week after the election. But it’s possible.” He acknowledged that if Trump wins the White House and asks him to stay on, it would “be a difficult thing to say no to.” “Perhaps it will be a situation where he would want me to stick around for a short period of time to help someone else learn the ropes,” Priebus said. “I spent six years working with the people that have funded our operation and those relationships take time. So it’s possible some scenario could develop where I’d stay here. It’s possible I’d run again. It’s not something I’m thinking about or plotting.” In 2015, RNC members overwhelmingly elected Priebus to a third term, making him the longest-serving chairman in party history. Voting will take place in January. Trump, whether elected president or not, could play a role in guiding the committee, but the decision is ultimately up to members. Priebus has been credited with pulling the national party out of debt and onto firmer financial ground. He has focused heavily on getting the party up to speed with Democrats on the digital front and has made outreach to women and minorities a priority. ADVERTISEMENT But 2016 has been a turbulent cycle for Priebus and the RNC — Trump’s candidacy has exposed deep divisions within the party. Priebus on Saturday mused about the difficulties of leading the GOP without the benefit of a Republican in the White House. “It’s a long time for someone to be chairman of the party,” he said. “It’s different if you have a president in the White House for eight years and you’re just here, because you don’t really run. You’re anointed and it flows in and out. But running a party without the White House and having a very diverse party and keeping all of this together is a very difficult job, but something I’ve loved and feel blessed I was able to do.”	{ "pile_set_name": "OpenWebText2" }
Hey guys. It's been a while. So first off, even though I mentioned that I might quiet at times, I wanna apologize for the sudden short hiatus. I've started school back in August and been focusing on t... So I’ve been wanting to make a comic soon featuring my Zangoose character Zangi and a following group of people that I’ll be posting soon. But I wanna get some advice on how I should handle it while m... Hey. So does anyone remembers me for the old stuff that I posted years ago that I unexpectedly deleted? Yeahhhhhhh..... I was young and was going through a weird phrase at the time. It's hard to expla... Hi. Name's Andy. A rookie artist who just likes to draw stuff that's either cute, funny, or even stupid. Currently in college and whenever I get time, will post stuff either here, or on Tumblr. Occasionally, I'll draw stuff that's fetishy, but I won't draw anything that's farther than Mature. Request: Ask; Trades: Ask; Commissions: Not Yet(Requests might either be a sketch or lineart. Depends on my mood.)	{ "pile_set_name": "Pile-CC" }
All relevant data are within the paper and in supplementary material. Introduction {#sec001} ============ The endothelium forms a physical, semipermeable barrier that separates blood from surrounding tissues. Under normal, physiological conditions, molecules and circulating substances can be transported across the endothelial barrier directly through endothelial cells or between them \[[@pone.0172371.ref001]\]. Endothelial barrier integrity differs; in some organs it is more strictly regulated than in others (e.g. blood-brain barrier). Endothelial barrier dysfunction occurs during stimulation by inflammatory agents, pathogens, activated blood cells, or in other disease states \[[@pone.0172371.ref002]\]. One of the mechanisms maintaining the endothelial barrier function is the activity of transmembrane pumps that could regulate influx and efflux of various substances. The majority of these transmembrane proteins belong to the ABC (ATP-binding cassette) transporters family and some of them are known as multidrug resistance (mdr) proteins. Acting as cellular transporters, ABC proteins participate in normal physiological processes, e.g. secretion in liver hepatocytes and in renal tubule cells \[[@pone.0172371.ref003]--[@pone.0172371.ref004]\]. ABC transporters are also present in stem and progenitor cells. The mdr proteins expression is connected with stem cells protection from various toxic or harmful molecules. Two of these proteins, expressed in a stem cells subpopulation---BCRP (ABCG2) and MDR1 (ABCB1)---are known as side population determinants \[[@pone.0172371.ref005]--[@pone.0172371.ref006]\]. Although mdr proteins are extensively studied \[[@pone.0172371.ref007]--[@pone.0172371.ref008]\], mainly in relation to cancer treatment, methods used for their evaluation are still not satisfactory. The non-functional approach determines the defined mdr mRNA or mdr proteins expression levels. This includes several techniques for RNA and DNA evaluation: reverse transcription PCR (RT-PCR), real-time RT-PCR, Southern and Northern blot, as well as various methods for protein detection: Western blotting, immunofluorescence staining with monoclonal or polyclonal antibodies, or ELISA. However, these methods often give inconsistent results, which can be visible in cells with low mdr proteins expression \[[@pone.0172371.ref009]\]. Therefore, functional assays are additionally used, based on the ability of mdr proteins to pump fluorescent dyes out of cells. Detection of mRNA specific for a given protein does not automatically mean that the protein is expressed. There are many mechanisms regulating translation and post-translational processing---among them microRNAs are nowadays extensively described \[[@pone.0172371.ref010]\]. Another issue is the use of specific antibodies for mdr protein detection. The sensitivity of the method chosen (flow cytometry, Western blotting, ELISA, immunocytochemistry) plays a role, especially when the protein expression level is low. According to the specificity of each technique, the available antibodies are designed to recognize epitopes from denatured proteins up to fully post-translationally modified structures, such as glycoforms \[[@pone.0172371.ref011]--[@pone.0172371.ref012]\]. Antibody threshold of reactivity is also a determining parameter, especially in dynamic methods of typing, such as flow cytometry. Therefore, protein detected by one method may not be recognized by other method in the same cell sample. The current study was designed to clarify the question of mdr proteins expression in human endothelial cells and to choose the best method or combination of methods for their evaluation. We compared several methods used for defining the mdr proteins MDR1 (ABCB1), MRP1 (ABCC1), MRP4 (ABCC4), MRP5 (ABCC5) and BCRP (ABCG2), expressed by two unique human endothelial progenitor cell lines---HEPC-CB.1 and HEPC-CB.2 - established by our research group \[[@pone.0172371.ref013]\], and by endothelial mature cell lines of microvascular HSkMEC.2 \[[@pone.0172371.ref014]\] and macrovascular (HUVEC) origin. Hence, a model of endothelial cells of different origin and different stage of differentiation---progenitor, derived from microvasculature and from macrovasculature---was proposed. Endothelial progenitors, HEPC-CB.1 and HEPC-CB.2 cells, being at the very early stage of endothelial differentiation, were expected to possess a relatively high expression of mdr protein. In contrast, human microvascular skin endothelial cells HSkMEC.2 represent quiet, mature endothelium and therefore should present a low, "basal" expression level of mdr proteins. HUVEC cells, derived from macrovasculature and having distinct functions, were chosen as a control endothelium. Materials and methods {#sec002} ===================== Reagents {#sec003} -------- Doxorubicin, rhodamine 123, calcein acetoxymethyl (calcein AM), propidium iodide, verapamil, MK-571 inhibitor and novobiocin were from Sigma Aldrich, USA. Rhodamine 123 and doxorubicin were dissolved in water. All other compounds were dissolved in dimethyl sulfoxide (DMSO, POCh, Poland). Antibodies used in Western blotting, immunocytochemistry and flow cytometry experiments are listed in [Table 1](#pone.0172371.t001){ref-type="table"}. 10.1371/journal.pone.0172371.t001 ###### List of antibodies used in the experiments. ![](pone.0172371.t001){#pone.0172371.t001g} Clone Recognized epitop Fluorochrome conjugated Application Supplier ----------------- ------------ ---------- ------------------- ------------------------- ------------------------- --------------------- Anti-MDR1/ABCB1 MDR1/1 15D3 external PE FC BD Pharmingen MDR1/2 17F9 external PE FC BD Pharmingen MDR1/3 UIC-2 external FC IITD MDR1/4 E1Y7S WB, ICC Cell Signaling MDR1/5 polyclonal WB ThermoFisher Scientific Anti-MRP1/ABCC1 MRP1/1 QCRL-2 internal FITC FC Santa Cruz MRP1/2 QCRL-3 internal FC IITD MRP1/3 polyclonal WB, ICC ThermoFisher Scientific MRP1/4 polyclonal WB Cell Signaling MRP1/5 MRPm6 WB Alexis Biochemicals Anti-MRP4/ABCC4 MRP4/1 M4I-80 WB, ICC, FC LifeSpan BioScience MRP4/2 D1Z3W WB, ICC, FC Cell Signaling Anti-MRP5/ABCC5 MRP5/1 M5I-10 WB, ICC, FC Kamiya Anti-BCRP/ABCG2 BCRP/1 5D3 external PE FC BD Pharmingen BCRP/2 BXP-21 internal WB, ICC, FC EnzoLife Sciences BCRP/3 polyclonal WB Cell Signalling BCRP/4 BXP-34 internal WB, ICC Alexis Biochemicals Anti-B-actin B-actin D6A8 WB Cell Signaling FC---flow cytometry, WB---Western blotting, ICC---immunocytochemistry. Antibodies used for FC were unconjugated or directly conjugated to fluorochrome: fluorescein isothiocyanate (FITC) or phycoerythrin (PE). Antibodies MDR1/3 and MRP1/2 were prepared by ourselves at the Institute of Immunology and Experimental Therapy (IITD PAN). Cells {#sec004} ----- Human endothelial progenitor cell lines originated from cord blood (HEPC-CB.1 and HEPC-CB.2) (C. Kieda, Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique, France, European patent N° 1170 3915.6, the USA extended patent N° is 13/521 715) \[[@pone.0172371.ref013]\] and human normal skin microvascular endothelial cells (HSkMEC.2) (C. Kieda, Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique, France, patent 99--16169) were established according to the method previously described \[[@pone.0172371.ref014]\]. All these endothelial cells were cultured in Opti-MEM with GlutaMAX (Thermo Fisher Scientific Inc., USA) supplemented with 3% Fetal Bovine Serum (FBS, HyClone, UK) and 1% Penicillin-Streptomycin (Sigma Aldrich, USA) and were routinely passaged using 0.05% trypsin/0.02% EDTA (w/v) solution (IITD PAN, Poland). Human umbilical vein endothelial cells (HUVEC) were isolated from macrovasculature and immortalized with hTERT using a previously described protocol \[[@pone.0172371.ref015]\]. Cells were cultivated in 199 medium (Lonza, USA) supplemented with 10% FBS (HyClone, UK), L-glutamine (Sigma Aldrich, USA), 1% Penicillin-Streptomycin (Sigma Aldrich, USA) and 200 μg/mL Endothelial Cell Growth Supplement (ECGS, Becton Dickinson, USA). HUVEC cells were cultured on plates coated with collagen (Vitrogen 100, Flow Laboratories Inc., USA). Human colorectal adenocarcinoma chemoresistant subline LoVo/Dx was obtained by prolonged exposure of LoVo cells (ATCC, USA) to doxorubicin, and was cultured in Ham's F12 medium (Cytogen, USA), supplemented with 10% FBS (HyClone, UK), L-glutamine (Sigma Aldrich, USA) and 1% Penicillin-Streptomycin (Sigma Aldrich, USA). Doxorubicin (at 100 ng/ml concentration) was constantly present in the culture medium of the LoVo/Dx cells. The drug was withdrawn a week before experiments. RT-PCR {#sec005} ------ Total cellular RNA was isolated from 4 x 10^6^ cells using a NucleoSpin RNA kit (MACHEREY-NAGEL, Germany). First strand cDNA synthesis was performed by reverse transcription of 1 μg of total RNA using the RevertAid First Strand cDNA Synthesis Kit for RT-PCR (Thermo Scientific, USA). The PCR reaction for detecting MDR1, MRP1, MRP4, MRP5 and BCRP mRNAs was performed using specific primers ([Table 2](#pone.0172371.t002){ref-type="table"}). As a control actin mRNA expression was checked. The PCR products were separated on 2% agarose gels and visualized under UV light after ethidium bromide staining. The size of products was estimated using molecular weight marker Gene Ruler 100 bp DNA Ladder (Fermentas, Lithuania). The experiments were repeated at least 3 times. 10.1371/journal.pone.0172371.t002 ###### Primers used for detection of multidrug resistance proteins. ![](pone.0172371.t002){#pone.0172371.t002g} ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Primers Nucleotide sequence PCR conditions --------- ---------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------- MDR1 `forward: 5’- AAGCTTAGTACCAAAGAGGCTCTG -3’`\ \[94°C, 1 min; 58°C, 1 min; 72°C, 2 min\], 36 cycles\ `reversed: 5’- GGCTAGAAACAATAGTGAAAACAA- 3’` Product size: 242 bp MRP1 `forward: 5’-AGTGACCTCTGGTCCTTAAACAAGG-3’`\ \[94°C, 30 sec; 58°C, 1 min; 68°C, 1 min\], 35 cycles\ `reversed:5’-GAGGTAGAGAGCAAGGATGACTTGC-3’` Product size: 657 bp BCRP `forward: 5’-CCCAGTACGACTGTGACAATG -3’`\ \[94°C, 45 sec; 61°C, 30 sec; 72°C, 30 sec\], 35 cycles\ `reversed: 5’-CACAGTCTTCAAGGAGATCAGCTA -3’` Product size: 135 bp MRP4 `forward: 5’-TCCTCCTCCATTTACAGTGACA -3’`\ \[94°C, 45 sec; 61°C, 30 sec; 72°C, 30 sec\], 35 cycles\ `reversed: 5’-TTATTCTCCTAAACACTGCAGCTC-3’` Product size: 110 bp MRP5 `forward: 5’-TGAATCTGAAGTGATGGAGAATGG -3’`\ \[95°C, 45 sec; 52°C, 1 min; 72°C, 1 min\], 35 cycles\ `reversed: 5’-CCTATCGGAGCCTAGAACCG -3’` Product size: 232 bp Actin `forward: 5’- CCAGAGCAAGAGAGGCATCC-3’`\ \[95°C, 30 sec; 57°C, 30 sec; 72°C, 30 sec\], 30 cycles\ `reversed: 5’- CTGTGGTGGTGAAGCTGAAG-3’` Product size: 450 bp ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Western blotting {#sec006} ---------------- Endothelial cells were plated on Petri dishes (6 cm) and incubated in standard cell culture conditions for 24 h. Cells were then scraped and lysed in RIPA lysis and extraction buffer (Thermo Scientific, USA) and kept at -80°C. The protein content in cell extracts was determined using BCA Protein Assay Kit (Pierce^™^ Thermo Scientific, USA). 50 μg of total protein per lane was subjected to SDS-PAGE and transferred onto Immobilon PVDF Membrane (Merck Millipore, Germany). The membrane was blocked with a 5% solution of BLOT-QuickBlocker^™^ (Calbiochem, USA) for 1 h at room temperature. Further incubations were performed in PBS containing 1% BLOT-QuickBlocker^™^. Protein levels were determined with specific antibodies against: MDR1 (anti-MDR1/4, anti-MDR1/5); MRP1 (anti-MRP1/3, anti-MRP1/4 and anti-MRP1/5); MRP4 (anti-MRP4/1 and anti-MRP4/2); MRP5 (anti-MRP5/1); BCRP (anti-BCRP/2, anti-BCRP/3 and anti-BCRP/4); and β actin. The membrane was incubated with the specific antibody for 1 h at room temperature. After washing three times with 0.05% (v/v) Tween-20 solution in PBS, the membrane was incubated with secondary biotinylated antibody (Dako, USA) for 1 h and washed three times with 0.05% Tween-20 in PBS. Finally, the membrane was incubated with streptavidin-HRP (Dako, USA). Chemiluminescent reaction was developed using ECL Western Blotting Substrate (Promega, USA) and visualized on CL-XPosure film (ThermoFisher Scientific, USA). As a positive control human LoVo/Dx cell lysate was used. The experiments were repeated at least 3 times. The concentrations of antibodies are presented in [Table 3](#pone.0172371.t003){ref-type="table"}. 10.1371/journal.pone.0172371.t003 ###### Antibody concentrations used for Western blotting analysis of multidrug resistance protein expressed by endothelial cells. ![](pone.0172371.t003){#pone.0172371.t003g} Anti-β actin Anti-MDR1 Anti-MRP1 Anti-MRP4 Anti-MRP5 Anti-BCRP -------- ------------------------------- ------------------------------- ------------------------------- ------------------------------- ------------------------------- ---------------------------- ---------------------------- ------------------------------- ---------------------------- ------------------------------ ------------------------------- ------------------------------ 1st Ab β actin MDR1/4 MDR1/5 MRP1/3 MRP1/4 MRP1/5 MRP4/1 MRP4/2 MRP5/1 BCRP/2 BCRP/3 BCRP/4 1:100 1:1000 1:1000 1:2000 1:1000 1:180 1:100 1:100 1:100 1:1000 1:1000 1:500 2nd Ab Goat anti-rabbit biotinylated Goat anti-rabbit biotinylated Goat anti-rabbit biotinylated Goat anti-rabbit biotinylated Goat anti-rabbit biotinylated Goat anti-rat biotinylated Goat anti-rat biotinylated Goat anti-rabbit biotinylated Goat anti-rat biotinylated Goat anti-mouse biotinylated Goat anti-rabbit biotinylated Goat anti-mouse biotinylated 1:4000 1:4000 1:4000 1:4000 1:4000 1:2860 1:1000 1:4000 1:1000 1:10000 1:4000 1:10000 3rd Ab Streptavidin/HRP Streptavidin/HRP Streptavidin/HRP Streptavidin/HRP Streptavidin/HRP Streptavidin/HRP Streptavidin/HRP Streptavidin/HRP Streptavidin/HRP Streptavidin/HRP Streptavidin/HRP Streptavidin/HRP 1:50000 1:50000 1:50000 1:50000 1:50000 1:2500 1:4000 1:50000 1:4000 1:50000 1:50000 1:5000 Flow cytometry---Protein analysis {#sec007} --------------------------------- For MRP1 and BCRP (BXP-21 clone) staining cells were permeabilized using the Fixation/Permeabilization Solution Kit (BD Biosciences, USA). For other stainings cells were detached using NonEnzymatic Cell Dissociation Solution (ATCC, USA). Next all cells were labeled with antibodies specific for CD243 (anti-MDR1/1, anti-MDR1/2 and anti-MDR1/3); MRP1 (anti-MRP1/1 and anti-MRP1/2); MRP4 (anti-MRP4/1 and anti-MRP4/2); MRP5 (anti-MRP5/1); BCRP (anti-BCRP/1 and anti-BCRP/2) and the appropriate isotypic control for 30 min at 4°C ([Table 4](#pone.0172371.t004){ref-type="table"}). 10.1371/journal.pone.0172371.t004 ###### List of control antibodies used in flow cytometry experiments. ![](pone.0172371.t004){#pone.0172371.t004g} Fluorochrome conjugated Supplier ---------------------- ------------------- ------------------------- ------------------------- 1 st Ab Mouse IgG1 PE BD Mouse IgG2b PE BD Mouse IgG2a R&D Systems Mouse IgG2b FITC BD Mouse IgG1 R&D Systems Rabbit IgG ThermoFisher Scientific Rat IgG2a BD 2nd Ab Goat anti-Rat IgG Alexa Fluor^®^ 488 ThermoFisher Scientific Goat anti-Mouse IgG FITC Sigma Goat anti-Rabbit IgG FITC Sigma After washing with PBS cells were analyzed or detection by incubation with the corresponding FITC-labeled secondary antibody (Sigma Aldrich, USA) was performed for an additional 30 min at 4°C. After washing with PBS cells were analyzed using a FACSCalibur flow cytometer, and data were processed using CellQuest software (BD Biosciences, USA) for 3 independent experiments. MDR protein expression was evaluated using the Kolmogorov-Smirnov statistic automatically calculated by CellQuest software (D value ≥0.2 was evaluated as positive). The concentrations of used antibodies are presented in [Table 5](#pone.0172371.t005){ref-type="table"}. 10.1371/journal.pone.0172371.t005 ###### Antibody concentrations used for flow cytometry analysis of multidrug resistance proteins expressed by endothelial cells. ![](pone.0172371.t005){#pone.0172371.t005g} Anti-MDR1 Anti-MRP1 Anti-MRP4 Anti- MRP5 Anti -BCRP --------- ----------- ----------- ----------------- ------------ ----------------- ------------------- ------------------ ------------------- -------- ----------------- 1 st Ab MDR1/1 MDR1/2 MDR1/3 MRP1/1 MRP1/2 MRP4/1 MRP4/2 MRP5/1 BCRP/1 BCRP/2 1:50 1:50 1:5000 1:50 1:10000 1:100 1:100 1:100 1:50 1:100 2nd Ab FITC anti-mouse FITC anti-mouse Alexa488 anti-rat FITC anti-rabbit Alexa488 anti-rat FITC anti-mouse 1:200 1:200 1:200 1:200 1:200 1:200 Flow cytometry---Functional test {#sec008} -------------------------------- ### A) Standard functional test {#sec009} Endothelial cells or LoVo/Dx cells were incubated with the appropriate concentration of rhodamine 123 or calcein AM (final concentration 0.2 μM and 0.05 μM, respectively) for 60 min at 37°C. After washing once in cold medium, cells were incubated for 2 h at 20°C in growth medium or growth medium with inhibitors specific for three major ABC transporter types: 10 μM verapamil (MDR1 inhibitor), 25 μM MK-571 (MRP inhibitor) or 20 μM novobiocin (BCRP inhibitor). Inhibitor concentrations were chosen based on previously published data, demonstrating their lack of toxicity towards endothelial cells, even after long incubation period \[[@pone.0172371.ref016]--[@pone.0172371.ref017]\]. However, MDR1 and BCRP inhibitors concentrations used in standard tests were reduced by half, as they were cytotoxic for endothelial cells after 2h incubation at 20°C. Moreover, MK-571 inhibitor was found to be toxic for endothelial cell lines tested; therefore its concentration was reduced from 50 μM to 25 μM in both functional tests. After incubation with inhibitors cells were placed on ice and propidium iodide (2.5 μg/mL) was added before data acquisition. Cell fluorescence was measured by flow cytometry using a Becton Dickinson FACSCalibur analyzer equipped with a 488 nm argon laser. Fluorescence was recorded via a 530/30 nm band pass filter. A total of 5,000 alive (propidium iodide negative) cells were registered as events and analyzed using Cell Quest software. The influence of DMSO (maximal concentration in samples 0.8%) on cell viability was also monitored. Multidrug resistant protein Activity Factor (MAF) was calculated from the following equation on the basis of measured mean fluorescence intensity values (MFI): MAF \[%\] = 100 × ((MFI inhib---MFI med)/MFI inhib)), where MFI inhib is the MFI value for cells incubated in the presence of a specific inhibitor, while MFI med is the MFI value for cells incubated in medium with DMSO \[[@pone.0172371.ref018]--[@pone.0172371.ref019]\]. ### B) Commercial functional test {#sec010} EFluxx-ID Green Multidrug Resistance Assay Kit purchased from Enzo Life Sciences company (USA) was used according to the manufacturer's instructions. The recommended concentration of MRP inhibitor was reduced to 25 μM because of cytotoxicity for endothelial cells. Before starting the test all cells were kept in complete growth medium without Phenol Red (OptiMEM with GlutaMAX, Thermo Fisher Scientific Inc., USA). The substrates and inhibitors used in functional tests are presented in [Table 6](#pone.0172371.t006){ref-type="table"}. 10.1371/journal.pone.0172371.t006 ###### Substrates and inhibitors used in functional tests. ![](pone.0172371.t006){#pone.0172371.t006g} Protein Substrate Inhibitor ----------------- ------------------------ ------------------------ ----------- Standard test MDR1 rhodamine 123 verapamil MRP calcein AM MK-571 BCRP rhodamine 123 novobiocin Commercial test MDR1 eFluxx-ID^®^ Green verapamil MRP eFluxx-ID^®^ Green MK-571 BCRP eFluxx-ID^®^ Green novobiocin In both functional tests (standard and commercial) cells with MAF values \<25% should be regarded as multidrug resistance negative. For each experiment all three MAF values were used to calculate the mean MAF value. The differences between sets of measurements were below 10%. All the experiments were repeated at least 3 times. Immunocytochemistry {#sec011} ------------------- ### Cytospin preparation {#sec012} Cell lines HEPC-CB.1, HEPC-CB.2, HSkMEC.2, HUVEC, and LoVo/Dx were cultured for 3 days, then trypsinized and resuspended in PBS with final density of 1 x 10^6^ cells/ml. Cytospin slides were prepared and dried overnight at room temperature and then stored at -20°C until immunostaining. ### Immunostaining {#sec013} To assess the expression of mdr proteins in the analyzed cells, cytospin slides were thawed at room temperature and then fixed in acetone for 10 min. Then slides were left for 20 min.---until complete solvent evaporation---and placed in washing buffer TRIS/NaCl pH 7.6 for 5 min. Monoclonal antibodies were diluted in the antibody diluent (Dako, Glostrup, Denmark) as follows: anti-MDR1/4 (1:400), anti-MRP1/3 (1:100), anti-MRP4/2 (1:100), anti-MRP5/1 (1:100), anti-BCRP/2 (1:100). Then they were incubated with cells for 1h at room temperature. Between each step of immunostaining slides were washed in TRIS/NaCl buffer pH = 7.6. Visualization was performed by using the Dako EnVision G/2 System/AP kit, detecting mouse and rabbit primary antibodies. Slides were counterstained with Mayer's Hematoxylin (Bio-Optica, USA), washed in distillated water, and then mounted with Faramount medium (Dako, Glostrup, Denmark). Slides incubated with an appropriate secondary antibody (rabbit/mouse LINK, Dako) served as a negative control. The LoVo/Dx cell line served as a positive control. Protein expression was assessed by staining intensity. Intensity of staining was scored subjectively as follows: no staining (-), weak (+), moderate (++) and strong (+++). Slides were analyzed and images were recorded using an Axioplan 2 (Zeiss, Jena, Germany) microscope under magnification 200x. Staining was repeated at least 3 times for each mdr protein tested. Results {#sec014} ======= Mdr protein mRNA expression {#sec015} --------------------------- The mRNAs for the mdr proteins: MDR1, MRP1, MRP4, MRP5 and BCRP were detected using reverse transcription PCR (RT-PCR). The mRNAs for those proteins were found in all endothelial cells tested, except MDR1 mRNA, which was found only in HUVEC cells ([Fig 1](#pone.0172371.g001){ref-type="fig"}). Tumor LoVo/Dx cells were used as a positive control cells in all methods. ![Expression of mdr proteins mRNA in endothelial cells using RT- PCR method.