The Apothecary Who Was Not Written

Shakespeare wrote the apothecary twenty lines and then disappeared him from the text.

Think about what that means for a moment. Romeo, banished to Mantua, walks into a shop and asks a starving man to sell him poison. The apothecary refuses. The apothecary cites the law. Mantua punishes the sale of such drugs with death. Romeo counters that the world affords no law to make him rich. Forty ducats change hands. A vial changes hands. Romeo leaves. Shakespeare's attention returns to Verona, to the tomb, to the reconciliation of the feuding houses.

The apothecary remains in his shop. He has forty ducats on the counter. He has just committed a capital crime. Nobody has ever asked him what happened next.

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The Claimed Body

1862.

That is the year Abraham Lincoln signed the Homestead Act. The Act said that any American willing to settle on 160 acres of public land, live there for five years, and improve the parcel, could file a claim and receive title. Between 1862 and 1976, when the Federal Land Policy and Management Act finally repealed the Homestead Act in the contiguous states, the United States distributed approximately 270 million acres of continental North America through this mechanism of the registered claim. The claim, the parcel, the boundary line, the survey marker. That is how the American imagination learned to think about territory.

My new book, The Claimed Body: How American Institutions Divided the Human Organism Among Themselves, argues that the American body is now claimed the same way.

Not metaphorically. Structurally. The body you are sitting in right now, the body listening to my voice, is divided among institutional claimants who have filed on portions of it with the same legal and procedural logic that once divided the continent. A hospital claims your birth. A school claims your developmental measurements. An insurer claims your diagnostic history. An employer claims your labor capacity and your drug screens. The state claims your reproductive eligibility and your military eligibility. If the criminal claim succeeds, a prison claims your physical presence. At the other end of life, a dying registry claims the moment of your cessation, and a funeral corporation claims the disposal of your remains. Operating in the shadow of all of these, a data broker claims an ongoing right to your metabolic patterns, your consumption patterns, your grief patterns, your sleep patterns, your pharmaceutical patterns, and sells them forward to whoever will pay.

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Carceral Nation: The Pause Before You Speak

We talked once on this podcast about the pause before a lie. That episode, "Pause Before the Lie," examined the 200-millisecond hesitation that researchers have measured in the human voice when a speaker is about to say something untrue. I argued that the pause was proof of consciousness caught between realities, and that the hesitation itself might be the most human thing about us.

Today I want to talk about a different pause. A longer one. One that has nothing to do with lying and everything to do with freedom.

Somewhere in the last forty-eight hours, you started to type something and stopped. A sentence composed itself in your head, and you swallowed it. The thought of attending an event, visiting a website, searching a phrase flickered through your mind, and then it went dark. An edit was made before anyone requested one.

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The Grammar of Want

I was seven years old, sitting on red shag carpeting in Nebraska, in front of a wood-grain television cabinet heavy enough that two adults would struggle to move it. It was a Saturday morning in October 1972. My mother was somewhere else in the house, or she was not home. Curtains were drawn. A rotary dial on the front of the cabinet clicked through thirteen VHF positions, though only three of them produced a signal. The rest produced static, a white hiss I associated with emptiness. I turned on the set myself. No one helped me. No one told me to.

I did not know I was being trained.

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The Human Universal Beautiful

In the fall of 1984, I was sitting in a darkened lecture hall at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln, watching slides click through a Kodak Carousel projector. Greek marble. Benin bronze. Mughal miniature. Japanese woodblock. The professor's argument was plain: these works endured because they were beautiful, and beauty was the thread that connected every person in that room to every person who had ever stood before the original object. 

Down the hall, in a different semester, a film professor made a different case. Beauty, he said, was larger than prettiness. The ugly, the reprehensible, the fantastic, the comic: all of these were forms of beauty because all of them enchanted and instructed. A movie theater was a secular chapel. We watch together because beauty is a collective event.

Both professors were right. Both were incomplete. And the question that has taken me forty years to formulate is the question my new book, The Human Universal Beautiful, attempts to answer: if beauty connects and instructs, who controls the connection? Who writes the lesson plan?

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The Voice That Wasn't Yours

Three seconds. That is all it takes.

Three seconds of your voice, captured from a public meeting, a conference call, a video posted to social media, and a machine can learn to speak as you. It can produce your cadence, your rhythm, the way you pause before a name, the way your pitch drops when you are certain. It can say things you have never said, in rooms you have never entered, to people you have never met. And the people who hear it will believe it is you, because the only test the human ear can perform is recognition, and recognition is no longer proof of origin.

This is the condition that The Likeness, the ninth novel in the Fractional Fiction series, examines from the inside.

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The Counterfeit Bargain

Twenty-one violinists walked into a hotel room in Indianapolis in 2010. They were experienced soloists, people who had spent decades training their ears. The room was dimly lit. They wore modified welding goggles so they could not see the instruments. And they were handed violins, some worth twelve million dollars, some worth a few thousand, and asked to play them, compare them, and choose the one they would take home.

Two-thirds chose a modern violin. The most-selected instrument in the entire test was new. The least-selected was a Stradivarius.

That experiment opens my new book, The Counterfeit Bargain, and it opens the book for a reason that has nothing to do with violins. When the apparatus of prestige was removed, when the name, the provenance, the three centuries of accumulated myth were stripped away and only the sound remained, the superiority vanished. Same object. Same listeners. Different frame.

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