Fiction

Chain gang

Fans of John Norman's novels about the planet Gor create virtual and real-life worlds in which women are slaves.

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Chain gang

Every organism has its place in nature. That of woman is at the foot of man,” Tarl Cabot thinks while training his slave girl in “Beasts of Gor.” “Beasts” is Book 12 in the venerable and controversial “Gor” series of 25 science fiction novels written by John Norman (the pseudonym of a philosophy professor at a respected university in New York). Beginning with the first book in the series, “Tarnsman of Gor” (1966), Norman has spun tales of the planet Gor, also known as “Counter-Earth” because it occupies a position in our solar system exactly opposite us on the other side of the sun. This shadow planet’s gravity is weaker than ours, which probably accounts for the preternatural perkiness of all the women’s breasts in the books’ illustrations.

In Gor’s violent, low-tech society, men are Men and women are slaves. This, the novels say — and say and say and say again — is the proper and rightful state of things because it is in consonance with the true evolved nature of the sexes. The basic Gorean culture is modeled on the ancient city-states of Greece and Asia Minor, but there are variants of other cultures, too, like the Mongols, the Vikings, the Inuit and various African tribes.

There are free women on Gor — treasured mothers, sisters, daughters and “Free Companions” to free men — but they generally sequester themselves with their children at home behind high walls. Their freedom, such as it is, is precarious. They are always subject to being kidnapped by a rival city-state’s raiders — or even outlaws of their own city — and forced into slavery.

This is not great literature, and even Norman’s most avid fans admit that the writing itself leaves a lot to be desired. The narrative tone is at times hilariously bombastic (think of the portentous voice-over in the movie version of “Conan the Barbarian”), and the story lines, especially in the later installments, are frequently interrupted by long passages of repetitious philosophical blather.

In spite of the books’ reputation as male-centric erotic literature, there are, surprisingly, no really explicit sexual passages, and several of the books are written from a female point of view, tracing the characters’ acceptance of the “paradox of the collar,” that is, the “inner liberation” women find in a life of utter obedience to a masterful man.

Whatever its narrative shortcomings, Norman’s politically incorrect world was once enormously popular. Hundreds of thousands of copies of his books were sold, and they were translated into several languages. Gradually, though, his work fell out of favor — some say it was spurned by gutless publishers and distributors in spite of audience demand — and it is largely out of print.

Yet today, despite the fact that most of the series is no longer available except in secondhand stores (the first six books were recently rereleased by erotica publisher Masquerade Press but met with retailer resistance), Gor has experienced a huge revival in the virtual world of online role-playing and, perhaps most surprising in this post-feminist era, also serves as the philosophical template for a self-styled community of “lifestyle Goreans,” who enthusiastically embrace and practice consensual female slavery in their everyday lives. The lifestyle Goreans also adhere to other rituals, codes and precepts of the fictional Gor, and community sites such as Silk and Steel and the Gorean Public Boards and individual offerings such as the Slave Siren’s Page serve as an important means of education, fellowship and recruitment to the lifestyle.

A major theme running through the Gor novels, and often echoed in Gor fandom, is that the free women secretly long to be owned by dominant and powerful men. “Slavery, of course, is the surest path by means of which a woman can discover her femininity,” the author observes in “Magicians of Gor.” “The paradox of the collar is the freedom which a woman experiences in at last finding herself, and becoming herself.”

On Gor, only the slave women completely indulge their sexuality; free women are supposed to maintain a chilly dignity. So if a free woman should make the error of behaving with less than Madonna-like circumspection (for example, by flirting too whorishly with a man), she has revealed her fundamental desire to submit to him — her “instinctive” wish to be mere chattel at the man’s mercy — and thus forfeits her right to remain free. She’s usually stripped of her face veils and slapped into chains forthwith.

There are also dramatic incidents in the books in which a free woman, overcome with lust for some heroic muscleman, throws off her robes, falls naked to her knees and begs the man to put his collar around her neck and his brand upon her thigh. “Own us, dominate us! Enslave us, properly, so that we may love you as women are meant to love, wholly and unreservedly, totally, without a thought for ourselves!” demands a female character in “Renegades of Gor.”

Even taking into consideration that many online role players use multiple names, there have to be thousands of virtual Goreans, and it is unusual for any fan base of that size to be left untapped in today’s cutthroat publishing industry. But Norman’s current publisher, Vision Entertainment Ltd., has faced an uphill slog the past few years in its attempt to bring the series back to the market. The small New York publisher plans to return six of Norman’s Gor novels to print and to publish a new Gor novel (“Witness of Gor”) by the author, and it has invested heavily in the creation of GOR Magazine, a serialized graphic novelization of Norman’s books — all with Norman’s approval and oversight.