\ The primers used for the reaction are listed in [Table 2](#pone.0172371.t002){ref-type="table"}. As a control actin mRNA expression was checked. LoVo/Dx cells served as a positive control.](pone.0172371.g001){#pone.0172371.g001} Mdr detection by flow cytometry {#sec016} ------------------------------- The mdr detection at the protein level turned out to be a challenge. The first method used was flow cytometry. Monoclonal antibodies used originated from three distinct clones recognizing MDR1, two clones recognizing MRP1, MRP4 or BCRP, and one clone recognizing MRP5. Results are presented in [Table 7](#pone.0172371.t007){ref-type="table"}. Representative histograms are shown in [S1 Fig](#pone.0172371.s001){ref-type="supplementary-material"} and raw data are presented in [S1 File](#pone.0172371.s003){ref-type="supplementary-material"} (see supplementary material). None of the investigated endothelial cell lines was MDR1 positive, whereas MRP1 expression evaluation depended on the antibody clone used. Cells labeled with clone QCRL-2 (anti-MRP1/1) did not reveal MRP1 protein expression, whereas cells stained with clone QCRL-3 (anti-MRP1/2) showed a significant MRP1 protein expression level. For MRP4 expression HEPC-CB.1, HEPC-CB.2 and HSkMEC.2 cells were found positive after treatment with two different clones: anti-MRP4/1 and anti-MRP4/2. HUVEC cells were found negative with anti-MRP4/1 but positive with anti-MRP4/2 antibodies. All endothelial cell lines tested were MRP5 protein positive, as revealed with only one antibody used. Endothelial progenitor cells showed BCRP protein expression only when anti-BCRP/2 clone was used; with anti-BCRP/1 clone no reaction was observed. Mature endothelial cells, both HSkMEC.2 and HUVEC, were BCRP negative regardless of the antibody clone used. LoVo/Dx cells always showed positive staining, except for anti-MRP4/2 clone. 10.1371/journal.pone.0172371.t007 ###### Flow cytometry analysis of multidrug resistance protein expressed by endothelial cells. ![](pone.0172371.t007){#pone.0172371.t007g} Anti- MDR1 Anti-MRP1 Anti-MRP4 Anti-MRP5 Anti-BCRP ----------- -------------- -------------- -------------- -------------- -------------- -------------- -------------- -------------- -------------- -------------- HEPC-CB.1 D = 0.02 D = 0.02 D = 0.02 D = 0.00 D = 0.59 D = 0.51 D = 0.38 D = 0.58 D = 0.00 D = 0.59 HEPC-CB.2 D = 0.02 D = 0.02 D = 0.02 D = 0.00 D = 0.63 D = 0.32 D = 0.20 D = 0.29 D = 0.00 D = 0.25 HSkMEC.2 D = 0.02 D = 0.02 D = 0.02 D = 0.00 D = 0.52 D = 0.20 D = 0.36 D = 0.63 D = 0.00 D = 0.00 HUVEC D = 0.02 D = 0.02 D = 0.02 D = 0.00 D = 0.60 D = 0.02 D = 0.49 D = 0.44 D = 0.00 D = 0.00 LoVo/Dx D = 0.94 D = 0.52 D = 0.87 D = 0.51 D = 0.94 D = 0.81 D = 0.17 D = 0.26 D = 0.81 D = 0.75 Protein expression was evaluated using specific antibodies or isotype control. Results are shown as the D value using the Kolmogorov-Smirnov statistic for one representative experiment. D values ≥0.20 were evaluated as positive. Mdr detection by Western blotting {#sec017} --------------------------------- To further decipher the mode of mdr expression, Western blotting was applied ([Fig 2](#pone.0172371.g002){ref-type="fig"}). Antibodies recognizing MDR1: anti-MDR1/4 and anti-MDR1/5 reacted only with control LoVo/Dx tumor cells, which confirmed the negative results obtained for expression of their mRNAs. The opposite situation was observed for MRP1 protein: a positive reaction was found only in LoVo/Dx cells, even though all endothelial cells tested expressed MRP1 mRNA. BCRP detection depended on the antibody clone used in the experiment. The anti-BCRP/4 antibody gave positive staining for all cells examined, whereas anti-BCRP/2 antibody gave no positive reaction, as shown in [Fig 2](#pone.0172371.g002){ref-type="fig"}. With anti-MRP4/1, anti-MRP4/2 and anti-MRP5/1 antibodies we did not observe any positive reaction, even with LoVo/Dx control tumor cells \[data not shown\]. ![Western blotting analysis of multidrug resistance protein in endothelial cells.\ MDR1, MRP1 and BCRP protein levels were revealed with different sets of specific antibodies in endothelial cell extracts obtained lysing cells with RIPA buffer. Protein extracts from LoVo/Dx cells were analyzed as positive controls. MDR1/4: 180 kDa; MDR1/5: 170 kDa, MRP1/3: 180 kDa; MRP1/4: 170--220 kDa; MRP1/5: 190 kDa; BCRP/2: 72 kDa; BCRP/3 65--80 kDa and BCRP/4: 72 kDa. Equal protein loading (50 μg/line) was confirmed by β-actin expression (45 kDa).](pone.0172371.g002){#pone.0172371.g002} Mdr expression evaluated by immunocytochemistry {#sec018} ----------------------------------------------- The next step was immunocytochemical method application. Positive control LoVo/Dx cells expressed all examined proteins including MDR1, MRP1, MRP4, MRP5 and BCRP, although with diverse intensity. Strong staining was observed for MDR1, MRP1, MRP4, and MRP5, whereas BCRP expression was found to be faint ([Fig 3](#pone.0172371.g003){ref-type="fig"}). For endothelial cells MDR1 expression was not observed. Single cells expressing MRP1 or MRP4 were found among HEPC-CB.1 and HEPC-CB.2 cells. Weak or no expression of MRP1 and MRP4 was observed for HSkMEC.2 and HUVEC cells. Weak expression of MRP5 was present only in HEPC-CB.1 cells, while other endothelial cell lines were found negative. BCRP staining revealed high expression in HEPC-CB.1 and HUVEC cells, moderate expression in HEPC-CB.2 cells, and weak in HSkMEC.2 cells ([Fig 3](#pone.0172371.g003){ref-type="fig"}). ![Immunocytochemical staining of endothelial cell lines on cytospin slides for mdr proteins.\ LoVo/Dx cell line was used as a positive control. Slides incubated with secondary antibody (rabbit/mouse link) served as a negative control.](pone.0172371.g003){#pone.0172371.g003} The results of Western blotting and immunocytochemistry for MDR1 and BCRP using anti-BCRP/4 antibody staining were in accordance with their mRNA expression, whereas we did not observe such a correlation for MRP proteins. Therefore, the functional activities of mdr proteins were tested. Functional assessment of mdr proteins {#sec019} ------------------------------------- For investigation of mdr proteins activities, two functional tests were applied. In the standard test, cells were incubated with fluorescent dye (rhodamine 123 or calcein AM) and, after incubation, retention of the dye in the presence of specific inhibitors was measured ([Fig 4A](#pone.0172371.g004){ref-type="fig"}). The second test used was the commercially available eFluxx-ID^®^ Green Multidrug Resistance Assay Kit ([Fig 4B](#pone.0172371.g004){ref-type="fig"}, commercial test). Multidrug resistance protein activities were observed in HEPC-CB.1, HEPC-CB.2 and HUVEC cells. In the standard functional test HUVEC cells showed low MRP activity ([Fig 4A](#pone.0172371.g004){ref-type="fig"}). When the commercial test was applied, only the activity of the MDR1 pump was observed for HUVEC cells and MRP activity for HEPC-CB.1 and HEPC-CB.2 cells ([Fig 4B](#pone.0172371.g004){ref-type="fig"}). Representative histograms are shown in [S2 Fig](#pone.0172371.s002){ref-type="supplementary-material"} and raw data are presented in [S1 File](#pone.0172371.s003){ref-type="supplementary-material"} (see supplementary material). Positive control LoVo/Dx cells confirmed activities of all ABC pumps tested. The differences between the results of these two functional tests may be due to higher sensitivity of commercial probes of e-Fluxx-ID Green Kit as compared to other mdr substrates. Moreover, the commercial probe was the substrate for all mdr proteins investigated, as compared to two different probes used in the standard test (rhodamine 123 and calcein AM). ![Comparison of MDR activity factor (MAF) of endothelial cells: A) standard functional test; B) commercial functional eFluxx-ID Green test.\ A) Cell lines were trypsinized, washed with medium and incubated with rhodamine 123 or calcein AM dyes. After one wash, cells were incubated in medium or medium with specific inhibitors: 10 μM of verapamil, 25 μM of MK-571 or 20 μM of novobiocin. B) Cell lines were trypsinized, washed with PBS, aliquoted and treated in triplicate with different inhibitors (20 μM of verapamil, 25 μM of MK-571, or 50 μM of novobiocin) or untreated (medium with DMSO). Tested probes (eFluxx-ID Green) were added to every sample apart from one tube (white cells). The cells were incubated with the dye in the presence or absence of inhibitors for 30 min. at 37°C.](pone.0172371.g004){#pone.0172371.g004} Then cells were immediately analyzed by flow cytometry. The representative MAF index from at least three independent experiments was shown. MAF\>25% is regarded as multidrug resistance positive (red line is MAF = 25%). Results obtained in all experiments are summarized in [Table 8](#pone.0172371.t008){ref-type="table"}. 10.1371/journal.pone.0172371.t008 ###### Summary of results. Numbers indicate positive (1) or negative (0) results obtained by particular technique used. In case of ICC the gradation of results is presented as (+) and (-) score. M- mRNA; WB- Western Blotting FC- Flow Cytometry; ICC- immunocytochemistry; FA- standard functional test; FB- commercial functional test. FA\* and FB\* refers to functional tests applied for the whole MRP protein family. All tests were repeated at least three times, and both functional tests were each time performed in triplicate. ![](pone.0172371.t008){#pone.0172371.t008g} MDR1 MRP1 MRP4 MRP5 BCRP ----------- ------- -------- --------- ------ ------- ------- ------- --------- -------- ----- ------- ------- ------- --- -------- ----- ------- --- ------- ----- ------- --------- -------- ----- ------- ------- HEPC-CB.1 0 00 000 \- 0 0 1 000 01 \+ 0 1 1 0 11 \+ 1 0 1 -/+ 1 001 01 +++ 0 0 HEPC-CB.2 0 00 000 \- 0 0 1 000 01 \+ 0 1 1 0 11 \+ 1 0 1 \- 1 001 01 ++ 0 0 HSkMEC.2 0 00 000 \- 0 0 1 000 01 \- 0 0 1 0 11 -/+ 1 0 1 \- 1 001 00 -/+ 0 0 HUVEC 1 00 000 \- 0 1 1 000 01 \- 1 0 1 0 01 \- 1 0 1 \- 1 001 00 +++ 0 0 LoVo/Dx 1 11 111 +++ 1 1 1 111 11 +++ 1 1 1 0 10 +++ 1 0 1 +++ 1 111 11 ++ 1 1 Discussion {#sec020} ========== In most previous reports mdr proteins were investigated in human tumor cells, as being associated with frequent cancer treatment failure. ABC transporter expression was further reported in several other cell types, including blood-brain barrier endothelial cells, liver and kidney \[[@pone.0172371.ref003], [@pone.0172371.ref020]--[@pone.0172371.ref021]\]. Based on the observation that endothelial cells isolated from brain vessels express mdr proteins \[[@pone.0172371.ref022]--[@pone.0172371.ref023]\], we performed these studies to investigate their expression on endothelial cells of different tissue origin and at different levels of differentiation. Multidrug resistance protein gene expression is often analyzed at the mRNA level, using RT-PCR and real-time RT-PCR methods, due to their sensitivity \[[@pone.0172371.ref021], [@pone.0172371.ref024]\]. We found mRNA for several mdr proteins detectable in endothelial cell progenitors as well as in mature HSkMEC.2 and HUVEC endothelial cells. Our results are in good accordance with a previously reported experiment testing human mature endothelial cells \[[@pone.0172371.ref025]\]. However, mRNA presence does not always reflect the final protein expression and transporter functions \[[@pone.0172371.ref026]--[@pone.0172371.ref027]\]. Some researchers have even reported that tumor cells with high mdr mRNA expression levels did not express them at the protein level \[[@pone.0172371.ref024], [@pone.0172371.ref028]\]. Therefore, studies with the application of specific antibodies against particular mdr proteins were conducted. Many different antibodies, monoclonal and polyclonal, are used for the measurement of mdr proteins' presence using several immunochemical protocols, such as flow cytometry, Western blotting or immunocytochemistry. Flow cytometry turned out to be the preferable method for mdr assessment due to its sensitivity and simplicity. We tested three different antibody clones for MDR1 protein, two clones for MRP1, two clones for MRP4 and two clones for BCRP. For all antibodies applied, except for anti-MRP4/2 antibody, positive reactions were observed with LoVo/Dx positive control cells. In endothelial cell lines diverse antibody clones gave varying results. Even antibodies against one specific mdr protein may recognize different epitopes, and their detection sensitivity may differ. So, antibodies designed towards one specific determinant may provide dissimilar results. The most frequently chosen antibodies are those recognizing extracellular epitopes of mdr protein, and being directly conjugated with fluorochrome \[[@pone.0172371.ref029]\]. In this study we used anti-BCRP/1 antibody recognizing an external epitope, but it gave negative results with both HEPC-CB.1 and HEPC-CB.2 cell lines, whereas anti-BCRP/2 antibody, which recognizes an internal epitope, gave positive results (see [Table 7](#pone.0172371.t007){ref-type="table"}). Using positive and negative controls and excluding the methodical difficulties, we noticed that antibodies are not always suitable reagents. Insufficient specificity, sensitivity and lot-to-lot consistency may generate false results and unnecessary expenses. Similar observations were reported by Baker \[[@pone.0172371.ref016]\] and Kosztyu et al. \[[@pone.0172371.ref024]\]. For Western blotting analysis of mdr proteins expression we observed an analogous situation. At least two different antibodies specific for one mdr protein were tested. Different clones of specific antibodies gave divergent results. We found the expression of MDR1, MRP1 and BCRP proteins in LoVo/Dx positive control cells. For MDR1 staining neither anti-MDR1/4 nor anti-MDR1/5 antibodies were able to detect MDR1 protein expression in endothelial cells ([Fig 2](#pone.0172371.g002){ref-type="fig"}), which confirmed the lack of mRNA expression for MDR1 found by us in all endothelial cells tested. Endothelial cells, both progenitor and mature HSkMEC.2 and HUVEC, revealed BCRP presence only when anti-BCRP/4 antibody was used; no such presence BCRP was found using anti-BCRP/2 antibody, which was opposite to the results of cytometric analysis of endothelial progenitor cells. According to commercial notes, both antibodies---anti-BCRP/2 and anti-BCRP/4---recognize an internal epitope, and the lack of staining by anti-BCRP/2 in Western blotting was an unexpected observation. MRP proteins MRP1, MRP4 and MRP5 were not detected by Western blotting, and again this was in contrast to the results obtained by flow cytometry. In both methods, Western blotting and flow cytometry, the same clones of antibodies against MRP4 and MRP5 were used. The only difference found was associated with MRP1 detection; flow cytometric measurements were done with anti-MRP1/1 and anti-MRP1/2 antibodies, whereas in Western blotting anti-MRP1/3, anti-MRP1/4 and anti-MRP1/5 were used. However, MPR4 and MRP5 protein expression was not found, even in the positive LoVo/Dx control cells. In all endothelial cells tested with the immunocytochemical method, MDR1 protein expression was not detectable, whereas BCRP expression was visible, which does not match the results obtained either by flow cytometry or in Western blotting, using the same anti-BCRP/2 antibody clone. Similar confusing results were found for MRP protein expression. For HEPC-CB.1 and HEPC-CB.2 cell lines only single cells with MRP1 and MRP4 expression were observed. MDR protein expression was demonstrated to be related to cell cycle phase \[[@pone.0172371.ref030]\]. As a consequence, it is possible that endothelial progenitor cells fixed in different cell cycle phases during cytospin preparation were differently labeled. Similar situation is observed when cells are blocked in a specific cell cycle phase after treatment with chemotherapeutic agents. High mdr protein expression level in this phase may induce chemoresistance \[[@pone.0172371.ref031]--[@pone.0172371.ref032]\]. LoVo/Dx control cells were found to be positive for all mdr proteins tested by immunocytochemistry. The possibility that endothelial cells treated with chemotherapeutics, arrested in a defined cell cycle phase, may induce their mdr protein expression, needs to be examined. However, all the experiments performed in our laboratory showed that chemotherapeutics exhibit strong cytotoxicity towards endothelial cells (data not shown). Our previous research has been focused on the expression of mdr proteins in acute myeloid leukemia human blasts. We found that MDR1 protein overexpression, and co-expression of other mdr proteins at diagnosis, are the factors associated with treatment failure in acute myeloid leukemia patients \[[@pone.0172371.ref033]\]. However, these studies were performed on tumor cells with relatively high mdr protein expression, as compared to normal endothelial cells. The mdr protein expression on tumor cells is intended to protect the tumor from toxic substances, whereas the endothelium seems to be much more sensitive to different toxic factors. Therefore, drug stimulation of endothelial cells to induce mdr protein expression is a challenging aspect. One should also remember that expression of mdr proteins does not always correlate with their mRNA levels \[[@pone.0172371.ref009], [@pone.0172371.ref034]\]. Such a positive correlation was observed only for positive control tumor cell lines, where the number of protein transcripts is present at the detection level. Measurable mdr protein expression in these cells is often induced by specific drug treatment, whereas normal non-tumor cell lines demonstrate only low mdr expression. On the other hand, the mdr protein expression level---measured by classical methods---do not correlate with their functional activities \[[@pone.0172371.ref024], [@pone.0172371.ref034]\]. Protein expression data only roughly reflect their transporter functions, as these can be modulated by various factors \[[@pone.0172371.ref035]\]. Another aspect is the fact that the difficulties regarding functional test results are most often connected with the specificity/selectivity of substrates and inhibitors used in this technique. Many commonly used florescent substrates such as calcein AM and rhodamine 123 are not selective and may be removed from the cell by two or more mdr transporters \[[@pone.0172371.ref036]--[@pone.0172371.ref039]\]. Therefore, there is a need for application of selective inhibitors, and this approach was applied in the presented experiments. This is also a general principle of the commercial eFluxx-ID Green Multidrug Resistance Assay Kit, where the same substrate for all measured mdr proteins is used and particular mdr protein activity is distinguished by using different selective inhibitors. Our results show that the commercially available functional test eFluxx-ID Green Multidrug Resistance Assay Kit is more sensitive than the standard one. Using the commercially available test we observed the MDR1 protein activity in HUVEC cells and MRP activity in HEPC-CB.1 and HEPC-CB.2 cells. Only for positive control LoVo/Dx cells did we fail to observe differences in mdr protein activities revealed by both functional tests. One of the main reasons is that the mdr protein expression level---detectable in LoVo/Dx cells using both methods mentioned above---is sufficient for inducing their transporting activity. It was previously shown that mdr protein expression might be induced on the surface of the tumor cells after a specific drug treatment \[[@pone.0172371.ref040]--[@pone.0172371.ref041]\]. Nevertheless, ABC transporter expression could not be induced in endothelial cells investigated in our laboratory, according to previously published protocols \[[@pone.0172371.ref042]\]. The endothelial cells isolated from skin, and cultured in the presence of doxorubicin died, and we did not succeed in obtaining a doxorubicin resistant subline, even at the lowest doxorubicin concentration used. It is noteworthy that endothelial cells are very sensitive to chemical agents; in standard functional tests we had to reduce the recommended inhibitor concentrations, as they were highly cytotoxic for endothelial cells after the proper incubation time. Our results strongly suggest that it is quite difficult to establish correlations between mdr mRNAs and presence of a given protein or its functional activities; therefore, sets of different methods should be applied for evaluation of mdr expression levels and for investigation of their biological activities. From the clinical point of view the most important may be mdr protein functions; therefore a functional test (standard or commercial) should be conclusive. Functional assays may offer an advantage over antigen measurements since they measure the real mdr protein transport activities \[[@pone.0172371.ref043]\]. However, it should not be forgotten that in many cells, even in the primary absence of mdr protein activities, they may be further induced by chemical agents. Moreover, in the case of MRP transporters these tests are able to measure the general MRP pumps' activity only. Consequently, in order to test the accurate MRP protein expression, e.g. MRP1 or MRP4, one needs to apply specific antibodies for evaluation of their presence in tested cells. Additionally, epitope density should be also taken into account. Our results indicate that positive LoVo/Dx cells express mdr proteins which were functionally active in all experiments performed. The situation was not so clear concerning endothelial cells. Mdr proteins' epitope densities were too low to be detected by Western blotting; different results were obtained for flow cytometry and immunocytochemistry staining. This may also be related to antibodies' way of action. Antibodies recognize three-dimensional structures and antigen conformation may be quite different regarding the method of its detection. In flow cytometry and immunocytochemistry the protein is nearer its native form than in Western blotting where heating and SDS usage strongly change the antigen conformation. Therefore, it is possible that some epitopes detected by the immunocytochemistry method are not recognized in Western blotting. On the other hand, antibodies are most often raised to peptide sequences and hence bind better to peptide chains than their native conformation. In Western blotting the protein is often denatured; so peptide chains are available for the antibody to bind. Therefore, one should carefully choose antibodies designed to work in the selected technique of measurement. This explanation, however, cannot be applied to the results obtained by our group for BCRP protein investigated in endothelial cells by immunocytochemistry and Western blotting. Both clones of antibody used, BXP-21 (BCRP/2) and BXP-34 (BCRP/4), recognize an internal epitope and are designed for both immunocytochemistry and Western blotting, whereas only one of them, BXP-34, gave positive staining in both methods. Moreover, the functional tests performed on endothelial cells gave us another set of results. Hence, it is impossible to investigate the expression level or function of mdr protein using only one classical method, especially in cells with low mdr expression. There are several published results indicating that the major problem is insufficient reliability and accuracy of methods used for expression and functional assessment of mdr in different tumor cells \[[@pone.0172371.ref034], [@pone.0172371.ref044]--[@pone.0172371.ref046]\]. On the other hand, some recent publications suggest that there is no simple correlation between mdr expression at mRNA and protein levels and their transporter activities \[[@pone.0172371.ref024]\], which was also confirmed by our studies with endothelial cells as a cellular model. Since there are so many problems with proper analysis of mdr expression and functions, we strongly recommend investigating not only the mRNA or protein expression levels but also the mdr activity for the proper assessment of a given mdr protein's role in biological functions of cells. One of the main reasons for such an approach is that the expression data only roughly reflect the transporter function. Therefore, functional assays may fundamentally affect the conclusion. Supporting information {#sec021} ====================== ###### Representative histograms of multidrug resistance protein expression evaluated by flow cytometry methods. White cells---black histogram, isotypic control---red histogram, MDR protein expression---green histogram. (PDF) ###### Click here for additional data file. ###### Representative histograms of the multidrug resistance assays' results. Unstained cells---black histogram, inhibitor treated stained cells---red histogram, stained control cells---green histogram. Multidrug resistance activity factors \[%\] are shown in each graph. (PDF) ###### Click here for additional data file. ###### Raw data. Raw data obtained for mdr protein expression and function evaluated by flow cytometry methods. (XLS) ###### Click here for additional data file. This work was supported by the National Science Centre, Poland, grant no. 2011/01/B/NZ3/04789. Publication supported by Wroclaw Centre of Biotechnology, programme The Leading National Research Centre (KNOW) for years 2014--2018. [^1]: Competing Interests:The authors have declared that no competing interests exist. [^2]: Conceptualization: A. Krawczenko CG CK DD.Formal analysis: ABP UK A. Klimczak.Funding acquisition: A. Krawczenko.Investigation: A. Krawczenko ABP KW RJ MP EW UK A. Klimczak.Supervision: A. Krawczenko.Visualization: A. Krawczenko ABP UK.Writing -- original draft: A. Krawczenko ABP CG CK DD.Writing -- review & editing: A. Krawczenko ABP MP A. Klimczak CG CK DD.	{ "pile_set_name": "PubMed Central" }
With the entire weekend box office down over 10% from last week, Adam Sandler's Clicktook the top spot, with earnings of approximately $40 million. The film's weekend total, while less than that earned by recent first week chart-toppers, is about equal to what The Break-Up made in its first weekend, albeit from 700 more screens. Suffice to say that if Click proves to have The Break-Up's surprising staying power (the latter finished the weekend in the seventh spot, with domestic earnings over $100 million), Sony will be very happy indeed. Taking the second spot this weekend was Cars which, despite numbers that Pixar-watchers are calling disappointing, is now officially in the black domestically with total earnings over $150 million. In third place was Nacho Libre, down a shocking 57% from last weekend to $12.1 million; The Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift experienced an even more stagging drop, losing 62% and ending up in the fifth spot with $9.2 million. The weekend's only non-Click major debut, Waist Deep, ended up fourth for the weekend with a total of about $9.5 million on just over 1000 screens. The complete top 10 is after the jump.	{ "pile_set_name": "Pile-CC" }
