In Which The Arrow Landed In A House

The Matchmaker

by ARIANA ROBERTS

If we are going to be married I think it's only fair you know a little bit about the marriage customs of my people. They involve pigs and beer. And by my people I don't mean Koreans and I don't mean Americans, I mean the Bhutanese, because I'm the David Hasselhoff of their country.

In Bhutan, in every village the matchmaker comes to the girls' houses unannounced so they don't have time to escape. And if they tell the parents, the parents lock the girl up.

Matchmaker is an elected position, and the title is derived from when the Tibetan minister Gar Tongtsen traveled to China to find a bride for the king. Many ministers represented their countries, rulers who the sought the princess’s hand, so the Emperor devised a test to determine she should marry. These included threading spiral turquoise, identifying the root end of a tree cut into a hundred logs, and drinking 100 hundred pitchers of distilled whiskey before identifying the princess among 100 beautiful maidens. Gar Tongsten won, and the princess, terrified at the idea of leaving her home country, composed a song, Lyonpo-garwa-tongthrab, from which the title is derived.

Incidentally, when he was 16 years old, the king of Bhutan (her groom) saw two rays of light beam from his heart towards Nepal and China. The light shone on two prospective brides, the daughter of the Nepalese King and the daughter of the Chinese Emperor.

It's an interesting country, glued together by Buddhism, the purest form of that religion you'll ever find in the world, not pacifistic or ascetic in the least. In fact, the national sport is practiced in tandem with phallocentric festivals. According to legend, the 15th century Buddhist saint Drukpa Kunley shot an arrow from Tibet, praying that his progeny would prosper where it landed. That arrow landed in a house in Bhutan, where he entered and seduced the owner's wife. Now all over Bhutan, giant phalluses (phalli?) are painted on buildings, houses, and trees, purporting to ward off evil spirits. Archery teams even employ tsips, or astrologers believed to possess mystical powers, to engage in black magic, constructing effigies of competitors and smearing them with menstrual blood before festivals.

The triratna, the prayer beads, the ritual chanting and hellfire woodcuts...I wonder if Buddhists and Catholics realize they are the same religion. The Dalai Lama knows he is the same as the pope, the order of monks know they're the clergy, but I doubt the reverse is true.

Anyway, in Bhutan the Buddhist women are happy when their husbands beat them. They don't complain about anything!  And therein lies the key difference between Buddhist women and me, because I would tie any man who ever laid a hand on me to a dzong and set him on fire with a butter lamp.

Ariana Roberts is the senior contributor to This Recording. She is a writer living in Cleveland. You can find an archive of her writing on This Recording here.

"Dinner for Two" - Love This Giant (mp3)

"Weekend In The Dust" - Love This Giant (mp3)

In Which Faith Is Ours To Keep Lit

To Swim Across The World

by ARIANA ROBERTS

1

It’s Jeanne d’Arc day. Outside there is singing and marching; people flank the Rue di Rivoli bearing crosses, flowers, and a banner that says, “France is Christian and will always stay that way.”

The girl next to us is alone, has a French-Russian dictionary and looks tiny in the big pink velvet seat. You can tell she’s been crying. “I wish I could help her,” Sara says. When the waiter comes, she asks for chocolat au chaud in the smallest voice possible. There is a tan line on her finger where a ring used to be. I look at my own hand – a year later, that line is still there, like a scar. “I wonder what her story is,” Sara says. I know, but I can’t explain it to my friend.

I cover my hand with a napkin and order a Serendipity. “Good choice. I can tell you make good choices,” Colin says. A few minutes later, he hands me a drink that is not at all what I ordered. It looks innocent in the glass, but feels like a punch in the face. I’m in love.

“Let’s call this Petit Cendrillon,” he says. “Cinderella left the prince, and she lived happily ever after.”

He tells me how, centuries ago, French women in deep mourning were required to shun all public promenades. There was one street, leading away from the farther extremity of the Champs-Élysées to the Seine, where life went on for widows of the capital. Called “Allée des Veuves,” the avenue became a haven for the husbandless; there, they could drive carriages without reprisal and forget their sorrows without violating the code of Parisian society. Walking down Avenue Montaigne today, I can almost see them in the Jardin Mabille, admiring Chinese lanterns on boughs, lapping up spray from the fountains, practicing quadrilles amidst lilacs in full blossom.