Vision has run into a series of setbacks, however, culminating in a run-in with Canadian customs that scuttled plans to introduce the graphic novelization to the public via an excerpt in Heavy Metal magazine. Under Canadian customs law, according to Darrell Benvenuto at Vision Entertainment, “You can show a lady with her hands tied. You can show a naked lady. But you cannot show a naked lady with her hands tied — that’s ‘bondage,’ and is not allowed across the border.” In spite of these reversals, Benvenuto expects the hundreds of thousands of dollars that Vision has already sunk into Norman’s works to eventually pay off, and after looking at the phenomenon that is Gor fandom, I have little doubt that he’s right.

The Gor society on the Internet is in many ways a microcosm of society in general, complete with “religious” conflicts, “in” groups and “out” groups, wars and rumors of wars, hoaxes, celebrities, propaganda, changing fashions, romance, boredom and widespread emotional misadventure (arising from both virtual iniquity and actual crimes). The fights are mostly over matters of interpretation, definitions of terms, what a particular reference from the books means in context, whether free women should be allowed to drink in a tavern, whether “no kill zones” are legitimate, how much “respect” — if any — a master should show a slave and so on. People also fight over how much license should be allowed for the fact that they are not on Gor but on Earth, and not actually swinging swords on Gorean battlements but talking to one another over a computer network.

But the main schism within Gor fandom is between the role-playing Goreans and the tiny minority of real-time lifestyle Goreans, and it is a bitter split indeed.

“Bear,” a prolific poster on the Gorean Public Boards, has lived a Gorean lifestyle for almost 20 years. He is married to a “free companion” and has two female slaves. One of the slaves has lived with him and his wife for the past eight years. The other, his slave for about a year so far, is married to another man, and she and Bear are only occasionally able to see each other in real life (with the full knowledge and sanction of her husband).

Bear has “collared” and later dismissed other women, who have lasted, on average, about one to three years. A slave “fails” when she is unable to submit herself totally to a man’s control, when she rebels against her collar or wants release from her Master. (Failure is possible only on Earth, because on Gor slavery is not consensual, as it has to be here.)

Bear considers the Internet role players a threat to his way of life. “These people harm us by reputation — our philosophy comes from a series of SF books, we have a hard enough row to hoe here in our pursuit of simple regard and respect — without the kids taking the ethos and philosophy and turning it into a game, with rules for rolling dice to see if your slave is pregnant.”

“Ubar Luther,” the leader of a “city” of Gorean role players on America Online and author of the definitive Educational Scrolls of Delphius, says that the lifestylers’ antagonism toward role players is based on a fallacious argument: “The books were written as entertainment only. They were not written to be a lifestyle guide. So anything outside the books has the same validity. Role-playing and real-time are on the same level. Neither was intended. Real-time has no special claim on the books.” And, he says, “even the real-timers engage in some role-playing. They hang out in a ‘cyber’ tavern and get served ‘cyber’ food and drink. They often assume fictional nicknames.”

Luther’s idea that the lifestylers have made a “special claim” on the books is revealing. Among Goreans, conflicts about how to interpret and use what Bear reverently refers to as the “source texts” are rampant. There is a kind of continuous holy war going on over what constitutes Gorean orthodoxy and non-Gorean heresy, and not only between the lifestylers and the role players. Internecine conflict often breaks out within the lifestyler and role-playing communities, too.

In the online role-playing community there are literalists, traditionalists, liberals, sophists and the Gorean equivalents of dervishes, charismatics, voodooists and snake handlers. The virtual cities, taverns, camps, caves and castles are often at war with each other, and the excitement of these virtual “raids” can add to a slow night at the Web site. Contemptuous rhetoric flows freely in all directions, and the faithful are exhorted and admonished, chaffed, chivied, reprimanded — and regularly excommunicated from one sect, only to join another.

There are some common ritual requirements for most Gorean role-playing venues. Free women are supposed to be rare — their participation is even prohibited by some Goreans — but they are fairly common on most of the role-playing sites. Masters and Mistresses (free women with slaves) take names with capital letters, and slaves’ names are all in lowercase, followed by the initials of their Masters in “curly” brackets. Bear’s married slave, for example, would identify herself online as “tessa {B}.”

Some slaves also identify their “caste color,” or the color of the “silks” worn by each different kind of slave. Red is for the “pleasure slaves,” white for the “reserved” or “virgin” slaves, black for the most menial (and usually not sexually attractive) “kettle slaves” and so on. The brackets are referred to as the “collar,” or “ko’lar” in Gorean parlance, and the initials are the slave’s “tag.” Although not universal, it has become common for slaves to refer to themselves in the third person, avoiding all use of the words “I” and “me,” and to capitalize all pronouns that refer to Free Persons.