3 definitions by Bran the Man (H.W)President of the United States in the years 1988-1992. Moderately sucessful president who continued policies of the Reagan administration. So the ultimate sucess of his predecessors plan to drive the USSR under through massive military spending. Fought a sucessful war to liberate Kumwait from Saddam Hussein, but failed to remove him from power, leaving a disaster in Iraq which his son had to clean up a decade later. Known for saying "Read my lips, no new taxes". Suceeded by Bill Clinton. (W.)Current president of the United States 2000-2008. Narrowly defeated Al Gore in 2000 election on issues of morals and smaller government,course of presidency deflected by Spetember 11th attacks. Invaded Afghanistan and deposed the Taliban, against protests of Socialist governments in Europe and Liberal pundits at home, Invaded Iraq and deposed Saddam Hussien. Recently won reelection in contest against John Kerry. Plans massive overhaul of government welfare state programs such as Social Security, Medicare and a simplification of the tax code. George W. has been criticized by a wide variety of people, mainly because he says what he means on subjects he considers important and doesnt give a shit if Hollywood, European secularists, Left College Students, or the New York Times disagrees with him or consider him insensitive. Has old-fashioned and conservative values which are especially repugnant to moral relativists and members of alternate lifestyle groups. Has a great deal of satire directed at him along the axes of gross stupidity and ingenious nefarious plans for world domination, sometimes, amazingly, in the same criticism. Despite his utter hatred from a few dedicated circles, the vast majority of Americans respect his honesty and determination to do what he believes is right, and a simple majority of Americans believe he is the right man to lead the country. "Shave your Bush!" -Amusing college girls "George Bush is the next Hitler, and hes a goddamned scumbag just like his fucking father!" -Angry man at Michael Moore rally who was almost arrested for threatening yours truly "Man, Bush may not speak too good, but hes a good man, a hell of a better man then all those assholes who are dissing him" -Old man at the bus stop As in an idviudal who has capital, be it property, natural resources, means of production or labor, all of which constitute capital. In modern usage, meant to signify someone who believes or participates in a capitalist economic system, in which labor, capital, or other resources are bartered for paper currency which can be used to by whichever othe form of capital the currency holder desires. Capitalist also signifies someone who wishes to avoid excessive government involvement or regulation in this system of capital bartering. "The United States economy is a Capitalist rather then a communist economy" -Economics textbook "Globalization is run by capitalist pigs, but us potsmoking unwashed student types are going to stand up to your opression by eating granola instead of Lucky Charms and drinking strained carrot juice instead of Pepsi. To show our opposition to your evil capitalist establishment, we will act morally superior at all times, be very depressed about the state of the world, and occasionally go to protests and carry signs" -Spolied children of upper middle class parents Initially associated with a philosopy of personal liberty and self reliance, protected by Libretatrian and democratic government, mainly defined as such in the years 1750-1963 (Ending upon the death of John F. Kennedy) Currently signifies, at least in western democracies, a dedication to what was previously known as socialism, with chief tenets including Government provided healthcare and education, along with mild to heavy redistribution of wealth through "Progressive" taxes based upon income. Also generally associated with the moral relativism and supposed "nonjudgementalism" of American celebrities, Secular Statesman in Europe and a whole range of other "Progressives" who criticize the current system of regulated capitalism in place in the United States. To be fair to liberals, though their economic ideas appeal especially to those within the so called "Progressive" community, the semi-socialist modern liberalism is a seperate entity from the relativists, nonjudgementalists and general haters of western civilisation and its norms(See Noam Chomsky, Michael Moore, Oliver Stone, Barbara Streisand, etc) "The problem with hollywood is its full of liberals like Chevy Chase, who have no connection with the average Americans values" -Commentators such as Bill Oreilly "We must embrace a liberal economic agenda or the minorities in our society will never be equal" -Jesse Jackson	{ "pile_set_name": "Pile-CC" }
Translate Sunday, January 6, 2019 Summer, Glorious Summer! My garden looks its best in the Summer. A lot of the plants I’ve selected for colour seem to be the ones that flower in summer, which is great because that’s when the garden gets the most use. The most obvious of these flowering plants would have to be the Bougainvillea Vine which I’ve trained to grow over a pergola. It’s a really nice place to sit as it provides a bit of shade from the harsh New Zealand sun. The garden has changed quite a bit as it’s matured over the last few years, so I realised it was time to update the header on my Blog. I’ve been waiting for the Bougainvillea to be in full bloom so I could get a few nice photos. The header photo I decided to use was a panorama shot I took from the roof of the sleepout. This year the pergola was a great place to take a few family photos too. One of the plants I’ve really enjoyed this year would have to be the Hydrangeas. I’ve tried propagating a few over the last couple of years from cuttings and was pleased to see them flowering nicely this year (year 2). The most interesting aspect of this for me was seeing how the colours varied from the original plants I took the cuttings from, as the variations in soil acidity resulted in different coloured blooms. And what blooms they were after giving them a good feed in spring. They make terrific cut flowers too. We’ve been spoilt this year with the number of cut flowers we’ve been able to take in the house. Like these red beauties (which I forget the name of), plus a few others which I forgot to take photos of... The big disappointment this summer was that despite my 2 plum trees fruiting super-abundantly, beyond expectations, the fruit was mostly spoiled by an infestation of worms and several days of torrential rain just as the fruit was ripening which caused them to split. I can see I’m going to have to be super vigilant next year and may need to relent as regards my organic, ‘no-spray’ policy. Sponsored Links About Me I'm from Auckland, New Zealand. I'm a graphic designer, web developer and print management consultant by profession. I started off as a printer having served a printing apprenticeship back in the early '80's but quickly moved into design, advertising and marketing and have been in the industry now for more than 30 years helping businesses to promote themselves and their products and services. I have many interests besides this including gardening, fishing, photography, DIY and spending time with my family and friends. I also enjoy reading and discussing the bible. If you wish to discuss any of the above, feel free to contact me or make a comment on any one of my posts and I'll respond as soon as I can. Have a great Day!	{ "pile_set_name": "Pile-CC" }
2014 Nest Report Is On The Way! There are tons of things I’m proud of about Nest Realty, but one of the things I get really excited about is our Nest Report. It’s a statistical look at what’s happening in the New River Valley real estate market, and it’s put out every quarter. Visually, it’s stunning – thanks to the amazing folks in our Marketing Department, the lead generation is looking better every day. The marketing team such a great job, but they did get lots of help from mein-parteibuch.com. Statistically, it’s one of the most accurate representations of our real estate market – thanks to the bean counters who compile the whole thing. And, interestingly enough, two real estate agents from another company told me yesterday how impressive a report it is … they look through it each time it comes out and think “wow”. Median and Average Sales Prices both fell 3% in 2014 throughout the New River Valley MSA. In Blacksburg, the Median Price was flat, but inventory was up slightly. In Radford, Median Price was up quite a bit, rising more than 12% from 2013 levels. Conventional Interest rates, projected to be at or above 5% by the end of 2014, were actually at 4%, much lower than expected by those in the know – proving once again that no one has any much of a clue. We’re extremely proud of what has been happening at Nest Realty, and the Report will talk a little bit about that, as well. The full report will be hitting mailboxes soon, but here’s a sneak peak! You can see earlier reports here. Jeremy Hart, REALTOR®, Nest Realty, 400 N. Main, Blacksburg, VA 24060 The data relating to real estate on this website comes in part from the Broker Reciprocity/IDX (Internet Data Exchange) Program of the New River Valley Multiple Listing Service, Inc. Real estate listings held by brokerage firms other than Nest Realty are marked with the Broker Reciprocity logo (IDX) and detailed information about them includes the name of the broker.	{ "pile_set_name": "Pile-CC" }
Q: Who invented these key notions in Finance? We often give credit to the origins of academic achievements. The Black-Scholes equation or the Gibbons Ross Shanken (GRS) test etc. What about Net Present Value (NPV), Internal Rate of Return (IRR), Duration of bonds, Law of One Price (LOP), Time value of money, Stochastic Discount Factor (SDF) or pricing kernel? These are fundamental things which are taught to undergraduates in one way or the other. But who first came up with these ideas? A: Net Present Value (NPV) as a soft concept existed probably even in antiquity but it was formalized and made popular by Irving Fisher in his book the Rate of Interest. Internal rate of return is basically a special application of NPV. It was also first formally introduced in Fisher's book although he called it 'rate of return over costs'. Duration of bonds was introduced by Canadian economist Frederick Macaulay, but the concept was later greatly expanded by none other than Fisher together with Weil. Law of One Price I was not able to trace this idea back to any single person. According to this article: The intellectual history of the concept can be traced back to economists active in France in the 1760-70’s, which applied the “law” to markets involved in international trade. Most of the modern literature also tends to discuss the “law” in that context. But no exact names are mentioned. It might be that the original authors are unknown. As @Henry pointed out in his comment, these were most likely the French Physiocrats. Time value of money this like the NPV, a vague notion that existed already in antiquity. You can find a lot of antique quotes that boil down to saying “time is money”, but more formally, it was introduced to the west by Martín de Azpilcueta of the School of Salamanca. Stochastic Discount Factor - as in its modern mathematical representation can be traced back to the works of Harrison and Kreps (see 1), and Hansen et al (see [2-5]). However, as pointed out in @Michael +1 comment, the concept can be already traced back all the way to Arrow-Debreu and Radner. Of course, on this subtopic, the list of sources is not exclusive. 1 Harrison, J. M., & Kreps, D. M. (1979). Martingales and arbitrage in multiperiod securities markets. Journal of Economic Theory 20, 381-405. [2] Hansen, L. P. (1982). Large sample properties of generalized method of moments estimators. Econometrica, 50, 1029-1054. [3] Hansen, L. P., & Jagannathan, R. (1991). Implications of Security Market Data for Models of Dynamic Economies. Journal of Political Economy 99(2), 225-262. [4] Hansen, L. P., & Richard, S. F. (1987). The role of conditioning information in deducing testable restrictions implied by dynamic asset pricing models. Econometrica 55(3), 587-613. [5] Hansen, L., & Singleton, K. (1983). Stochastic Consumption, Risk Aversion and the Temporal Behavior of Asset Returns. Journal of Political Economy 91(2), 249-265.	{ "pile_set_name": "StackExchange" }
Q: How to check nth char of a string is a number with js? In javascript can we check nth character is a number using regular expressions without just using if conditions? A: You could use isNaN and take the negated value. console.log(!isNaN('123'[1])); // true, is number console.log(!isNaN('1a3'[1])); // false, is not a number	{ "pile_set_name": "StackExchange" }
1. Field of the Invention This invention relates to jewelry boxes and, more specifically, to jewelry boxes of the type that contain a hidden compartment or compartments therein which would be relatively easy to access, and yet to young children or a burglar it would not be known that there are hidden compartments within the jewelry box. 2. Description of the Related Art Jewelry boxes of one type or another have been around for ages and have taken various forms but there has always been a need to have a jewelry box or the like that would have an area which would be imperceptible and wherein objects could be placed and be hidden from view so as not to be too easily or readily accessible to young children or those with larceny in their heart. As far as is known there is no prior art that teaches a jewelry box that would have an open front to receive at least one slidably positionable drawer wherein the drawer would not fill the entire interior content or chamber of the jewelry box to thereby allow the positioning of one or more compartments within the interior of the jewelry box which would not be readily discernable to an outsider or young child, but yet would be readily accessible to the owner of the jewelry box. In order for a hidden compartment or compartments to be located within a jewelry box and yet still be readily accessible, the hidden compartment of necessity must have at least some side walls that would be congruently configured to the compartment within which they are contained and wherein the other features of the jewelry box such as a drawer would be of lesser width in dimension than the overall width of the jewelry box so as to permit the positioning of a hidden compartment within the interior of the jewelry box and wherein the interiorly received container may be pivotally mounted for ease of positioning wholly within the container or rotatably or pivotally movable to an accessible location partially outside the interior of the jewelry box. A search of related art has been conducted and no specific reference has been found that would detract from the overall patentability of the herein disclosed jewelry box having at least one hidden compartment which may or may not be pivotally mounted for positioning wholly within the interior of the jewelry box and then would be positionable partially exteriorly for ease of access. U.S. Pat. Nos. 2,738,250 and 4,195,727 each disclose jewelry boxes having a pair of outwardly pivoting trays. U.S. Pat. Nos. 2,564,122 and 5,823,328 each disclose storage boxes such as for jewelry having pivoting compartments. U.S. Pat. No. 6,322,123 and more specifically the element 24 disclosed in FIGS. 2-5 inclusive, disclose a storage drawer having pivoting trays. U.S. Pat. Nos. 5,127,719 and 6,059,388 each disclose jewelry boxes having concealment features, but none of the type as disclosed in the herein disclosed invention. Similarly, U.S. Design Pat. Nos. 203,305, 270,980, 451,671, 454,687 and 455,902 fail to disclose anything that would be remotely similar in over all concept with respect to hidden compartments to the instantly disclosed invention.	{ "pile_set_name": "USPTO Backgrounds" }
Genetic characterization of Staphylococcus aureus isolates causing bloodstream infections in Austria. A total of 112 Staphylococcus aureus bloodstream isolates were genetically characterized. Spa typing and DNA microanalysis exhibited high diversity, resulting in 64 different spa types and 9 different SplitsTree clusters. Methicillin-resistant S. aureus (MRSA) were found in 6 cases only, including the first case of life-stock-associated MRSA (MRSA ST398) in bloodstream infection in Austria.	{ "pile_set_name": "PubMed Abstracts" }
Violence and unrest continues in Ferguson, Missouri, three days after Michael Brown, an unarmed 18-year old, was gunned down in the street by an as-yet unnamed police officer. After Sunday's riot by some protesters that led to the looting and burning of a few local businesses, on Monday it was the police's turn: In an attempt to disperse the crowd, officers made their way down West Florissant, a main street in Ferguson. When some residents, chanting “Don’t shoot, my hands are up,” refused to leave, officers began deploying tear gas. [...] As police moved up West Florissant, many residents said they were trapped. The neighborhood consists of a series of cul-de-sacs with one main road — West Florissant, now blocked by police — stretching between them. [...] “These m———— came out of the cut and sprayed me in the face like this is a f—– video game or something.” the man said. [...] As police continued to press forward, they demanded that residents “get out of the street,” “return to your homes” and “go home now.” In turn, residents responded: “These are our homes.” Police have tried to prevent local reporters and other journalists from covering the protests in Ferguson, the Missouri town that has been upended by the police killing of Michael Brown, an unarmed black teenager. While there was a spate of looting on Sunday night, Monday's demonstrations were peaceful. Protestors faced tear gas and rubber bullets from officers trying to break their ranks up. At the same time, police told local media to get out of the area. You can continue to follow this story as it develops on your local or national news ... or not Because of course Ferguson police have nothing to hide.	{ "pile_set_name": "OpenWebText2" }
Unusual case of pulmonary renal syndrome with autopsy findings. Scleroderma renal crises (SRC) is a serious complication of systemic sclerosis whose prognosis remains serious despite management with angiotensin-converting enzyme inhibitors, antihypertensives and dialysis. Pulmonary renal syndrome (PRS), characterised by diffuse alveolar hemorrhage (DAH) and SRC, is rare and carries a grave prognosis. This case report discusses the clinicopathological features of a 43-year-old male presenting with severe hypertension and rapidly progressive renal failure who subsequently developed DAH and died. The clinical course, exhaustive investigative work-up and autopsy findings led to a diagnosis of diffuse systemic sclerosis with PRS subcategorized into PRS with thrombotic microangiopathy. The index case came without a prior diagnosis of systemic sclerosis, thereby posing a serious diagnostic challenge and management issues.	{ "pile_set_name": "PubMed Abstracts" }
Q: Re-creating a filesystem on runtime (need more inodes) I have a machine at a datacenter with 3HDDs and running Debian Wheezy, at one of them I have an ext4 filesystem mounted on /data that has ran out of inodes (I've chosen an inappropriate inode size at install/had more tiny files than expected). There's no problem in copying the partition content to another one, but I want to know which preventive measures should I have to do this process in a "production environment" (nothing serious btw). I need to avoid rebooting the machine and make the new filesystem -recreated- mountable at boot Thanks! -Rodrigo A: If you cannot add/replace disks (in which case, if you used LVM, you could grow your ext4 and hence number of inodes on it), you best path is: backup data to some other partition having enough free space (using tar(1), or if you need to minimize downtime for accessing data: rsync(1)) this step only if you need to minimize downtime: rsync again, then shutdown access to that partition, do rsync again (which will now be fast, as it only transfers changes), and point/symlink your data directory to new partition directory, and then reenable access to new (temporary) partition directory. reformat the now unused partition with more inodes restore data back (using same tricks from (2) if you needed to minimize downtime) remove temporary .tar.gz/rsync directory (or keep it as free backup) In production, you'll be using LVM so you can resize your filesystems (ext4 will also grow inodes on resize). And you would always err on the side on too much inodes (or space in general), not too little. And/or using XFS which have dynamic inodes instead of ext4.	{ "pile_set_name": "StackExchange" }
The French satirical magazine Charlie Hebdo has infuriated Russians with its cartoons once again. This Wednesday, the magazine released several comics mocking the Dec. 25 crash of a military plane in the Black Sea — a tragedy that claimed the lives of all 92 passengers, including 64 members of the the Alexandrov Ensemble, known to the world as the Red Army Choir. On Monday, Russia observed a national day of mourning to honor the victims of the crash. The mood was slightly different at the offices of Charlie Hebdo, where cartoonists prepared sketches that are now causing a national scandal in Russia. One of the cartoons depicts the falling Russian plane, and a member of the Red Army Choir singing “A-A-A-A-A-A!” joking that the musicians carolled as they crashed into the Black Sea. Charlie Hebdo Another cartoon published on Wednesday shows the Russian military plane crashing again, this time with a caption reading, “The bad news is that Putin wasn’t on-board.” Charlie Hebdo в своем стиле: «Плохие новости — Путина там не было» pic.twitter.com/UA6pdyMjrC — Рустем Адагамов (@adagamov) December 28, 2016 A third comic shows the musicians singing under the water to a school of fish, with the crashed plane in the background. The caption reads, “After the disaster, the Red Army conquers a new audience.” Charlie Hebdo Unapologetically offensive, Charlie Hebdo has satirized Russian plane crashes before. In November 2015, the magazine similarly mocked the terrorist attack on Russian Metrojet Flight 9268, which killed 224 people. Russia slams Charlie Hebdo cartoons on Egypt crash, calls it 'sacrilege'https://t.co/eyzUU5ZEKA pic.twitter.com/BW6jD0xQjn — Deccan Chronicle (@DeccanChronicle) November 6, 2015 “This has nothing to do with democracy, self-expression, or whatever,” the Kremlin’s spokesperson said at the time about the drawings, calling them “pure blasphemy.” In response to the cartoons, a judge in Chechnya even banned Charlie Hebdo’s official Twitter account throughout Russia, though the magazine hasn’t used the account since January 2015. The judge ruled that Charlie Hebdo’s art work illegally incited religious and ethnic hatred. news Russia Mourns Victims of Military Plane Crash Read more	{ "pile_set_name": "OpenWebText2" }
Prevalence of antibodies to seven viruses in a flock of ewes in Minnesota. Blood samples were collected from a flock of healthy ewes at a University of Minnesota research station. Sera from these blood samples were tested for antibodies against 7 viruses, using 3 tests (eg, virus-neutralization test for bovine viral diarrhea virus, infectious bovine rhinotracheitis virus, bovine adenovirus type 3, and bovine respiratory syncytial virus; hemagglutination inhibition test for parainfluenza virus type 3; and agar-gel immunodiffusion test for lentivirus of ovine progressive interstitial pneumonia and bluetongue virus). The number of seropositive ewes for each antibody type were 1 of 377 (0.3%) for bovine viral diarrhea virus, 2 of 377 (0.5%) for infectious bovine rhinotracheitis virus, 29 of 378 (7.6%) for bovine adenovirus type 3, 200 of 378 (52.5%) for bovine respiratory syncytial virus, 273 of 373 (71.7%) for parainfluenza virus type 3, and 210 of 379 (55%) for ovine progressive pneumonia virus. All ewes were seronegative for bluetongue virus antibodies.	{ "pile_set_name": "PubMed Abstracts" }
Workshop Leaders Workshop Leaders Workshop leader applications are now closed. We are looking for women in STEM from the Chicago area to inspire and encourage middle-school girls through hands-on activities. Workshops are typically conducted by 2-3 people and while the primary workshop leader should be a woman, people of all genders are welcome to help conduct the workshop. You can read about past workshops and FAQ. Any questions or concerns can be sent to workshops@eyhchicago.com. For a more in depth idea if how the workshops are structured, check out these examples of previous Workshop Descriptions. Workshop leader applications for EYH 2020 are now closed but if you’re interested in participating, feel free to fill out an interest form for the EYH 2021 conference!	{ "pile_set_name": "Pile-CC" }
