Either/Or

by Elif Batuman

I had mixed feelings about this beautiful nonsmoker. On the one hand, I despised her for talking so much and saying so little, and for seeming so unaware of Riley’s expression. On the other hand, at least she was talking with enthusiasm about something that she liked to do, alone, just for the sake of having an experience, or thinking of herself a certain way.

In that way, I understood that a novel would explain all the things I still wanted to know, like why Toad was the way he was—why Toad was essentially unwell, and why Frog helped Toad, whether he really wanted Toad to get better, or whether he benefited in some way from Toad’s unwellness.

I had a belief that I had always cried this much. Hadn’t we all laughed about it, when I was three? Adults would ask me what was the matter, and I would say I was “moved.”

Even Svetlana, with her refusal to distort herself into acceptable forms, had felt a powerful compulsion to fake.

As a writer, you were never totally present. You were always thinking of how you would put a thing into words.

“Shall we get out of here?” he said in a suave, euphemistic-sounding tone. I nodded. I always wanted to get out of here, and nobody ever asked. I

daunting thought: How would I eventually root out from my mind all the beliefs that I hated?