The majority of online interactions in role-playing Gorean chat rooms and IRC (Internet Relay Chat) channels have some sort of sexual or flirtatious subtext, although surprisingly little explicit cybersex occurs publicly in Gorean venues, unlike in many other straightforwardly prurient Internet hot spots. Most of the cyber “furring” occurs in private channels and via Instant Message. The Gorean virtual slaves usually portray themselves as childlike: young, giggly and gorgeous. And they spend great amounts of time detailing — in the flowery language of 19th century potboilers — their ritual “serves” of food and beverages, complete with lowered heads, trembling lips, wide and worshipful eyes and so on. I found that a dozen variations on “pert nipples tightening in the chill of the tavern coolery” were more than enough for me to get the idea. I started to tune them out and spent more time enjoying the less repetitious activity and interaction with the Free Persons.

One of the things that causes most of the doctrinal screaming and carrying on in the role-playing community is the laxness of narrative discipline. A great deal of OOC, or “out of character,” commentary — like references to real-life phone calls, the other screen names of a character or a dinner from Taco Bell — occurs in what is supposed to be, say, a Gorean desert oasis. Traditionalists object to things like slaves making disrespectful comments in their “thoughts.”

Then there are the more serious outrages against honor, like warriors pledging allegiance to more than one “Home Stone” (the Gor symbol of an independent community or tribe), slave girls begging collars from multiple Masters under different slave names and slaves who turn out to be men and Masters who turn out to be women.

To say that none of this matters because it is only a game in cyberspace is to misunderstand the nature and meaning of these interactions and relationships. While some people are blithe or cynical, most role players see the Gorean game as legitimate social interaction that can have real consequences for real people. It is at least as serious a matter to most of them as the arts and professional sports are for people who follow them. For many online Goreans, their “play” is a deeply meaningful enhancement to their real life, in which they try out different roles, experiment with their sexuality and test-drive a philosophy. It is also no accident that the vast majority of lifestyle Goreans started out as role players.

But IRC slavery and lifestyle slavery are definitely two different things, says “sura,” one of the real-life Gorean slaves whose Master, “Bill,” commanded her to speak to me via e-mail. “Obedience isn’t really all that hard,” she told me, but “surrender of one’s self is.”

No naive schoolgirl, sura had been in the military and was a police officer for 16 years. “Sometimes,” she says, speaking in the approved third-person form, “this girl felt that she took such work in hopes of driving out of her that which she sought, but could never find … peace and contentment at a man’s feet.” Married for more than 18 years, she raised four children and was the decision maker and major breadwinner in the partnership. That life, she says, left her “unfulfilled as a female, and dissatisfied as a human being.”

Virtually collared by her Master last year after being abandoned by another, she moved in with him and his other slave girls, “feli” and “ciosa,” about three weeks ago. The transition has been difficult for all of them: “Sura has been beaten more times than she cares to count, mostly for displeasing acts; her mouth, actions that belong to only free women, the fear of giving up everything.” She says she has also endured punishment because of conflicts and angers brought on by her reaction to the behavior of one of her “chain sisters.”

There is, sura says, little furniture in the Master’s house. His chair dominates the living area and the “girls” kneel on the floor. They sleep in a “kennel” with a slave mat, pillow, blanket and footlocker for the few possessions their Master lets them keep. The Master keeps them on a diet, which is the only food that sura is allowed to eat other than what he gives her out of his hand, a “gentle reminder,” sura says, “that our substance comes at his discretion.”

She says she fought her Master’s will at first, “kicking, hitting and screaming,” and she still fights, “but she grows weaker. The teachings of her youth, an emasculated world, cause her to fight and give her what little strength she still has to continue to fight, but in the end he will win, and she will be conquered, turned into nothing more than a helpless, whimpering pet.”

The experience of helplessness is apparently a crucial part of what sura is seeking from her Master. “When he took both of this one’s wrists in his one hand, this one knew she had been captured, held captive by a man; she was his, now and forever.” And the sexual conquest was a major turning point: “It took this one about 11 days in Master’s house before she would submit her body to him, beg for his touch and his use. The day this one begged for her rape is one of the happiest of this girl’s life.” Summing up how she feels about her new life, she says: “The answer is simple: when he breathes, I breathe; as his heart beats, my heart beats; my sole purpose is to please him; and when he dies, so too shall I.”

Sura’s Master, Bill, says that he was drawn into the lifestyle by a former girlfriend, who wanted him to make her his slave. “I started attending a Gorean discussion group that was an offshoot of the local [bondage and discipline and sadomasochism, or BDSM] scene,” he says. The group was “tightly focused on the intensity of the Master/slave relationship described in the Gor series, and had as its purpose the exploration of that relationship to see if it was viable. At first, I was pretty skeptical about the idea that women could be contented and fulfilled at a man’s feet, but I liked the girl a lot, so I was willing to give it a try.”