Brushing Up [+]Enlarge Credit: J. Am. Chem. Soc. When doctors implant artificial joints in patients, they usually have to replace the devices after 10 years because the lack of good lubrication causes the joints to wear out. To find a better water-based lubricant, researchers now have synthesized a polymer that mimics the structure and function of lubricin, a protein that occurs naturally in the fluid that cushions our joints (J. Am. Chem. Soc. 2014, DOI: 10.1021/ja501770y). The key to lubricin’s lubricating power lies in its structure, says Xavier Banquy, a biomaterials chemist at the University of Montreal. The protein has two end domains that anchor it to surfaces, and a dense, but springy, area in the middle shaped like a bottle brush. When two lubricin-coated surfaces move toward each other, they don’t actually touch; instead the bottle-brush domains touch and compress as the applied pressure increases. The bottle-brush structure also allows water, an excellent lubricant, to flow through the material when the two surfaces are moving past each other. The protein lubricates effectively regardless of how much pressure is put on the two surfaces or how fast they move back and forth. While working at the University of California, Santa Barbara, Banquy, his advisor Jacob Israelachvili, Krzysztof Matyjaszewski of Carnegie Mellon University, and coworkers developed a synthetic version of the lubricin structure. This material consists of a methyl methacrylate backbone running through the bottle brush and two end domains. In the bottle-brush block, chains of poly(2-methacryloyloxyethyl phosphorylcholine), a zwitterionic polymer, dangle off the backbone. The team synthesized these brush bristles using a technique called atom transfer radical polymerization. Because of the polar nature of zwitterionic side chains, the polymer can hold a lot of water, Banquy says. The two blocks flanking the bottle brush are decorated with a positively charged amine groups, which can bind strongly to the mica surfaces used by the group to test the lubricant. The researchers can easily change the groups decorating the flanking domains so that the polymer attaches to different types of surfaces, Banquy says. To test the lubricant, the researchers placed the polymer between two mica plates and measured both the normal force by moving the plates together and the friction force by sliding them past each other. They then calculated the friction coefficient of the polymer. They found that their material lubricates much better than lubricin over a wide range of sliding speeds and pressures, Banquy says. The ability to produce low levels of friction even at high pressures is partially due to the material’s binding domains that help the lubricant stick strongly to the mica surfaces. The use of polymer brushes as a lubricant is a novel idea, says S. Michael Kilbey, a materials chemist at the University of Tennessee, Knoxville. The density of the brush’s side chains allows the lubricant to resist compression, making it functional at high loads, he says.	{ "pile_set_name": "OpenWebText2" }
Once upon a time, a Ferrari Enzo Targa existed. The property of one Richard Losee, it was one of the most extreme conversions carried on a limited production car. The story behind this particular chassis goes even deeper than that though. The story starts back in 2003 when chassis number 131320 was delivered fresh from the factory to Richard and registered with Utah plates. According to Road & Track, Losee’s father had a philosophy. “If a man is fortunate enough to have the means, he should drive a Ferrari”. With that in mind, this particular Enzo was assigned the plate MM ENZO with the aim of making this the highest mileage Enzo in the world. To document this, Road & Track ran a series of articles following the car as it embarked on an extraordinary adventure. The car was instantly recognisable by 2006. Having already logged a staggering 31,000 miles travelling between exotic car shows on the US west coast. Losee had also opted for a unique modification. The top section of the door had been removed to create the worlds first Targa Enzo! Of course, you wouldn’t just set about cutting the roof off your half million dollar supercar without thinking it through. Losee had purchased a second set of original replacement Ferrari Enzo doors through his local Ferrari dealership. He then then carried out the necessary modifications on those and kept the original pair in storage. You’ll probably have realised by now that Losee’s Enzo doesn’t exist in the same state today. If it did, we’re sure it would be a Facebook sensation! Nonetheless, the Targa episode is just the start of this epic story. 2006 was a big year for both the Enzo and Losee. First, it seems as though this was the year the car surpassed the 30,000 mile marker. An achievement in itself. Yet it was the 2006 Utah Highway Patrol’s Fast Pass charity event that catapulted this car into the headlines. The 3-day event had travelled through the rural Utah with the final day’s headline event being a high-speed run over a closed 14-mile stretch of road. On his final day run, Losee had his Enzo up to 206mph when he encountered a rough stretch of the road. The car went airborne and after a big slide, the car went airborn before rolling seven times. The wreckage was strewn across a quarter mile of Utah desert. Losee understandably suffered a major set of injuries included multiple broken bones and two vertebrae in his neck. It took him 12 months just to recover. Of course, after giving it some thought, the only thing to do was to rebuild. Bigger and stronger than before! About 18 months after the accident, the remains of the wrecked Enzo were dragged out of storage at Miller Motorsports Park in Utah and a 30 month rebuild process was initiated. The project focused on one goal. A new record at the Bonneville Salt Flats. With Shane Tecklenburg of Mission Viejo, California on board, the Ferrari V12 would receive twin turbochargers. RSL Racing was created and Losee began to learn more about the salt flats. By the time they were done, the car had received a new nose and a special gear before returning to its original factory setup with the added twin-turbos. In October 2010, Losee set a 237.871mph record at the Bonneville Salt Flats. Aside from the twin turbochargers, we’re led to believe that the car is largely stock. The basis is still the 6.0 litre V12 powerplant. On its record run, boost and mapping were increased to give a total peak horsepower figure of 847bhp. The tyres were changed to a narrower set, less prone to wondering on the salt. Rumours have been circulating that suggest the bodywork for the Losee Enzo was donated by another big custom Enzo owner, James Glickenhaus. It is the original bodywork for the P4/5! The MM Enzo still sees occasional action at Bonneville. Most recently it was spotted at a Ferrari Dealership in Salt Lake City. We do know that Losee still enjoys his Ferrari’s. He currently owns a Ferrari 599 SA Aperta. Hopefully he is first on the delivery list for the new Ferrari F150.	{ "pile_set_name": "OpenWebText2" }
[Combination chemotherapy including cisplatin in lung cancer by bronchial artery infusion]. Chemotherapy with bronchial artery infusion (BAI) was given to 34 patients with primary lung cancer. Treatment regimens usually employed cis-diammine-dichloroplatinum (CDDP) plus peplomycin for squamous cell carcinoma, and CDDP plus vindesine for adenocarcinoma. The provisional therapeutic effects were evaluated roentgenographically with reference to histological type, T factor and degree of vascularization. Out of 10 cases of squamous cell carcinoma, 7 cases (70%) showed tumor regression greater than 50%, in contrast to 4 of 17 cases (23.5%) of adenocarcinoma. The effects in cases of squamous cell carcinoma were correlated with tumor vascularity. Twenty-two surgically treated cases were examined for the histological effects of BAI. Five of 6 cases (83.3%) of squamous cell carcinoma showed IIb effects by Shimosato's criteria. These results showed that the therapeutic effect of BAI was excellent in cases of squamous cell carcinoma in comparison with cases of adenocarcinoma. Serious side effects including esophago-bronchial fistula, massive hemoptysis and esophageal ulcer were observed in 4 cases.	{ "pile_set_name": "PubMed Abstracts" }
Berg River (Free State) The Berg River is one of seven smaller rivers that run into Vanderkloof Dam in South Africa. The other rivers are: Orange River, the longest river in South Africa; Seekoei River; Kattegatspruit; Knapsak River; Paaikloofspruit; and Hondeblaf River Category:Rivers of South Africa Category:Rivers of the Western Cape Category:Rivers of the Free State (province)	{ "pile_set_name": "Wikipedia (en)" }
[Conditionally pathogenic microorganisms in patients with bisphosphonate jaw osteonecrosis]. The objective of the study was to define treatment strategy in cases of facial bones bisphosphonate induced osteonecrosis based on the study of the role of conditionally pathogenic oral microorganisms. Three typical clinical cases of bisphosphonate osteonecrosis of the facial bones were analyzed and 15 conditionally pathogenic oral microorganisms were identified in these patients using real-time PCR in saliva, wound and bone samples. A comparative analysis was carried out with purulent-inflammatory diseases of maxillofacial area. The study results proved an important role of conditionally pathogenic microorganisms of the oral cavity in the development of osteonecrosis of the facial bones. Wide range of bacterial species was identified in osteonecrosis of the facial bones patients. While bone tissue is most exposed to microbial communities, surgical treatment results in effective rehabilitation for a long period.	{ "pile_set_name": "PubMed Abstracts" }
(SWIM) Nesty named SEC Male Swimming Coach of Year Florida’s Nesty named SEC Male Swimming Coach of Year By Gvl Sun gatorsports Florida’s Anthony Nesty was named SEC Male Swimming Coach of the Year on Wednesday, highlighting the Gators’ SEC awards. Robert Finke and Kieran Smith both earned the SEC Freshman Swimmer of the Year for their performances at the SEC Championships. Finke was the SEC Champion in the 400 IM and 1,650 Free. Smith was the champion in the 200 IM, was a member of the 800 Free Relay that won the SEC title, and finished second in the 400 IM. Nesty won an SEC Championship and continued the Florida winning streak to seven straight. During his first season as head coach he tallied four individual SEC Champions and one relay. The Gators also had five swimmers make First-Team All-SEC, six swimmers earned Second-Team All-SEC, and had five freshman claim All-Freshman team honors. Finke collected First-Team All-SEC honors in the 400 IM and 1,650 Free. Smith picked up a First-Team All-SEC nod in the 200 IM and Maxime Rooney added a first-team accolade in the 100 Fly. The squad of Rooney, Smith, Trey Freeman, and Khader Baqlah claimed first-team honors with their combined effort in the 800 Free Relay. First team consists of the top finisher in each event at the SEC Championships.	{ "pile_set_name": "Pile-CC" }
I agree to TechTarget’s Terms of Use, Privacy Policy, and the transfer of my information to the United States for processing to provide me with relevant information as described in our Privacy Policy. Please check the box if you want to proceed. I agree to my information being processed by TechTarget and its Partners to contact me via phone, email, or other means regarding information relevant to my professional interests. I may unsubscribe at any time. Please check the box if you want to proceed. By submitting my Email address I confirm that I have read and accepted the Terms of Use and Declaration of Consent. Do you know how I can print from a TS client connected to a TS server? I want to be able to print at my house while connected to the TS. I know I'm supposed to install the drivers at the server end and the client should auto-create, but it is not working. Are the drivers installed on the client computer? They'll need to be, for the mapping to work properly. If they are, then make sure that printer mapping is enabled on both the client side and on the server side, and that you haven't turned off the virtual channels needed for printer support. 0 comments Register Login Forgot your password? Your password has been sent to: By submitting you agree to receive email from TechTarget and its partners. If you reside outside of the United States, you consent to having your personal data transferred to and processed in the United States. Privacy	{ "pile_set_name": "Pile-CC" }
// // optionsh.h : header file // // This is a part of the Microsoft Foundation Classes C++ library. // Copyright (C) 1992-1998 Microsoft Corporation // All rights reserved. // // This source code is only intended as a supplement to the // Microsoft Foundation Classes Reference and related // electronic documentation provided with the library. // See these sources for detailed information regarding the // Microsoft Foundation Classes product. ///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// // COptionSheet class COptionSheet : public CCSPropertySheet { // Construction public: COptionSheet(UINT nIDCaption, CWnd* pParentWnd = NULL, UINT iSelectPage = 0); // Attributes public: CUnitsPage units; CDocOptPage pageText; CDocOptPage pageRTF; CDocOptPage pageWord; CDocOptPage pageWrite; CEmbeddedOptPage pageEmbedded; // Operations public: INT_PTR DoModal(); void SetPageButtons(CDocOptPage& page, CDockState& ds); void SetState(CDocOptPage& page, CDockState& ds); // Overrides // ClassWizard generated virtual function overrides //{{AFX_VIRTUAL(COptionSheet) //}}AFX_VIRTUAL // Implementation public: // Generated message map functions protected: //{{AFX_MSG(COptionSheet) //}}AFX_MSG DECLARE_MESSAGE_MAP() }; /////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////	{ "pile_set_name": "Github" }
Q: Android: get time I have been thinking on timing my app, so I can know when an event happen. My first idea was to access to the system clock when I start the application and once again everytime I want to check the elapse time (then just substract). Don't know if this is the most accurate and optimal way. Any suggestion? Thank you very much!! A: If millisecond resolution is enough, I'd use System.currentTimeMillis(). It's great for running quick performance checks.	{ "pile_set_name": "StackExchange" }
Pages Friday, September 19, 2014 It's been sooooooooo,so long since i last posted! I know and i'm so sorry! :( I missed you all so much! You see ,after my exams were over i had no wi-fi or internet connection whatsoever. And when i finally got home, and sat down on my desk, ready to catch up with you guys, i realised something was wrong with my computer :(..... What had actually happened, was that it got completly and utterly DESTROYED during a raging storm ! :( (that kinda sounded like lyrics from "Let it Go" XD) It took 2 WHOLE MONTHS for it to be finally fixed, and after it got fixed my internet device broke too! =.= Like...UNLUCKY MUCH? O_O Anyways, let me CUT TO THE CHASE. I just got to my e-mails today, and i noticed these two VERY IMPORTANT E-MAILS! The first one (wich for some reason i cannnot find right now? o.O) was about a reunion on Worlize on "PIXIE HOLLOW" (all caps), a world created by Rose Morningmist, taking place on the 20th and 21th of September. The second e-mail was just a reminder for the reunion. (Click on the image to view it in full resolution) So i actually visited Rose's world on Worlize, and i have to say it was A-W-E-S-O-M-E!! <3LINK! : https://www.worlize.com/PIXIEHOLLOW-Rose (Note:You need to be logged in, in Worlize before clicking the link above!) You can honestly tell that she has worked so much!(Click for full size) So i thought that i should definetly tell you guys in order for you to come, and i know that it is SO,SO late to tell you this , but better late than never right ? :) Here are the meeting details: Here you can see my awful Worlize Avatar ;_;..guess what..i made it myself...., but don't worry you don't have to make yours too!:)You can find pre-made ones at the shops, like in Queen's Boutique and etc. or at Worlize's Avatar Shop, but those are not Pixie Avatars.. :/ If you do come tommorow, then know that Iwill also be there, and i would love to meet you!And not only that!I will also take screenshots of the meet up and the pixies in it and post them here, together with a special video and my impressions of the reunion!:) In case you have any problems signing in Worlize, or finding Rose's Pixie Hollow, then come on the blog's chat during the reunion's time! I'll be there to help you! :D (Although i've had a tiny problem logging in as Crystal Airshine, but i hope i'll be able to fix that one ;_;) HOWEVER, if you can't come to the reunion on Worlize, then there is always the second reunion, organised by the amazing Marigold Sunjewel and Sarah Diamondswirls wich will propably last up to 3-4 days! :D (Actually , i had too sometime thought of throwing a party on Worlize, and make it something like a reunion. Who knows? I might get to it sometime soon!:) ) SEE YOU ALL THERE! (NOPE THE POST IS NOT OVER YET!XD ) Now that i am done announcing the important news,let's go back to smalltalk :P Actually..not that "small". You see i didn't continue what i wanted to say when i mentioned i checked my e-mail today. What i also did notice was that when i searched up "Blogger Contact Form" in my g-mail, i found A TON of your e-mails that had never really gotten to me! And i really want to apologize for that as well! I'm the worst blogger ever sniff :'( However, i know it was late, but although it took me 2 HOURSnon-stop to accomplish, i did reply to every and each one of your e-mails! :D (there were 45 pages =.= ) So go check your mail afterwards, because you might find an e-mail from me! ;) But most importantly, i want to thank you ALL of you, my WONDERFUL<3 readers for your mails, and all your kind words! I can't even describe to you the feeling i get while reading your comments or your e-mails! And i promise that from now on i'll reply much, much earlier! :P Last but not least, i wanted to let you know tha my exams went really well and my grades this year were super good, so thank you for all your good luck wishes on Google+ , e-mail, or at the comment section ! I think i have the best readersin the history of blogging! :D <3 Btw how is school going so far for you? :) For me there's just much more studying -_- (laaame) And finally, one last thing i want you to know is that i'm going to post 2 NEW POSTS real soon!	{ "pile_set_name": "Pile-CC" }
/* @(#)setup.c 8.1 (Berkeley) 5/31/93 / / $NetBSD: setup.c,v 1.13 2009/05/25 00:37:27 dholland Exp $ / / * Copyright (c) 1980, 1993 * The Regents of the University of California. All rights reserved. * * Redistribution and use in source and binary forms, with or without * modification, are permitted provided that the following conditions * are met: * 1. Redistributions of source code must retain the above copyright * notice, this list of conditions and the following disclaimer. * 2. Redistributions in binary form must reproduce the above copyright * notice, this list of conditions and the following disclaimer in the * documentation and/or other materials provided with the distribution. * 3. Neither the name of the University nor the names of its contributors * may be used to endorse or promote products derived from this software * without specific prior written permission. * * THIS SOFTWARE IS PROVIDED BY THE REGENTS AND CONTRIBUTORS ``AS IS'' AND * ANY EXPRESS OR IMPLIED WARRANTIES, INCLUDING, BUT NOT LIMITED TO, THE * IMPLIED WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY AND FITNESS FOR A PARTICULAR PURPOSE * ARE DISCLAIMED. IN NO EVENT SHALL THE REGENTS OR CONTRIBUTORS BE LIABLE * FOR ANY DIRECT, INDIRECT, INCIDENTAL, SPECIAL, EXEMPLARY, OR CONSEQUENTIAL * DAMAGES (INCLUDING, BUT NOT LIMITED TO, PROCUREMENT OF SUBSTITUTE GOODS * OR SERVICES; LOSS OF USE, DATA, OR PROFITS; OR BUSINESS INTERRUPTION) * HOWEVER CAUSED AND ON ANY THEORY OF LIABILITY, WHETHER IN CONTRACT, STRICT * LIABILITY, OR TORT (INCLUDING NEGLIGENCE OR OTHERWISE) ARISING IN ANY WAY * OUT OF THE USE OF THIS SOFTWARE, EVEN IF ADVISED OF THE POSSIBILITY OF * SUCH DAMAGE. / #include <stdio.h> #include <math.h> #include <string.h> #include <unistd.h> #include <stdlib.h> #include <err.h> #include <limits.h> #include "trek.h" #include "getpar.h" / INITIALIZE THE GAME The length, skill, and password are read, and the game is initialized. It is far too difficult to describe all that goes on in here, but it is all straight-line code; give it a look. Game restart and tournament games are handled here. / const struct cvntab Lentab[] = { { "s", "hort", (cmdfun)1, 0 }, { "m", "edium", (cmdfun)2, 0 }, { "l", "ong", (cmdfun)4, 0 }, { "restart", "", (cmdfun)0, 0 }, { NULL, NULL, NULL, 0 } }; const struct cvntab Skitab[] = { { "n", "ovice", (cmdfun)1, 0 }, { "f", "air", (cmdfun)2, 0 }, { "g", "ood", (cmdfun)3, 0 }, { "e", "xpert", (cmdfun)4, 0 }, { "c", "ommodore", (cmdfun)5, 0 }, { "i", "mpossible", (cmdfun)6, 0 }, { NULL, NULL, NULL, 0 } }; void setup(void) { const struct cvntab r; int i, j; double f; int d; int klump; int ix, iy; struct quad q; struct event e; while (1) { r = getcodpar("What length game", Lentab); Game.length = (long) r->value; if (Game.length == 0) { if (restartgame()) continue; return; } break; } r = getcodpar("What skill game", Skitab); Game.skill = (long) r->value; Game.tourn = 0; getstrpar("Enter a password", Game.passwd, 14, 0); if (strcmp(Game.passwd, "tournament") == 0) { getstrpar("Enter tournament code", Game.passwd, 14, 0); Game.tourn = 1; d = 0; for (i = 0; Game.passwd[i]; i++) d += Game.passwd[i] << i; srandom(d); } Param.bases = Now.bases = ranf(6 - Game.skill) + 2; if (Game.skill == 6) Param.bases = Now.bases = 1; Param.time = Now.time = 6.0 * Game.length + 2.0; i = Game.skill; j = Game.length; Param.klings = Now.klings = i * j * 3.5 * (franf() + 0.75); if (Param.klings < i * j * 5) Param.klings = Now.klings = i * j * 5; if (Param.klings <= i) /* numerical overflow problems / Param.klings = Now.klings = 127; Param.energy = Ship.energy = 5000; Param.torped = Ship.torped = 10; Ship.ship = ENTERPRISE; Ship.shipname = "Enterprise"; Param.shield = Ship.shield = 1500; Param.resource = Now.resource = Param.klings Param.time; Param.reserves = Ship.reserves = (6 - Game.skill) * 2.0; Param.crew = Ship.crew = 387; Param.brigfree = Ship.brigfree = 400; Ship.shldup = 1; Ship.cond = GREEN; Ship.warp = 5.0; Ship.warp2 = 25.0; Ship.warp3 = 125.0; Ship.sinsbad = 0; Ship.cloaked = 0; Param.date = Now.date = (ranf(20) + 20) * 100; f = Game.skill; f = log(f + 0.5); for (i = 0; i < NDEV; i++) if (Device[i].name[0] == '') Param.damfac[i] = 0; else Param.damfac[i] = f; / these probabilities must sum to 1000 / Param.damprob[WARP] = 70; / warp drive 7.0% / Param.damprob[SRSCAN] = 110; / short range scanners 11.0% / Param.damprob[LRSCAN] = 110; / long range scanners 11.0% / Param.damprob[PHASER] = 125; / phasers 12.5% / Param.damprob[TORPED] = 125; / photon torpedoes 12.5% / Param.damprob[IMPULSE] = 75; / impulse engines 7.5% / Param.damprob[SHIELD] = 150; / shield control 15.0% / Param.damprob[COMPUTER] = 20; / computer 2.0% / Param.damprob[SSRADIO] = 35; / subspace radio 3.5% / Param.damprob[LIFESUP] = 30; / life support 3.0% / Param.damprob[SINS] = 20; / navigation system 2.0% / Param.damprob[CLOAK] = 50; / cloaking device 5.0% / Param.damprob[XPORTER] = 80; / transporter 8.0% / / check to see that I didn't blow it / for (i = j = 0; i < NDEV; i++) j += Param.damprob[i]; if (j != 1000) errx(1, "Device probabilities sum to %d", j); Param.dockfac = 0.5; Param.regenfac = (5 - Game.skill) 0.05; if (Param.regenfac < 0.0) Param.regenfac = 0.0; Param.warptime = 10; Param.stopengy = 50; Param.shupengy = 40; i = Game.skill; Param.klingpwr = 100 + 150 * i; if (i >= 6) Param.klingpwr += 150; Param.phasfac = 0.8; Param.hitfac = 0.5; Param.klingcrew = 200; Param.srndrprob = 0.0035; Param.moveprob[KM_OB] = 45; Param.movefac[KM_OB] = .09; Param.moveprob[KM_OA] = 40; Param.movefac[KM_OA] = -0.05; Param.moveprob[KM_EB] = 40; Param.movefac[KM_EB] = 0.075; Param.moveprob[KM_EA] = 25 + 5 * Game.skill; Param.movefac[KM_EA] = -0.06 * Game.skill; Param.moveprob[KM_LB] = 0; Param.movefac[KM_LB] = 0.0; Param.moveprob[KM_LA] = 10 + 10 * Game.skill; Param.movefac[KM_LA] = 0.25; Param.eventdly[E_SNOVA] = 0.5; Param.eventdly[E_LRTB] = 25.0; Param.eventdly[E_KATSB] = 1.0; Param.eventdly[E_KDESB] = 3.0; Param.eventdly[E_ISSUE] = 1.0; Param.eventdly[E_SNAP] = 0.5; Param.eventdly[E_ENSLV] = 0.5; Param.eventdly[E_REPRO] = 2.0; Param.navigcrud[0] = 1.50; Param.navigcrud[1] = 0.75; Param.cloakenergy = 1000; Param.energylow = 1000; for (i = 0; i < MAXEVENTS; i++) { e = &Event[i]; e->date = TOOLARGE; e->evcode = 0; } xsched(E_SNOVA, 1, 0, 0, 0); xsched(E_LRTB, Param.klings, 0, 0, 0); xsched(E_KATSB, 1, 0, 0, 0); xsched(E_ISSUE, 1, 0, 0, 0); xsched(E_SNAP, 1, 0, 0, 0); Ship.sectx = ranf(NSECTS); Ship.secty = ranf(NSECTS); Game.killk = Game.kills = Game.killb = 0; Game.deaths = Game.negenbar = 0; Game.captives = 0; Game.killinhab = 0; Game.helps = 0; Game.killed = 0; Game.snap = 0; Move.endgame = 0; /* setup stars / for (i = 0; i < NQUADS; i++) { for (j = 0; j < NQUADS; j++) { short s5; q = &Quad[i][j]; q->klings = q->bases = 0; q->scanned = -1; q->stars = ranf(9) + 1; q->holes = ranf(3); s5 = q->stars / 5; q->holes = q->holes > s5 ? q->holes - s5 : 0; q->qsystemname = 0; } } / select inhabited starsystems / for (d = 1; d < NINHAB; d++) { do { i = ranf(NQUADS); j = ranf(NQUADS); q = &Quad[i][j]; } while (q->qsystemname); q->qsystemname = d; } / position starbases / for (i = 0; i < Param.bases; i++) { while (1) { ix = ranf(NQUADS); iy = ranf(NQUADS); q = &Quad[ix][iy]; if (q->bases > 0) continue; break; } q->bases = 1; Now.base[i].x = ix; Now.base[i].y = iy; q->scanned = 1001; / start the Enterprise near starbase / if (i == 0) { Ship.quadx = ix; Ship.quady = iy; } } / position klingons / for (i = Param.klings; i > 0; ) { klump = ranf(4) + 1; if (klump > i) klump = i; while (1) { ix = ranf(NQUADS); iy = ranf(NQUADS); q = &Quad[ix][iy]; if (q->klings + klump > MAXKLQUAD) continue; q->klings += klump; i -= klump; break; } } / initialize this quadrant */ printf("%d Klingons\n%d starbase", Param.klings, Param.bases); if (Param.bases > 1) printf("s"); printf(" at %d,%d", Now.base[0].x, Now.base[0].y); for (i = 1; i < Param.bases; i++) printf(", %d,%d", Now.base[i].x, Now.base[i].y); printf("\nIt takes %d units to kill a Klingon\n", Param.klingpwr); Move.free = 0; initquad(0); srscan(1); attack(0); }	{ "pile_set_name": "Github" }
