Read Online 36 Arguments for the Existence of God by Rebecca Goldstein - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Rebecca Goldstein
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then burst out laughing.
“What?” he said. He could feel his embarrassingly responsive complexion beginning a slow burn. He had said nothing, and already she was laughing at him.
Without a word, she reached into her satchel and pulled out the familiar book, with its laminated foil jacket. It was a jolt of intimacy to see his progeny emerging from out of her bag.
“I’m not very good with faces, but I’d be willing to bet good money that you’re the author of this book. Wait a minute.” She opened the back flap and held the picture side by side against the original, the soft cuff of her winter coat slightly caressing his blazing cheek. “Yes. Don’t deny it. You penned this tome. You’re Cass Seltzer!”
“You’re reading it.”
“Not really. I’ve simply incorporated it into my weight-lifting regimen.”
“That’s why I added all those extra arguments for God’s existence. Thepublisher was supposed to mention its physical-training possibilities on the back cover.”
“I find it makes a rather good stepladder, too. Easily transported from room to room. Had you intended that as well?”
“As a stepladder to enlightenment!”
Lucinda laughed, throwing back her head. She had a brave and sweeping peregrine of a laugh. And just like that it was back, reconstituted, the sense of blessed ease they had shared inside that dappled afternoon. Cass felt the way her whispering breath had warmed his ear.
“Aren’t you going to ask me whether I like your book? Or are all other opinions beside the point now that the
New York Times
has found it ‘invariably engaging and provocative,’ and
The New York Review of Books
has described you as ‘the William James for the twenty-first century’?”
He couldn’t believe it. She had actually memorized the choice bits from his reviews that were used in the ads for the book. Not even his mother had memorized the quotes.
“I’m afraid to ask you what you think of it. I’m afraid you’re going to fang me.”
“You don’t have to worry about that. The fanger of my fangee is my friend.”
“Funny, I don’t think of myself as a fanger.”
“Oh, but you are, my friend, a fanger of no mean talent. You fanged God!”
“Can I have them quote that on the cover of the paperback?
‘A fanger of no mean talent:
Lucinda Mandelbaum, author of the Mandelbaum Equilibrium.’”
She quickly cast her eyes downward, so that her long lashes rested on the ridge of her cheekbones for a few seconds, and when she raised her eyes again it was with a different expression altogether.
Lucinda’s lips were thin, and if there was any imperfection in her face, it was in her stiff upper lip. But now her upper lip quivered slightly, and the transformation was complete. It was a thing counter, original, spare, and strange, what had happened to her face. He could imagine no face more beautiful in all the world, no face more touching in its exposure. He could never go back and recover the face that had been there only moments before.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“For what?” he whispered back.
“For saying that that’s who I am. That that’s who I still am, even if I’m here.”
Cass could have taken offense, but he didn’t. With that strong sense of gazing directly into another, soul to soul, of seeing it all and all at once, as if it were an endless vista laid out before his eyes, he grasped the sorrows behind Lucinda.
Her move to Frankfurter had obviously cost her dearly, but she never let on. She could have just bided her time here instead of giving it— giving
them
—everything she had. There was nobody at Frankfurter she needed to impress. But she carried on as she always had, performing at peak, a prizefighting champ. And just for the sheer sport of the thing, for the reasons sustained in her own ardent heart. She wasn’t competing against anyone but herself. That’s what people like Mona didn’t get. He hadn’t altogether gotten it himself until this moment
“What?” he said. He could feel his embarrassingly responsive complexion beginning a slow burn. He had said nothing, and already she was laughing at him.
Without a word, she reached into her satchel and pulled out the familiar book, with its laminated foil jacket. It was a jolt of intimacy to see his progeny emerging from out of her bag.
“I’m not very good with faces, but I’d be willing to bet good money that you’re the author of this book. Wait a minute.” She opened the back flap and held the picture side by side against the original, the soft cuff of her winter coat slightly caressing his blazing cheek. “Yes. Don’t deny it. You penned this tome. You’re Cass Seltzer!”
“You’re reading it.”
“Not really. I’ve simply incorporated it into my weight-lifting regimen.”
“That’s why I added all those extra arguments for God’s existence. Thepublisher was supposed to mention its physical-training possibilities on the back cover.”
“I find it makes a rather good stepladder, too. Easily transported from room to room. Had you intended that as well?”
“As a stepladder to enlightenment!”
Lucinda laughed, throwing back her head. She had a brave and sweeping peregrine of a laugh. And just like that it was back, reconstituted, the sense of blessed ease they had shared inside that dappled afternoon. Cass felt the way her whispering breath had warmed his ear.
“Aren’t you going to ask me whether I like your book? Or are all other opinions beside the point now that the
New York Times
has found it ‘invariably engaging and provocative,’ and
The New York Review of Books
has described you as ‘the William James for the twenty-first century’?”
He couldn’t believe it. She had actually memorized the choice bits from his reviews that were used in the ads for the book. Not even his mother had memorized the quotes.
“I’m afraid to ask you what you think of it. I’m afraid you’re going to fang me.”
“You don’t have to worry about that. The fanger of my fangee is my friend.”
“Funny, I don’t think of myself as a fanger.”
“Oh, but you are, my friend, a fanger of no mean talent. You fanged God!”
“Can I have them quote that on the cover of the paperback?
‘A fanger of no mean talent:
Lucinda Mandelbaum, author of the Mandelbaum Equilibrium.’”
She quickly cast her eyes downward, so that her long lashes rested on the ridge of her cheekbones for a few seconds, and when she raised her eyes again it was with a different expression altogether.
Lucinda’s lips were thin, and if there was any imperfection in her face, it was in her stiff upper lip. But now her upper lip quivered slightly, and the transformation was complete. It was a thing counter, original, spare, and strange, what had happened to her face. He could imagine no face more beautiful in all the world, no face more touching in its exposure. He could never go back and recover the face that had been there only moments before.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“For what?” he whispered back.
“For saying that that’s who I am. That that’s who I still am, even if I’m here.”
Cass could have taken offense, but he didn’t. With that strong sense of gazing directly into another, soul to soul, of seeing it all and all at once, as if it were an endless vista laid out before his eyes, he grasped the sorrows behind Lucinda.
Her move to Frankfurter had obviously cost her dearly, but she never let on. She could have just bided her time here instead of giving it— giving
them
—everything she had. There was nobody at Frankfurter she needed to impress. But she carried on as she always had, performing at peak, a prizefighting champ. And just for the sheer sport of the thing, for the reasons sustained in her own ardent heart. She wasn’t competing against anyone but herself. That’s what people like Mona didn’t get. He hadn’t altogether gotten it himself until this moment
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