New York Magazine - USA (2020-10-12)

october12–25, 2020 | newyork 87

h on the Ineffable Pleasures of Patricia Highsmith’s The Price of Salt

Throughoutthenovel,

Thereseis lookingfor

instructionfromCarolas

thoughshe’s fillingsome

sortofparentalvoid.Sothis

is anincrediblyprofound

moment,onethat’s so

recognizabletomeasa

queerwoman—thatTherese

hasa certainty, andshe

doesn’t needit definedor

explainedorsanctioned

byanyoutsideforce.

I spenta goodpart of

mylateteensandearly20s

readingallthelesbianlit

I couldinordertobethe

bestlesbianI couldbewhen

I cameout.WhenI first

readthescene,inmymid-

20s,I didn’t wantit tobe

artful.I wantedit tobean

instructionmanual.It does

feelgoofy toadmitthat,

butI reallywantedtodoit

correctly. Thiswasinthe

late’90sandearlyaughts.

I reada lotofupsetting

lesbianbooks;I started

withTheWellofLoneliness

andworkedmy way from

there,storieswherethe

queercouplearepunished

insomeway. Reading

thisbook,evensome 48

yearsafterit hadbeen

published,hada hugeeffect

onme—thehopefulness,

theendorsementof

Therese’s feelings.

Now, whenI rereadthe

passage,it’s themissing

anatomy that I love.

I’mfillinginthedetails.

Highsmithallowsspacefor

thereadertodothatwork

atexactlytherightmoment.

She’s takingthereaderinto

therealmoftheineffable.

Asa youngreader, that is

whatI wantedtheexperience

ofsextobelike. I knew I had

thesedesires,buttoacton

thesedesires—thatterrain

stillfeltvery fraughttome.

Sothisideathatsex wouldbe

sobeautifulI wouldn’t even

beabletofindthewordsfor

it,thatfeltvery important.

Thisscenelodgedsofirmly

inmybrainthat it bubblesup

inwaysI’mnotalwaysaware

ofwhenI’mwriting.There’s

a momentinmynew book

whenthreeofthecharacters

makeoutinanorchard,and

eachofthemis thinkingin

thesereallyspecific,sensory

termsofimagesthat they’re

goingtorememberlater.

I lovethatshift fromtactile

writingintometaphoric

writingthatallowsthereader

tofullyliveina scenesothat

it feelstrue,whichis really

whatI askoffiction. ■

d her on the lips, and pleasure leaped in Therese again as if it were

l had slipped her armunder her necklast night. I love you, Therese

by the tingling and terrifying pleasure th atspread in waves

, that rushed suddenly, the length of her body. Her arms were tight

g else, of Carol’s hand that slid along her ribs, Carol’s hair that brushed

h in widening circles that leaped further and further, beyond

s and moments, words, the first darling, the second time Carol had

s face, her voice, moments of anger and laughter flashed like the

blue distance and space, an expanding space in which she took

ross an impossibly wide abyss with ease, seemed to arc on and

t she still clung to Carol, that she trembled violently, and the arrow

Carol’s head was close against hers. And she did not have to

not have been more right or perfect. She held Carol tighter

uth. Therese lay still, looking at her, at Carol’s face only inches

hem, as if they retained some of the space she had just emerged

, with the freckles, the bending blond eyebrow that she knew, the

ny times before. ¶ ‘My angel,’ Carol said. ‘Flung out of space.’ ”