Enjoy top quality, affordable, and personalized web hosting from Visual Mystique. Plus, with a 99.7% uptime and inital 30-day money back guarantee, there is no reason not to try us! * We provide a Dedicated IP Address per Domain (We do not use the shared IP system known as virtual sub-hosting). The shared 'sub-hosting' system used by the majority of our competitors causes limitations for your clients and shares features such as storage, data transfer, email accounts with your main account. With our system, each client gets their own allotment of features and their own control panel.	{ "pile_set_name": "Pile-CC" }
Q: STM32F103 SPI only receives 0x00 I'm using SPI for interfacing between STM32F103 and MRF24J40. I write a value to MRF24J40 register and then read back to confirm it works functionally but I only receive 0x00 from MISO pin. Here are my SPI Initialize and MRF24J40 interface SPI Config: SPI_InitTypeDef SPI_InitStruct; RCC_APB1PeriphClockCmd(RCC_APB1Periph_SPI2, ENABLE); SPI_InitStruct.SPI_BaudRatePrescaler = SPI_BaudRatePrescaler_32; SPI_InitStruct.SPI_CPHA = SPI_CPHA_1Edge; SPI_InitStruct.SPI_CPOL = SPI_CPOL_Low; SPI_InitStruct.SPI_DataSize = SPI_DataSize_8b; SPI_InitStruct.SPI_Direction = SPI_Direction_2Lines_FullDuplex; SPI_InitStruct.SPI_FirstBit = SPI_FirstBit_MSB; SPI_InitStruct.SPI_Mode = SPI_Mode_Master; SPI_InitStruct.SPI_NSS = SPI_NSS_Soft; SPI_Init(SPI2, &SPI_InitStruct); SPI_Cmd(SPI2, ENABLE); GPIOB->BSRR = GPIO_Pin_12; //Disable SPI slave GPIO Config: GPIO_InitTypeDef GPIO_InitStruct; //Clock providing for SPI peripheral RCC_APB2PeriphClockCmd(RCC_APB2Periph_GPIOB, ENABLE); //GPIO config for SCK and MOSI pin GPIO_InitStruct.GPIO_Pin = (GPIO_Pin_13 \| GPIO_Pin_15); GPIO_InitStruct.GPIO_Mode = GPIO_Mode_AF_PP; GPIO_InitStruct.GPIO_Speed = GPIO_Speed_50MHz; GPIO_Init(GPIOB, &GPIO_InitStruct); //GPIO config for MISO pin GPIO_InitStruct.GPIO_Pin = GPIO_Pin_14; GPIO_InitStruct.GPIO_Mode = GPIO_Mode_IN_FLOATING; GPIO_Init(GPIOB, &GPIO_InitStruct); //GPIO config for NSS pin GPIO_InitStruct.GPIO_Pin = GPIO_Pin_12; GPIO_InitStruct.GPIO_Mode = GPIO_Mode_Out_PP; GPIO_InitStruct.GPIO_Speed = GPIO_Speed_50MHz; GPIO_Init(GPIOB, &GPIO_InitStruct); SPI Transfer: uint8_t SPI_ByteTransfer(uint8_t data) { while(!((SPI2->SR) & SPI_I2S_FLAG_TXE)); //Wait for data transmitted SPI_I2S_SendData(SPI2, data & 0xFF); //Send data to TX buffer while(!((SPI2->SR) & SPI_I2S_FLAG_RXNE)); //Wait for data received data = SPI_I2S_ReceiveData(SPI2); return data; } MRF24J40 Write and Read register functions: void MRF24J40_WriteShortAddrReg(uint8_t addr, uint8_t data) { addr = (addr << 1) \| 0x01; //MSB = 0 for short, LSB = 1 for writing GPIOB->BRR = GPIO_Pin_12; //Enable SPI slave SPI_ByteTransfer(addr); SPI_ByteTransfer(data); while(SPI2->SR & SPI_I2S_FLAG_BSY); //Wait for bus free GPIOB->BSRR = GPIO_Pin_12; //Disable SPI slave } uint8_t MRF24J40_ReadShortAddrReg(uint8_t addr) { uint8_t data; addr <<= 1; //MSB = 0 for short, LSB = 0 for reading GPIOB->BRR = GPIO_Pin_12; //Enable SPI slave data = SPI_ByteTransfer(addr); while(SPI2->SR & SPI_I2S_FLAG_BSY); //Wait for bus free GPIOB->BSRR = GPIO_Pin_12; //Disable SPI slave return data; } A: As SPI is a synchronous interface, data is received from the slave at the same time as data is transmitted by the master. In your receive function data is received from the slave while sending the address byte. The slave does not know what register you want to access when it shifts out the first byte as the transmit of the address byte is still undergoing. Try to add a dummy write (e.g. 0x00) after sending the address byte to enable the slave to shift out the requested data: uint8_t MRF24J40_ReadShortAddrReg(uint8_t addr) { uint8_t data; addr <<= 1; //MSB = 0 for short, LSB = 0 for reading GPIOB->BRR = GPIO_Pin_12; //Enable SPI slave SPI_ByteTransfer(addr); //Send address byte and discard received data data = SPI_ByteTransfer(0x00); //Send dummy byte and receive requested data while(SPI2->SR & SPI_I2S_FLAG_BSY); //Wait for bus free GPIOB->BSRR = GPIO_Pin_12; //Disable SPI slave return data; }	{ "pile_set_name": "StackExchange" }
Milwaukee's NBA Most Valuable Player contender Giannis Antetokounmpo scored 27 points to lead the Bucks to a hard-fought 116-109 victory yesterday over reigning MVP James Harden and the Houston Rockets. Antetokounmpo added 21 rebounds and was a physical presence on both ends of the floor as the Bucks battled back from a 60-54 halftime deficit to end the Rockets' 10-game home winning streak. "He just does everything," Bucks coach Mike Budenholzer said of the imposing Antetokounmpo, who drained 11 of his 14 free-throw attempts. "He has a huge impact on winning.” The Bucks led by as many as 15 in the fourth quarter, but Harden and the Rockets had whittled that lead to three with less than two minutes remaining. Harden, who finished with 42 points and 11 rebounds, missed another three-pointer and the Bucks held on to take their record to 29-11 -- percentage points ahead of the 31-12 Toronto Raptors for best record in the league. In Boston, the Celtics led by as many as many as 31 points in a wire-to-wire 135-108 romp over the Indiana Pacers. The Celtics notched their fourth straight victory -- all coming at home before they set off on a road trip that starts in Miami today. In Washington, the Wizards made the most of a return home with a convincing 123-106 victory over the Philadelphia 76ers -- a day after the Sixers dominated the Wizards 132-115 in Philly. The Sixers had won four in a row, but they have now lost nine straight in the nation's capital, a skid dating back to November 2013. Bradley Beal's 34 points included 14 straight for the Wizards in the fourth quarter. Otto Porter Jr. scored 23 and Trevor Ariza added 17 for Washington, with Joel Embiid leading the 76ers with 35 points and 14 rebounds. The Brooklyn Nets overcame a 19-point first-half deficit to beat the Atlanta Hawks 116-100 in New York. D'Angelo Russell led the Nets with 23 points. DeMarre Carroll added 17 off the bench and starting guard Joe Harris and reserve Spencer Dinwiddie added 16 apiece for Brooklyn, who edged ahead of Miami for the sixth spot in the East. The New Orleans Pelicans also climbed out of an early hole erasing a 16-point first-half deficit to defeat the Cleveland Cavaliers 140-124. Anthony Davis scored 38 points and pulled down 13 rebounds for the Pelicans, who won a third straight game for the first time since November.*AFP	{ "pile_set_name": "Pile-CC" }
hannahismyharto: sapphia: fieldbears: OH MY GOD THOUGH BEST COMEBACK ON ANY COMEDY PANEL SHOW EVER AND SHE’S NOT EVEN A COMEDIAN Can she calculate the amount of cold water he needs for that burn?	{ "pile_set_name": "OpenWebText2" }
#!/bin/sh - ######################################################################### # convert # # Convert script for Desktop and File Cabinet # # Run this to create the mkrXXX.ui files for desktop and file cabinet. # # # # CommonGM/convert # # # # $Id: convert,v 1.10.9.1 97/03/29 09:02:45 canavese Exp $ ######################################################################### if [ -f driveicon.sed ]; then di_sed=driveicon.sed else di_sed=`otherdir`/driveicon.sed fi # # Convert a pcx file to a moniker, dealing with locating the installed or # uninstalled version of the file (doesn't deal with branches, I'm afraid) # # Usage: cvt <file> <cvtpcx-args> # cvt() { name="" for a do case $a in -n) name=`expr x$a : 'x-n$.$$'` ;; esac done if [ ! "$name" ]; then echo $0: missing -n arg for cvt exit 1 fi file=$1 shift if [ ! -f $file ]; then file=`otherdir`/$file fi cvtpcx -f "$@" $file mv mkr$name.ui cmkr$name.ui } # # Similar to the above, but the pcx file is cvted to a bitmap, rather # than a gstring moniker. Must be given a -n<name> argument to pass to cvtpcx, # and result is left in cbm<name>.ui, instead of cmkr<name>.ui # cvtbm() { name="" for a do case $a in -n) name=`expr x$a : 'x-n$.$$'` ;; esac done if [ ! "$name" ]; then echo $0: missing -n arg for cvtbm exit 1 fi cvt "$@" -g sed -e 's/Moniker =/Bitmap =/' cmkr$name.ui > cbm$name.ui } ######################################################################### # Application Icons # ######################################################################### #---------------------- GeoManager Icon ------------------------------# cvt /staff/pcgeos/Appl/Art/Art.20/g20apps3.pcx -m13 -t -L -x0 -y123 -dLCGA -nFileMgr #---------------------- File Cabinet Icon ----------------------------# cvt PCX/filecab.pcx -m13 -t -l -x0 -y0 -dLC -dLM -dLCGA -nFileCabinet ######################################################################### # Disk Drive Icons # ######################################################################### #------------------- Three Inch Disk Icon ----------------------------# cvtbm PCX/gdesk07.pcx -u -rAppDrives -m13 -t -L -x0 -y0 -dLC -dLM -dLCGA -dTM -dTCGA -dYC -nThreeInchDisk cvt PCX/gdesk07.pcx -m13 -t -L -x0 -y0 -dLC -dLM -dLCGA -dTM -dTCGA -dYC -nThreeInchDisk #--------------------- Five Inch Disk Icon ----------------------------# cvtbm PCX/gdesk07.pcx -u -rAppDrives -m13 -t -L -x0 -y41 -dLC -dLM -dLCGA -dTM -dTCGA -dYC -nFiveInchDisk cvt PCX/gdesk07.pcx -m13 -t -L -x0 -y41 -dLC -dLM -dLCGA -dTM -dTCGA -dYC -nFiveInchDisk #----------------------- Hard Disk Icon ------------------------------# cvtbm PCX/gdesk07.pcx -u -rAppDrives -m13 -t -L -x0 -y82 -dLC -dLM -dLCGA -dTM -dTCGA -dYC -nHardDisk cvt PCX/gdesk07.pcx -m13 -t -L -x0 -y82 -dLC -dLM -dLCGA -dTM -dTCGA -dYC -nHardDisk #------------------------- Ram Disk Icon -----------------------------# cvtbm PCX/gdesk07.pcx -u -rAppDrives -m13 -t -L -x0 -y123 -dLC -dLM -dLCGA -dTM -dTCGA -dYC -nRamDisk cvt PCX/gdesk07.pcx -m13 -t -L -x0 -y123 -dLC -dLM -dLCGA -dTM -dTCGA -dYC -nRamDisk #------------------------- Net Disk Icon -----------------------------# cvtbm PCX/gdesk07.pcx -u -rAppDrives -m13 -t -L -x0 -y164 -dLC -dLM -dLCGA -dTM -dTCGA -dYC -nNetDisk cvt PCX/gdesk07.pcx -m13 -t -L -x0 -y164 -dLC -dLM -dLCGA -dTM -dTCGA -dYC -nNetDisk #-------------------------- CD Rom Icon ------------------------------# cvtbm PCX/gdesk08.pcx -u -rAppDrives -m2 -t -L -x0 -y0 -dLC -dLM -dLCGA -dTM -dTCGA -dYC -nCDRom cvt PCX/gdesk08.pcx -m13 -t -L -x0 -y205 -dLC -dLM -dLCGA -dTM -dTCGA -dYC -nCDRom #-------------------------- PCMCIA Icon ------------------------------# # ONLY FOR ZMGR as of 5/18/93 - brianc # # now for all filemgrs 10/5/93 -- ardeb cvtbm PCX/gdesk07.pcx -u -rAppDrives -m13 -t -L -x0 -y205 -dLC -dLM -dLCGA -dTM -dTCGA -dYC -nPCMCIA cvt PCX/gdesk07.pcx -m13 -t -L -x0 -y205 -dLC -dLM -dLCGA -dTM -dTCGA -dYC -nPCMCIA ######################################################################### # General Desktop Icons # ######################################################################### #---------------------- Messy Waste Can Icon -------------------------# ### This bitmap must be done first or the non-bitmap will be overwritten cvtbm PCX/gdesk06.pcx -rAppIconArea -u -m13 -t -L -x0 -y0 -dLC -dLM -dLCGA -dTM -dTCGA -dYC -nMessyWasteCan ### Non-bitmap cvt PCX/gdesk06.pcx -rAppIconArea -m13 -t -L -x0 -y0 -dLC -dLM -dLCGA -dTM -dTCGA -dYC -nMessyWasteCan #------------------------- MonoFolder Icon ---------------------------# cvt PCX/gdesk06.pcx -rAppIconArea -m13 -t -L -x0 -y41 -dLC -dLM -dLCGA -dTM -dTCGA -dYC -nMonoFolder sed -e '/cachedSize/s/30/31/' cmkrMonoFolder.ui > q rm cmkrMonoFolder.ui mv q cmkrMonoFolder.ui #------------------------ MultiFolder Icon ---------------------------# cvt PCX/gdesk06.pcx -rAppIconArea -m13 -t -L -x0 -y82 -dLC -dLM -dLCGA -dTM -dTCGA -dYC -nMultiFolder sed -e '/cachedSize/s/30/31/' cmkrMultiFolder.ui > q rm cmkrMultiFolder.ui mv q cmkrMultiFolder.ui #----------------------- World Directory Icon ------------------------# cvt PCX/gdesk06.pcx -rAppIconArea -u -m13 -t -L -x0 -y123 -dLM -dLC -dLCGA -dTM -dTCGA -dYC -nWorldDirButton #--------------------- Document Directory Icon -----------------------# ### This bitmap must be done first or the non-bitmap will be overwritten cvt PCX/gdesk06.pcx -rAppIconArea -g -u -m13 -t -L -x0 -y164 -dLC -dLM -dLCGA -dTM -dTCGA -dYC -nDocDirButton sed -e '/cachedSize/s/48/32/' -e 's/Moniker =/Bitmap =/' cmkrDocDirButton.ui > cbmDocDirButton.ui rm cmkrDocDirButton.ui ### Non-bitmap cvt PCX/gdesk06.pcx -rAppIconArea -m13 -t -L -x0 -y164 -dLC -dLM -dLCGA -dTM -dTCGA -dYC -nDocDirButton ######################################################################### # Folder Contents Icons # ######################################################################### #-------------------------- Folder Icon ------------------------------# cvt PCX/gdesk04.pcx -m13 -t -L -x0 -y246 -dLC -dLM -dLCGA -dTM -dTCGA -dYC -nFileFolder #----------------------- Generic GEOS App Icon -----------------------# cvt PCX/ggeos.pcx -m13 -t -L -x0 -y0 -dLC -dLM -dLCGA -dTM -dTCGA -nGenAppl #----------------------- Generic GEOS Doc Icon -----------------------# cvt PCX/ggeos.pcx -m13 -t -L -x0 -y41 -dLC -dLM -dLCGA -dTM -dTCGA -nGenDoc #----------------------- Generic DOS App Icon ------------------------# cvt PCX/gdesk03.pcx -m13 -t -L -x0 -y164 -dLC -dLM -dLCGA -dTM -dTCGA -dYC -nDosAppl #----------------------- Generic DOS Doc Icon ------------------------# cvt PCX/gdesk03.pcx -m13 -t -L -x0 -y205 -dLC -dLM -dLCGA -dTM -dTCGA -dYC -nDosData #------------------------- Template Icon -----------------------------# cvt PCX/folder.pcx -m13 -t -l -x0 -y205 -dLC -dLM -dLCGA -nTemplate ######################################################################### # File Cabinet Icons # ######################################################################### #--------------------------- Open Icon ------------------------------# cvtbm PCX/cab1icon.pcx -rAppIconArea -u -m13 -t -l -x0 -y0 -dLC -dLM -dLCGA -nOpenFile #------------------------- Get Info Icon ----------------------------# cvtbm PCX/cab1icon.pcx -rAppIconArea -u -m13 -t -l -x0 -y41 -dLC -dLM -dLCGA -nGetInfo #------------------------- Move File Icon ---------------------------# cvtbm PCX/cab1icon.pcx -rAppIconArea -u -m13 -t -l -x0 -y82 -dLC -dLM -dLCGA -nMoveFile #------------------------- Copy File Icon ---------------------------# cvtbm PCX/cab1icon.pcx -rAppIconArea -u -m13 -t -l -x0 -y123 -dLC -dLM -dLCGA -nCopyFile #---------------------- Duplicate File Icon -------------------------# cvtbm PCX/cab1icon.pcx -rAppIconArea -u -m13 -t -l -x0 -y164 -dLC -dLM -dLCGA -nDupFile #------------------------ Rename File Icon --------------------------# cvtbm PCX/cab1icon.pcx -rAppIconArea -u -m13 -t -l -x0 -y205 -dLC -dLM -dLCGA -nRenameFile #------------------------ Format Disk Icon --------------------------# cvtbm PCX/cab2icon.pcx -rAppIconArea -u -m13 -t -l -x0 -y0 -dLC -dLM -dLCGA -nFormat #----------------------- Close Directory Icon -----------------------# cvtbm PCX/cab2icon.pcx -rAppIconArea -u -m13 -t -l -x0 -y41 -dLC -dLM -dLCGA -nCloseDir #------------------------ Open Directory Icon -----------------------# cvtbm PCX/cab2icon.pcx -rAppIconArea -u -m13 -t -l -x0 -y82 -dLC -dLM -dLCGA -nOpenDir #---------------------- Create Directory Icon -----------------------# cvtbm PCX/cab2icon.pcx -rAppIconArea -u -m13 -t -l -x0 -y123 -dLC -dLM -dLCGA -nCreateDir #---------------------------- Exit Icon -----------------------------# cvtbm PCX/cab2icon.pcx -rAppIconArea -u -m2 -t -l -x0 -y164 -dLC -dLM -dLCGA -nExit #---------------------------- Help Icon -----------------------------# cvtbm PCX/cab2icon.pcx -rAppIconArea -u -m2 -t -l -x0 -y205 -dLC -dLM -dLCGA -nHelp #---------------------------- Preferences Icon -----------------------------# . /staff/pcgeos/Appl/Art/Art.20/cvtcommon cvtfile /staff/pcgeos/Appl/Art/Art.20/g20apps3.pcx 4 PrefMgrButton -dYC -dYM -dLC -dLM -dTM -dTCGA $appArgs -rAppIconArea	{ "pile_set_name": "Github" }
James Calvert had been a difficult defendant. On trial in 2015 on charges of murdering his wife and kidnapping his son, Calvert had chosen to represent himself, but was having trouble following the judge’s instructions to stand up when addressing the Smith County court in East Texas. Heightening the tension, Calvert, who was considered a security risk, wore an electronic stun cuff on his right leg capable of delivering an extended jolt of 50,000 volts. Throughout the trial, Judge Jack Skeen had threatened to activate it. “If I’m sitting here, I’m no security threat,” Calvert said, according to court records cited in an appeal later filed by Calvert’s lawyer. “I’m not talking a security threat,” Skeen replied. “I’m talking about you listening to me.” Later, Skeen ordered Calvert to sit down and then, a moment later, to answer a question. When Calvert again failed to stand up to address the judge, an officer activated the device, according to court records. Calvert screamed for five seconds. “I’m sure the Court very much enjoyed that,” he said. Skeen then revoked Calvert’s right to represent himself. Calvert, who was convicted and sentenced to death, is now appealing his sentence in part on the grounds that the shock violated his constitutional rights to a fair trial and self-representation. “The trial court had lesser alternatives, and allowing bailiffs to use a 50,000-volt shock device in these circumstances shocks the conscience,” Calvert’s lawyers said in the pending appeal. (Calvert’s lawyer for the appeal and Skeen both declined to comment.) In recent years, other defendants have also charged that judges abused electronic restraint devices, and courts have ruled in their favor — drawing attention to how and why shocks are administered. Last year, a Texas appeals court reprimanded a judge for “barbarism” after he ordered a defendant shocked three times for making objections. The appeals court sent the case back to the lower court for retrial. And, in 2016, a Maryland judge was ousted from office for shocking a defendant who did not stop talking when asked, leaving the man hollering on the ground in pain while the court took a recess. First introduced in the early 90s, electronic restraints — vests, belts, wrist and ankle cuffs — have been employed in at least 30 states, according to an Amnesty International report. People who have been shocked by the devices say they inflict terrible pain. One person described the shock as causing “excruciating pain as if a long needle had been inserted” into his spine and skull. Another said, “I thought that I was actually dying.” Manufacturers argue that electronic restraints increase courtroom safety and point to cases like that of Brian Nichols, a man on trial for rape in 2005 who overpowered an officer and killed four court officials, including the judge. The temporary pain inflicted by an electronic restraint device can distract disruptive individuals, allowing officers to gain control with less risk of harming themselves or others, according to Lieutenant Kevin Stuart, president of the Texas Jail Association and a law enforcement officer in Brazos County, Texas. “If you didn’t have that and it is a struggle, you end up with inmates that get hurt and officers that get hurt,” Stuart said. “It’s a tool, but it has to be used correctly and in the right circumstances.” The European Trade Commission, the United Nations and Amnesty International have all called for the ban of electronic restraints. Manufacturers and critics alike note the psychological impact of the devices, and one court found that wearing a stun belt has a “chilling effect” on the ability of defendants to participate meaningfully in their trials. The use of electronic restraints raises constitutional issues other than the cruel and unusual punishment their critics say they inflict. Though these devices can be hidden under a pant-leg or shirt cuff, they may still be noticeable to a jury. In 2017, a federal appeals court overturned a death sentence for a man convicted of triple murder, stating that the visible use of the stun belt during the sentencing stage “contaminated” the trial. When defendants are shocked — triggering screams and involuntary movements — they are likely to seem more dangerous to jurors, said NYU law professor Paul Chevigny. “It seems difficult for me to see that under those conditions the defendant is getting a fair trial,” Chevigny said. “The jury is terrified of you and the situation and think you must be some kind of monster.” Over the years, defendants have sometimes been shocked accidentally at key moments, leading to mistrials. Others, following a shock, have been too scared to return to the courtroom or have missed participating in their trial while recovering, infringing upon their right to be present at all stages of their trial. Research has also shown that 50,000 volts of electricity can impair brain function for up to an hour and can even trigger cardiac arrest. If the shock was intentional, the question becomes whether the use of force was “objectively reasonable,” according to Seth Stoughton, a law professor at the University of Southern Carolina and former police officer. “If judges aren’t being properly trained, then they should have no control over whether and when that tool is used,” Stoughton said. Smith County judges are not trained in the use of stun cuff devices, according to the county sheriff department’s public information officer, Larry Christian. Calvert’s case is the only time the device has ever been activated in Smith County, although the sheriff’s department has used stun cuffs since 2011 and owns six. Smith County does not keep records for when stun cuffs are worn. (Myers Enterprises, which manufactures the stun cuffs used by the county, declined to comment.) County officers authorized to use stun cuffs are required to go through training and are only allowed to use them “to overcome active resistance” or when “active aggression is an immediate or credible threat to the safety of the deputy(s), the public” or the defendant, Christian wrote in an email. The devices should not be activated for any reason other than in response to an immediate physical danger, said Brian Dillard, head training instructor for NOVA Products, maker of the RACC stun belt, which is used in at least eight states and more than 100 counties. All law enforcement agencies that purchase NOVA stun belts and vests are required to go through training and receive certification in their use, Dillard said. Officers are encouraged to talk with judges and lawyers before trial to explain when they can and cannot activate the stun belt. If a judge orders a shock out of irritation with the defendant, law enforcement officers are trained to disregard the order, Dillard said: “It is not a lawful order just to authorize the device on someone who is being verbally disrespectful.” There is no uniform policy for the use of electronic restraint devices. Some states, like Oklahoma, require courts to explain the reason for using a shock device, with the explanation to be entered into the court record. An appeals court in Texas found that defendants must explicitly object on the record to wearing a belt, otherwise they cannot later challenge it. Indiana, meanwhile, has banned stun belts outright. In most places, use of stun belts and cuffs remains up to judges and court officers. As Skeen warned Calvert: “They will use whatever means they have to control you.”	{ "pile_set_name": "OpenWebText2" }
Fix the system Michigans voting process is in need of improvement November 16, 2000 12:00 am November 16, 2000 12:00 am Tight elections across the country have caused close inspection of the election process, which has revealed discrepancies that have been ignored in landslide elections, but could have affected the outcome of several close races. Investigations in Florida have revealed numerous voting discrepancies, such as a ballot - not designed in accordance with Florida law - that might have caused voters to choose Reform Party candidate Pat Buchanan over Vice President Al Gore. There also were reported instances of people being turned away from the polls. Recent counts have put Texas Gov. George W. Bush ahead of Gore by just a few hundred votes and the winner of Florida will be the nations next president. At the same time, many MSU students claim they were denied the opportunity to vote. Their votes could have affected close Michigan races. State Sen. Mike Rogers, R-Brighton, defeated state Sen. Dianne Byrum, D-Onondaga, by 153 votes in the 8th Congressional District race. Rogers sponsored a bill - which later became law - that discouraged some students from casting their vote on Election Day. The law, which requires voters to change their voter registration address to that on their drivers license, was created to help prevent voter fraud and help officials keep easier track of where people are voting. But while the stated purpose of the law was not to discourage students from voting, it has unfortunately had that effect. Since most students frequently change their address and consider their campus city to be their second address, most have their permanent home address on their drivers license. Furthermore, many students were unaware of the law until they were turned away from the East Lansing polls on Election Day. The law complicated the process, especially for students who were voting for the first time and were unfamiliar with the process. Senate bill 306 was not the only stepping stone for local voters. Students also complained of long lines, unclear directions to their precinct and unhelpful staff at the polls. Some precincts had inaccurate voter records and names were missing in the statewide file of registered voters. Lansing-area officials should have access to technology that would have enabled them to keep even more accurate records. Better technology would have allowed voters who were turned away because of inaccuracies to be able to vote. Michigan should invest in better record-keeping methods and increase the number of well-trained staff. It may put more stress on the state, but it will hopefully take stress off the voter. Voters should not have to endure long lines and unqualified staff when they head to the polls. The country should tackle any obstacles that discourage people from heading to the polls and make voting more quick and convenient. Voting procedures across the country should be updated to keep pace with technology. Punch cards and voting booths are outdated and, as this election has proved, often inaccurate. Better technology will yield more accurate results, which will prevent other election fiascoes from occurring in the future, and will restore peoples faith in the power and importance of their vote.	{ "pile_set_name": "Pile-CC" }