Fourteen years later he has three slaves, all of whom have some college education. “Everything that I have experienced in the intervening years has led me to believe that what [Norman] said is true of a great many women. I have seen, again and again, intelligent, strong-willed women grow happier, more beautiful, less stressed and more contented when made the slaves of men.”

There is little question that BDSM scenarios have enormous erotic appeal for many men and women, heterosexual and homosexual alike, so it is not surprising that a fantasy series like Gor would have an enthusiastic following. Goreans take the very popularity of these fantasies, and the power the narrative has to make a willing lifestyle captive of women like sura, as proof of one of their central beliefs: that men and women have been programmed by evolutionary history to be, respectively, naturally dominant and naturally submissive and that people can be truly happy only when they live in accordance with their biological instincts to be either a Master or a slave.

The Gorean Argument, something of a definitive statement by “Marcus of Ar,” a major contributor to the Silk and Steel site, says that “the process of evolution has naturally selected for strong, competitive males, and females who were both desirable to such men, and who were in turn attracted to such men.” This is a familiar simplification of some currently popular theories in evolutionary psychology, and it has a ring of truth to it, although those most disposed to salivate at that bell are the ones most flattered by it — namely, strong, competitive men. Even science has its seductive narratives.

Marcus goes on to elaborate his understanding of human evolution: “Weak males would not survive the competitive selection process to reproduce. Females who were not attractive and responsive to strong men would not be selected to reproduce. Therefore, nature being what it is, the non-competitive and unattractive geneaological [sic] lines would fade away and the strong and attractive lines would continue to survive.”

There’s only one little problem with this idea: Weak males and unattractive females obviously did survive to reproduce; otherwise most of the men in the world today would be George Clooney and most of the women would be Jennifer Lopez (with better clothes). The reason that “mediocre,” “ugly” and “wimpy” genes are still around and being expressed in the human population — and in quantities far greater than Clooney and Lopez genes — is not, as Marcus later goes on to charge, because the moral constraints of civilization interrupted the marvelous process of winnowing the race toward perfection. It is because human sexual activity and reproductive strategies have always been amazingly elastic and complicated. Even at the dawn of time, it probably wasn’t just a matter of bigger and stronger cave men whacking lesser men and dragging their women home by the hair. Female choice and female resistance to sexual control (even if it had to be by means of subterfuge and secrecy) have always played a huge role.

“Males who were unsuited to combat would not live long,” Marcus says. “Females who refused to breed with the combative males would not do so, and would not propagate the species.”

The scientific and logical errors in this statement are manifold: It assumes that combat was a constant and crucial fact of early human evolution, that if women refused one kind of man they would not mate with others, that the only way for a man to live a long life was to fight with other men, that combat was the sole means of reproductive competition and that submission to her mate’s physical dominance was the female’s only means of reproductive success. All these ideas are just plain wrong.

Brian Ferguson, professor of anthropology at Rutgers University, says the popular idea that our distant past was a sanguinary “war of all against all” is a “fable.” Archaeological evidence tells us that deaths by interpersonal violence, especially violent deaths from organized intentional mayhem — war — seem to have been far more rare in prehistory than they became later. He cites the case of Japan in particular: “Evidence of violent death goes from .002 percent of approximately 5,000 skeletons from hunter-gatherer times to 10 percent of all deaths in the subsequent agricultural period.”

Aggressive domination of man over man, or man over woman, was also not the sole basis of reproductive competition or any guarantee of reproductive success. In fact, being too combative and aggressive could reduce reproductive success, because combat and killing are inherently risky propositions. Not only would warriors get killed themselves, their violent ways made it more likely that they and their women and children would be targeted for retaliation later on. Meanwhile, back at the hearth, chances are the wimps would be having it on with all the widows. Bearing out this scenario are some recent studies of the primitive Yanomamo tribe in South America, showing that war leaders are likely to leave behind fewer surviving children than other men.

Furthermore, women’s reproductive priorities have always demanded that they mate with men who would be less likely to indulge in domestic violence against their mates and their children, and who could be counted on to stick around and provide child-rearing help and sustenance at the hearth, instead of running off to kill the guys in the next valley and bring home a new girlfriend as booty.

So while violence and conquest certainly played some role in human evolution, so did cooperation and conciliation, and — contradicting the macho, individualistic romanticism espoused by some evolutionary psychologists today — peaceful men probably bequeathed just as many, if not more, survivors to history as the warlike ones did. In any case, both kinds of traits were selectively valuable in different circumstances, and in both men and women. (Goreans seem to want us to believe that girls inherit only their mothers’ genes and boys inherit only their fathers’.) In short, most evolutionary psychologists agree that it is the flexibility and diversity of human reproductive strategies and choices that have made the human animal so successful and that also account for the wild mix of human types we see around us today — few of them conforming to the Gorean ideal.

