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A Resistance to Theory
She stood outside the lecture hall examining the poster. The image was murky, perhaps a tattooed human face, perhaps a tribal mask. Under the title of the talk, Professor Farinelli had included this bio in small print:
My writing has focused on developing a critical theory that would support an ethnography of the postanthropologic otherwise. My recent work examines the hegemony of the predeceased in late liberal settler colonies from the perspective of the politics of embodiment, eroticism, and narrative form. My ethnographic analysis is illuminated by a critical assignation with the traditions of American pragmatism and continental theories of immanence and intimacy.
     Seldom had Yvette felt such excitement. And yet her hands did not shake. It had been raining outside the library, a cold November drizzle. Momentarily she laid her right palm against the polished surface of the wall and laid her forehead there too. She caught a glimpse of a blurry reflection before she turned away. “Immanence,” she whispered. “Eminence. Imminence.” The words themselves were interchangeable, designed for a purpose not limited to comprehension. Even she, defeated as she’d been by stuff like this, could see the beauty of that purpose if you let your mind go.

     Crowell Concert Hall, 4 p.m., November 19th—here she was. The text promised a manifestation of great power. She could only hope she’d come prepared. Combing her left hand through her wet, stringy hair, she pulled open the double doors and took her seat.

     Yvette knew she would have to be careful. She had purposely come late. She had already achieved a limited celebrity because of the disruptions she had caused, not here, but in colleges and lectures elsewhere on the East Coast. Once she had taken the train down from Boston to New York, hoping to confront Slavoj Žižek, the Slovenian cultural theorist, in the quadrangle at Columbia University, to express her admiration or else maybe kill him. But at the last moment she had paused, irresolute, struck dumb by what he’d said about false consciousness.

     It wasn’t so easy, distinguishing the postanthropologic from the predeceased. Sometimes the evidence was mixed. Now she unbuttoned her raincoat in the cavernous, uncrowded room. She had chosen a seat near the back, next to the aisle, in case she had to escape. Attempting to project a sense of confidence, she spread her knees apart while she examined the bald head of the man in front of her. She could hear the speaker at the podium below her in the stepped well. Momentarily she closed her eyes, not yet ready to look. In preparation, she listened only to the sound of Professor Farinelli’s voice, seductive and low. She did not listen to the words, not yet. Instead, and in order to provide a sense of contrast, she found herself remembering one of her favorite quotations from Judith Butler, a printed text, as it happened, which she now recomposed in a separate mental theater, analogous to this one:
… Gay identities work neither to copy nor emulate heterosexuality, but rather, to expose heterosexuality as an incessant and panicked imitation of its own naturalized idealization. That heterosexuality is always in the act of elaborating itself is evidence that it is perpetually at risk, that it knows its own possibility of becoming undone …
     Lately, this passage had become her rubric, her touchstone, her flaming sword to separate the false from the true. How beautiful it had appeared to her the first time she had read it, sitting by herself in Mugar Library! Each word was like a boat slipping gradually from shore, now caught in the current, now away. How lovely to see those painters broken, first to relentless denotation, and then—the restraint subtler and softer, but for that reason more oppressive—to connotation also; the ropes strain one by one, and then they snap. Geniuses like Butler—living, breathing women—had created a whole language of experience that drifted alongside us without touching us at any point. “… Gender is a kind of imitation for which there is no original …”—not just gender, but language also worked that way.

     Yvette opened her eyes. She glanced at her confederate on the other side of the hall, a man close to her own age or a little younger. He lolled back in his seat, his left foot, shod in a heavy boot, twitching on the dark carpet. Like her, he wore a long raincoat. He smiled or grimaced, it was hard to tell.

     She’d contacted him on Craigslist when she was still in Boston, and then met him at a coffee shop called Klekolo, on Court Street. They’d barely said two words. Then he’d preceded her up the hill. Less of a celebrity, he’d been here from the beginning.

     He smiled or grimaced and then turned his head. At the wooden podium perhaps sixty feet away, Professor Farinelli paused in midphrase, a pen or a pencil in her right hand. Yvette had looked her up on the Wesleyan website, and had been grimly unsurprised to see there was no photograph. Now she assembled her impression: red fingernails, red lipstick, the ghost of a smile—a pretty woman with shining copper hair and pale skin, so very pale. Yvette felt a tingling sensation along her scalp. The trick was to spot the fakes, the imitations, the weeds that grew among the flowers, searching for safety from the gardener.