(To access the full article, please see PDF)	{ "pile_set_name": "PubMed Central" }
[Contraception and family planning services as viewed by users of three clinics in the Unified National Health System, Rio de Janeiro State, Brazil]. This article presents partial data from a larger qualitative, socio-anthropological survey in five States of Brazil, aimed at grasping the perspectives of users in urban and rural areas on their contraceptive and reproductive experiences, and their perceptions concerning contraceptive and family planning care in the Unified National Health System. The article focuses on findings in the State of Rio de Janeiro from 60 individual semi-structured interviews with users 18 to 49 years of age in two primary care clinics in the State capital and one rural clinic under the Family Health Program (FHP). There was a greater diversity in the use of methods in the capital as compared to the interior, where tubal ligation was the only alternative to the pill. Group education work in the capital expands the possibilities for choice of methods and collective learning, although access to the IUD and tubal ligation is still considered problematic, due to difficulties in providing such care. The health services prioritize care for women that have already begun childbearing, and more care is needed for non-pregnant adult women and adolescents, in addition to strengthening the educational work in the FHP.	{ "pile_set_name": "PubMed Abstracts" }
# encoding=utf-8 # ------------------------------------------ # 版本：3.0 # 日期：2016-12-01 # 作者：九茶<http://blog.csdn.net/bone_ace> # ------------------------------------------ BOT_NAME = ['Sina_spider3'] SPIDER_MODULES = ['Sina_spider3.spiders'] NEWSPIDER_MODULE = 'Sina_spider3.spiders' DOWNLOADER_MIDDLEWARES = { "Sina_spider3.middleware.UserAgentMiddleware": 401, "Sina_spider3.middleware.CookiesMiddleware": 402, } ITEM_PIPELINES = { "Sina_spider3.pipelines.MongoDBPipeline": 403, } SCHEDULER = 'Sina_spider3.scrapy_redis.scheduler.Scheduler' SCHEDULER_PERSIST = True SCHEDULER_QUEUE_CLASS = 'Sina_spider3.scrapy_redis.queue.SpiderSimpleQueue' # 种子队列的信息 REDIE_URL = None REDIS_HOST = 'localhost' REDIS_PORT = 6379 # 去重队列的信息 FILTER_URL = None FILTER_HOST = 'localhost' FILTER_PORT = 6379 FILTER_DB = 0 DOWNLOAD_DELAY = 10 # 间隔时间 # LOG_LEVEL = 'INFO' # 日志级别 CONCURRENT_REQUESTS = 1 # 默认为16 # CONCURRENT_ITEMS = 1 # CONCURRENT_REQUESTS_PER_IP = 1 REDIRECT_ENABLED = False	{ "pile_set_name": "Github" }
Q: Testing Twilio Verify I implemented a Service which hide all of Twilio's wiring, and am trying to write tests for it. I found test credentials etc., but when I try to test my flow, I get this message: I'm a little unsure how to actually test the "Verify" flow from Twilio using test credentials. Has anybody done this before? A: Heyooo. Twilio Developer Evangelist here. Unfortunately, I have to say that the test credentials only work for specific resources/endpoints right now – meaning buying phone numbers, sending sms and making phone calls. Requests to any other resource with test credentials will receive a 403 Forbidden response. In the future, we may enable these resources for testing as well. Only way I see to test the Twilio Helper library in a unit test environment, like the one I see you're going, is to mock the twilio module. This way you're not testing Twilio's endpoints but if you're code behaves like it should. Let me know if that helps.	{ "pile_set_name": "StackExchange" }
Angiotensin II stimulates an endogenous response in Xenopus laevis ovarian follicles. While responses to angiotensin II have previously been induced in Xenopus laevis oocytes after injection of messenger RNA extracted from mammalian tissue, no endogenous responses of ovarian tissue to this hormone have been reported. Here we describe such an endogenous dose-dependent response to angiotensin II, detected by conventional electrophysiological techniques, in follicular oocytes. The ED50 of the response was estimated to be 0.15 +/- 0.07 microM (S.E.M.). Maximal depolarization, obtained at 1 microM angiotensin II, was 18.3 +/- 1.4 mV (n = 18, three experiments using oocytes from two toads, mean resting membrane potential = -42 +/- 2 mV). The response was absent from collagenase-treated oocytes or follicular oocytes treated with octanol, suggesting that the receptors are predominantly in the follicular layer surrounding the oocytes.	{ "pile_set_name": "PubMed Abstracts" }
Donald Trump has come under fire for a number of his executive orders during the first days of his presidency, so here is an explainer on what the orders are and whether what President Trump is doing is unusual. What is an executive order? In simple terms, an executive order is an official statement by the President, ordering the federal agencies under he oversees how to direct their resources. An executive order is part of a wider range of directives called executive actions. An order is the most formal action – which derive their power from Artcile II of the Constitution. Other actions include presidential memorandums and then proclamations and directives. The Executive orders are numbered and must be published in the Federal Register, the government’s daily compendium of regulations and official actions. Presidential memoranda are a step down and are explanatory documents that offer guidance to the administration’s position on an issue, or deal with the internal workings of the administration. Executive orders are considered binding, but can be subject to legal review (see below). So this is the US president setting out a new law? No. An executive order is not allowed to be used to create a new law or appropriate funds from the US Treasury. Orders merely allow the president to instruct the government how to act within the confines that have been set down by the Constitution and the US Congress. For example, Donald Trump’s executive order on a border wall with Mexico called on the Department of Homeland Security to use elements of already-available funds in order to begin construction. The controversial orders Donald Trump has already issued Show all 9 1 /9 The controversial orders Donald Trump has already issued The controversial orders Donald Trump has already issued Trump and the media White House Press Secretary Sean Spicer takes questions during the daily press briefing Getty Images The controversial orders Donald Trump has already issued Trump and the Trans-Pacific Partnership Union leaders applaud US President Donald Trump for signing an executive order withdrawing the US from the Trans-Pacific Partnership negotiations during a meeting in the Roosevelt Room of the White House in Washington DC. Mr Trump issued a presidential memorandum in January announcing that the US would withdraw from the trade deal Getty The controversial orders Donald Trump has already issued Trump and the Mexico wall A US Border Patrol vehicle sits waiting for illegal immigrants at a fence opening near the US-Mexico border near McAllen, Texas. The number of incoming immigrants has surged ahead of the upcoming Presidential inauguration of Donald Trump, who has pledged to build a wall along the US-Mexico border. A signature campaign promise, Mr Trump outlined his intention to build a border wall on the US-Mexico border days after taking office Getty Images The controversial orders Donald Trump has already issued Trump and abortion US President Donald Trump signs an executive order as Chief of Staff Reince Priebus looks on in the Oval Office of the White House. Mr Trump reinstated a ban on American financial aide being granted to non-governmental organizations that provide abortion counseling, provide abortion referrals, or advocate for abortion access outside of the United States Getty Images The controversial orders Donald Trump has already issued Trump and the Dakota Access pipeline Opponents of the Keystone XL and Dakota Access pipelines hold a rally as they protest US President Donald Trump's executive orders advancing their construction, at Columbus Circle in New York. US President Donald Trump signed executive orders reviving the construction of two controversial oil pipelines, but said the projects would be subject to renegotiation Getty Images The controversial orders Donald Trump has already issued Trump and 'Obamacare' Nancy Pelosi who is the minority leader of the House of Representatives speaks beside House Democrats at an event to protect the Affordable Care Act in Los Angeles, California. US President Donald Trump's effort to make good on his campaign promise to repeal and replace the healthcare law failed when Republicans failed to get enough votes. Mr Trump has promised to revisit the matter Getty Images The controversial orders Donald Trump has already issued Donald Trump and 'sanctuary cities' US President Donald Trump signed an executive order in January threatening to pull funding for so-called "sanctuary cities" if they do not comply with federal immigration law AP The controversial orders Donald Trump has already issued Trump and the travel ban US President Donald Trump has attempted twice to restrict travel into the United States from several predominantly Muslim countries. The first attempt, in February, was met with swift opposition from protesters who flocked to airports around the country. That travel ban was later blocked by the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals. The second ban was blocked by a federal judge a day before it was scheduled to be implemented in mid-March SANDY HUFFAKER/AFP/Getty Images The controversial orders Donald Trump has already issued Trump and climate change US President Donald Trump sought to dismantle several of his predecessor's actions on climate change in March. His order instructed the Environmental Protection Agency to reevaluate the Clean Power Plan, which would cap power plant emissions Shannon Stapleton/Reuters Can they be challenged? Yes. Firstly, if Congress – or usually the party with a majority across one or both Houses – objects to an order it can rewrite or amend previous legislation, or subject new legislation to overrule the order. A two-thirds majority across Congress is normally required. Secondly, as the use of executive orders is regulated by the Constitution, orders can be challenged in the courts – with cases often making their way all the way up to the Supreme Court. One example of an order being overruled by the Supreme Court was in 1952, when President Harry Truman seized the nation’s steel mills, fearing a possible steel strike during the Korean War. The steel companies sued and the order was ruled unconstitutional. Protesters against Trump's 'Muslim ban' gather in London Why are they so controversial? This issue strikes at the heart of the interaction between the three branches of the US government: the Legislative (US Congress), who make the laws; the Executive (the President, Vice President, Cabinet etc) who carry out the laws and the Judicial (Supreme and Federal courts) which evaluate the laws. Presidents have to be careful with wording of executive orders, with opposition parties often accusing them of overstepping their authority and changing the law instead of working within it. Using too many orders also looks like a president is unable to get their agenda passed through Congress, while getting struck down by the courts is embarrassing. How do Trump’s executive orders measure up? It is actually not unusual for presidents to use a number of executive orders in the opening days of their term. Incoming presidents want to cultivate an image of strength while also ensuring they can start their administration with a number of quick measures – whether just symbolic or substantive. Back in 2009 Barack Obama signed nine executive orders in his first 10 days and 16 in total between January and February. In his first seven days Mr Trump signed six – with more in the days since. With Mr Trump’s directives it is more the tone that has been the issue – and this is subjective.	{ "pile_set_name": "OpenWebText2" }
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Long-term Exposure to Fine Particulate Matter and Breast Cancer Incidence in the Danish Nurse Cohort Study. Background: An association between air pollution and breast cancer risk has been suggested, but evidence is sparse and inconclusive.Methods: We included 22,877 female nurses from the Danish Nurse Cohort who were recruited in 1993 or 1999 and followed them for incidence of breast cancer (N = 1,145) until 2013 in the Danish Cancer Register. We estimated annual mean concentrations of particulate matter with diameter <2.5 μg/m3 (PM2.5) and <10 μg/m3 (PM10), and nitrogen dioxide (NO2) at nurses' residences since 1990 using an atmospheric chemistry transport model. We examined the association between the 3-year running mean of each pollutant and breast cancer incidence using a time-varying Cox regression.Results: We found no association between breast cancer and PM2.5 (HR, 0.99; 95% confidence interval, 0.94-1.10 per interquartile range of 3.3 μg/m3), PM10 (1.02; 0.94-1.10 per 2.9 μg/m3), or NO2 (0.99; 0.93-1.05 per 7.4 μg/m3).Conclusions: Air pollution is not associated with breast cancer risk.Impact: Exposure to air pollution in adulthood does not increase the risk of breast cancer, but more data on the effects of early exposure, before first birth, are needed. Cancer Epidemiol Biomarkers Prev; 26(3); 428-30. ©2016 AACR.	{ "pile_set_name": "PubMed Abstracts" }
Q: Asp.net mvc paging mechanism is there some elegant way, ideally with jquery plugin like pager 1 or pager 2 how to implement paging with asp.net mvc? I am trying to go over partial views, but so far unsucessfully. Where should I store the loaded grid data? And how to respond on the page selection with just a partial refresh? Thanks in advance. A: Try this article out, looks pretty handy - he uses a custom Html extension method. Also, check this SO question.	{ "pile_set_name": "StackExchange" }
--- abstract: 'At present, Babcock-Leighton flux transport solar dynamo models appear as the most promising model for explaining diverse observational aspects of the sunspot cycle. The success of these flux transport dynamo models is largely dependent upon a single-cell meridional circulation with a deep equatorward component at the base of the Sun’s convection zone. However, recent observations suggest that the meridional flow may in fact be very shallow (confined to the top 10% of the Sun) and more complex than previously thought. Taken together these observations raise serious concerns on the validity of the flux transport paradigm. By accounting for the turbulent pumping of magnetic flux as evidenced in magnetohydrodynamic simulations of solar convection, we demonstrate that flux transport dynamo models can generate solar-like magnetic cycles even if the meridional flow is shallow. Solar-like periodic reversals is recovered even when meridional circulation is altogether absent, however, in this case the solar surface magnetic field dynamics does not extend all the way to the polar regions. Very importantly, our results demonstrate that the Parker-Yoshimura sign rule for dynamo wave propagation can be circumvented in Babcock-Leighton dynamo models by the latitudinal component of turbulent pumping – which can generate equatorward propagating sunspot belts in the absence of a deep, equatorward meridional flow. We also show that variations in turbulent pumping coefficients can modulate the solar cycle amplitude and periodicity. Our results suggest the viability of an alternate magnetic flux transport paradigm – mediated via turbulent pumping – for sustaining solar-stellar dynamo action.' author: - Soumitra Hazra and Dibyendu Nandy title: 'A Proposed Paradigm for Solar Cycle Dynamics Mediated via Turbulent Pumping of Magnetic Flux in Babcock-Leighton type Solar Dynamos' --- Introduction ============ The cycle of sunspots involves the generation and recycling of the Sun’s toroidal and poloidal magnetic field components. The magnetohydrodynamic (MHD) dynamo mechanism that achieves this is sustained by the energy of solar internal plasma motions such as differential rotation, turbulent convection and meridional circulation. The toroidal field is generated through stretching of the poloidal component by differential rotation [@park55] and is believed to be stored and amplified at the overshoot layer [@moren92] beneath the base of the solar convection zone (SCZ). Strong toroidal flux tubes are unstable to magnetic buoyancy and erupt through the surface producing sunspots, which are strongly magnetized and have a systematic tilt [@hale08; @hale19]. The poloidal field is believed to be regenerated through a combination of helical turbulent convection (traditionally known as the mean-field $\alpha$-effect; [@park55]) in the main body of the SCZ and the redistribution of the magnetic flux of tilted bipolar sunspot pairs (the Babcock-Leighton process; [@bab61; @leigh69]). Despite early, pioneering attempts to self-consistently model the interactions of turbulent plasma flows and magnetic fields in the context of the solar cycle [@gilm83; @glat85] such full MHD simulations are still not successful in yielding solutions that can match solar cycle observations. This task is indeed difficult, for the range of density and pressure scale heights, scale of turbulence and high Reynolds number that characterize the SCZ is difficult to capture even in the most powerful supercomputers. An alternative approach to modelling the solar cycle is based on solving the magnetic induction equation in the SCZ with observed plasma flows as inputs and with additional physics gleaned from simulations of convection and flux tube dynamics. These so called flux transport dynamo models have shown great promise in recent years in addressing a wide variety of solar cycle problems [@char10; @ossen03]. In particular, solar dynamo models based on the Babcock-Leighton mechanism for poloidal field generation have been more successful in explaining diverse observational features of the solar cycle [@dikp99; @nandy02; @chat04; @chou04; @guer07; @nandy11; @chou12; @haz14; @pass14]. Recent observations also strongly favor the Babcock-Leighton mechanism as a major source for poloidal field generation [@dasi10; @munoz13]. In this scenario, the poloidal field generation is essentially predominantly confined to near-surface layers. For the dynamo to function efficiently, the toroidal field that presumably resides deep in the interior has to reach the near-surface layers for the Babcock-Leighton poloidal source to be effective. This is achieved by the buoyant transport of magnetic flux from the Sun’s interior to its surface (through sunspot eruptions). Subsequent to this the poloidal field so generated at near-surface layers must be transported back to the solar interior, where differential rotation can generate the toroidal field. The deep meridional flow assumed in such models (See Fig. 1, left-hemisphere) plays a significant role in this flux transport process and is thought to govern the period of the sunspot cycle [@char20; @hatha03; @yeat08; @ghaz14]. Moreover, a fundamentally crucial role attributed to the deep equatorward meridional flow is that it allows the Parker-Yoshimura sign rule [@park55; @yosh75] to be overcome, which would otherwise result in poleward propagating dynamo waves in contradiction to observations that the sunspot belt migrates equatorwards with the progress of the cycle [@chou95; @ghaz14; @pass15; @belus15]. While the poleward meridional flow at the solar surface is well observed (Hathaway & Rightmire 2010; 2011) the internal meridional flow profile has remained largely unconstrained. A recent study utilizing solar supergranules [@hatha12] suggests that the meridional flow is confined to within the top 10% of the Sun (Fig. 1, right-hemisphere) – much shallower than previously thought. Independent studies utilizing helioseismic inversions are also indicative that the equatorward meridional counterflow may be located at shallow depths [@mitra07; @zhao13]. The latter also infer the flow to be multi-cellular and more complex. These studies motivate exploring alternative paradigms for flux transport dynamics in Babcock-Leighton type models of the solar cycle which are crucially dependent on meridional circulation linking the two segregated dynamo source regions in the SCZ. This leads us to consider the role of turbulent pumping. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- -- ![The outer 45% of the Sun depicting the internal rotation profile in color. Faster rotation is denoted in deep red and slower rotation in blue. The equator of the Sun rotates faster than the polar regions and there is a strong shear layer in the rotation near the base of the convection zone (denoted by the dotted line). Streamlines of a deep meridional flow (solid black curves) reaching below the base of the solar convection zone (dashed line) is shown on the left hemisphere, while streamlines of a shallow meridional flow confined to the top 10% of the Sun is shown on the right hemispheres (arrows indicate direction of flow). Recent observations indicate that the meridional flow is much shallower and more complex than traditionally assumed, calling in to question a fundamental premise of flux transport dynamo models of the solar cycle.](fig1.eps "fig:") ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- -- Magnetoconvection simulations supported by theoretical considerations have established that turbulent pumping preferentially transports magnetic fields vertically downwards [@brand96; @tobias01; @ossen02; @dorch01; @kapla06; @pip09; @racine11; @rogach11; @aug15; @warn16; @sim16] – likely mediated via strong downward convective plumes which are particularly effective on weak magnetic fields (such as the poloidal component). In strong rotation regimes, there is also a significant latitudinal component of turbulent pumping. In particular, two studies, one utilizing mean-field dynamo simulations [@brand92] and the other utilizing turbulent three dimensional magnetoconvection simulations [@ossen02] recognized the possibility that turbulent pumping may contribute to the equatorward propagation of the toroidal field belt. We note that most Babcock-Leighton kinematic flux transport solar dynamo models do not include the process of turbulent pumping of magnetic flux. The few studies that exist on the impact of turbulent pumping in the context of flux transport dynamo models show it to be dynamically important in flux transport dynamics, the maintenance of solar-like parity and solar-cycle memory [@guer08; @kar12; @jiang13]. In their model with turbulent pumping, Guerrero & de Gouveia Dal Pino (2008) used a spatially distributed $\alpha$-coefficient in the near-surface layers to model the Babcock-Leighton poloidal source and a meridional circulation whose equatorward component penetrated up to $0.8R_\odot$, i.e., more than half the depth of the SCZ; therefore, from this modelling it is not possible to segregate the contributions of turbulent pumping and meridional flow (the peak latitudinal component of the former coincides with the equatorward component of the latter) to the toroidal field migration. Here, utilizing a newly developed state-of-the-art flux transport dynamo model where a double-ring algorithm is utilized to model the Babcock-Leighton process, we explore the impact of turbulent pumping in flux transport dynamo models with nonexistent, or shallow meridional circulation. Our results indicate the possibility of an alternative flux transport paradigm for the solar cycle in which turbulent pumping of magnetic flux resolves the problems posed by a shallow (or inconsequential) meridional flow. