Longreads

Our expectations with regard to privacy and secrecy. In 1844, the British government was accused of opening people's mail. Lepore compares the case to the NSA's alleged digging into our digital lives:

"The particular technology matters little; the axiom holds. It’s only a feature, though, of a centuries-long historical transformation: the secularization of mystery. A mystery, in Christian theology, is what God knows and man cannot, and must instead believe. Immortality, in this sense, is a mystery. So is the beginning of life, which is a good illustration of how much that was once mysterious became secret and then became private. Anciently invoked as one of God’s mysteries, the beginning of life was studied, by anatomists, as the 'secret of generation.' Finally, citizens, using the language of a constitutional 'right to privacy,' defended it against intrusion. Theologically, the beginning of life, the ensoulment of new flesh, remains a mystery. Empirically, uncovering the secret of generation required tools—microscopes, lenses, cameras—that made the creation of life both visible and knowable. Only after it was no longer a mystery, and no longer a secret, only after it was no longer invisible, did it become private. By then, it was too late: contraception was already in the hands of the state."

[Fiction] Two brothers begin to drift apart in India during the late '60s after one decides to study in the U.S. and the other becomes a Naxalite:

"Richard asked Subhash about India, about its caste system, its poverty. Who was to blame?

"I don’t know. These days everyone just blames everyone else.

"But is there a solution? Where does the government stand?

"Subhash didn’t know how to describe India’s fractious politics, its complicated society, to an American. He said it was an ancient place that was also young, still struggling to know itself. You should be talking to my brother, he said."

The story of Chris Kyle, a decorated sniper who wrote a best-selling memoir about his life as a SEAL. Kyle's attempt to help a troubled veteran ended in tragedy:

"After Routh arrived at the Dallas V.A., Jodi and Jen visited him in the evenings. A week later, he did not seem much better. He was taking several medications, and Jodi felt that he could hardly carry on a conversation. She urged the doctors to keep him hospitalized, at least until he was stable.

"Ignoring Jodi’s request, the V.A. discharged Routh the next day; according to Jodi, the doctors shared this news over the phone, saying that Routh was an adult and wanted to leave. When she drove to the V.A. to pick up her son, he was already out, sitting in the lobby. She brought him home and told him about Chris Kyle, whom she had just met. 'I said, ‘This guy has a big reputation. He’s a really good man and he really wants to help you.’ And then he’s like, "Mom, that is so awesome," ' Jodi recalled. 'Eddie was happy. He could feel that somebody wanted to help him, somebody that understood better than me.'"

[Fiction] A young man, estranged from his girlfriend, receives experimental stem-cell treatment in Germany:

"Hayley wasn’t coming. It was pretty obvious. Julian sat shivering in the chill, listening for the 9:13. Then the 9:41. Then the 10:02. He was tired. In winter, he sometimes caught a fever. His arms burned hot, as if a flame were being held to his skin. This was the nerves dying, an Internet confidant had explained. Of course his immune system wanted him dead. It knew. It was making the call on behalf of the wider society. It was taking him out. In the larger project of the universe, of which he must necessarily be kept in the dark, his own existence appeared to be an obstacle. So the species makes an adjustment. It redacts."

Inside the debate over what the U.S. should do about Syria:

"He walked back to his desk and sat down. 'The Syria I have just drawn for you—I call it the Sinkhole,' he said. 'I think there is an appreciation, even at the highest levels, of how this is getting steadily worse. This is the discomfort you see with the President, and it’s not just the President. It’s everybody.' No matter how well intentioned the advocates of military intervention are, he suggested, getting involved in a situation as complex and dynamic as the Syrian civil war could be a foolish risk. The cost of saving lives may simply be too high. 'Whereas we had a crisis in Iraq that was contained—it was very awful for us and the Iraqis—this time it will be harder to contain,' he said. 'Four million refugees going into Lebanon and Jordan is not the kind of problem we had going into Iraq.'"

[Fiction] Two college friends speculate about a stranger in town:

"We were two sombre boys hunched in our coats, grim winter settling in. The college was at the edge of a small town way upstate, barely a town, maybe a hamlet, we said, or just a whistle stop, and we took walks all the time, getting out, going nowhere, low skies and bare trees, hardly a soul to be seen. This was how we spoke of the local people: they were souls, they were transient spirits, a face in the window of a passing car, runny with reflected light, or a long street with a shovel jutting from a snowbank, no one in sight."

The life and death of pioneering feminist Shulamith Firestone:

"Midway through the service, the feminist author Kate Millett, now seventy-eight, approached the dais, bearing a copy of 'Airless Spaces' (1998), the only book that Firestone published after her landmark manifesto, 'The Dialectic of Sex: The Case for Feminist Revolution,' which came out in 1970. Millett read from a chapter entitled 'Emotional Paralysis,' in which Firestone wrote of herself in the third person:

"She could not read. She could not write. . . . She sometimes recognized on the faces of others joy and ambition and other emotions she could recall having had once, long ago. But her life was ruined, and she had no salvage plan.

"Clearly, something terrible had happened to Firestone, but it was not her despair alone that led Millett to choose this passage. When she finished reading, she said, 'I think we should remember Shulie, because we are in the same place now.' It was hard to say which moment the mourners were there to mark: the passing of Firestone or that of a whole generation of feminists who had been unable to thrive in the world they had done so much to create."

[Fiction] A previously unpublished sci-fi story by the writer and film critic, who died on April 4 at age 70:

"'This is a vague idea,' said Regan. 'I'm still working on it. Titan evolves molecules that group in such a way that they, oh, get together, like, and don't actually communicate, like, but prowl around in non-self-conscious collective-information patterns. That's what we're hearing, now that we're closer to the source.'

"'There's only one way this is going,' Alex said. 'A lunar intelligence.'

"'Intelligence is not required,' Regan said. 'All that's needed are patterns that move more easily than other patterns. Patterns that lend themselves to pattern-originators. The way of least resistance. We don't like sulfur, but it's yummy for the deep-sea plumes.'" Read more from the Longreads Roger Ebert Archive

At Horace Mann—the prestigious Bronx private school rocked by allegations of sexual abuse from the 1960s into the 1990s—former students recall a pattern of abuse from one eccentric English teacher:

"And what about Mr. Berman—this odd, secretive man who frightened away many students, yet retired to a house that former students bought for him? He wasn’t mentioned in the Times stories, but he may have been the greatest enigma of all. I talked to more than a hundred alumni, to many teachers who worked with him in the sixties and seventies, and to administrators who dealt with complaints about teachers. Berman stood out for his extraordinary control over boys’ lives. Several of his former students have spent decades trying to grasp why they yearned to be close to him, and why they remained silent for so long after, by their accounts, he abused them. 'Berman counted on everyone’s silence,' one of the men who lived with him after graduating from Horace Mann told me. Like some of the others, he asked not to be named. 'He assumed that our own humiliation would keep us quiet,' he said."