{"product_id":"the-king-of-infinite-spaceisbn-9780525535911","title":"The King of Infinite Space","description":"\u003cb\u003eIn this lush, magical, queer, and feminist take on \u003ci\u003eHamlet\u003c\/i\u003e in modern-day New York City, a neuro-atypical physicist, along with his best friend Horatio and artist ex-fiancé, Lia, are caught up in the otherworldly events surrounding the death of his father.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMeet Ben Dane: brilliant, devastating, devoted, honest to a fault (truly, a fault).  His Broadway theater baron father is dead—but on purpose or by accident? The question rips him apart.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUnable to face alone his mother's ghastly remarriage to his uncle, Ben turns to his dearest friend, Horatio Patel, whom he hasn't seen since their relationship changed forever from platonic to something...other. Loyal to a fault (truly, a fault), Horatio is on the first flight to New York City when he finds himself next to a sly tailor who portends inevitable disaster.  And who seems ominously like an architect of mayhem himself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMeanwhile, Ben's ex-fiancé, Lia, sundered her from her loved ones thanks to her addiction recovery and torn from her art, has been drawn into the fold of three florists from New Orleans—seemingly ageless sisters who teach her the language of flowers, and whose magical bouquets hold both curses and cures.  For a price. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn one explosive night these kinetic forces will collide, and the only possible outcome is death. But in the masterly hands of Lyndsay Faye, the story we all know has abundant surprises in store. Impish, captivating, and achingly romantic, this is \u003ci\u003eHamlet\u003c\/i\u003e as you've never seen it before.\"Shakespeare devotees will be impressed at the variations Faye introduces to the play’s plotline, and Faye’s considerable descriptive gifts are on ample display...Fans and newcomers alike will delight in Faye’s remarkable achievement.\"—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Faye’s latest is not only a richly realized mash-up of mystery and fantasy, it’s also a clever pastiche of Hamlet. . . [Ben and Horatio’s] evolving relationship is brilliantly realized, as, for that matter, is the entire book, which is, alas, ever faithful to the original, which is, remember, a tragedy. The curtain falls.”—\u003ci\u003eBooklist \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Lush and magical, thoughtful and provocative, \u003ci\u003eThe King of Infinite Space\u003c\/i\u003e is a remarkable achievement, staying true to Shakespeare’s tragic play in ways that will surprise and delight while reveling in neurodivergence, queer attraction and quantum physics….[T]his is a novel to stick with for its rewards of a surprising plot and Faye’s delightful storytelling.”—BookPage (starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Wildly imaginative. . . Faye perfectly juxtaposes corrosive ambition, jealousy, and madness against the ineffable strength of love over distance, time, and space. . . [Faye’s] exciting new work should be especially appealing to readers who were intrigued by the reimaginings of Anne Tyler, Margaret Atwood, or Jeanette Winterson for the Hogarth Press Shakespeare project.\"—\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Bardolators will enjoy the clever changes Faye rings on his storylines and characters. . . The ending is just as bloody as Shakespeare’s and nearly as poignant. Smart and suspenseful; top-notch popular fiction.”—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Sumptuous. . . Fans will delight in the many asides and references strewn throughout the text, and murder mystery buffs will be pleasantly surprised by the many different aspects of crime that turn up in this book. I am no great admirer of Hamlet myself, but even I was dazzled by Ms. Faye’s masterful understanding of the original and by her ability to turn that understanding into something at once suspensefully fresh and relevant to our modern age.”—\u003ci\u003eCriminal Element\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“[A] mind-bending update on the classic tragedy that cleverly keeps its spirit intact while modernizing relationships and plot points. . . Faye drops the Bard's best beats into a blender with thought experiments, existential dilemmas and some snicker-worthy double entendres, then sets it to delirious fun. . . An intriguing mix of the mystical and rational, The King of Infinite Space wears its heart on its sleeve down to its explosive and sentimental conclusion. . . [A] dazzling mesh of wit, philosophy and romance.”—\u003ci\u003eShelf Awareness\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Lyndsay Faye is one of the most intelligent and versatile writers working today. Never before have her immense talents been on display than in the artsy, colorful and brilliant \u003ci\u003eThe King of Infinite Space\u003c\/i\u003e.”—Bookreporter.com\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eLyndsay Faye \u003c\/b\u003eis the author of six critically acclaimed books: \u003ci\u003eJane Steele\u003c\/i\u003e, which was nominated for an Edgar Award for Best Novel;\u003ci\u003e Dust and Shadow\u003c\/i\u003e; \u003ci\u003eThe Gods of Gotham\u003c\/i\u003e, also Edgar-nominated; \u003ci\u003eSeven for a Secret\u003c\/i\u003e; \u003ci\u003eThe Fatal Flame\u003c\/i\u003e; and \u003ci\u003eThe Paragon Hotel\u003c\/i\u003e. Faye, a true New Yorker in the sense she was born elsewhere, lives in New York City.