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- -- ![Solar cycle simulations with a shallow meridional flow. The toroidal (a) and poloidal (b) components of the magnetic field is depicted within the computational domain at a phase corresponding to cycle maxima. The solar interior shows the existence of two toroidal field belts, one at the base of the convection zone and the other at near-surface layers where the shallow equatorward meridional counterflow is located. Region between two dashed circular arcs indicates the tachocline. (c) A butterfly diagram generated at the base of convection zone showing the spatiotemporal evolution of the toroidal field. Latitude are in degrees. Clearly, there is no dominant equatorward propagation of the toroidal field belt and the solution displays quadrupolar parity (i.e., symmetric toroidal field across the equator) which do not agree with observations.](fig2a.eps "fig:") (a) (b) ![Solar cycle simulations with a shallow meridional flow. The toroidal (a) and poloidal (b) components of the magnetic field is depicted within the computational domain at a phase corresponding to cycle maxima. The solar interior shows the existence of two toroidal field belts, one at the base of the convection zone and the other at near-surface layers where the shallow equatorward meridional counterflow is located. Region between two dashed circular arcs indicates the tachocline. (c) A butterfly diagram generated at the base of convection zone showing the spatiotemporal evolution of the toroidal field. Latitude are in degrees. Clearly, there is no dominant equatorward propagation of the toroidal field belt and the solution displays quadrupolar parity (i.e., symmetric toroidal field across the equator) which do not agree with observations.](fig2b.eps "fig:") (c) -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- -- Model ===== Our flux transport solar dynamo model solves for the coupled, evolution equation for the axisymmetric toroidal and poloidal components of the solar magnetic fields: $$\label{Eq_2.5DynA} \frac{\partial A}{\partial t} + \frac{1}{s}\left[ \textbf{v}_p \cdot \nabla (sA) \right] = \eta\left( \nabla^2 - \frac{1}{s^2} \right)A + {S_{BL}},$$ $$\begin{aligned} \label{Eq_2.5DynB} \frac{\partial B}{\partial t} + s\left[ \textbf{v}_p \cdot \nabla\left(\frac{B}{s} \right) \right] + (\nabla \cdot \textbf{v}_p)B = \eta\left( \nabla^2 - \frac{1}{s^2} \right)B \nonumber \\ + s\left(\left[ \nabla \times (A\bf \hat{e}_\phi) \right]\cdot \nabla \Omega\right) + \frac{1}{s}\frac{\partial (sB)}{\partial r}\frac{\partial \eta}{\partial r},~~~~~\end{aligned}$$ where, $B$ is the toroidal component of magnetic field and $A$ is the vector potential for the poloidal component of magnetic field. ${\textbf v}_p$ is the meridional flow, $\Omega$ is the differential rotation, $\eta$ is the turbulent magnetic diffusivity and $s = r\sin(\theta)$. For the differential rotation and diffusivity profile, we use an analytic fit to the observed solar differential rotation (the near-surface shear layer is not included) and a two-step turbulent diffusivity profile (which ensures a smooth transition to low levels of diffusivity beneath the base of the convection zone) (For detailed profile, see Hazra & Nandy 2013). We use the same meridional flow profile as defined in Hazra & Nandy (2013). Our flow profile has penetration depth of $0.65R_\odot$ to represent deep meridional flow situation, and $0.90~R_\odot$ to represent shallow meridional flow situation. We set the peak speed of the meridional flow to be 15 ms$^{-1}$ (near mid-latitudes). The second term on the RHS of the toroidal field evolution equation acts as the source term for the toroidal field (rotational shear), while in the poloidal field evolution equation, the source term, ${S_{BL}}$, is due to the Babcock-Leighton mechanism. Here we use a double-ring algorithm for buoyant sunspot eruptions that best captures the Babcock-Leighton mechanism for poloidal field generation [@durney97; @nandy01; @munoz10; @haz13] and which has been tested thoroughly in other contexts. Specifics about our double ring algorithm can be found in Hazra & Nandy (2013) and Hazra (2016; PhD Thesis). --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- -- ![Latitudinal (top) and radial (bottom) variation of the radial (dashed lines) and latitudinal (solid lines) turbulent pumping velocity components taken at a depth of 0.8 $R_{\odot}$ (top plot) and at a colatitude $40^\circ$ (bottom plot). Radial turbulent pumping is negative (downward) in both hemispheres. Latitudinal turbulent pumping is equatorward throughout the convection zone in both the hemispheres.](fig3.eps "fig:") --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- -- Results ======= To bring out the significance of the recent observations, we first consider a single cell, shallow meridional flow, confined only to the top 10% of the convection zone (Fig. 1, right-hemisphere). In the first scenario we seek to answer the following question: Can solar-like cycles be sustained through magnetic field dynamics completely confined to the top 10% of the Sun? In these simulations initialized with antisymmetric toroidal field condition (with initial B $\sim$ 100 kG), we first allow magnetic flux tubes to buoyantly erupt from 0.90 $R_{\odot}$ (i.e., the depth to which the shallow flow is confined) when they exceed a buoyancy threshold of $10^4$ Gauss (G). In this case we find that the simulated fields fall and remain below this threshold (at all latitudes at 0.90 $R_{\odot}$) with no buoyant eruptions, implying that a Babcock-Leighton type solar dynamo cannot operate in this case. Dikpati [et al.]{} (2002) considered the contribution of the near-surface shear layer in their simulations (which we have not) and concluded that this near-surface layer contributes only about 1 kG to the total toroidal field production and hence insufficient to drive a large-scale dynamo. Guerrero & de Gouveia Dal Pino (2008) also utilized a near-surface shear layer with radial pumping and found solar-like solutions only under special circumstances; however, given that for this particular case they utilized a local $\alpha$-effect for the latter simulations (with a spatially distributed $\alpha$-effect in the near-surface layer) it is not evident that these simulations are relatable to the Babcock-Leighton solar dynamo concept. The upper layers of the SCZ is highly turbulent and storage and amplification of strong magnetic flux tubes may not be possible in these layers [@park75; @moren83] and therefore this result is not unexpected. While Brandenburg (2005) has conjectured that the near-surface shear layer may be able to power a large-scale dynamo, this remains to be convincingly demonstrated in the context of a Babcock-Leighton dynamo. In the second scenario with a shallow meridional flow, we allow magnetic flux tubes to buoyantly erupt from 0.71 $R_{\odot}$, i.e. from base of the convection zone. In this case we get periodic solutions but analysis of the butterfly diagrams (taken both at the base of SCZ and near solar surface) shows that the toroidal field belts have almost symmetrical poleward and equatorward branches with no significant equatorward migration (see Fig. 2). Moreover, as already noted by Guerrero, G. & de Gouveia Dal Pino (2008), the solutions with shallow meridional flow always display quadrupolar parity in contradiction with solar cycle observations. Clearly, a shallow flow poses a serious problem for solar cycle models. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- -- ![Dynamo simulations with shallow meridional flow but with radial and latitudinal turbulent pumping included (same convention is followed as in Fig. 2). The toroidal (a) and poloidal field (b) plots at a phase corresponding to cycle maxima show the dipolar nature of the solutions, and the butterfly diagram at the base of the convection zone ($0.71 R_\odot$) clearly indicates the equatorward propagation of the toroidal field that forms sunspots.](fig4a.eps "fig:") (a) (b) ![Dynamo simulations with shallow meridional flow but with radial and latitudinal turbulent pumping included (same convention is followed as in Fig. 2). The toroidal (a) and poloidal field (b) plots at a phase corresponding to cycle maxima show the dipolar nature of the solutions, and the butterfly diagram at the base of the convection zone ($0.71 R_\odot$) clearly indicates the equatorward propagation of the toroidal field that forms sunspots.](fig4b.eps "fig:") (c) ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- ![Dynamo simulations considering both shallow meridional flow and turbulent pumping but initialized with symmetric initial condition (quadrupolar state). Top panel shows the phase relationship between toroidal and poloidal field while bottom panel shows the butterfly diagram taken at the base of the convection zone ($0.71 R_\odot$).](fig5.eps "fig:") ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- We now introduce both radial and latitudinal turbulent pumping in our dynamo model to explore whether a Babcock Leighton flux transport dynamo can operate with meridional flow which is much shallower than previously assumed; we also extend this study to the scenario where meridional flow is altogether absent. The turbulent pumping profile is determined from independent MHD simulations of solar magnetoconvection [@ossen02; @kapla06]. Profiles for radial and latitudinal turbulent pumping ($\gamma_r$ and $\gamma_\theta$) are: $$\begin{aligned} \gamma_r = - \gamma_{0r} \left[ 1 + \rm{erf}\left( \frac{r - 0.715R_\odot}{0.015R_\odot}\right) \right] \left[ 1 - \rm{erf} \left( \frac{r-0.97R_\odot}{0.1R_\odot}\right) \right] \nonumber \\ \times \left[ \rm{exp}\left( \frac{r-0.715R_\odot}{0.25R_\odot}\right) ^2 \rm{cos}\theta +1\right] ~~~~\end{aligned}$$ $$\begin{aligned} \gamma_\theta = \gamma_{0\theta} \left[1+\mathrm{erf}\left(\frac{r-0.8R_\odot}{0.55R_\odot}\right)\right] \left[1-\mathrm{erf}\left(\frac{r-0.98R_\odot}{0.025R_\odot}\right)\right] \times \cos \theta \sin^4 \theta ~~~~\end{aligned}$$ The value of $\gamma_{0r}$ and $\gamma_{0\theta}$ determines the amplitude of $\gamma_r$ and $\gamma_\theta$ respectively. Fig. 3 (top and bottom plot) shows that radial pumping speed (dashed lines) is negative throughout the convection zone corresponding to downward advective transport and vanishes below $0.7R_\odot$. The radial pumping speed is maximum near the poles and decreases towards the equator. Fig. 3 (top and bottom plot) shows that the latitudinal pumping speed (solid lines) is positive (negative) in the convection zone in the northern (southern) hemisphere and vanishes below the overshoot layer. This corresponds to equatorward latitudinal pumping throughout the convection zone. Dynamo simulations with turbulent pumping generate solar-like magnetic cycles (Fig. 4 and Fig. 5). Now the toroidal field belt migrates equatorward, the solution exhibits solar-like parity and the correct phase relationship between the toroidal and poloidal components of the magnetic field (see Fig. 5). Evidently, the coupling between the poloidal source at the near-surface layers with the deeper layers of the convection zone where the toroidal field is stored and amplified, the equatorward migration of the sunspot-forming toroidal field belt and correct solar-like parity is due to the important role played by turbulent pumping. We note if the speed of the latitudinal pumping in on order of 1.0 ms$^{-1}$ the solutions are always of dipolar parity irrespective of whether one initializes the model with dipolar or quadrupolar parity. Interestingly, the latitudinal migration rate of the sunspot belt as observed is of the same order. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- -- ![Results of solar dynamo simulations with turbulent pumping and without any meridional circulation. The convention is the same as in Fig. 2. The simulations show that solar-like sunspot cycles can be generated even without any meridional plasma flow in the solar interior. ](fig6a.eps "fig:") (a) (b) ![Results of solar dynamo simulations with turbulent pumping and without any meridional circulation. The convention is the same as in Fig. 2. The simulations show that solar-like sunspot cycles can be generated even without any meridional plasma flow in the solar interior. ](fig6b.eps "fig:") (c) ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- -- The above result begs the question whether flux transport solar dynamo models based on the Babcock-Leighton mechanism that include turbulent pumping can operate without any meridional plasma flow. To test this, we remove meridional circulation completely from our model and perform simulations with turbulent pumping included. We find that this model generates solar-like sunspot cycles with periodic reversals (see Fig. 6) which are qualitatively similar to the earlier solution with both pumping and shallow meridional flow. However, we find that the surface magnetic field dynamics related to polar field reversal is limited to within 60 degrees latitudes in both the hemispheres. At higher latitudes (near the poles) the field is very weak and almost non-varying over solar cycle timescales. This is expected if the surface magnetic field dynamics is governed primarily by diffusion. Based on this result, we argue that this scenario of non-existent meridional circulation is not supported by current observations of surface dynamics which seem to suggest that the fields do migrate all the way to the poles. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- -- ![Dependence of amplitude and periodicity of simulated solar cycles on turbulent pumping (radial and latitudinal) and (shallow) meridional flow speeds. Pearson and spearman correlation coefficients are 0.99 and 1 respectively for top left plot and -0.99 and -1 respectively for all other plots.](fig7.eps "fig:") -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- -- Two important characteristics associated with the solar magnetic cycle are its amplitude and periodicity. While the periodicity of the cycle predominantly depends on the recycling time between toroidal and poloidal field, its amplitude depends on a variety of factors including dynamo source strengths and relative efficacy of transport timescales with respect to the turbulent diffusion timescale. We explore the dependency of the solar cycle period and amplitude to variations in the transport coefficients to explore the subtleties of the interplay between diverse flux transport processes. Figure 7 shows the dependency of cycle amplitude and periodicity on different velocity components like turbulent pumping and (shallow) meridional flow. A parametric analysis of this dependency yields the following relationships for cycle period ($T$) and cycle amplitude (Amp): $$T \simeq 9.7 ~ \gamma_r^{-0.25} \gamma_\theta^{-0.26} v^{-0.068},$$ $$Amp \simeq 11.76 ~ \gamma_r^{1.07} \gamma_\theta^{-0.27} v^{-0.16},$$ which is gleaned from simulations within the following ranges: $0.25 ~ms^{-1} \leq \gamma_r \leq 1.25 ~ms^{-1}$, $0.25 ~ms^{-1} \leq \gamma_\theta \leq 1.25 ~ms^{-1}$ and $2 ~ms^{-1} \leq v \leq 15 ~ms^{-1}$; $\gamma_r$ and $\gamma_\theta$ are radial and latitudinal turbulent pumping speeds, and $v$ is the shallow meridional flow speed. This analysis shows that cycle period and amplitude are both governed by diverse transport coefficients such as meridional flow speed, and radial and latitudinal components of turbulent pumping. As radial turbulent pumping carries the flux directly to the base of the convection zone where toroidal field is amplified, increase in the radial turbulent pumping speed leads to a decrease in cycle period. Increasing latitudinal pumping also has a similar effect on period which is similar to what is achieved by increasing meridional flow speed, namely a faster transport through the shear layer and thus shorter cycle periods. The cycle amplitude decreases on increasing the latitudinal pumping or meridional flow speed and this is due to the fact that less time is available for toroidal field induction when it is swept at a faster rate through the rotational shear layers. In surface flux transport models, a similar effect is found but due to a different reason – wherein a faster meridional flow reduces the polar field strength because it takes flux of both polarity and deposits this at the poles (in effect carrying less net flux to the poles); in these simulations with a shallow meridional flow and the double-ring algorithm a similar mechanism could also be contributing to an overall reduction of the field strength. What is interesting to note though is the positive dependence of cycle amplitude on the radial pumping speed. We believe that a faster radial pumping moves the poloidal field down to the generating layers of the toroidal field in the deeper parts of the convection zone faster, thus allowing for less turbulent decay in the poloidal field strength; this eventually results in a stronger poloidal field in the SCZ which generates a stronger toroidal component. We note that the derived exponents for the cycle period above differ from that determined by Guerrero & de Gouveia Dal Pino (2008). The cycle period in our simulations is more strongly dependent on the latitudinal speed of turbulent pumping and less so on meridional circulation, whereas in Guerrero & de Gouveia Dal Pino (2008) it is the exact reverse. In our model the meridional flow is very shallow and limited to only the top $10 \%$ of the SCZ, whereas in the model setup of Guerrero & de Gouveia Dal Pino (2008), the meridional flow penetrates down to about 0.8 $R_\odot$; this we believe makes their dynamo cycle periods more sensitive to meridional flow as compared to latitudinal pumping. Generally, we find solar-like solutions in a modest turbulent pumping speed range on the order of 1 ms$^{-1}$. This parameter study shows that our result are robust to reasonable variations in turbulent pumping coefficients and also points to how the latter may determine solar cycle strength and periodicity. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- -- ![Results of solar dynamo simulations (with shallow meridional flow) utilizing an alternate and more complex turbulent pumping profile based on Warnecke et al. (2016). First two plots show the radial and latitudinal variation of turbulent pumping generated by analytic approximations to the Warnecke et al. (2016) results. The butterfly diagram (bottom plot) taken at the base of the convection zone ($0.71 R_\odot$) in our dynamo simulations indicate that solar-like solutions are reproduced with this alternative profile.](fig8a.eps "fig:") ![Results of solar dynamo simulations (with shallow meridional flow) utilizing an alternate and more complex turbulent pumping profile based on Warnecke et al. (2016). First two plots show the radial and latitudinal variation of turbulent pumping generated by analytic approximations to the Warnecke et al. (2016) results. The butterfly diagram (bottom plot) taken at the base of the convection zone ($0.71 R_\odot$) in our dynamo simulations indicate that solar-like solutions are reproduced with this alternative profile.](fig8b.eps "fig:") ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- -- As there is some uncertainty regarding the exact details of turbulent pumping profiles, we have tested an alternative turbulent pumping profile based on Warnecke et al. (2016). Recent magnetoconvection simulations performed by Warnecke et al. (2016) suggest that radial pumping is downward throughout the convection zone below $45^{\circ}$ and upward above $45^{\circ}$, while latitudinal pumping is poleward at the surface and equatorward at the base of the convection zone. Our generated turbulent pumping profiles in the northern hemisphere (defined within $0 \leq \theta \leq \pi/2$) based on the suggestions of Warnecke et al. (2006) are: $$\begin{aligned} \gamma_r = - \gamma_{0r} \left[ 1 + \rm{erf}\left( \frac{r - 0.715R_\odot}{0.05R_\odot}\right) \right] \left[ 1 - \rm{erf} \left( \frac{r-0.98R_\odot}{0.08R_\odot}\right) \right] \nonumber \\ \times \sin(4 \theta), ~~~~\end{aligned}$$ $$\begin{aligned} \gamma_\theta = \left\{\begin{array}{cc} \gamma_{0\theta} \sin \left[\frac{2 \pi (r- R_p)}{R_0-R_p}\right] \times \cos \theta \sin^4 \theta ~~~~ & r \geq R_p\\ 0 & r<R_p \end{array}\right.,\end{aligned}$$ where $R_p= 0.76R_\odot$ i.e. the penetration depth of the latitudinal pumping. The amplitudes of $\gamma_r$ and $\gamma_\theta$ are determined by the value of $\gamma_{0r}$ and $\gamma_{0\theta}$ respectively. Turbulent pumping profiles in the southern hemisphere are generated by replacing colatitude $\theta$ by $(\pi- \theta)$. Fig. 8 (the top and middle panels) show that our generated turbulent pumping profiles capture the basic essence of the suggestions made by Warnecke et al. (2016). Our simulations (with shallow meridional flow) and the more complex turbulent pumping profile gleaned from Warnecke et al. (2016) reproduce broad features of the solar cycle and are qualitatively similar to those detailed earlier. Discussions =========== In summary, we have demonstrated that flux transport dynamo models of the solar cycle based on the Babcock-Leighton mechanism for poloidal field generation does not require a deep equatorward meridional plasma flow to function effectively. In fact, our results indicate that when turbulent pumping of magnetic flux is taken in to consideration, dynamo models can generate solar-like magnetic cycles even without any meridional circulation although the surface magnetic field dynamics does not reach all the way to the polar regions in this case. Our conclusions are robust across a modest range of plausible parameter space for turbulent pumping coefficients and also indicate some tolerance for diverse pumping profiles. These findings have significant implications for our understanding of the solar cycle. First of all, the serious challenges that were apparently posed by observations of a shallow (and perhaps complex, multi-cellular) meridional flow on the very premise of flux transport dynamo models stands resolved. Turbulent pumping essentially takes over the role of meridional circulation by transporting magnetic fields from the near-surface solar layers to the deep interior, ensuring that efficient recycling of toroidal and poloidal field components across the SCZ is not compromised. While these findings augur well for dynamo models of the solar cycle, they also imply that we need to revisit many aspects of our current understanding if indeed meridional circulation is not as effective as previously thought. For example, our simulations indicate that variations in turbulent pumping speeds can be an effective means for the modulation of solar cycle periodicity and amplitude. It has been argued earlier that the interplay between competing flux transport processes determine the dynamical memory of the solar cycle governing solar cycle predictability [@yeat08]. If turbulent pumping is the dominant flux transport process as seems plausible based on the simulations presented herein, the cycle memory would be short and this is indeed supported by independent studies [@kar12] and solar cycle observations [@munoz13]. It is noteworthy that on the other hand, if meridional circulation were to be the dominant flux transport process, the solar cycle memory would be relatively longer and last over several cycles. This is not borne out by observations. Previous results in the context of the maintenance of solar-like dipolar parity have relied on a strong turbulent diffusion to couple the Northern and Southern hemispheres of the Sun [@chat04], or a dynamo $\alpha$-effect which is co-spatial with the deep equatorward counterflow in the meridional circulation assumed in most flux transport dynamo models [@dikp01]. However, our results indicate that turbulent pumping is equally capable of coupling the Northern and Southern solar hemispheres and aid in the maintenance of solar-like dipolar parity. This is in keeping with earlier, independent simulations based on a somewhat different dynamo model [@guer08]. Most importantly, our results point out an alternative to circumventing the Parker-Yoshimura sign rule constraint [@park55; @yosh75] in Babcock-Leighton type solar dynamos that would otherwise imply poleward propagating sunspot belts in conflict with observations. Brandenburg [et al.]{} (1992) and Ossendrijver [et al.]{} (2002) had already pointed towards this possibility in the context of mean-field dynamo models. While a deep meridional counterflow is currently thought to circumvent this constraint and force the toroidal field belt equatorward, our results convincingly demonstrate that the latitudinal component of turbulent pumping provides a viable alternative to overcoming the Parker-Yoshimura sign rule in Babcock-Leighton models of the solar cycle (even in the absence of meridional circulation). We note however that our theoretical results should not be taken as support for the existence of a shallow meridional flow, rather we point out that flux transport dynamo models of the solar cycle are equally capable for working with a shallow or non-existent meridional flow, as long as the turbulent pumping of magnetic flux is accounted for; this is particularly viable when turbulent pumping has a dynamically important latitudinal component. Taken together, these insights suggest a plausible new paradigm for dynamo models of the solar cycle, wherein, turbulent pumping of magnetic flux effectively replaces the important roles that are currently thought to be mediated via a deep meridional circulation within the Sun’s interior. Since the dynamical memory and thus predictability of the solar cycle depends on the dominant mode of magnetic flux transport in the Sun’s interior, this would also imply that physics-based prediction models of long-term space weather need to adequately include the physics of turbulent pumping of magnetic fields. We acknowledge the referee of this manuscript for useful suggestions. We thank Jörn Warnecke for helpful discussions related to the adaptation of the turbulent pumping profile from Warnecke [et al.]{} 2016. 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Kenneth McAlpine believed in living every day to the fullest, and his mother Kathy said he was doing exactly that on the day he died. “Of course, we’re incredibly heartbroken and sad, but he was living his life, and we totally supported that,” she said. McAlpine’s body was found Aug. 27 after he was reported missing the previous day, what would have been his 28th birthday, after a hike at Mount Gimli, near Slocan, B.C. Mike Hudson of South Columbia Search and Rescue said McAlpine was scaling a Level 4 traverse when he likely lost his footing and fell about 825 feet down the side of the mountain. His friends called RCMP after he didn’t return when scheduled. McAlpine was on Season 5 of The Amazing Race Canada, where he was a part of Team Give’r with his friend Ryan Lachapelle. The pair believed in living every day to the fullest. They finished second on the event and used their celebrity to help raise money for local causes. McAlpine grew up in Collingwood, Ont., where he was a well-known chef working at Azzura Restaurant and other eaters. More recently, he had been living in Rossland, B.C., where he worked as a chef at a local hotel for several years, his Facebook profile shows. Kathy said he was also one of the youngest elders at the Presbyterian Church. “He was a young man with a very strong commitment to his family, friends (and) faith community,” she said. He had two brothers and a niece, whom Kathy said he adored. He wasn’t married because, as his father Mac said, “nobody was that lucky.” Kathy said the response from his friends was that Kenneth was a person who was “caring,” and “inspiring.” Many friends shared messages and memories on social media. The Amazing Race Canada also remembered Kenneth on its Facebook page, saying his "infectious personality left a lasting impression not only on us, but with viewers across the country." Kathy said her son was “cautious, but also adventurous,” and takes solace in the fact he was doing what he loved to do. Loading... Loading... Loading... Loading... Loading... Loading... Read more about:	{ "pile_set_name": "OpenWebText2" }