Now the only lilacs are the silk ones in the windows of Dior. Inside, a little ring says “Oui” in gold script with a diamond dotting the “I.” “Toutes les filles en rêvent,” the salesgirl says.

“Non would be more fitting, for me at least. Qui trop embrasse, manqué le train.”

She laughs, picks the ring up, and slides it on my left ring finger, over a glaringly bright stripe of pale skin, brighter than the ring that covered it in the first place. It happens to fit perfectly.

2

According to Hindu theology, there are five sacred lakes collectively called Panch-Sarovar. One of those lakes, Pushkar, is where I heard this story.

Shakuntala is abandoned at birth, rescued by the sage Kanva, and raised in a hermitage. One day, the elders go on a pilgrimage, leaving her alone in the forest. The king is out hunting when he stumbles upon Shakuntala, falls in love, and marries her. He invites her to the capital, but she wants to say goodbye to Kanva first. Before leaving, he gives her a signet ring as proof of their union.

Shakuntala waits for Kanva, fantasizing about her future life as queen. She’s so busy dreaming she doesn’t realize a sage has come to the hermitage. Offended, he bewitches the king into forgetting her existence.

Eventually the elders take Shakuntala to the palace. While crossing a river en route, she carelessly loses the ring. When they reach the palace, the king doesn’t recognize Shakuntala. The elders think she is a crazy liar; feeling betrayed, they abandon her. Alone in the desert, Shakuntala nearly dies giving birth to the king’s child.

Later, a fisherman finds the ring in the belly of a fish. Upon seeing it, the king remembers his wife. He sets out to find her and encounters an army of Asuras. After defeating them, he is taken to Hindu heaven. It is years before he returns to Earth, where he meets Shakuntala and their child by chance. But Shakuntala is no longer the sheltered girl from the hermitage — she’s a legit female Ibn Battuta. Raising a child and traveling the world has made her wise and strong.

Since she won’t go back to the palace, the king asks to accompany the little family on their journey. Though she never stopped loving him, Shakuntala refuses. “Where I am going, no man can follow,” she explains sadly. When people ask how I lost my wedding ring, this is the story I tell instead.

Pushkar Lake is surrounded by ghats, a series of steps leading to the water. Thousands flock there every year, believing a dip in the lake will cleanse them of sin. It will not. I was there a month and swam every day. Every day, I came out feeling just as bad as when I went in.


3

Nearly opposite the island of Samos, Ephesus lay among the slopes of Mount Pion and Mount Koressos, on the Aegean Turkish Coast. The port was strategically located near the mouth of the Cayster, along the main trade route from Rome to the Orient. If you start a tour from the upper entrance, you are immediately rewarded with a magnificent view of the Street of the Curetes down to the Library of Celsus.

The theater where the Ephesians rioted at the instigation of Demetrius is situated within a hollow of Mt. Pion. It was decorated with pillars, niches, and fine statuary. The marble seats for the spectators were arranged in a half circle of 66 rows; these, it has been estimated, afforded room for about 25,000 persons. The acoustic properties of the theater were excellent. Even today, a word spoken in a low voice at the location of the stage can be heard throughout the theater. I know, because once Paul said, “Stay here,” and ran down to the stage. From the top seats I could hear him say, “I love Ari.”

Fragments of the temple of Artemis indicate that brilliant color and sculpture adorned the building. Large white marble tiles covered its roof. Instead of mortar, gold is reputed to have been used between the joints of marble blocks. Never had such large blocks of marble been used to create this kind of building at this magnitude. Though Heracleitus decried the temple’s dark approach to the altar, for the rest of the ancient world, it seemed as if it would never fall into decline. 

In the 3rd century C.E., an earthquake effectively rent the great temple in half. Almost immediately, seafaring Goths from the Black Sea pounced, plundering the temple riches before setting it on fire. Eventually, silting sealed off the harbor, and Ephesus ceased to function as a port. No modern settlement stands on the same site today.

“One of the greatest human achievements in the world, and it barely lasted a century,” Paul said.

“I wonder why they didn’t try to rebuild it.”

“Probably embarrassed. They all put their faith in something they shouldn’t have. Nothing humans can create is lasting.” It was dusk, and we’d come without a tour group, surrounded only by columns that line the street from the theater to the city harbor. He took my hand and led me to the bottom of the street, through the arch that was the gateway to the world.