\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eLia (1)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003ei am not police sirens\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003ei am the crackle of a fireplace\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e -Rupi Kaur, \u003ci\u003emilk and honey\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLia never knows when she'll appear in one of Benjamin's nightmares. But since it's started happening, they tend to meet in the charred shell of the original World's Stage Theatre, the smoke hanging as solid as proscenium curtains.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSometimes the damage is the way it really happened. Total annihilation on the lower floor and a dragon-razed mezzanine. Sometimes the destruction is rendered pretty and whimsical. The ruined velvet seats crowd against either wall, creating a proud aisle like an apocalyptic road. Or granite-sparkling ashes flit toward her pupils. Or the roof is gone, and Lia looks up to see stark, perfect constellations.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eUnheard of in midtown Manhattan, what with the light pollution.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut the artist in Lia can easily imagine it anyhow.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAlways, there is the terror. Even when nothing more significant happens than her boots sloughing through cinders.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eThis theatre burned twenty years ago.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLia knows there isn't any logic to dreams. But it's nauseating, and she always thinks a little petulantly, \u003ci\u003espectacular, another nightmare, being in the cremated bones of this place is automatically a nightmare\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eit isn't even in my head.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBecause it's all in Ben's.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis time Ben sits downstage left, staring into the orchestra pit. He's ropy and pale in a red T-shirt and torn jeans-a towheaded, manic-eyed eight-year-old instead of her towheaded, manic-eyed ex-fiancé. His shiner is pulpy, and the sweet curve of his lower lip gapes like an extra mouth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo that helps to date things. It's Ben before therapists, Ben before meds. Ben the toilet plunger, the lunch money source, the punching bag.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLooking down, she sees a pair of green corduroy pants she lived in throughout the late nineties; so she's Ben's age, too. It's before she got the hang of her coarse nut-brown corkscrews, for instance. They're cropped at her nape, much longer on top, like they were for that heinous school picture. A Halloween wig from the discount bin.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBen has a song stuck in his head, seemingly. From all corners of the building, \"Harvest Moon\" by Neil Young croons its easy melody. A deeply harmless ballad. Still, Lia's blood runs thin and bluish in her wrists.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eHear what I have to say\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eJust like children sleeping\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eWe could dream this night away\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Neil Young is pretty cheesy for you, isn't he?\" Lia observes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Oh my god.\" Ben scrambles to his knees with a look of pure hunger.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003ePlease not this again.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Hi,\" she says.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You're back,\" he blurts, standing. \"I mean you're, like, you're \u003ci\u003ehere\u003c\/i\u003e. Again.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Don't ask me how. We went over this maybe ten times already.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Sorry. No, I wasn't going to. Just, you know, there you are.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Let's not make a scene of it.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I'm literally on a stage.\" The premonition of Ben's adult smirk appears. \"Wouldn't a scene be, dunno. Appropriate?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"No scenes.\" Lia's heart thuds like a doomed heretic's. \"I'm here against my will.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Right, but. God, you can't understand how much I've missed-\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Benjamin, change topics, or I swear I'm going to walk away and keep walking till I-I have no idea. Fall out of your ear.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You-\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eDo not\u003c\/i\u003e discuss me. Us. There's too much to . . . there's just too much. We tried it last time and I could barely function for three days after I woke up. Tell me a different story.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLonging, anger, and disappointment threaten to crumple Ben's face like a child's after a terrible fall. But Ben isn't a little boy-he only looks like one. Straightening, he nods. It was a kaleidoscope of emotions, \u003ci\u003elonging\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eloss\u003c\/i\u003e as a high-pitched garble.