Monday, July 9, 2012 On July 4, a new law on languages was adopted in its second reading amid massive infringements of parliamentary procedures (see analysis of the transcript at http://www.pravda.com.ua/news/2012/07/5/6968170/). Over 200 changes proposed by opposition deputies were ignored. Parliamentary Chairman Volodymyr Lytvyn “resigned” in what most believe was a theatrical show reminiscent of Parliamentary Speaker Leonid Kravchuk resigning from the Communist Party (KPU) politburo after the KPU had been banned on August 24, 1991. Lytvyn claimed he knew nothing of the impending vote and had been deliberately removed from parliament by an invitation to a meeting at the presidential administration. Lytvyn has a history of not attending delicate votes, passing the baton to his personal friend, Communist deputy speaker Adam Martyniuk (http://www.kyivpost.com/opinion/op-ed/lytvyn-is-no-hero.html). Most Ukrainians are skeptical of Lytvyn’s claims because of his chameleon-like political past and since his future political life depends on him distancing himself from the controversial language law. Lytvyn is seeking election in Zhitomir oblast, to the west of Kyiv, which is 100 percent against the law. He has lobbied for unprecedented subsidies, a record-breaking 100 million hryvnia this year, for the district he is campaigning in (http://www.pravda.com.ua/articles/2012/07/5/6968192/). The chameleon-like nature of Lytvyn could also be seen in his faction’s 20 deputies who voted for the law. They are not concerned about the fate of the People’s Party (former Agrarian Party) because it will not cross the 5 percent threshold in the October 30 parliamentary elections. Leaked Party of Regions documents detailing internal plans for the elections confirm the language law is an additional element in “political technology” (http://www.pravda.com.ua/news/2012/07/6/6968275/). Like the populist social policies outlined in March, it is meant to mobilize the Russophone voters in eastern-southern Ukraine. According to a recent poll by the Razumkov Center think tank, two thirds of respondents (between 52-79 percent) described the language law as pure electioneering. Forty-four percent support Ukrainian as the only state language (60-84 percent of western-central Ukrainians do), while 25 percent support Russian receiving official status (40-48 percent of eastern-southern Ukrainians support Russian) (http://www.pravda.com.ua/news/2012/07/5/6968135/). Opinion polls have consistently shown over the last two decades that the language question is not a priority for most Ukrainians compared to “bread and butter” issues such as employment, corruption, and inflation. Yuriy Lukanov, head of the Independent Trade Union of Journalists, told the Jamestown Foundation that “Language is the last card for the government as all other areas of its program have failed. They have adopted a law that will only bring chaos into Ukrainian political life.”This will certainly be the case. Ukraine was a major center of computer education in the USSR, and on February 1, its modern day hackers brought down the web sites of the government, presidential administration and parliament in protest of the closure of the file sharing web siteex.ua. Ukrainian hackers have teamed up with international hackers “Anonymous,” threatening to repeat this again. In a taped appeal by “Anonymous” they state, “We should not be afraid of the authorities, the authorities should be afraid of us” Meanwhile, protests have spontaneously grown throughout Ukraine, some of which have been brutally dispersed by riot police (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HnedD8Cp3Mo&feature=player_embedded). The crowds in Kyiv have been small – although violent – and tear gas and pepper spray was used by both the police and opposition. Growing violence is not a good sign and makes these protests different from earlier non-violent opposition protests under President Leonid Kuchma, including the peaceful Orange Revolution. Vitaliy Klichko, whose Ukrainian Democratic Alliance for Reforms (UDAR) party is polling 10 percent, was injured during clashes in Kyiv. Although from Donetsk himself, he sarcastically said “Why is the main language in Germany German? […] Why is the main language in France French?” (New York Times, July 4). Language is a red line in every country, whether Canada, Spain, Belgium or Ukraine, as it is a very emotional question. President Viktor Yanukovych therefore shows how cut off he is from reality when he says “I am interested in stability in the country” (New York Times, July 4). For example, the opposition’s refusal to join the Constitutional Assembly will now be permanent making it impossible, as the EU and Council of Europe insist, to adopt a new constitution through dialogue between the opposition and the authorities. The 1989 law on languages, adopted three years before the USSR disintegrated, is out of date and badly in need of replacing and “Europeanizing.” President Viktor Yushchenko, a champion in Ukrainian language rhetoric, did little to improve the status of Ukrainian or propose a new law on languages. In fact, the greatest contribution to expanding Ukrainian in education was undertaken by Kuchma. Lukanov told Jamestown, “The opposition also does not demonstrate its principles. The opposition’s defense of the Ukrainian language mobilizes its electorate but, apart from language, the opposition has failed to offer a realistic alternative program.” The language law is likely to provide dividends in the upcoming elections for the Party of Regions and the nationalist Svoboda (Freedom) party. Many Ukrainians believe it has always been the authorities’ intention to push western Ukrainians into the arms of Svoboda so that “Zapadyntsi” (Westerners) can be depicted – as in Soviet times – as crazy nationalists, thereby mobilizing eastern Ukrainians to vote for the Party of Regions as their “protectors.” In the last two years, Yanukovych has crossed many red lines but the language question is the most profound as it touches a huge number of Ukrainians. There is no going back, and Yanukovych and his team will now have to fight to the last to stay in power; if the opposition wins the next elections, the alternative is either exile or criminal charges against the current authorities. About The Jamestown Foundation The Jamestown Foundation’s mission is to inform and educate policy makers and the broader community about events and trends in those societies which are strategically or tactically important to the United States and which frequently restrict access to such information. Utilizing indigenous and primary sources, Jamestown’s material is delivered without political bias, filter or agenda. It is often the only source of information which should be, but is not always, available through official or intelligence channels, especially in regard to Eurasia and terrorism.	{ "pile_set_name": "Pile-CC" }
In a conference call with analysts, c.e.o. Bill McEwan said the company will concentrate on competing for market share, while cutting costs at the same time to improve profits. He said savings from improved distribution, inventory management, and a boost to its private label business have yet to show in the company’s financial results. For the second quarter ended Oct. 30, net income rose 9.5 percent to C$47.3 million ($38.6 million). Same-store sales rose 3.5 percent, which was more than twice the pace of Loblaw, Sobeys’ main competitor. Revenue hit C$2.97 billion. "We are pleased with our progress on key merchandising and productivity initiatives as well as our improved in-store execution and operational performance," McEwan said. Last year's second quarter included costs related to a major power failure in Ontario, a long-standing real estate lawsuit, and closure costs for two distribution centers. Along with Loblaw, Sobeys faces the pervasive threat of Wal-Mart, which entered Canada in 1994 with the acquisition of Woolco stores. Wal-Mart operates 235 discount stores and six Sam's Club stores in Canada, according to the company’s Web site. Sobeys owns or franchises more than 1,300 stores in all 10 provinces under retail banners that include Sobeys, IGA Extra, IGA, and Price Chopper.	{ "pile_set_name": "Pile-CC" }
The present invention relates to management of a multi-tier storage environment, and more specifically, this invention relates to efficient management of high performance tiers in a multi-tier storage environment. A file system defines how files are named and manages how they are placed for storage and retrieval. File system functionality may be divided into two components: a user component and a storage component. The user component is responsible for managing files within directories, file path traversals, and user access to files. The storage component of the file system determines how files are stored physically on the storage device. In addition, a file system may attempt to efficiently place data in different locations according to the importance of the data and how frequently it is accessed. When data is migrated from one physical location to another, the strategic placement of the data may be lost and applications which access the data may have their performance suffer.	{ "pile_set_name": "USPTO Backgrounds" }
Joseph Holston Joseph Holston (born Joseph Deweese Holston, Jr., April 6, 1944) is an American painter and printmaker best known for his portrayals of the African American experience, using vivid colors and expressive lines in a cubist-abstractionist style. His media include painting, etching, silk screen, and collage. Life and career Joseph Holston was raised in the small black community of Hawkins Lane, a rural area of suburban Washington, D.C. His work reflects a strong sense of black identity nurtured by his upbringing in that close-knit community. In 1960 the family moved to Washington, DC, where Holston was accepted into the commercial art program at Chamberlain Vocational High School. Holston worked as a commercial artist/illustrator from 1964 to 1970. He also pursued independent study by enrolling in art classes throughout the Washington, DC area. These included classes with the noted portraitist Marcos Blahove (1928-2012). During the summer of 1971 Holston traveled to Santa Fe, New Mexico to study with artist, Richard Vernon Goetz (1915-1991), a well-known portrait, landscape, and still-life painter. Within months of returning to Washington, DC, Holston resigned his job as a commercial artist, and began painting full-time. The following year his painting Ghetto Boy was purchased by Texas businessman and former Postmaster General W. Marvin Watson, Jr., and gifted to the collection of the Lyndon Baines Johnson Library and Museum. Inspired by Rembrandt's prints, Holston began creating etchings in 1974. "For Joseph Holston--in every way the embodiment of the contemporary painter-engraver--etching is as integral to his creative output as is painting." Holston incorporates an array of visual effects in his etchings, through the use of hard ground, soft ground and aquatint, as in Woman with Pipe (1974), one of his first prints, now included in the permanent collection of The Phillips Collection in Washington, D. C. Other prints are included in the collection of the Smithsonian American Art Museum, among other museum collections. His first solo museum exhibition was at the Butler Institute of American Art, in Youngstown, Ohio, in 1975. The following year, during a three-month stay in Tanzania, Holston painted and taught workshops at the University of Dar es Salaam. Holston's body of work beginning from that period reflects a gradual transition from the purely narrative and realistic to stronger statements using "bold color, expressive forms, and rhythmic lines". His artistic progression also included collage works. From 1979 to 1990, Holston broadened his knowledge of printmaking, creating etching-collagraphs, as well as screen prints. After 1990, he continued to print his own etchings, and also began working with a master screen printer. A retrospective exhibition of his printmaking, Limited Editions: Joseph Holston Prints, 1974 - 2010 was exhibited at the University of Maryland's David C. Driskell Center, and at the African American Museum in Philadelphia. Other major solo exhibitions were at the Washington County Museum of Fine Arts, the Southern Alleghenies Museum of Art, the Reginald F. Lewis Museum of Maryland African American History and Culture, and the Federal Reserve Arts Program in Washington, D. C. He has been Artist-in-Residence at the University of Maryland Eastern Shore, North Carolina A & T State University, and the Experimental Printmaking Institute at Lafayette College. Color in Freedom: Journey along the Underground Railroad In 2008, Holston created a visual narrative of the journey from slavery to freedom—Color in Freedom: Journey along the Underground Railroad. The collection of over fifty paintings, etchings, and drawings is structured in four movements: I. The Unknown World depicts the stages of the movement of captive Africans through the Middle Passage and to the slave block; II. Living in Bondage--Life on the Plantation portrays slave life; III. The Journey of Escape, tracks the route to freedom, and; IV. Color in Freedom celebrates achieving the goal and new beginnings. "In embarking on this project, Holston joined the ranks of generations of artists who have created art as a vehicle to witness, reflect on, confront, question, and ultimately deepen understanding of history." Since its opening in 2008 at the University of Maryland University College, the collection has toured museums, galleries and institutions nationally and internationally. In 2010, it was exhibited at the United Nations in Geneva, Switzerland. Selections from the suite were included in 2016 in the exhibition Black Mechanics: the Making of an American University and a Nation, at Brown University, at the invitation of Brown's Center for the Study of Slavery and Justice. Public collections Amarillo Museum of Art Baltimore Museum of Art Butler Institute of American Art DuSable Museum of African American History Federal Reserve Board Fine Art Collection Georgia Museum of Art Library of Congress Fine Print Collection Mount Holyoke College Art Museum North Carolina A&T State University Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts Reginald F. Lewis Museum of Maryland African American History & Culture Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture, New York Public Library Smithsonian American Art Museum Southern Alleghenies Museum of Art The Phillips Collection United States Mission to the United Nations in Geneva University of Maryland University College Washington County Museum of Fine Arts Yale University Art Gallery References Further reading David C. Driskell Center, Limited Editions : Joseph Holston Prints, 1974-2010 : a Retrospective, College Park, MD : David C. Driskell Center, University of Maryland, 2011. Forbes, Dennis L. Collecting Limited Edition Prints: Contemporary African American Printmakers, pp. 66–69, Cavanaugh Press, 2004, Phillips, Stephen Bennett and Joan Banks Mulcahey. Joseph Holston: Harmony, Color and Form, Board of Governors of the Federal Reserve System, 2008 Stephanic, Barbara. Joseph; Holston - Color in Freedom: Journey along the Underground Railroad, Pomegranate Communications, Inc., 2008, Woods, Jean; Amy Metzger; Marilyn and Reginald Camphor. The Art of Joseph Holston, Washington County Museum of Fine Arts, Hagerstown, MD, 2003, External links Official website Video interview on YouTube Category:1944 births Category:American painters Category:Living people	{ "pile_set_name": "Wikipedia (en)" }
Alcohol increases commission error rates for a continuous performance test. Studying the effects of alcohol on Continuous Performance Test (CPT) performance was of interest for two reasons, i.e., (1) perhaps because of the ease of the task used in previous experiments, alcohol has not been found to impair performance, and (2) CPT commission errors (described below) have been related to impulsive behavior. In this study, the CPT featured both an Immediate Memory Task (IMT) and a more difficult Delayed Memory Task (DMT). We compared the performance of 18 subjects under both alcohol and placebo conditions, using a within-subject design. Both the IMT (0.5-sec delay) and the DMT (3.5-sec delay, with distracter stimuli at 0.5-sec intervals) required the subject to respond if a briefly displayed number was identical to the one presented before it. Stimuli included target (identical match), catch (4 of 5 digits matched), and novel (random number) stimuli. On 2 separate days, subjects performed between administrations of three hourly placebo drinks or three hourly drinks containing 0.20 g/kg of alcohol (producing peak breath alcohol concentrations of approximately 0.035%). The main finding was that alcohol consumption increased responses to catch stimuli (i.e., commission errors) in the DMT. In contrast, performance in the IMT (the easier task) was unaffected by alcohol. Commission errors measured during peak breath alcohol concentrations were significantly correlated with scores on the Barratt Impulsivity Scale for both the IMT and DMT. Discriminability (A') between target and catch stimuli was reduced by alcohol for the DMT only. These data indicate that even small amounts of alcohol can produce measurable changes in CPT performance parameters if the task is of sufficient difficulty and that commission errors can be increased by alcohol consumption.	{ "pile_set_name": "PubMed Abstracts" }
Share this idea Leveraging Diversity For Your Business Portfolio In the words of acclaimed journalist Robert C. Maynard, the fault lines of race, class, gender, generation and geography are the most enduring forces shaping lives, experiences and social tension. For entrepreneurs, content producers and innovative businesses, understanding how to navigate those fault lines will be a critical component of making money in an increasingly diverse and global economy. Using the innovative diversity training workshop model employed by the Maynard Institute for Journalism Education, Dori Maynard and Joshunda Sanders provide tips to entrepreneurs, journalists, web content producers, consultants and marketers for profitably navigating racial, economic and gender diversity in unique, lucrative and comfortable ways. Audience will receive real time tips for diversifying content and expanding their business approaches to gaining new customers.	{ "pile_set_name": "Pile-CC" }
This sample chapter examines the classes and associations that hold the elements of most interest to users of WMI. This includes the WMI system classes that define the properties and methods relevant to WMI's security model, the classes that define the WMI provider architecture, and the classes of the CIM schema. This chapter is from the book Before we take a hands-on look at Microsoft's implementation of the Common Information Model (CIM) repository, let us first examine its structure as defined by the DMTF. In the previous chapters, you have gleaned an idea of the structure and purpose of the CIM. In simple terms, it consists of the following four components: Classes that define the structure of the information held in the store Associations that define the relationships between elements in the repository Methods that define the behavior of the managed objects Properties that define individual characteristics of each managed object Each of these components can have associated instances that hold the management data. They were designed with the basic purpose of providing a platform-independent means of describing the manageable aspects of all types of logical and physical components in the enterprise. The objective of this chapter is not to describe every class, property, method, and association within the CIM schema and Win32 extended schema. First, this would not make particularly interesting reading, and second, it would prove somewhat overwhelming as an introduction to the CIM. Instead, the focus of this chapter is to examine the classes and associations that hold the elements of most interest to users of WMI. This includes the WMI system classes that define the properties and methods relevant to WMI's security model, the classes that define the WMI provider architecture, and the classes of the CIM schema. By the end of the chapter, you should have a solid enough knowledge of the structure of the repository to move through it with confidence. We shall use Microsoft's WMI CIM Studio to look at the classes within the CIM repository. During the course of the chapter, we also shall look briefly at the Managed Object Format (MOF) so that you can better understand some of the terminology used in the WMI CIM Studio. For a more complete list of the syntax and semantics used in the MOF, you can refer to the platform SDK documentation available from the MSDN Web site. Recall from the previous chapter that the CIM is a conceptual model for storing enterprise management informationit is not a physical implementation (that is, the DMTF does not supply a downloadable version of WBEM that you can install as part of your operating system). It is the responsibility of vendors such as Microsoft, Intel, or Hewlett-Packard to adhere to the DMTF's CIM standard and produce their own physical implementations. Microsoft has done this for its range of Windows operating systems. The CIM repository supplied as part of WMI is a data store structured in accordance with the DMTF's CIM. It is supplied with any of Microsoft's WMI-compliant operating systems (Windows 9x/2000/NT4.0/WinXp/.NET): It holds management information structured in accordance with the CIM. The aim of this chapter is to familiarize you with the CIM repository that is shipped with WMI. This will serve two purposes: first, it will give you some idea of the vast array of information that you can retrieve from the repository, and second, it will provide you with an introduction to the structure and relationships of the existing classes. This knowledge will prove useful especially if you are faced with the task of instrumenting your own product within the CIM repository or need to elicit management information from the repository about managed objects. To explore the repository, we shall use the tools supplied with the WMI SDK, so if you did not install the SDK during your study of Chapter 3, you should do so now. Metadata "Metadata" is a new term to those who are not familiar with data modeling. The Greek word "meta-" is a prefix that means "behind" or "hidden." If you are familiar with HTML scripting, you will have encountered the prefix in metatags. Metatags describe the characteristics of information presented on a Web page (for example, to specify text displaying Bold or in Italics). Metadata is "data that describes data" or, more precisely, definitional data. Admittedly, this is a broad definition, so let us define metadata more fully in terms of the CIM. We know from previous chapters that the information available from CIM is described by a series of classes and associations, and the elements contained therein (methods, properties, and references). These constructs describe the data available to WMI client applications and are classified as metadata, as you can see in Table 4.1. The information in the PropertyandType columns is metadata, as it describes the information we can retrieve, which is listed in the Value column. The Property and Type columns represent "data about data." The information in the Value column is instance datathe data that metadata describe. Metadata is a generic term and applies to a broad spectrum of data; for example, class information is metadata. Metadata also includes descriptive information about the context, quality and condition, or characteristics of the data, such as WMI system classes and properties. It is important to make the distinction between metadata and instance data because the CIM repository was envisaged by the DMTF primarily, although not exclusively, as a store for metadata.	{ "pile_set_name": "Pile-CC" }
Q: Creating split panel in react js I need to create split div functionality in reactjs. As shown in this fiddle. this one is implemented in extjs. I want similar implementation is reactjs. We need to add grids on either side of split panel. I am short of ideas on how to implement it. Not looking for code, but need ideas. A: Hi you can check this package called react-split-pane. Also there you can find example for you case. Also there others examples.	{ "pile_set_name": "StackExchange" }
impatient14: 1st- Right Before it pans to John in Bed 2nd- blink and you miss it. Sherlock is on the bridge after he says, “Its not who will miss it.” Then we get this shot of the London Aquarium (excuse the status bar please) 3rd gunshot 4th- Euros 5th- right after Euros, right before the credits Did you notice anything different about two of those guns? #2 and #4 are the same. There is an extra piece of metal at the bottom under the barrel opening. #1,#3,#5 are all the same. We’ve also got Euros wearing this when she shoots John (#2 ): But the person with the other gun in shots #1, #3, & #5 is wearing a dark long sleeve shirt. It’s not Norbury because she has a white shirt under her jacket cuff and the trigger of the gun is different. Its not Mary either, because she is left handed and wearing gloves when she shot Sherlock: However, there is someone who was wearing a black jacket and made a shot that looked similar to this (if someone can get a shot without the status bar id be so grateful and would link your blog here. I know you cant see his sleeve but I promise its all black) According to Mofftiss, we’re about to get the story they’ve been telling us from the beginning. I think we’re all in for quite a ride. Tags below the cut Keep reading	{ "pile_set_name": "OpenWebText2" }

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