     Farinelli was one of the weeds. She would have to be uprooted before she and her kind had choked the entire bed, the entire field. Yvette had been sure walking in. Now she was doubly sure.

     Yvette was a graduate student at BU. Her thesis adviser in the months before her death had trained her in the tiny differences between the Butlers and Kristevas of the world, say, and these bitter simulations. She held clutched in her left hand the program for the conference, sodden from the rain. It contained the description that had seduced her here, in a car this time, from her empty Somerville apartment:
Is the posthuman a further evolution of humanity, or have human beings always been posthuman? If so, as evidence increasingly suggests, in which sense? What are the implications of gender, race, class, and sex, among other categories, for the new, embodied constitution of posthumanity? And in both practical and political terms, what is the essential difference between the posthuman, the transhuman, the antihuman, and the cyborg?
     Food for thought. How insidious, how vicious, was Farinelli’s use of the word “evidence”! And now this, from her pretty, lipsticked mouth, as she achieved the peroration of her introductory address: “The difficulty of life’s embodiment as a possible interpolation between disciplinary discourse and actual political practice offers itself as a matter of strident urgency. What this conference aims to advance, however, is not a notion of life already encapsulated in its dense social network, nor life as an established, already articulated political manifestation. We are attracted by life as such, caught in a more basic network of ganglia and capillaries, and brought thereby to its radical existence and pure is-ness, one that permeates, challenges, and ultimately escapes the hegemonic order that strives to embody it. Yet our attraction feeds on and desires to control much wider debates. Recent work has already begun to interrogate the limits of biology, posing a series of questions regarding the distinctness of natural life over artificially created life or even so-called death. Especially after I emphatically discard any claims to the superiority of the first of these overlapping states, what follows is a return to life’s pure potentiality and its political implications either as material or immaterial presence, or animate or inanimate force.”

     Yvette found herself staring at the speaker’s mouth, the bruised, pillowy lips, the clever teeth. “Oh, I’ve got you,” she murmured to herself. “I’ve got you.”

     Reflexively she took her pulse, a habit she had gotten into. Then she reached into the inside pocket of her raincoat where she kept Professor Larsen’s stiletto. Always at these moments of decision, she imagined herself balanced as if upon a granite ridge, high in the air under a harsh yet forgiving sun, an abyss of formlessness on either side. Propelled in her choices by those soft, insistent rays, nevertheless she felt a moment of relaxation, perhaps the only moment in this entire anxious week. Almost without paying attention, she found herself aware of the young man sitting beside her, a student, she guessed, one of the few in the hall. Most of the attendees were at least in their thirties, and she saw a number of gray heads. This one—dark hair, glasses—was cute in a nerdy way, and she appreciated the intensity with which he listened to this fiend from the frozen pit of hell. As always with her kind, Farinelli was speaking in a kind of code, which meant one thing to her minions and something else to stooges like this boy, desperate for understanding and vulnerable for that reason.

     “… The embodiment of life sets up each confrontation as a unique case in our hopeless attempt to reach justice. This afternoon I’ve tried to excavate the aesthetic politics of life and death as a methodological intervention into the apparatuses and possibilities of nonhegemonic practice. In addition, I’ve tried to suggest how violence and control produce aspects of resistance, located in our individual reactions to the powers reshaping the living world. I’ve tried to isolate some safeholds that the diverse forms of posthumanity will occupy to flourish and survive, in resistance to the structures and procedures of surveillance and control. Through a discussion of mutual interrogation (or indeed, an interrogation of discussion practices), I aim to see a new style of human and posthuman eroticism as integral to a deconstruction of hegemonic power. This new style calls for a dissolution of the subject and the emergence of a hybrid, nonsovereign being. Now let us allow new practices of self-fashioning, self-identification, or else an inner experience of this new eroticism to show the way.”

     By “sovereign,” perhaps she meant, in Butler’s terms, the incessant and panicked imitation that created the ideal: actual, real things, in other words—for a moment Yvette felt, or imagined she felt, the throb of her pulse above the collarbone. From her own safehold of relaxation on the granite ridge, the sky above her bright and blue enough to cause her nose to bleed, Yvette saw the speaker glance up toward her. The Q&A was about to start. She groped again for the stiletto.