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe last flicker looked simply like love, though. Which is excruciating.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"So this theatre was built in nineteen-thirteen,\" Ben forces out. \"Um. Right, sure, you know that. Please bear with me. This is offhand, and I generally prepare my lectures. World's Stage survived the Great War, the Great Depression-which I gotta add is geographically waaaaaay more impressive-World War Two, Vietnam, and the dissolution of the Brit-pop boy band Take That, which prompted dozens of emergency suicide hotlines to be set up in the UK. Horatio has firsthand \u003ci\u003etales\u003c\/i\u003e. And anyway, then one spark, one instant when the temperature surpasses the flash point in the presence of both fuel and an oxidizer, and what happens?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLia's arms are bare and cold. The ceiling sends a drizzle of plaster to the ground.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"The fire tetrahedron begins!\" Ben sounds like he's walking a tightrope. \"Wheeee! Oh shit, and don't forget gravity has to be present, that's what, like, prevents the flame from being snuffed out immediately by the waste material produced via its own combustion. But yes, so then the solids and gases create visible particles, the red-orange-yellow spectrum we associate with incandescent things, and poof. A historical Broadway landmark vanishes. As permanent as a cigarette. Left behind only in records, photographs, online, and in the memories of those who experienced it. Us, for instance.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLittle-boy Ben talking like present-day Ben makes Lia's neck prickle.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"And in your dreams, which I now share.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You sound kinda pissed about that.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I can't leave until \u003ci\u003eyou\u003c\/i\u003e wake up.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBen's blue eyes glimmer. \"Yeah, dreams are never consensual. They're like, I don't know, having a shitty frat boy Sigmund Freud in your brain, and he's throwing a torture party. I don't do it on \u003ci\u003epurpose\u003c\/i\u003e.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLia shivers. \"Who would?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Who would talk with the long-lost love of their life subconsciously?\" Ben shifts gears so fast Lia hears the brakes skidding. \"Half the products in this country are marketed on nostalgia. If I could bottle this crap, I'd be rich.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You \u003ci\u003eare\u003c\/i\u003e rich. Your family is from oil money, your dad first bought World's Stage and then rebuilt it, and it was only dark for three years.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Richer, then.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You don't give a damn about wealth. Unless you're throwing it at people you think deserve it, that is.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Well, that's because I've always had tons. Paradoxical, right?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA silver-tinged wind brushes along crumbling pilasters. Lia remembers afternoons here after her father picked her up from first and second grade. Flipping down a burgundy velvet chair seat, dropping her patch-covered JanSport in the third row. \u003ci\u003eWar is unhealthy for children and other living things\u003c\/i\u003e with sunflowers embroidered around it, Kermit leaning on a rainbow, a vaguely defiant UK anarchy flag pin. Then Paul Brahms would ruffle her horrible bushy head, duck his own bald dome, squawk at any stage crew present, and disappear back into the general-manager-\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof-theatre-operations office to make calls and crunch numbers until the lights blinked on throughout Lincoln Center.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLia did fractions while the carpenters swore like pirates, watched rapt as dancers dropped and curlicued. Stage managers sneaked her paperbacks-\u003ci\u003eIsland of the Blue Dolphins, The Hobbit, The Borrowers, The Great Brain\u003c\/i\u003e. Actors made her a combination stray cat and mascot. She learned about musical phrasing from first violin chairs, drop pleats from Tony Award-winning costumers. After befriending the ballerina playing Louise in \u003ci\u003eCarousel\u003c\/i\u003e, she refused to match her socks for three years straight.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLia went to school, and slept at home, and did her art projects. But she \u003ci\u003elived\u003c\/i\u003e here with Ben.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe coughs. \"OK, look, I'm sorry you're here. I mean, not \u003ci\u003esorry\u003c\/i\u003e, I like to see you-I love to see you actually, like, love in the exploded firecracker sense, something irreversible you couldn't possibly put back together again because we're all hurtling hell-bound toward total thermodynamic equilibrium, but. Christ.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Yeah.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"What do you make of . . . of any of this?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"When I'm awake, I never think about it. You're the one dreaming.