So where does the sexual appeal of the dominance and submission scenario come from? “Why,” Marcus of Ar asks, “do women find themselves attracted, on a biological level, to the ‘rebel’ or the ‘bad boy,’ the male who indicates through his actions that he is strong enough to make his own rules? Why are men attracted to females who seem willing to obey their every wish or fantasy?” He is in essence asking why the Gor books are popular, why the online role-playing of Gorean scenarios has skyrocketed and why some people are even making attempts to create Gorean lifestyles based on the philosophy that female slavery is natural and right.

There seem to be as many guesses about this as there are experts, but in essence the theories come down to two: 1) the “lizard brain” erotic theory, which says that the older part of our brains, below the cerebral cortex, makes significant physiological connections among sex, fear and aggression, which are then picked up and elaborated by the conscious mind, and 2) the “control” theory, which basically argues that our fantasies always center around getting what we don’t have and controlling what we can’t control. The answer probably lies in a combination of the two.

The problem for the Goreans in the lizard brain theory is that the coupling of sexual feeling with anger, pain and aggression does not break out strictly along heterosexual or gender lines. There is statistical correlation — humps in the curve on either side of the gender line — but there is also considerable overlap. If there weren’t, we wouldn’t see male submissives and female dominatrixes in the BDSM community or the gay and lesbian versions in the “leather” life, in which the dominant partner of each pair is the same sex as the submissive. We also wouldn’t see individuals “switching” back and forth between the roles, as some do in both heterosexual and homosexual relationships.

Determinism according to gender is hard to sustain in view of these facts, but “Julian of London,” a chillingly smooth and plausible charmer and one of the slickest Gorean apologists I encountered, has another explanation for these cross-gender “aberrations” from our supposed instincts. He says that modern society and its incorrect ideas have contaminated us and ruined our deep biological responses. “I personally suspect that in a more natural society, the vast majority of men would have the strength and integrity to trigger the submission instinct in women,” he says. For him, a more natural society would be Gorean, in that it would “allow men to be strong” and to use their strength to conquer women.

And yes, he means men should be allowed to use their muscle in addition to employing mental and emotional methods of dominance, even to the extent of kidnapping, “training” and forcing sex, as happens frequently in the Gor novels. Asking for consent from a woman is exactly the wrong approach, Julian says. “For her to fire up, the woman would have to 1) see the man being strong-willed, big-hearted, etc., and 2) be ‘taken’ rather than begged by the man. This is what it means to be ‘swept off your feet.’”

While Julian still agrees with the basic premises underlying serious Goreans’ lifestyle, he is coming to have significant differences with their implementation. The current community of real-life Goreans, he maintains, not only are indulging in “too many dumb-ass sci-fi customs” but are “technophobic,” and their “dogma” is too “hardheaded.” In a sharp exchange with Bear and other Masters on the Gorean Public Boards, Julian also disputed, on theoretical grounds, the very foundation of the Gorean lifestyle as it is being lived: the consensual nature of the slavery entered into by women like sura.

Julian thinks that many Gorean men are eliciting that consent not so much by means of their “personal magnetism” or the proper use of masculine force but by mere reliance on the “rules” of the Gorean game. But most important, he considers the whole notion of female consent bogus and anti-Gorean. “If women respond the most to the Master who takes them without even showing the weakness of begging permission, then why should I, who know myself to be such a man, ask their consent? That is why I’ve said I am leaning against consent as an ideal.”

Julian’s fantasy is that he would be able to make a woman surrender to him totally if he were somehow able to “get away with” kidnapping and “training” her to please him. Right now, though, he not only doesn’t have a good prospect in mind but doesn’t have the time, the financial wherewithal or a secure place to “store” the woman — not to mention that he wouldn’t want to go to jail if things didn’t work out as he expected.

After I picked up my jaw from the desktop, Julian’s perfectly rational discussion of the reasons why he wouldn’t be out collecting women in his butterfly net next week reminded me that by far the most common hypothesis about the appeal of the Gorean fantasy is that it is a direct reaction to social needs and psychological problems, both communal and individual. Julian himself alluded to this when he said that part of his dilemma in implementing his plan and demonstrating his “integrity and will” to his kidnappee would be that “in our society, the man has to work past the automatic assumption that kidnappers and rapists are pitiable dweebs at heart.”