     But what did she imagine she would do with it? Surely to display it would invite a premature dissolution of the subject. Or was it only useful as a source of comfort, a masturbatory practice of self-fashioning, self-identification, or else an inner experience of … eroticism? The dialectic was troubling, and now, on the high ridge, suddenly she felt the rocks shift underfoot. While she was listening she had kept Butler in mind, using her as a model to compare and distinguish the imitation and the true. She had murmured and remurmured the quotation, a revolving and self-sustaining mantra: “… a panicked imitation of its own naturalized idealization. That heterosexuality is always in the act of elaborating itself is evidence …”

     But—evidence, evidence: Surely Butler’s use of the word “evidence” was as problematical as Farinelli’s! Upon first reading, Yvette had found herself obscurely touched, as if evidence could be a type of aspiration. But now, unbalanced over the rock precipice, she felt a vertigo of doubt. Perhaps she had been wrong! From that small crack in the text, new problems now emerged.

     Perhaps Farinelli and Butler held other things in common. Yvette’s mentor and adviser had once explained to her the difference between profound and superficial truth: We recognize the deepest accuracy of a statement only if its opposite is just as accurate. “Man is born chained,” in Professor Larsen’s example, “yet everywhere he is now free—just as verifiable, depending on what you think of the umbilical cord.” Then she had gone further and reversed the customary valorization: “Profound truth is for suckers, or else people who don’t give a damn.” Of course she’d been drunk when she said this, and of course she had paid for her insight a week later, alone in a Cleveland hotel room. Cornered by her enemies, she had denied them the satisfaction, finally, of sucking her dry.

     But with a sudden lurch of fear, Yvette realized that the Butler quote was also full of profound truth. She’d been fooled—gulled like a rube, as Professor Larsen might have said—by what she’d imagined was its separate language of dissociation, a kind of poetry, she’d thought, like certain stanzas of Bob Dylan, the Talking Heads, or John Ashbery. But now, with a fascinated horror, she saw she could negate or contradict each one of Butler’s phrases with no loss of meaning … That homosexuality is always in the act of elaborating itself is evidence that it is perpetually at risk—even better! The sentence even scanned as if yearning that way.

     “I see you are beginning to understand,” remarked a soft, supple voice inside her head. Yvette peered backward over her shoulder and observed a shrouded figure at the top of the aisle, now blocking the exit. She scanned the other side and saw other figures massing there. Was it possible she was alone here, alone among the posthuman? The bald man in front of her turned his head, gave her a look—he was much younger than she’d anticipated, or at least he looked younger. There were no lenses in his wire spectacles. Elsewhere she saw the gray heads turn to look at her, revealing unlined faces, indeterminate ages, feral smiles. And even the fellow from Craigslist, perhaps Farinelli had hired him to tempt Yvette into revealing herself, so that posthumanity might gather her in.

     She refused to look at him. Too charitably perhaps, she had imagined a remnant of compassion in the bone-pulverizing density of the lecture segment she’d just heard. She’d imagined an attempt to limit casualties by boring the civilians from the room. Only the lost causes had stayed, the addicted, like this kid on her left hand, nervous, raising his finger. He wanted to ask a question. “Don’t expose yourself,” she murmured.

     Then she rose from her seat, pushed back her still-wet hair. If this conference had been designed to lure her and exclude everyone else—or almost everybody—because of the concrete difficulties of its subject matter, then she would give them a show. If she were alone in this room—or almost alone—then she would demonstrate the superiority of natural life to the last of her ability, to the end. She would demonstrate the power of the real. And she would protect this addled student. “Put your hand down,” she told him. “For God’s sake put it down.”

     All eyes were upon her, even her own eyes, from the high stone ridge where she looked down. She saw as they did a dark-haired woman, untall, unthin, unlovely, naturally superior, perhaps, but in no other way. She reached into the breast pocket of her raincoat, and heard a suppressed hiss from the bald man looking up at her from the seat in front. But she removed a pocket handkerchief and used it to blot her cheeks. As she’d suspected, her mascara had dissolved a bit—she’d seen it from above. She blotted her lips now, too. “Thank you for a very interesting talk,” she said, replacing the handkerchief in another pocket. “I couldn’t help thinking, as you spoke, of what Butler says about performativity. I wonder if you’d care to comment on how the act of being human might also be considered performative, as she says, a kind of imitation for which there is no original, and which produces the notion of the original as a consequence of the imitation. Do you think that’s so? By contrast, you could also argue that these other types you mention, posthuman, transhuman, antihuman, have no significance except as imitations of ordinary human beings. In which case—imitations of imitations—what is their ontological status? I omit cyborgs from my consideration, because, as specifically technological hybrids they seem to me to be in a different category. Even as metaphors, they represent a weakness in the entire conceptual framework of this conference …”

     “Fuck me,” groaned the Craigslist man. “You don’t even want to know about their goddamned cyborgs. Metaphors—shit,” he said, kicking his leg even farther out into the aisle, freeing the holster strapped to his right thigh, now for a fraction of a moment visible in the vent of his coat.