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLia is lying. She thinks about Ben and the old theatre constantly, in fits and spurts and sizzles and pops. After the cacophony of glitter-blessed chorus boys came the silent time. The lonesome, post-fire time. A swing set at Riverside Park creaked as the sun dragged shadows across the playground in darkening claws. She collected flowers and twigs, wove grasses into huts for mice. The apartment's lock clicked as her father arrived home exhausted from haranguing insurers, backers, corporate patrons. The radiator hissed in the ripe yellow-grey gleam that passes for the dead of night in New York, and she'd think about a set of little girls' school photos shuffled in front of her own little girl eyes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003ePick a card, any card\u003c\/i\u003e, the thick consonants of the old man rumbled. \u003ci\u003eYou love magic tricks. You want to, yes? Pick a card and I will for you make it to disappear.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSeven times Lia was shown a selection of miniature pictures by the World's Stage head custodian, stooped and smiling in a worn denim uniform. Seven times, she picked a card.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSeven times, he made the card disappear, and she smiled up at him. Rapt.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLia's after-school hours reverted to haunting stage doors and lighting booths upon the opening of New World's Stage. But it wasn't the same. The head custodian never returned, for one. Many of the immigrants didn't. And here were brilliant dressing room lightbulbs instead of flickering fluorescents, this stairway curved sinuously up instead of diving headfirst into the bathrooms. Still. Something in the new structure pulsed as if all the passion of the performers inhabiting the lost building were a scent persisting even after the fire. Lia wasn't always happy here. Far from it. But she was \u003ci\u003ealive\u003c\/i\u003e. There were so many sly jokes and not-a-bit-secret affairs, all the chaotic champagne-colored froth of adult relationships.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd Ben, of course. There was always Ben.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEight-year-old Ben scrubs his hand down the front of his elfin face. When he draws it away, his palm is painted with the gore from his lip. It's always awful to see him like this, golden-haloed and hurting.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Aaaaand I'm bleeding,\" he drawls. \"When was I not bleeding at this age, though? Simpler question, let's use Occam's razor here.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt's only a dream, and dreams can't hurt him or you.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLia shakes herself. \"Look, Ben, I don't know why you aren't more creeped out by this.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBen shrugs. \"Nothing about the way our minds interact surprises me anymore.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"But why the old World's Stage?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Why not? All's fair in love, war, and REM sleep. Does it really bother you so much?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Seeing you?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"No, not that part, please don't answer that question, just let me, like, keep my illusion you treasure our time together. I meant the wreck of the theatre.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Of course it does. Someone \u003ci\u003edied\u003c\/i\u003e.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003ePick a card, any card\u003c\/i\u003e, Jorvik would say to her. And she did.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eSeven times.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBen pulls her hand out of her pocket in one of those sudden gestures that sends blood rocketing through her veins.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"But maybe that's why we're here, huh? Maybe whoever it was who died in the fire is trying to, you know. Tell us something, settle scores.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLia doesn't bother repressing a shudder. \"I don't want whoever they found incinerated in this to tell me anything. Ever.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLia knows who died. To everyone else, he was an unidentified husk. Barely a corpse. But she has never breathed a word of it to a living soul. Especially never to Benjamin.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Some journalist you'd make,\" he teases. \"Aren't artists supposed to have just a liiiiiittle smidge of investigative reporter in them? You know, really peel the skin off reality, see what lies beneath?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eBut I'm not an artist anymore.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLia has spent practically all her days expressing herself through the language of flowers, wild and weird installations, and she lost that lifeline when she needed it most.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eROSEMARY: For remembrance, and woven into sacred garlands by the ancient Greeks to bring mental clarity.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Artists have to make art,\" she snaps, \"and I haven't since the night two years ago when we stopped being us.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBen looks chastened. Then he nods, swinging the hand he still holds. It feels like a soft slide of home against her palm.