4

Follow the Theodesian Walls past Topkapi-Ulubatli and you’ll reach Sulukule, the Harlem of Istanbul. We’d gotten off at the wrong metro stop and found it accidentally, a once-vibrant center of Romani culture turned Dudley Street. The entire area was leveled by demolition crews, save a few colorful buildings — relics of the Byzantine era — in shambles. Assuming the area abandoned, we fell asleep in a purple house, the casualty of an urban redevelopment project long forgotten. When Paul woke me up in the morning, there were little kids standing over us, poking him. “People live here,” he said incredulously.

We played hide-and-seek in the ruins a few hours; then, one boy led us up to a mosque overlooking Sulukule. He spoke, and Paul translated.

“Mimar Sinan built it for Princess Mihrimah. She was in love with Sinan, but forced to marry a grand vizier. Mihrimah stayed in an unhappy marriage more than twenty years, until her husband died. Then Sinan built the mosque, to prove he still loved her. Nothing else like it would exist for centuries. It has hundreds of windows, but only one minaret. Mihrimah ordered Sinan to stop, even though she was entitled to two.”

“Why?”

“The mosque is a symbol. Of her loneliness.”

“I don’t understand. She was free, and Sinan loved her. What was the problem?"

“Mihrimah was 17 when she got married. Before that, she lived with her parents. She never had the chance to live her own life.”

“So instead of sharing her life with someone who loved her…”

“She died alone. Because that was her choice.”

“I don’t think I like this story,” I said. “It makes no sense.”

A few years later, I went back to the rubble. Sirens blared throughout Istanbul to call people to prayer. When the chanting stopped, there was a sound like rushing water coming from a small pit nearby. “Cisterns,” an old woman said. “From Constantinople.”

“Underneath us?"

“Hundreds of them.”

I stood at the edge of the dirt, gauging the cavity’s size. I could fit down there.

“You’ll ruin your dress,” she warned.

The mosque, situated on the highest hill in Istanbul, cast its shadow over us, an emblem of Sulukule’s former radiance and present decay. I thought of the wedding that was supposed to take place there. What I didn’t understand before made perfect sense now.

I smoothed some wrinkles out of my white gown and slid down the dirt hole. “Doesn’t matter,” I told her. “I’m not going to need this anyway.”

 
5

“Where will you go?” Paul asked.

“I don’t know. People have been asking me that all year. I never know.”

“How did you pick where you went before?”

“I sit in the airport, looking at departures. If there’s a place I’ve never heard of before, I go. If there’s a place someone told me to avoid, I go there, too.”

It was March, the first time we’d spent together since breaking up. I was too tired to drive; he was sleeping in the backseat, so I pulled over and stretched out on the roof of the car, looking up at the stars over Lake Baikal. When he got out and sat next to me, there was more light in the sky than night.

“Have you ever seen so many stars?”

“No.”

“Not even in Thimphu?”

“The clouds made them hard to see,” I said.

“You know what’s funny? You’re seeing these stars for the first time, but they’re not even there anymore. They ran out of fuel and died ages ago.” Paul turned his back to me and laid on the car, propping his head up on one elbow. “We drove all the way here to stare at a ghost.”

 
When a star dies, eventually, if the supernova is large enough, it triggers the formation of new stars, but not all the time. Sometimes, pressure from outside forces causes the remnants to collapse into a black hole from which nothing can escape, not even light.

A week later, we left Russia, parting ways. Paul went to Zurich, and I went to Rason, a little seaside village in the DPRK.

7

Everything I write about my experiences represents a loss. I can tell you about the Kremlin diamond vaults and being tasered by a KGB agent and camping in a puffin colony and dinner with Leila Bekhti and partying with Stella McCartney and ziplining over Shan foothills and playing tag in a minefield and bragging about my pain tolerance to a man at the airport — perhaps you’ve heard of him — John McCain. I can tell you about eating an apple off the tree in Almaty — the riotous, visceral colors and scent of the orchard; the juice that dripped everywhere no matter how neat my bites were — but you're never going to get it unless you go there yourself.

There's a disconnect. You have to walk the beaches of Goa barefoot, then climb the steps of Sacré-Coeur in 5-inch heels to know how conflicted I am, to see how I love two worlds and waffle between them. I can describe Paul on paper, that's easy. But you can't understand how I felt when he ran after me at The Standard and kissed me outside my room and spent almost a decade with me — at our age, an eternity — who I left and lost and spent the last year trying to forget. All I can say is this: He's the reason I flit from hotel to hotel, living everywhere and nowhere, and right before I put my key in the door I always look down the hall, hoping he'll come running around the corner. He never does.