     So he was on her side, after all! No doubt it was the purest hubris (against which her adviser had persistently warned her) for Yvette to have imagined that all this—the posters, the conference—had been conceived and designed just to lure her …

     Her nonquestion dwindled to a close. At the bottom of the hall, Farinelli made a gesture with her pen. “It is interesting that you should mention,” she began, while at the same time the soft voice inside Yvette’s throbbing skull provided subtext: “You little piece of shit …”

     She didn’t have to turn her head to imagine the tall figure at the top of the aisle pulling the scarf from her face. She didn’t have to imagine the handsome, potentially transhuman features of Judith Butler, the Maxine Elliot Professor of Rhetoric at Berkeley. Feeling stronger now, buttressed by the presence, perhaps, of others like her in the hall, she spoke up again: “As some of you may know, I am writing my dissertation on Kristeva’s theory of abjection …”

     She listened to another deflating hiss from the bald man in front of her. She studied his mouth, his perfect teeth. Again she felt a sudden vertigo. Was it also hubris for her to imagine, on the other side of the hall, at the top of the other aisle, a second figure pulling the shawl from her face to reveal the ageless, pallid flesh of the distinguished Franco-Bulgarian philosopher that she had named? She didn’t glance that way. Instead she spouted some contemptuous nonsense that conflated the pre- and postavant-garde, not even bothering to make sense. Two could play at that game. Actually, any number could play.

     But as she spoke, she listened to the voice inside her head, as insidious as if it were her own chafing conscience or self-doubt. “Ah, yes, I am aware of you. I can feel your heart knocking in your chest, the blood pulsing at your temples. I was the keynote speaker at the Cleveland symposium. And I was with your dissertation adviser at the last, Larsen—that was her name. A second-rate scholar, I’m afraid. I had not seen so much blood.”

     “Enough,” said the speaker at the podium. She dropped her pen, and it rolled a little way across the floor. She made a fist of her left hand, drawing the red nails inward. “Ms. Daume,” she continued, “we are all aware of how difficult it has been for you since Karen Larsen’s death. Believe me, you were not the only one of us affected—always it is a terrible thing, when a mentor and a friend decides to end her own life. That does not give you the right to …”

     Someone had come down the aisle from the top of the hall and now stood at Yvette’s elbow. “Ma’am,” he said, a campus policeman, surreptitiously summoned, perhaps, when she’d stood up. She looked behind her, where she had imagined Julia Kristeva at the top of the hall. Another policeman approached from that side; oh, it was true, these philosophers could manifest in many forms. But on the other hand, how foolish now it seemed to her, to think these world-famous scholars might have travelled all this way to lay a trap for her. She had been squeezing the hilt of the stiletto in the inside pocket of her overcoat; now she released it, raised her hands, spread her palms, and allowed campus security to escort her up the stairs, out the double doors, and down into the barren, twilit courtyard. From her high granite ridge, polished smooth by the wind, she looked down on her own bedraggled head, where she stood, a minute later, at the corner of Court Street, in tears.


“I’m sorry, ma’am,” said one of the policemen. “But you can’t stay on campus. If you just go down the hill, you’ll find …”

     “No, I’ll go,” she said, wiping her nose with her handkerchief. “And thank you, officer. You saved my life back there. I don’t know what I might have …”

     “That’s okay. If you just …”

     It was almost dark when she did find it: a safehold, a place of refuge, a coffee shop on Main Street where an hour later she sat clutching the remains of a bran muffin, and reading for the third or fourth time the introduction to Kristeva’s Black Sun: Depression and Melancholia. But finally the man from Craigslist sauntered by the plate-glass window. He pressed his face against the glass, cupped his hands around his eyes. The rain had stopped. When he saw her, he came inside, took off his coat and hat. “May I?” She saw no sign of his revolver.

     “I think I’d rather be alone.”

     He shrugged, then sat down opposite her at the small, square table. He leaned across it with his elbows on the polyurethaned surface, his long hands near her plate. “That was quite the Q&A,” he said. Then he leaned closer: “Listen, I know what you’re thinking. You think you’re wrong, but you were right. I saw some manifestations, just for a moment. Just before the police showed up.”

     “Please go away.”

     He sighed, rubbed his long, crooked nose. “It’s humiliating. But there’s a chance. You must know who killed your adviser.”

