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Bookishly Ever After

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Lucy Powrie

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“Look out the window. You ask yourself: how are we actually supposed to live? After we’ve eaten and slept well, what is there for us? Is this life supposed to be a kind of animal that fills itself with things like lunch, TV news, occasional travels, and then dies? Like a mortal doll poked with the same colored thumbtacks as everyone else. Eat. Masturbate. Heartbreak. Sleep. Perhaps the answer to a deep boredom is community—but what good are two people but another person to eat lunch, watch TV news, and travel mediocrely with, and also die? Humans don’t know their origins, which explains why we’re always confused and longing for some unattainable dimension from 18 to 80. Can we ever be more?”

PassionExistenceCareersSadnessDepressionMeaningBoredHeartacheBoredomThe Goodbye Song
Book:The Goodbye Song
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“I'd love to cook," she says, "but who has the time? I can't afford to spend two days baking a cake." The implication, of course, is that only unimportant people have that kind of time. Unimportant people like me. I wait for Adam to jump in and save me, but instead he shoves a forkful of lamb into his mouth and feigns deep interest in the contents of his dinner plate. For someone with Adam's political ambitions and penchant for friendly debate, I'm always amazed at the lengths he goes to avoid confrontation with his parents. "I have a full-time job," I say, offering Sandy a labored smile, "and somehow I manage." Sandy delicately places her fork on the table and interlaces her fingers. "I beg your pardon?" My cheeks flush, and all the champagne and wine rush to my head at once. "All I'm saying is... we make time for the things we actually want to do. That's all." Sandy purses her lips and sweeps her hair away from her face with the back of her hand. "Hannah, dear, I am very busy. I am on the board of three charities and am hosting two galas this year. It's not a matter of wanting to cook. I simply have more important things to do." For a woman so different from my own mother- the frosted, well-groomed socialite to my mother's mousy, rumpled academic- she and my mother share a remarkably similar view of the role of cooking in a modern woman's life. For them, cooking is an irrelevant hobby, an amusement for women who lack the brains for more high-powered pursuits or the money to pay someone to perform such a humdrum chore. Sandy Prescott and my mother would agree on very little, but as women who have been liberated from the perfunctory task of cooking a nightly dinner, they would see eye to eye on my intense interest in the culinary arts. Were I a stronger person, someone more in control of her faculties who has not drunk multiple glasses of champagne, I would probably let Sandy's remark go without commenting any further. But I cannot be that person. At least not tonight. Not when Sandy is suggesting, as it seems everyone does, that cooking isn't a priority worthy of a serious person's time. "You would make the time if you wanted to," I say. "But obviously you don't.”

PassionCookingInsinuatingMake TimeLiquid CourageHave The Time
Book:The Girls' Guide to Love and Supper Clubs
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