Eating the peach, I feel like a murderer. Time and darkness mean nothing to me, moving forward and back with my white enameled teeth and bloated tongue sating themselves on moist, pulpy flesh. When I suck at the pit that resembles a small mammal's skull, it erases all memory of trouble and strife, of loneliness and the blindings of erotic love, and of the blueprint of a world, in which man, hater of reason, cannot make things right again. Eating the peach, I feel the long wandering, my human hand—once fin and paw— reaching through and across the allegory of Eden, mud, boredom and disease, to bees, solitude and a thousand hairs of grass blowing by chill waters.
TODAY IN SLATE
The Irritating Confidante
John Dickerson on Ben Bradlee’s fascinating relationship with John F. Kennedy.
My Father Invented Social Networking at a Girls’ Reform School in the 1930s
Renée Zellweger’s New Face Is Too Real
Sleater-Kinney Was Once America’s Best Rock Band
Can it be again?
The All The President’s Men Scene That Captured Ben Bradlee
Is It Better to Be a Hero Like Batman?
Or an altruist like Bruce Wayne?
Driving in Circles
The autonomous Google car may never actually happen.