     Yvette swallowed three times before she spoke. “I did,” she confessed. “My dissertation bored her to death. She had a dozen pages with her in the bathroom.”

     The man smiled. “Always a risk,” he said. “But I feel sure that was not the proximate cause. Barely a contributing factor.”

     “You don’t know. You never tried to read it. Besides, the door was locked on the inside. No sign of a …”

     “Sure. A locked door isn’t much of an obstacle to a creature like that.”

     “And she’d been depressed. Her husband told her he was leaving.”

     But Yvette knew Karen would have been honored to see Judith Butler through the peephole, let alone Julia Kristeva.

     She looked out at the slick sidewalk under the streetlight. “Sure,” the man said. “Sure.”

     He himself looked so mournful, momentarily, that he was almost handsome, big features, small beard, chapped lips. His hands were big, his knuckles prominent. “Look,” he said, “I’ve been mapping out what I call power nodes in the different universities, mostly in the Northeast. The oldest and the wisest ones are territorial. The one I saw, she’s not that wise, not in comparison.”

     “You mean Farinelli.”

     “No. God, no. Farinelli’s just a wannabe, just starting out. Butler’s the transhuman here, but I don’t think she’s made the change to full-fledged antihuman. Not yet. She won’t have had the time. She was born in 1919, made, created, you could call it, in the late thirties—maybe by Martin Heidegger, which would explain the antiSemitism. It would have come in through the blood.”

     “1919 … ?”

     “Sure. Hadn’t you guessed? It’s Paul de Man. We’re talking about Paul de Man.”

     “Judith Butler is Paul de Man?”

     He slapped his hand on the table. “That’s who you’re dealing with here. That’s why the imitation is so good. The actual transformation was at Yale in the early eighties. He must have known it was going to come out, the story of his collaboration with the Nazis during the war. He must have taken this young graduate student from Bennington, groomed her, inhabited her body—Jewish, a woman. How he must have laughed! And of course her academic work is all about performativity. Not to mention antiZionism.”

     “But she’s at Berkeley,” objected Yvette. “Berkeley and Columbia. Farinelli’s the one here, isn’t she?”

     “I’m not sure. I was hoping to find out this afternoon.”

     She glanced away. “Well, I fixed that,” she said.

     Depressed and melancholic, she picked up her book. But she had lost the thread. Nor did she care to imagine the long drive home. After several minutes she looked up. The man hadn’t gone away. He hadn’t even changed the subject. “Why are you reading that posthuman trash?” he said. “I think there’s someone else here, someone important. Maybe somebody from Frankfurt. Farinelli seems too raw to me, too young.”

     Why was he staring? What did he want? She didn’t know his name, didn’t want to know it. She found herself irritated by his bossiness, his explanations: “What’s your field? Are you a poet?”

     Startled, he drew back his hand. “Why do you ask?”

     She put down the book. “Well, those are the battle lines, aren’t they? The Hatfields and McCoys. Plato kicked the poets out. We’re losing, in case you hadn’t noticed.” She had folded into eighths the remains of her muffin’s pleated baking slip. Now with her thumbnail she was rubbing it smooth on the surface of the table. “I was hoping you were a poet.”

     His eyes were quite attractive, kind of a speckled brown. This close, she could see his contact lenses. “I think that’s an oversimplification,” he said. “Plato was a poet, too. The Republic is a piece of poetry.”

     “Oversimplification is my new crusade. You think our enemies might hate themselves. Good to know. An Achilles heel, not that it gives us an advantage. For Plato, everything’s an imitation of the ideal. But does he ever say that’s bad? Maybe the imitations are always better, as it turns out.”

     The man smiled. “He would have disagreed while he was alive. By now I’m sure he’s changed his mind. You could ask him. I think he’s still at Harvard. Emeritus now, finally.”

     “Yes,” she said, “I’d heard the average age at Harvard for a tenured professor is a hundred and ninety-five. A lot of wisdom all around. I didn’t know Plato was skewing the numbers.”

     “It would take more than that,” he murmured. Were they flirting? It was hard to tell. She decided to think so. “What are you doing here, really?” she asked. “It wasn’t to see my little disaster. Was it? I hope it was.”

     Nearby, one of the waitresses was upending the chairs, placing them on tables. “Time to go,” he said.


     “I’ll show you. But we have to wait for a couple of hours until the building clears out.”

     “What shall we do in the meantime?” She placed her hand on top of his. “Can you think of something that might make us feel like human beings?”