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"All right, sure, we quit the gumshoe stuff. How about . . . oh, I know. Here's a riddle for you: Is the reconstructed New World's Stage even World's Stage at all?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLia nearly smiles before it catches in her throat. Ben loves these mind games, has played them forever, and he always stares at Lia as if world peace depends on whatever answer tumbles from her lips. She glances down before replying and sees a symbol carved into the stage. It's a five-pointed star, with a smaller one nestled perfectly inside, and a third tinier pentagram within that one. She's seen it before. But can't recall in what setting.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"How do you mean, is it World's Stage?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBen lifts his arms and makes a dramatic circle. \"I mean the Ship of Theseus.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"The what, now?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"This is actually one of my favorites. A classic. OK, so you have a boat that's being replaced plank by plank. Once every molecule of the vessel is new, then is it still the same ship?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"The human body discards all its cells every seven years, but you don't imagine I'm a stranger.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBen claps, delighted. \"Good one. No doctor is capable of replacing every piece of you and preserving your, like, consciousness, your \u003ci\u003eyou\u003c\/i\u003e, your Lia, whatever.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBen always did have a ferocious attachment to individualism and individuals, Lia remembers with a pang. It was never just his obscene wealth that drew devotees. Prove yourself a bully or a hypocrite, and he would eat you for breakfast with a dash of Cholula. Prove yourself worthy, and he would lie in the middle of the road to stop traffic as you crossed the street. People slavered over his genuine laughter as much as they hinted needing six-figure astronomy textbooks. It's why he and Lia were together so long. Christ knows nobody else would have fed her for the fifteenth time because she couldn't hold the spoon herself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"But theoretically a boat could be a boat until the end of time. It's inanimate,\" he continues.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"World's Stage isn't inanimate, and I don't care which one you're talking about. This building or what replaces it.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBen grins wolfishly. There are dry-bones scuffles here always, sounds like the spectres of flames chewing at plaster.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eGnawing at flesh.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Then what if you never threw away any of the pieces of the original ship, and you reassembled them when the fresh one was complete? Which ship is \u003ci\u003emore\u003c\/i\u003e real?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Who came up with this?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Plutarch.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"He must've been a real pain in the dick.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis produces a yapping laugh with his face thrown skyward, and Lia feels the old joy flooding her body before she can plug the hole in the dam.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eFuck you\u003c\/i\u003e, she thinks. \u003ci\u003eFuck you, Ben, and your beautiful brain, and your even more stupidly beautiful, generous, loyal heart, and forever and for always fuck the fact I still managed to torch us to the ground.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBen recaptures her hand and plays with the fingers, knuckle by knuckle, which does wretched things to her blood pressure. \"Wanna know my two favorite solutions?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Do I have a choice?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The first is conceptualism.  There is in reality no ship.  The ship is a human concept applied to a particular mass existing at a particular instant.  The way love is a particular feeling during a particular period.  It carries no significance whatsoever outside of human linguistics.  Love doesn’t exist objectively, and neither do Theseus’s ships.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLia wills her heart to slow.  “And the second one?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBen takes a shaky breath, concentrating on her fingertips.  “The second one is easier to explain with rivers.  You can never step in the same river twice if you think of it in three dimensions, according to perdurantism.  But if the river is four-dimensional, then it’s completely logical to step into like, \u003ci\u003edifferent\u003c\/i\u003e time-slices of the \u003ci\u003esame river. \u003c\/i\u003e It’s always there.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What is this about, Benjamin?” Lia whispers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe lifts her hand, pressing his lips to the palm.  “Then love would always be there too.  In another time-slice.  It doesn’t vanish just because the person left.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"G.P. 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