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“Wendell and I would spend the next several months traveling his realm. Our realm. I must get used to that. I would take copious notes all the while, no doubt filling several of the ridiculous journals the bookbinders kept churning out, and stumbling across so many research questions it would take me ten lifetimes to tackle them all. And after that, who knows? I have my compendium of tales to finish--- I plan to gather stories as Wendell and I travel, adding them to the small hoard I've already collected. My presence is not required in the mortal world until October, when I will be delivering a presentation on several key findings in my map-book, which shall be published in a month's time. When the Berlin Academy of Folklorists sends you an invitation to their annual conference, you cannot say no.”

“Wendell explains that my pain feels like it's in the present, but it's actually in both the past and the future. Therapists talk a lot about how the past informs the present- how our histories affect he ways we think, feel, and behave and how at some point in our lives, we have to let go of the fantasy of creating a better past. If we don't accept the notion that there's no redo, much as we try to get our parents or siblings or partners to fix what happened years ago, our pasts will keep us stuck. Changing our relationship to the past is a staple of therapy. But we talk far less about how our relationship to the future informs the present too. Our notion of the future can be just as powerful a roadblock to change as our notion of the past. In fact, Wendell continues, I've lost more than my relationship in the present. I've lost my relationship in the future. We tend to think that the future happens later, ut we're creating in our minds every day. We the present falls apart, so does the future we had associated with it.”

“Wendell looked at the faerie stone in his hand, shrugged, and smashed it against the floor. Out burst a flock of parrots. The birds shrieked and squawked, and the sheerie were momentarily distracted--- not afraid, they lunged at them like cats. Each parrot seemed to be carrying a tropical flower in its beak. Wendell hurled another stone. When it smashed, glittering banners unfurled upon the museum walls, covered in the faerie script. The ceiling was suddenly painted in frescoes of Folk lounging in forest pools, surrounded by green foliage. Vases of unfamiliar flowers appeared on every surface next to bottles of wine in ice buckets, and the air filled with the muffled sound of violins, as if drifting in from the next room.”

“Wendell marched down a winding path in the mountainside--- he must have conjured it himself--- to engage the elder horsemen in a square of meadow tucked between two crags. I don't know if it was some inane faerie custom or simply the custom of the horsemen, but the one who appeared to be their leader--- judging by the size of his horse and the number of scars he bore--- stepped forward as if to challenge Wendell to single combat. Wendell, still with that calm detachment, somehow cut out the beast's heart in two sharp movements and hurled it at the rider in a stomach-churning spray of blood, knocking him from his saddle. At that point, the remaining horsemen decided to abandon honor and charge him together, but their horses were, wisely, terrified of Wendell by this point, and shied away when he neared, some throwing their riders off, which Wendell dispatched in various appalling ways, sometimes appearing to forget about his sword entirely. Rose stood there the whole time, aghast, but I was familiar with Wendell's murderous moods and turned away after the third or fourth death, drawing Ariadne with me to the fireside. I was still shaking with fury. So he would risk killing himself rather than pausing to think our way out of things, would he?”

“Wendell pushed the door open. Light. It was full morning, and my vision flooded with color. Primarily green, but there was also the yellow of moss and lichened stone, the violet of bluebells clustered at the edge of the forest, the gold of sunbeams, and the rich azure of the sky. The door opened onto a hill in a small clearing, beyond which a wall of trees nodded their boughs in the wind, as if in greeting. The air was wet from a recent rain and heavy with the smell of green and growing things--- all as I remembered.”

“Wendell rested his hand on one of the cherry trees in an absent sort of way, gazing over the landscape. The tree began to flower, buds bursting forth in a riot of purples and blues, and the leaves grew so green they resembled crushed emeralds. It matched Wendell's expression, somehow, as he swept his gaze over the view, a contentment that seemed to radiate from him, cheering all in his vicinity. Two servants carrying what looked like a newly minted silver mirror stepped more lightly, their faces brightening, and a fat leprechaun sprawled against a nearby boxwood chuckled in his sleep.”