     He had a motel room on Route 66 a couple of miles past the campus. The sex took a long time, but she did not come. In the old days with her ex-boyfriend, she would have been okay with faking it in order to achieve her naturalized idealization—no more. No longer would she feel she had to justify a Butlerian concept of heterosexuality.

     She was thinking too much about herself to find pleasure. She had helped him with the condom, making sure that he was tightly sealed. But when he pushed into her, she excited herself by imagining what it might be like to become pregnant, to experience the real deal—she loved thinking about this, in this and other contexts, but only after having first removed the possibility. This time she could not manage to sustain herself, and as the minutes passed she found his rhythmic movements had knocked something free, had liberated a series of images that had nothing to do with him or where they were, and which did nothing to comfort or pacify or fulfill her: She saw Karen Larsen in the bath of a hotel room like this one, perhaps: the same yellow walls, the water tinged with red. She had imagined this before, but now there was some other movement in the room, a quick, flitting shadow, or else a white face, briefly, in the mirror above the sink.

     He took her upper lip between his lips, pulled on her nipple, but what she thought about were the figures on the steps behind her at the lecture hall. Or she imagined the innocent young face of the undergraduate seated beside her, and remembered the excitement she had once felt in the early days, puzzling over gnomic texts from the Frankfurt School—where was Adorno now? she wondered, irrelevantly. Where had he managed to hole up? And what was his lineage—Hegel via Husserl, perhaps? Could she make the dates work out? It’s lucky they were such a greedy bunch, and these cushy academic appointments were so rare. Otherwise they would have infected the whole world with critical theory. But they lived forever, or almost forever, and they didn’t want the competition.

     After the man was finished, for a while he lay on top of her, his cheek against her shoulder. She liked that. He was not heavy. She brought up her hand to stroke his hair. Then he rose to take a shower, and she stretched her arms and legs out on the wide bed. He left the door open, and she listened to the water. She was thinking, again, in a series of images, a graphic-novel version of the past few years: herself, sitting in the kitchen of her Somerville apartment, barefoot, dressed in sweats, halfway through a bottle of Chardonnay, listening to a voice mail from her douchebag ex-boyfriend; herself, walking down Mass. Ave. toward her stupid job in the maternity store, hands in her pockets, stupid knitted cap on her head; herself, late at night, slumped forward in her study carrel in Mugar Library, her face pressed against her crossed forearms; herself in Karen Larsen’s Arlington house, staring across at Karen’s kind, solicitous, angelic, baffled face, as she searched for words to describe the doomed morass that was the Kristeva dissertation, the sucking, endless, teeming, bug-infested tarpit through which both of them were doomed to wander, caught in circles, until breath gave out. No, Karen had escaped, seen her chance and taken it. Only she was left, Yvette Daume, cowering on the one dry island, no one to light the way.

     She’d been wrong about Butler and apparently about Kristeva too—postanthropologic after all. She listened to the man use the toilet. He hadn’t given his name and she hadn’t asked for it, perhaps as a security precaution. Whistling softly, he flushed—he was proud of himself, no doubt. She, less so. The last panel, before she closed the book, was of herself, now, spread-eagled on this bed, the sheet pulled up over her big thighs. She must look terrible, she decided, her face blotched and streaked.

     She took an instant to remember more precisely the young man at the lecture, the student, his black glasses, his earnest face. What if she were with him now, listening to his sounds in the bathroom? Maybe she would have been able to share something more with him. Maybe she would have been able to teach him something as he lay in her arms, his unshaved cheek against her breast. Maybe he might have had performativity issues, and she could have consoled him, though not in Butlerian terms—she was done with that. Never again. She could have explained some things, and if he’d said, “One could critique that,” she could have gone: No, just think about it. Fuck critiquing it. And if he’d said, “I want to address how we frame the question,” then she might have gone: No, if you want to do that, do it for a minute afterward, and not for very long. If you try it before, it ruins everything. You want to answer the question before you frame it, let alone address the frame. He would have nodded, thoughtful, and she would have felt the movement on her breast.

     But what if he had said, “Is what’s false an imitation of what’s real? Or is it the other way?” What would she have said?

     Now the actual man came in from the bathroom and smiled down at her. He often smiled, which irritated her. “Get ready,” he said. “It’s time to make a foray.” He paused, scratched his arms, smelled his fingers, rubbed his nose. “This afternoon was just a reconnoiter.” Then, after a pause: “I could be wrong about this.”

     “No kidding.”