Ariana Roberts is the senior contributor to This Recording. She is a writer living in Cleveland. She last wrote in these pages about the brightest star of the north. You can find an archive of her writing on This Recording here.

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In Which We Are The Brightest Star Of The North

La Princesse de Babylone

by ARIANA ROBERTS

“I would be ready to like my new husband had he been capable of affection or willing to show any. But in the very first days of our marriage,” wrote Catherine II of Peter, “I came to a sad conclusion about him. I said, If you allow yourself to love that man, you will be the unhappiest creature on the earth.”  Alone in St. Petersburg, abandoned to the bed on which she had given birth, Catherine devoured Histoire de l’empire de Russie sous Pierre le Grand; Madame Vladislavova reportedly found her turning pages at dawn.

Where the Grand Duke’s attempts at elucidating Russian history were dismissed (“[Peter] is as discreet as a cannonball,” she decided), Voltaire’s burnished account struck a chord with the affection-starved future empress. “I wanted to be Russian in order that the Russians should love me,” Catherine wrote.  “I just finished reading the Essai sur l’Histoire Générale, and I wish I knew every page by heart.”

So began a correspondence Voltaire flippantly wrote “sustained” him during the last 15 years of his life.  Catherine’s earliest letters to the then-71-year-old writer have a gushy fangirl quality, informing him (through Genevan secretary François Pictet) that she endorsed his books in Russia and committed many of them to memory.  Pictet reported Catherine was producing Zaïre, Alzire, and L’Orphelin de la Chine “not with actors, but with Lords and Ladies of the court” — the 18th century equivalent of a panty-waving Gleetard covering “Edge of Glory” for her YouTube account.  Catherine’s second letter praised Philosophie de l’histoire:

It is nothing to give a little to one's neighbour when one has a superfluity; but it is immortality to be the champion of the human race, the defender of oppressed innocence. You have combated the massed enemies of mankind — superstition, fanaticism, ignorance, intrigue, evil judges, and the abuse of power. But I die of regret not to see deserts changed into proud cities, and 2000 leagues of territory civilised by heroines. World history can show nothing comparable.

 

It is unlikely Voltaire was fooled by such subterfuge. Operating under the assumption that the empress engineered her husband’s murder, he composed a terse reply, stating, “The truth comes from the North as toys come from the South.” Sir James Campbell wrote, “Voltaire remained affected and spurious; he had, in fact, been spoiled by the too flattering attentions of almost every crowned head in Europe; and after his vanity had been fostered to the highest pitch of extravagance, it was not to be supposed that he could be cured of his preposterous pretensions” by Catherine’s self-serving correspondence.  Apparently ignorant of this, Catherine was greatly encouraged by his response. Campbell recounts:

At Geneva I was invited to assist at the presentation of the Prince Dolgouroukie, who came to Voltaire at the head of a deputation from the Empress Catherine the Second, than whom, perhaps, no one has ever been more anxious as to what should be said of her by the world. The presents were produced in succession. The first was an ivory box, the value of which consisted in its being the work of the empress’s own hands. The next was her imperial majesty’s portrait, brilliantly set in diamonds, of very great value; I could not resist the idea that the eyes of the philosopher sparkled with delight at the splendid setting of the picture, rather than the picture itself. Then followed a collection of books in the Russian language, which Voltaire admitted that he did not understand; but admired, and very justly, as rare specimens of typography, and as being bound in a style of magnificence befitting an imperial gift.  The last of the presents was a robe, the lining of which was of the fur of the black fox, from the Corile Isles. It was certainly of immense value, and such only as the empress of Russia could give. The prince, on producing it, begged to be shown into a darkened room, where on drawing his hand across the fur, it produced so much electrical fire, that it was possible to read by it.

Catherine reminded Voltaire that her crest was a bee flying from plant to plant, gathering honey for the hive, on which l’Utile was inscribed. Such winsomeness deserved a reward, and Voltaire responded in kind:

If your crest is a bee, you have a terrible hive, the biggest in the world. You fill the world with your name and your gifts. For me the most precious are the medallions with your likeness…. I count another blessing: those who are honored by your bounty are my friends. I am grateful for your generosity to Diderot, d’Alembert and the Calas family. Every writer in Europe ought to be at your feet.

