The Benefits of Refusing
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In the U.K., when people stop smoking, they say they 'gave it up,' Melissa Febos notes in her new book, The Dry Season. In the U.S., by contrast, it's more common to hear that they 'quit.' She observes that giving something up has a different connotation; to do so is 'to hand it over to some other, better keeper. To free one's hands for other holdings.' The phrasing matters: Giving up feels gentler, and also perhaps more generative.
First, here are four new stories from The Atlantic's books section:
Fast times and mean girls
The real message behind Les Misérables
How one animal divided Europe
Seven books for people figuring out their next move
The Dry Season is a memoir about the year Febos spent voluntarily celibate, and this week, she wrote for The Atlantic about six books that celebrate refusal and abstinence. The titles she chose opened her eyes to 'all the other kinds of reneging I've experienced, and how many of them led to unforeseen delights,' she writes. In her own book, Febos uses a striking metaphor to explain why she took a break from sex, dating, and even flirtation. Whenever she had a partner, she writes, 'it made sense to keep the channel of one's heart narrowed the width of a single person, to peer through the keyhole at a single room rather than turn to face the world.' Febos realized that she wanted, instead, to widen her aperture, and found that removing something from her life opened her up to all the other things that had escaped her notice. In essence, her book argues, saying no to one thing allows you to say yes to something else.
At a talk with the essayist and fellow memoirist Leslie Jamison earlier this week in New York, Febos said that her book is really about finding God, but she told the world that it was about sex because, she joked, it made for better marketing. Her description of discovering the sublime in daily things—such as the 'tang of fresh raspberries and the crispness of clean bedsheets,' as she writes in her recommendation list—moved me. It reminded me that spirituality can be less restrictive and more dynamic than I usually imagine it to be; that it can be found in smaller phenomena and stiller moments. My colleague Faith Hill, in her review of The Dry Season, came to much the same conclusion about the benefits of marshaling one's attention: 'Better to keep drawing it back, again and again, to the world around you: to the pinch in your shoe, to the buds in the trees, to the people—all the many, many people—who are right there beside you.' Febos's book made me wonder what narrow portals I'm looking through in my life, and what I might see if I turn away from them.
What to Read When You're Ready to Say No
By Melissa Febos
Purposeful refusal, far from depriving us, can make way for unexpected bounty.
Read the full article.
, by Bae Suah
The page-turning plot twists and thrills of a detective novel are often a very effective bulwark against boredom. The Korean writer Bae's novel offers those genre pleasures and more: It is, as Bae's longtime translator Deborah Smith explains in her note, a detective novel by way of a 'poetic fever dream.' Set over the course of one very hot summer night in Seoul, the book follows a woman named Ayami as she attempts to find a missing friend. As she searches, she bumps into Wolfi, a detective novelist visiting from Germany, and enlists him in her quest. Events take on a surreal quality, heightened by both an intense heat wave and the possibility that Ayami and Wolfi may have stumbled into another dimension. Summer's release from our usual timetables can quickly lead to seasonal doldrums. Untold Night and Day, set during the stretched hours of a sweaty, unceasing evening, shimmers at its edges, like midnight in July. — Rhian Sasseen
From our list: Five books that will redirect your attention
📚 UnWorld, by Jayson Greene
📚 The Möbius Book, by Catherine Lacey
📚 The Sisters, by Jonas Hassen Khemiri
What Trump Missed at the Kennedy Center
By Megan Garber
Little wonder that 'Do You Hear the People Sing?' [from Les Misérables] has become a protest song the world over, its words invoked as pleas for freedom. Crowds in Hong Kong, fighting for democracy, have sung it. So have crowds in the United States, fighting for the rights of unions. The story's tensions are the core tensions of politics too: the rights of the individual, colliding with the needs of the collective; the possibilities, and tragedies, that can come when human dignity is systematized. Les Mis, as a story, is pointedly specific—one country, one rebellion, one meaning of freedom. But Les Mis, as a broader phenomenon, is elastic. It is not one story but many, the product of endless interpretation and reiteration. With the novel, Hugo turned acts of history into a work of fiction. The musical turned the fiction into a show. And American politics, now, have turned the show into a piece of fan fic.
Read the full article.
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Like other online innovations such as social media, large language models do not so much create problems as supercharge preexisting ones. The internet has long been awash with fake quotations attributed to prominent personalities. As Abraham Lincoln once said, 'You can't trust every witticism superimposed over the image of a famous person on the internet.' But the advent of AI interfaces churning out millions of replies to hundreds of millions of people—ChatGPT and Google's Gemini have more than 1 billion active users combined—has turned what was once a manageable chronic condition into an acute infection that is metastasizing beyond all containment. The process by which this happens is simple. Many people do not know when LLMs are lying to them, which is unsurprising given that the chatbots are very convincing fabulists, serving up slop with unflappable confidence to their unsuspecting audience. That compromised content is then pumped at scale by real people into their own online interactions. The result: Meretricious material from chatbots is polluting our public discourse with Potemkin pontification, derailing debates with made-up appeals to authority and precedent, and in some cases, defaming living people by attributing things to them that they never said and do not agree with. More and more people are having the eerie experience of knowing that they have been manipulated or misled, but not being sure by whom. As with many aspects of our digital lives, responsibility is too diffuse for accountability. AI companies can chide users for trusting the outputs they receive; users can blame the companies for providing a service—and charging for it—that regularly lies. And because LLMs are rarely credited for the writing that they help produce, victims of chatbot calumny struggle to pinpoint which model did the deed after the fact. You don't have to be a science-fiction writer to game out the ill effects of this progression, but it doesn't hurt. 'It is going to become harder and harder for us to understand what things are genuine and what things are not,' Scalzi told me. 'All that AI does is make this machinery of artifice so much more automated,' especially because the temptation for many people is 'to find something online that you agree with and immediately share it with your entire Facebook crowd' without checking to see if it's authentic. In this way, Scalzi said, everyday people uncritically using chatbots risk becoming a 'willing route of misinformation.' The good news is that some AI executives are beginning to take the problems with their products seriously. 'I think that if a company is claiming that their model can do something,' OpenAI CEO Sam Altman told Congress in May 2023, 'and it can't, or if they're claiming it's safe and it's not, I think they should be liable for that.' The bad news is that Altman never actually said this. Google's Gemini just told me that he did.