     She hadn’t seen the gun since the lecture, but now she did, a long, antique revolver as if from a John Ford Western. He put on his pants and strapped the holster to the outside of his leg. He didn’t turn on the lamp. Light came from the open bathroom door, and from a lantern by the office door outside, filtered through gauze curtains. “Different colleges have different what you might call nests of activity. Here it’s in the Comp. Lit. department. That’s where the measurements are outside normal levels. I’ve been studying the plans for Fisk Hall, where they have their offices.”

     “There’s no Comp. Lit. at Wesleyan,” she said.

     He smiled. “Not officially. It’s a secret program.”

     Irritated and embarrassed, she rolled out of bed, covering her breasts with her crossed arms. “Please turn around.” She never liked men to watch her get dressed. He stood observing her. He had dimples. She turned away from him and sat down on the side of the bed, facing the window, to put on her brassiere. “For crying out loud.”


     “A little privacy,” she said, buttoning her blouse.

     When she stood up, he was all business. He turned on the overhead light. Then he went out the door and she watched him open the trunk of his car. He brought in some blueprints rolled in an architect’s case, and spread one of them out on the surface of the bed, away from the wet spot. He dragged the bedclothes down, pushed them onto the floor. “This is the floor plan,” he said. “Fisk Hall is on College and High Streets. I cased it earlier. I don’t have much to suggest. But Farinelli has her office here, above the Language Resource Center.” He paused. “Didn’t she say she was in Anthropology? That’s clear on the other side of Wyllys. Two hundred and seventy-six feet away.”

     She was still pissed at him. “Suspicious.”

     He shrugged. “That’s all I’ve got. Like I said, I don’t think she is the only one. I was going to go over there and look around.” He’d been bending over the bed, his finger on the plan. Now he glanced up at her. “You want to come?”

     Really? she thought. For this he brought a blueprint in a fancy case? On the other hand, of course she wanted to go with him. That was why she had had sex with him: not to be left behind. Not to drive two hours back to Boston, up I-84 and to that vacant exit. At least not right away.

     They put their coats on and got back into the car. On High Street it had begun to snow, a few whirling flakes. Past nine o’clock, they sat in the parked car and waited for the lights to go out on the top floor. “That’s her office,” he said. “Fourth from the corner.”

     It was nice sitting in the car with him. She reached over to squeeze his hand. “Should we go up?” he asked.

     “Don’t look at me. I’m banned from campus.”

     They talked about other stuff as well. Personal things. She teased him: “How do you know so much?”

     He hesitated. “It’s my girlfriend. She teaches at U. Conn. She was up for this job—Farinelli’s job. They brought her for an interview, a campus talk. No chance. The wise ones have it wired up.”


     “Get rid of the undead wood. Give someone else a shot.”

     She let go of his hand. “You have a girlfriend?”

     The streets were deserted, dark. Eventually the light went out in Professor Farinelli’s office, and in a few more minutes they saw her standing on the steps, peering up and down the street. Nor was it crazy or paranoid to think that she seemed nervous, ill at ease. She pulled up the faux leopard-skin lapels of her overcoat and crossed between the cars, catty-corner toward Wyllys Avenue and the president’s house. Then she crossed to the other side where three small college buildings stood in a row, and stood for a moment outside the middle one, which was dark. She smoked part of a cigarette, flicked it away. Again glancing around her, she stepped onto the porch, unlocked the door, and slipped inside.

     “Gosh,” the man said. “I didn’t think anyone ever went in there. That’s some kind of secret-society house.” He jumped out of the car and ran across the street. By the time Yvette was able to follow him, he was already on the porch, pounding on the door.

     “What are you doing?” she asked as she came up the walk. The building was an old one, perhaps mid-nineteenth century, with stone lintels. It was windowless, at least on this side. He was hitting the door with slow, powerful strokes, and he had his gun in his right hand. “What are you doing?” she repeated. But if he had a plan, she never found it out; the door opened. Professor Farinelli had taken off her hat and gloves. She stood partially in silhouette, the bulk of the light behind her, a soft, amber glow. But now Yvette was close enough to see a number of details she had missed that afternoon in Crowell Hall—the woman was far younger than she’d thought, perhaps a couple of years out of graduate school. And close up she was luminously beautiful, a cloud of light around her red-gold hair. And stylishly dressed, and also supernaturally quick: She’d been expecting someone, perhaps, and her tense, artificial smile had turned immediately to astonishment and then something else, a look of furious determination. Before the man could raise his hand she’d reached across the threshold, thrust her lacquered nails into his throat, pulled him forward into the chamber; he stumbled to his knees. Yvette received a quick impression of the grotesque, sucking mouth, posthuman, transhuman, antihuman, who could tell? It was the complexity of these distinctions that made modern critical theory so infuriating. Yvette had her stiletto out now, and as Farinelli bent over the man’s breast she stabbed her through the back of the neck with the silver blade. She stepped inside the room and shut the door and leaned her back against it, surveying what she’d done.

