Intimations

by Zadie Smith

writing means being overheard.

I might become a spinster. I might become a crone. I might be a babe or a MILF or “childless.” My brothers, no matter what else might befall them, would remain men.

Confronted with the problem of life served neat, without distraction or adornment or superstructure, I had almost no idea of what to do with it.

Class is a bubble, formed by privilege, shaping and manipulating your conception of reality.

I know he is fond of conspiracy theories, which I have never considered anything less than an entirely rational mode of processing contemporary American reality.

If this child, formed by poverty, sits in a class with my child, who was formed by privilege, my child will suffer—my child will catch their virus. This not-so-secret terror is lodged as firmly in blue hearts as in red;

To keep voting for policies that ensure the permanent existence of an underclass is what is meant by “structural racism.”)

I thought if that knowledge became as widespread as could possibly be managed or imagined that we might finally reach some kind of herd immunity. I don’t think that anymore.

Making small talk is an art, and never to be despised just because you yourself dread making it.

That I was considered “ugly” young and “beautiful” later. That by the time the external opinion changed it was too late to create any real change in me.