“Wendell's first inclination upon waking from the dead was, naturally, to throw a party. At this he failed, for a party was already unfolding. A troupe of musicians had established themselves on the lakeshore below the gardens, where there is a large pavilion; another was set up in the banquet hall, which, when Wendell and I arrived, we found already bursting with a chaotic array of food. There were oysters from the southern coast, whole roasted trout, a bubbling vat of caramel for dipping apples, and bread loaves positioned randomly about the room, as well as the queer blue sandwich cakes that were a court favorite--- the blue came from blueberry preserves and a sharp cheese, which were layered with a sweet cloudlike batter. From the look and smell of things, they should have been dreadful, but I had already acquired a taste for them.”

“Wendell was no sooner gazing at the silver sewing needles than he was brushing away a tear. "They are like my father's," he said wonderingly. "I remember the flicker of them in the darkness as we all sat together by the ghealach fire, with the trees surrounding us. He would bring them everywhere, even the Hunt of the Frostveiling---that is the first hunt of autumn, the largest of the year, when even the queen and her children roam through the wilds with spears and swords, riding our best---oh, I don't know what you would call them in your language. They are a kind of faerie fox, black and golden together, which grow larger than horses. My brothers and sisters and I would crowd round the fire to watch him weave nets from brambles and spidersilk. And all the moorbeasts and hag-headed deer would cower at the sight of those nets, though they barely blinked at the whistle of our arrows." He fell silent, gazing at them with his eyes gone very green. "Well," I said, predictably at a loss for an answer to this, "I hope they are of use to you. Only keep them away from any garments of mine." He took my hand, and then, before I knew what he was doing, lifted it to his mouth. I felt the briefest brush of his lips against my skin, and then he had released me and was back to exclaiming over his gifts. I turned and went into the kitchen in an aimless haste, looking for something to do, anything that might distract me from the warmth that had trailed up my arm like an errant summer breeze”

“Wendy Doniger has spent decades collecting not only myths from ancient texts but stories of all kinds from novels, movies, newspapers about an old mystery: what has or hasn't happened in bed for centuries. Rich in insights about sex, lies, and personal identity, the result is entertaining, enthralling, and, yes, sexy.”

“Wendy sat by herself in the kitchen, regarding the notebook and the abandoned and untouched tea plates. Madeleines were all the rage right now and it had been wonderful spending the afternoon trying to make them with Mother, but after the first day they had sort of dried out and become a little tasteless. She picked one up and tentatively dipped it in her cooling tea, then nibbled its now soft edge. Much better. They almost tasted a little bit like sunshine- like warm, exotic days...”

“Wendy still enjoyed it when Mrs. Darling included her in some of her "feminine rituals," which usually involved the proper application of powders and creams, tips on how to polish her nails, or ideas for sprucing up an old bow. She loved it when they had enough extra house money to go for a fancy tea out at Saxelbrees, just the two of them. Wendy would admire her mother smiling and laughing beneath her many-times-renewed hat, and would think once again that she was the most beautiful mother in the world. She wondered when she herself would attain that delicate beauty, confidence, and perfection of manner.”

“Wenn aber der Widerstreit des Glaubens und der Vernunft verschwunden und in eine Aussöhnung übergegangen ist, so würde es wesentlich von der Natur dieser Aussöhnung selbst abhängen, inwiefern zu ihr Glück zu wünschen wäre. Denn es gibt auch einen Frieden der Gleichgültigkeit gegen die Tiefen des Geistes, einen Frieden des Leichtsinns, der Kahlheit; in einem solchen Frieden kann das Widerwärtige beseitigt scheinen, indem es nur auf die Seite gestellt ist. (Vorrede zu Hinrichs' Religionsphilosophie, 1822)”

“Wenn Chris schwänzte und Bertie (wie wir ihn nannten – natürlich nur hinter seinem Rücken) ihn erwischte, brachte er ihn in die Schule zurück und sorgte dafür, dass er eine Woche lang nachsitzen musste. Wenn er aber feststellte, dass Chris zu Hause war, weil sein Vater ihn jämmerlich verprügelt hatte, fuhr Bertie wieder weg und verlor kein weiteres Wort darüber. Erst zwanzig Jahre später begann ich mich zu fragen, ob die Prioritäten hier wohl richtig gesetzt waren.”