Tim Perper, a biologist who has studied human courtship for two decades, notes that “if some men fantasize that sexy women exist for male sexual pleasure, it is because such men want — but do not have — female sexual slaves.” Perper also points out the paradoxical nature of many women’s submission fantasies, which, he says, “operate as masturbatory consolation.” In a woman’s fantasies of being dominated, she is directing the action. Her “Master” does everything that she wants, and does it according to the imaginative specifications of her desires. Again, inside our heads (or in the pages of our fictions), we are always in charge. The reason most women would not like such things to happen in real life is that the essential condition of control would be gone.

Marcus of Ar says that “our fantasies are a barometer whereby we can measure what we desire, and what we feel we are lacking.” Historian G. R. Foote draws parallels with other fictional worlds that have caught our imaginations: “I wonder what would have blossomed on the Internet if it had been around at the time of Ayn Rand or “Stranger in a Strange Land” — both of which offered powerful and coherent ‘alternate universes’ … When I was a teenager I was fascinated by Rand, the simplicity and certitude of her worldview.”

Simplicity and certitude seem to be particularly important needs for many people, especially in a society in the midst of cultural upheaval. A simple organizing principle like biological determinism or theological creationism can offer enormous comfort and sustenance to people struggling with personal dissatisfactions or intimate failures, or who are frustrated by the insignificance they have in the power structure of their society.

In researching the “character” profiles of many role-playing men, I was struck by the fact that, besides descriptions of their great height, rippling muscles and impressive physical prowess, many of them referred to romantic betrayals, the perfidy of a woman in their character’s past or the general untrustworthiness of the female gender. To a man who has experienced romantic rejection, manipulation or treachery, a slave woman who would never leave him and would be utterly obedient to his every whim — and, especially, who would even enjoy being obedient — would have particular appeal.

A universal complaint from Gorean men is that today’s society is crippling or damaging their manhood, that they are not allowed to express the full flower of their masculinity. (“I wondered if a man could be a man without a slave,” one Norman character muses.) Contemporary customs and civilization are all at fault in the stifling and destruction of modern men, Gorean men say, but most culpable is the feminist agenda. When men feel this way, the appeal of the unbridled “hypermasculinity” portrayed in the Gor novels is not hard to understand.

Elaborate attempts at re-creating the fictional world of Gor, even in role-playing, give men the relief of action, a feeling of “doing something” about their masculine distress. And the imaginary hostilities and real arguments about who is doing this most “properly” provide an outlet for the anger and frustrations they experience in the larger reality. Online Gorean life offers an arena in which men can compete for leadership and dominance of the subculture. The Internet Gorean community gives them an opportunity to win, to conquer enemies, to control women and to influence a society. What’s not to like?

Women, on the other hand, seem to have more complex reasons for embracing Goreanism, says Fern Maiden, a role-playing Gorean. “For some,” she says, “I think they simply have extraordinarily submissive and nurturing natures.” Whether submissiveness is innate or socialized, it would be foolish to pretend that human behavior and psychological needs do not extend into the extremes. What Goreans claim is true of most women probably is true of some.

And dissatisfaction with the culture’s demands and gender constraints is not just confined to men, either. Feminist backlash rhetoric also plays to women. Many women dislike the pressure that they think feminism has imposed on them to be cold, decisive and independent, and are thus seeking a form of relief from that perceived pressure. The embrace of Gorean slavery is just the most extreme variety of this reaction.

In “Mercenaries of Gor,” one character, watching a female slave dance, pities female earthlings:

I then felt a sudden, poignant sorrow for the women of Earth. How different Fequia was from them. How far removed delicious, exquisite Fequia was from the motivated artifices, the lies and fabrications, the propaganda, the demeaning, sterile, unsatisfying, reductive, negative superficialities of antibiological roles, the prescriptions of an unnatural and pathological politics, the manipulative instrumentations of monsters and freaks. I wondered how many women of Earth wished they might find themselves in a collar, dancing naked in the firelight before warriors in an Alar camp.

Fern thinks the attraction may lie in an even simpler human — and not solely feminine — wish to adopt infantilism to avoid the rigors of responsibility: “They wish to avoid having to make decisions for themselves and want someone else to deal with all life’s difficulties,” she says of Gorean slaves. This seems like an especially resonant explanation for women like sura, who utterly reject their own former strength and self-sufficiency because they have always been unhappy with the hard necessities they experienced in taking care of themselves. Many psychologists would say that the completeness of the rejection or repudiation of former personal truths is in direct proportion to the depth of the unhappiness a person felt trying to live with them.

While many women can see the basic appeal of the “dominant male” Gor scenario, some experts think the appeal has more to do with the fact that strong, intelligent women need to be able to respect their partners and less with the fact that they may find female subjugation or groveling a delicious erotic prospect. Few women respect bullies or the swaggering jerks so commonly associated with the myth of machismo. Virtually everyone I talked to, men and women, could understand the value of the domination-submission kink in a couple’s erotic life. But the consensus, in consonance with Julian’s realization about this society’s understanding of rapists, was that men who need total control outside the bedroom in order to feel “manly” are pathetic or laughable.

