No One Is Talking About This: A Novel

She was handling it just fine, even though her face had been replaced by one question mark after another question mark after another question mark,

It spoke of something deep in human beings, how hard she had to pinch herself when she started thinking of it all as a metaphor.

She could barely recall her previous life, the flights through blue rare space, the handing over of tickets and stamping of passports, the gorgeous violent ruptures of somewhere-elseness.

During these appearances there entered into her body what she thought of as a demon of performance, an absolutely intact personality that she had no access to in ordinary times. It was not just inside her, but spilled a little beyond; it struck huge gestures off her body like sparks from a flint.

For as long as she read the news, line by line and minute by minute, she had some say in what happened, didn’t she?

Previously these communities were imposed on us, along with their mental weather. Now we chose them—or believed that we did. A person might join a site to look at pictures of her nephew and five years later believe in a flat earth.

No amount of sugar-eating or being scared would help.

It was a mistake to believe that other people were not living as deeply as you were. Besides, you were not even living that deeply.

“I was just thinking that you and I . . . have seen very different memes in our lives.” ■