     The man, of course, was dead. She hadn’t even seen how that had happened. Farinelli’s mouth was open and her breath was rough. Yvette had severed her spinal column as Professor Larsen had taught her, a single stroke and then a twist of the blade, as they’d practiced during breaks. It was a myth that the creatures couldn’t die, and Karen had told her to pay attention to what happened next, the transformation. She stood with her hands behind her, and again her mind had migrated to her mountain cleft, from which she could look down and examine the sprawled figure of the man, Farinelli’s fingers still locked in his throat. And then there, as if far below her, lay the creature herself, flopping listlessly, a subtle haze obscuring her body, clinging like a mist to her yellow cashmere sweater, her bare shoulders. She must have stripped off her overcoat as soon as she had stepped inside.

     The door behind Yvette was heavy and dark. She raised her arms now and grabbed hold of something above her, a sigil carved into the surface. Below her, Farinelli writhed and twitched as her flesh receded, as her arms and legs dried into brittle sticks. Yvette could see the sinews coursing down her neck as the submerged fat melted from her acromion and scapula. Her tongue withered in her mouth, and Yvette could hear, disappearing as if on the wind, her final words, a garbled remnant of something she had said that afternoon: “Through a discussion of bodily suffering, I see eroticism as integral to a deconstruction … a dissolution of the subject …”

     And that was that. The creature, ancient, a dry, disassembled, deconstructed husk, was dead. Yvette had been jabbing the point of the stiletto into the wood behind her, while with her left hand she had grabbed hold of the skull-and-serpent sigil above her head. Now she let go and stepped away from the entwined figures, farther into the room. Stiletto clutched, she made a circuit of the chamber, examining the mix of gothic and modern furnishings: glass-fronted cabinets, partial skeletons, stuffed animals, ripped armchairs and sofas around a flat-screen TV, a litter of Xboxes and PS3s—gamer’s grotto meets high Victorian camp. She saw a number of books, poststructuralist classics, backs broken, facedown, strewn about on the scarred coffee table amid the dirty cups: The Gift of Death, Empire of Signs, Hatred and Forgiveness, A Taste for the Secret, The Pleasures of Repetition. Paul de Man’s The Resistance to Theory was among them, the pages decorated with coffee rings. Light came from a low brass lamp with a beaded shade, which left the far recesses of the chamber in obscurity. But now Yvette could see something moving back there, something spread out on the surface of a table or makeshift altar: marble top, mahogany veneer.

     She took her time. She imagined leaving this place, shutting the door, walking down the hill again to find her car parked on Main Street in front of the bank. She had to work in the morning at the maternity store in Sommerville. That wasn’t the worst thing, was it, under the circumstances? She examined her feelings, while at the same time she took little steps that brought her closer to the table under the blocked-up window, where among the tarnished candelabra she could see the desiccated figure of a man, curled up on himself and the narrow surface, chained down, she saw, with iron cuffs—that was the sound she’d heard.

     His head was hairless, an animated skull. She leaned down to hear him speak, the soft words unintelligible, because her German never had been good. But he must have smelled her; now he opened his eyes and the words came clear, his accent thick at first, then dwindling. “She’s starving me. I was the one who hired her, over some objections I may say. The decision was not unanimous. And now what has she done? Please,” he whispered, and she could see his delicate nostrils flare. “I am so hungry. So … thirsty.”

     Yvette brought up the stiletto and laid it across his bare esophagus, just has Karen had shown her. But then she hesitated. And perhaps he could sense the hesitation: “You,” he said. “Please, please. I have under my control a two-year postdoc, what you say. Or if your dissertation is not finished, perhaps we could arrange something … under my supervision. The stipend is … quite generous …”

     “What’s the teaching load?” she whispered, her breath as soft as his.

     “Teaching …,” he said, almost too weak to continue, until she brought her wrist up to his lips, and allowed his little, childlike mouth to fasten onto it. After a moment she could feel his rough, probing tongue.

Paul Park’s books include All Those Vanished Engines (Tor) and Other Stories (PSJ). He teaches writing at Williams College.