“Well, I want someone to hold onto me while I die”

Occasionally, there are scraps of text so dextrously placed together to form individuals so beloved that I have no choice but to fall for them and then keep myself upright and balanced and let my eyes burst with anguish while they fall (and get up) and fall (and get up) and don’t get up again.

And occasionally my body just convulses, the prose transforming into some dangerous potion that has just as visceral of a response as any chemical might have. For I have loved and I have loved so much.

My brain and my soul are still writhing as I slouch on my bed, 30 minutes removed from completing Patrick Ness’ last chapter in his Chaos Walking trilogy. Eff. (Though do you think it was the abbreviation I spoke?) And mascara all over the soft part under my eye, and smeared on the back of my hand, and stained onto paper of the penultimate chapter.

But. (Please press play. Please continue.)


The one persistent reality of the series is Ness’ invention of noise. That is, visuals, sounds, images, endless streams of thoughts, all released from the clandestine compartments of the brain and transformed into a public buzz. There is speech and body language but there is also noise and it is unrelenting and shreds through norms about gender, privacy, security.

And yet the way that Ness’ book is constructed, his fragmented sentences dropping off after the —

His notation of realizations that interrupt and–

His play on fonts, CAPITAL LETTERS–

This series? This voice? This relentless, jackhammer like, incessant fuss that wails from these pages…

And I want to–

Let me–


And I am loath to leave, because I want to be here.

And so much of me craves nothing more than kneading the rich dough of theory and ideas and the murder of them. Can we talk about my right to an animate daughter at the expense of of your listless son? Can we scale that?

Can we ask how much we are responsible for when someone else made the choice? Is the executor of such as complicit as the decision maker?

We are the choices we make. (Or are we the choices that God made?)

Your mind will believe comforting lies while also knowing the painful truths that make those lies necessary. And your mind will punish you for believing both.” 


this summer I read two books about a male and female living in reality with two moons. note to haruki murakami: your literature has as wholly effective a grip on my emotional state as any piece of book that I’ve been captive too this past 100 hours but 1Q84’s tengo and aeome never laid siege to each other’s consciousness, being, and personhood the way todd and viola did. so i did not tremble. and i did not weep.

but two others that did: The Fault in the Stars and Mama Day. may their dearly beloved protagnoists now rest in peace but eternally jar my soul.


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