“Wenn das Leben die Summe der Entscheidungen ist, die wir treffen, [...] dann verbringen wir zu viel Zeit unseres Lebens damit, diese Entscheidungen zu bedauern. Zu viel Zeit wird mit Bedauern verschwendet. Dabei können wir die Vergangenheit nur zur Kenntnis nehmen und akzeptieren. Sie ist vorbei und vorüber. [...] Wer sagt, dass das Leben einen Sinn ergeben muss? Dass es uns Erklärungen schuldet? Vielleicht gibt es so etwas wie Gerechtigkeit nicht. Vielleicht wird es nie Frieden oder auch nur eine Erklärung geben. Doch es gibt Hoffnung [...]. Und es gibt Liebe.”

“Wenn deine Eltern für dich ein Leben aufbauen, weil sie wissen, wie unsicher die Welt sein kann und wie wichtig es ist, einen Ort der Zuflucht zu haben; wenn deine Eltern, bevor du überhaupt einen Schritt machst, die Steine aus dem Weg schaffen und dann ebendiesen Weg mit Pflaster verlegen, damit du nie stolpern musst; wenn dir deine Eltern ihr Dasein verschreiben– wie kannst du reuelos beschließen, an der nächsten Kreuzung abzubiegen und alles, was sie für dich getan haben, hinter dir zu lassen? Wie begleicht man eine lebenslange Schuld? Und wenn man die Zeit umkehren könnte, zurück in die Vergangenheit, um zu verhindern, dass sich die sich Dinge so entwickeln– wo fängt man an, wenn diese Schuld generationsbedingt und ebenso in deinen Eltern und in deren Eltern verankert ist?”

“Wenn den Tieren unsere Gesellschaft guttut, dann werden sie uns ihre Zuneigung zeigen – auf ihre ganz persönliche Art. Ob es sich um eine Kuh, ein Schwein, eine Pute, einen Hund oder eine Katze handelt, spielt dabei keine Rolle. Deshalb verbringe ich meine Zeit mit den Tieren am liebsten in ihrer Welt und gebe kein Programm vor oder mische mich nicht ein. Nur so kann ich ihr natürliches Verhalten beobachten, sie wirklich kennenlernen, ihre Bedürfnisse und eigenen Meinungen wahrnehmen sowie letztendlich von ihnen lernen.”

“Wenn der Krebs erst einmal voll ausgeprägt ist und schnell wächst, kann er, wie oben erwähnt, in Laboren weiterleben, selbst wenn er den Menschen, in dem er entstanden ist, schon längst getötet hat. Auf dem Weg dorthin setzt der wachsende Tumor immer wieder auf ganz geschickte Art und Weise die Technik der beschleunigten Alterung und der Unsterblichkeit ein, auch um es so dem Körper schwerzumachen, ihn zu besiegen.”

“Wenn die Entwicklung zum Autoritarismus so weit fortgeschritten ist wie in Ungarn, in der Türkei oder gar in Russland, wird kritisch- zivilgesellschaftlicher Widerstand so gut wie unmöglich. In der Türkei werden täglich Intellektuelle, AktivistInnen und JournalistInnen verhaftet, die die Regierung für gefährlich hält – sei es, weil sie wirklich Kritik an der Regierung üben, oder sei es, weil die repressiven Staatsapparate in ihrer paranoiden Wahrnehmung dies glauben. So weit sollten wir es nicht kommen lassen, schon gar nicht aus Trotz, Untergangsverliebtheit oder Besserwisserei. Wählen wir deshalb die Parteien, die sich nicht vom Rechtspopulismus anstecken lassen und seinen Forderungen hinterherlaufen. Das ist entscheidend. Wählen wir SozialdemokratInnen, Grüne, Linke, Liberale oder Konservative. Oder spenden wir an Parteien, werben wir für sie oder lassen wir uns selbst aufstellen. Man kann die SozialdemokratInnen oder die Grünen suspekt finden, zu wenig radikal, zu wenig feministisch, antikapitalistisch oder umgekehrt zu radikal, zu rot. Aber lasst uns nicht demokratische Grundstrukturen gefährden, nur weil wir meinen, besser zu wissen, wie es sein müsste.”