 

“In return for these princely gifts,” Campbell wrote, “Voltaire contributed to foster, at the same time that he gratified, the empress’s passion, by writing a great deal in the empress’s praise.” Bound by their love of filthy lucre, Voltaire resolved to die “a Catherinist.” “My heart is like the lover,” he wrote.  “It turns always towards the North.” 

In 1974, a volume of their correspondence was published; Voltaire’s portrait floats above the empress on the cover, his lips parted in a crinkly smile, twinkling eyes belying the self-assuredness of the writer. Catherine’s smile is demure, the persistent expression she adopted shortly after arriving at Tsarskoye Selo: “Always look serene and display much attentiveness, affability, and politeness all around… try to be as charming as possible to everyone and study every opportunity to win the affection of those whom I suspect of being in the slightest degree ill-disposed towards me.” It’s a less-than-subtle comment on the intellectual disparity between the two luminaries, one Catherine felt keenly. 

That the empress considered herself the academic equal of Voltaire’s contemporaries is no secret. Both Diderot and d’Alembert frequented her court, where she freely discoursed on art, politics, and religion; her letters to them reflect spontaneity absent from correspondence with Voltaire. In fact, Catherine took special care with letters to “Teacher,” writing out of sequence, polishing small fragments until they flowed. Some drafts were never sent. Others differ significantly from the letters in Voltaire’s collection, suggesting she had an editor revise them beforehand.

The selectiveness with which she fed him information is diabolical. In 1774, Voltaire laments a month-long lapse in correspondence; Catherine was busy slaughtering innocent Poles. She couches the situation carefully: “Monsieur Pugachev is a master brigand… no one since Tamerlane has done more harm than he. If it were only I whom he had offended, I should pardon him, but this is a case involving the Empire, which has its laws.” Thusly equipped, Voltaire defended Catherine’s brutality, writing, “Polish intolerance is so odious it deserves a box on the ears. The Empress does good from Kamchatka to Africa, occupied as she is from eve till dawn beating the Turks, giving them peace. She has sent 40,000 Russians to preach tolerance, with bayonets at the end of their muskets; she has set armies on the march, in order to force people to tolerate each other.”

While Catherine’s letters were contrived, Voltaire’s were posted sans editing. Strip them of their salutations, and one might not realize he was addressing an empress, so casual is his mix of prose and verse, metaphors and puns. “A little bird whispers to me that in abating Turkish pride with one hand you will pacify Poland with the other,” he writes.

The arbitrary cruelty hinted at in Candide is at full bloom here: “I am not a murderer, but I think I could become one to serve you.” To him, whole countries are merely “ce gâteau de roi,” frosted specially for “Semiramis du Nord.”  

The two writers could not have been more remote in style.  Throughout the letters, Voltaire’s greatest strength is in his sensuous descriptions — of the pleasures of life, Catherine’s achievements, his own experiences — whereas Catherine cuts everything to the bone. Her admiration of “roi Voltaire” was undeniable, but she had trouble expressing it on paper, a weakness the philosopher did not share: “Do you know where there is earthly paradise? I know: it is everywhere that there is Catherine II. You are not the aurora borealis, you are the brightest star of the North, and there never has been any other luminary so beneficial.” 

Voltaire's letters from 1771-1773 exhibit what Campbell deems “nauseous and fulsome” adulation. “Diderot and I are lay missionaries who preach the cult of Saint Catherine, and we can boast that our church is almost universal,” Voltaire wrote. “You have become my overriding passion… I throw myself at your feet and kiss them with much more respect than the Pope’s.” Veneration is coupled with undying praise of Catherine’s abilities, e.g., “Your project is the most astonishing ever formed: that of Hannibal was nothing to it,” and “Before you no one wrote like you; it is very unlikely that anyone will ever be your equal. After reading you one wishes to re-read and has no taste for other books.” 

 

There’s a mocking Galahadism in Voltaire’s correspondence, but the mocking doesn’t necessarily imply this knight was insincere. He threw considerable energy into crafting the image of Catherine the Great as a tolerant, enlightened ruler, abandoning his tendency towards self-preservation to defend “d’où vient toute la lumière” even as Europe reproached her oppressiveness. His letters have a distinctly protective air, often expressing concern over her finances and frequent affairs; Voltaire could have turned the empress’ love of flattery to his advantage, yet it appears he ignored the opportunity to promote the ideas of the French Enlightenment. 

