I asked him if he’d had any trouble finding the place. We chatted about subway delays due to construction. He was starting to get a little more relaxed. Starting to openly look at my face. Lord, he looked young. Not movie-star beautiful, but quite pleasing. There was something unusual, almost exotic–but very subtly so–about the cast of his face. In time, I would learn that he had an Asian grandparent.
In its most extreme form, in the rarest circumstances–perhaps half a dozen in my life–I go into a queer and alien state of mind: I have acute empathy for the subject of my attention (which thrills me–I won’t deny it)–but I have no sympathy. Not an ounce, not a grain of compassion. (This part of me frightens me somewhat, because it is so completely at odds with the rest of my personality and my understanding of myself…and in the world, I find oppression and exploitation to be unspeakably ugly. I hate it; I find it intolerable.)