I wonder where the challenges and entertainment are in a relationship based on such a static power structure. Once you’ve conquered the woman and bent her utterly to your will, where’s the fun? Still, it’s true that many of us do find a genuinely strong and confident man appealing. “I do too,” Fern says, “but it’s not because I’m submissive — it’s because I’m not submissive. Weak men bore me.”

Julia Gracen is a writer and "book doctor" from Charleston, S.C.

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This week, for roughly the millionth time, E.L. James’ romance-bondage trilogy “50 Shades” nabs the No. 1, 2 and 3 spots on the New York Times bestseller lists. We don’t get it either. Every page of that book, which famously began as “Twilight” fan fiction, elicits a sigh of confusion and weird secondary embarrassment. The question is: Who would read this? (The answer is: Apparently everyone.) It’s the same baffled, helpless feeling we get when we sort through stock photos on a daily basis. Stock photos – which have been the subject of recent outstanding Internet satire – are used by this site, and many others, to illustrate our flood of content. Many are plain and simple, but a good portion are flat-out mind-blowing. Why did anyone think that photo was a good idea? It only made sense to join these forces. And so, we present to you passages from the most head-scratching bestseller of our time, illustrated with the assistance of inexplicable stock photography.

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Megaphone by Natalie Bakopoulos

Miracles happen, even in an Athens crippled by a garbage strike, to a young mother unsure of her ability to love

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Megaphone by Natalie Bakopoulos (Credit: iStockphoto/caracterdesign)

It’s the third week of the garbage strike and Athens has begun to smell. Bright-colored trash bags fill the curbs and alleyways, and we have learned to step over the rubbish and avoid the blocks that had become unnavigable. We know which stretches are particularly foul — a stretch along Mavili Square, or the entire top end of Monastiraki. Odos Athinas is a sea of trash, and Omonia is ghastly but we don’t go there anyway. May has gone from unseasonably cool to raging hot, and the garbage seems to be melting. In front of the museum it’s like yet another installation project. When I arrive each morning I want to wretch.

My 5-year-old son, Alekos, sits on the balcony of our apartment. Visible from there are pine trees and details of other people’s lives, audible are the sounds of morning, the birds above and voices below. Evenings, Alekos lies on the divan on the balcony in his pajamas, watching the moon. He is obsessed with it, and his father made him a playlist of all the Greek songs that mention it. When he was smaller he’d stare at the moon until he fell asleep.

This morning, though, Alekos lies flat on the ground, peering down through the slats of the railing, staring at the trash. Next to him is his iPad ­– a gift from his father, and yes, I know, but his father doesn’t live with us and what can you do?­ — and now he favors bad pop music like the older kids at school. So I’m surprised this morning when I hear the sounds of Elmo counting. He’s embarrassed by this favorite YouTube clip­­ – it’s for babies, he says ­­­­– but it comforts him. The tension these days is overwhelming.

Alekos looks up when he sees me, furrows his brow, and tells me if he were a deputy like his father, he’d force everyone to clean up the garbage. “And to make a new government,” he says.

I tell him that would be nice.

“At least I can fly,” he says. He is wearing the Spider-Man costume my sister brought him from the States.

I tell him Spider-Man jumps and leaps and sticks to things. He doesn’t fly. “Besides,” I quickly add, thinking of all the balconies around us. “You’re not Spider-Man.” Even I have wondered what it might be like to jump from one to the next. I smooth his light hair, which is growing long. “You need a haircut,” I say.

I hold out two polos, one white, one blue, so he feels he has a choice. He pulls the blue shirt over the costume, and I hope that his teachers aren’t too upset by this because I am too exhausted to argue with him.

Outside, the trash has piled up, and Alekos can’t get into the car from the curb. I tell him I’ll pull the car up so he can get in without pushing his way through the refuse. He wrinkles his nose at the smell. But when I get to the driver’s side, Alekos is no longer standing there.

Instead he is floating 12 feet above the curb, his Spider-Man-clad arms stretched out like wings.

Alekos,” is all I can say, “get down.” He swoops over to me, hovering just above my reach, and finally glides gracefully to my feet as if he has been practicing this move for months. Bending down to face him and gripping the straps of his backpack, I have the panicked feeling that if I let go he will fly away.

“How long has this been going on?” I whisper. “Tell me.”

One old man walks past us with his hands behind his back and says nothing. He barely notices us. Across the street a woman hurries along in heels, yelling into her phone. No one else is around.

Alekos shrugs, aloof, and looks away with those dark eyes, almost black, like his father’s. “I tried to tell you.”