Flashes of genuine interest appear primarily after she writes, “I have said I will make Russia known. People will see that she is indefatigable, that she possesses eminent merit, all the qualities which make heroes; that she does not lack resources, is not to be ignored and must be treated with respect, as befits a powerful empire.” Voltaire must have realized — though Catherine did not — that at some point they stopped talking about Russia and started talking about the empress herself.

In his last letter, Voltaire wrote, “I wish someone would propose a prize for the best plan of sending the Turks back to the country whence they came, but I think this is the secret of the first personage of the human race named Catherine II. I prostrate myself at her feet and exclaim on my death-bed, Allah, Allah, Catherine rezoul, Allah.” When he died, a portrait of Catherine was found in his room; the Empress mourned bitterly, chastising a mutual friend, “Why did you not personally take possession of his body, in my name?  You should have sent it to me, and, morbleau!  I can promise you he would have had the most splendid tomb possible.” Years later, she wrote of his death, “I had a feeling of discouragement with everything and grave contempt for all things of this earth.”

Now might be the time to tell you these two never met.  They tossed the idea around in early correspondence— “Peter the Great’s goal of making Constantinople the capital of the Russian Empire may take shape.  In that case I beg permission to pass a few days there at your Court,” Voltaire wrote — but neither decided to call the other’s bluff. Eventually, they had a good game going:

Voltaire, September 1769: I do not see what is to prevent me from starting for St. Petersburg next April.  If I die en route, I should put on my little tomb: ‘Here lies the admirer of the august Catherine, who had the honor to die while journeying to present his profound respects.’

Catherine, October 1769: Nothing is more flattering to me than your project, but I should be ungrateful if I allowed my satisfaction to stifle my anxiety about such a long and painful journey. I know you are in delicate health. I admire your courage, but I should be inconsolable if it were to suffer from the effort. Neither myself nor Europe would forgive me.

Voltaire, June 1771: I should take the liberty to pay court to this astonishing bee if my crushing maladies permitted this poor drone to leave his cell…if God give me health I shall certainly come and place myself at your feet next summer for a few days or a few hours.  If Peter the Great had chosen Kiev or some other more southerly spot, I should now be at your feet, despite my age… if you wish to work miracles, try to make your country less cold.  In view of all you have done, it would be pure malice not to effect this change… If your Majesty makes peace, I beseech you to keep Taganrog, which you say boasts such a fine climate, so that I can end my days there without always seeing the snows of Jura.

”For God’s sake, advise the octogenarian to remain in Paris!” Catherine wrote a mutual acquaintance, only weeks before Voltaire’s death.  “What should he do here?  He would die, here or at the wayside, of cold, weariness, and bad roads.  Tell him cateau n’est bonne qu’à être vue de loin [is best known at a distance].” Mme du Deffand echoed the empress, advising Voltaire, “Only see your Catherine through the telescope of your imaginations.” From afar, he could ignore her flaws and moral lapses; alternately, Catherine would not be disappointed when fleshly Voltaire failed to live up to her expectations, as happened with Diderot.

This relational quirk leads modern researchers to conclude that their correspondence did not reflect genuine friendship, as if proximity was a determining factor for amity. True, their connection baffles analysts — their lifestyles and personalities were vastly different, and they failed to discuss anything weighty for too long. Still, Catherine and Voltaire connected in a way that can only be described as love.

Perhaps they found solace in the fact that they were both uprooted at an early age; both forsook their given names, preferring instead to construct the identities for which they were famed.  At any rate, there are special joys in illusion, and Voltaire provided something Catherine’s numerous lovers did not — here was a man she would not eclipse, devoted to her, yet allowing her plenty of freedom.

Since meeting would have certainly caused almost unbearable regret, they celebrated their love in immortal verse without ruining it in person. I say “certainly” because at some point, I stopped talking about Catherine and Voltaire and started talking about myself. Trust me when I tell you some of the deepest and most enduring thrills of her lifetime were shared with a man whom she never met.

Ariana Roberts is the senior contributor to This Recording. She is a writer living in Cleveland. You can find an archive of her writing on This Recording here. She last wrote in these pages about her trip to NK.

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The new album from Liars is entitled WIXIW, and it was released on June 4th.