Additional Selections from This Issue

Jewels of Mt. Stanley

Friday is Gail’s third day squatting the grounds at Congo Golf & Go-Cart, and I’m pretty sure Mr. Brice will have her arrested when he gets back on Monday. At first, I figured Gail was one of those high-end bag ladies—the broke-but-not-starving kind—but she never asks for money or food. She says she won’t leave until she finds the hidden jewels, and if we park employees have to have her arrested, go right ahead. Gail. One of those sturdy, older-person names.

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The Right Kind of Chance

Eric LeMay: An essay doesn’t come to life until it reaches its readers. This moment—when the reader charges the writing with his or her intelligence, memories, cares, biases, quirks—is so fundamental to the experience of reading and writing, we usually accept it as a given, a fundament, and we build on it, but an electronic essay can let us rethink that moment: how else might a reader bring this essay to life?

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Our World, Our Actual World

Rutschman: I’m interested in awakening, which means I’m interested in delusion. Or, I’m interested in intimacy, which means I’m interested in distance. I’m interested in kindness, which means I’m interested in its absence. 

I don’t think I write bad behavior for its own sake, or to titillate or shock. I’m genuinely, deeply committed to exploring our capacities—all of us—for blindness and cruelty, and for presence and warmth, and I don’t think we can actually study one side without studying the other.

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Viewing

How he looked: handsome,
ratcheted into place. I wanted
to view the wounds
where tendons and ligaments
had been harvested
to help others.

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