“Does Babas know about this?” I ask, suddenly sure his father would keep this from me, just the way he failed to mention his girlfriend was staying the night, reading Alekos bedtime stories when he stayed there. Oh, the flying? I thought you knew?

“No,” Alekos says.

“Just at home, OK?” I say. I don’t want to alarm him, but I want to be firm.

He digs in his backpack and tells me he saw his father on the news that morning. This is one reason I don’t like him to watch television at all. For the rest of the drive, we’re quiet.

“I know I’m not Spider-Man,” he says finally, when we arrive.

“OK,” I say. “Do you fly at school?” I ask.

“No.” He looks at me in the rearview mirror, completely incredulous. “Nobody does.”

He gets out of the car and hurries off to meet some other kids, who admire his Spider-Man arms as if they are tattooed. I wait for him to turn around and wave but he doesn’t, and for a moment it seems his feet levitate off the ground. But maybe I am imagining it; he walks in, one foot after the other, like everyone else. I park at the metro station and take the train into the city center, turning up the ringer on my phone.

I call his father three times but get his voice mail. I text him to call me. He texts me an hour later — Ola kala? — and I trip over a split-open trash bag, as if these sidewalks weren’t already treacherous enough. I answer, Yes, everything’s fine. This will have to wait until we are face to face, which is not often.

We met when I was teaching art classes on Paros one summer. I soon got pregnant, and we didn’t get married, but I stayed in Greece. I think he still resents me for not marrying him. To be honest, I can’t even remember my reasons. It all seems like another lifetime, decades ago, when Athens felt proud and vibrant those few years after the Olympics.

A few more messages come from him but I’m busy and don’t answer. Then, when I’m outside the museum, finishing my installation, he shows up.

“You don’t call me three times in a row with no message,” he says, frustrated. “You barely call me at all, unless the kid is on fire.”

No, not fire, I think.

He surveys my project, one giant megaphone outside the  museum, the size of a kiosk, with cameras inside that will film street activity and project it onto a screen inside. Tiny figurines in various stages of undress shoot out from the megaphone, suspended by invisible wire. I’ve compiled old Greek footage of both celebrations and protests, which will air inside the museum, and the outdoor footage will be superimposed on those old clips. I wonder if anyone is inside now, watching us, or what we’re matched with: a hectic street scene, a political rally, a brilliant August moon?

“I like it,” he says, in English, in that supportive tone he uses when he doesn’t know what to say about my work but wants to convey he approves.

“Oh, stop it,” I say.

“And with the garbage,” he says. “A nice touch.”

And the two of us laugh, the first time we have laughed together in a long time, since before the elections, since before the crisis, probably not since Alekos was an infant and we marveled at every smile and uttered “word.” Suddenly I think I should have thought to make those tiny figures children, with wings. I wonder why I didn’t think of it before, why it always takes the manifestation of something so crazy to make me realize something so simple.

“Let me take you for a coffee,” he says, “or something stronger? We can sit outside, where it’s quiet.” The trash stench is so bad that everyone sits inside, smoking.

“You have time for that?” I ask, knowing he doesn’t. I can hear his phone buzzing in his pocket. “I should keep working.”

One night, right before these last elections, he came to pick Alekos up and he kissed me when Alekos went to grab his toys. “Not yet,” I said. My attempt at self-preservation while the rest of the country implodes. It’s hard enough just to be friends.

“OK,” he said then. “We’ll get there, one day.”

Now, I lean into him a moment. Together we survey what I’ve made. I want to tell him, Our son can fly. I want to tell him, Stay.

“Are we there yet,” he says quietly, distantly, not as question but statement, and he rests his chin on my head and looks out into the street: the sleepy shops, the political posters pasted over the boarded-up kiosks, the hot afternoon sun beating down on it all. “Are we?”

And then my phone is ringing­­ — it’s the school office — and I know of course what has happened. I imagine Alekos flying around his classroom like an angry bee, out into the schoolyard, beyond the trash, beyond the protests and our land in limbo. Or maybe he is more relaxed, gliding effortlessly the way I fly in my dreams, his superhero costume and sandy hair glowing in the afternoon sun, until he finds us here, his parents who don’t know where we are or where we’re going, and taking us up with him, catapulting us into the vast unknown. Our images would flicker on the screen inside, soaring above that old footage of our shattered, magnificent city.

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Natalie Bakopoulos's first novel, "The Green Shore," will be published by Simon & Schuster in June 2012. Her work has appeared in Tin House, Ninth Letter, Granta Online, and The O. Henry Prize Stories 2010, and she is a contributing editor for the online journal Fiction Writers Review.

Almost by Chris Pavone

She never thought of herself as ambitious, until motherhood and career collided in one horrifying hospital ride

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Almost by Chris Pavone (Credit: iStockphoto/caracterdesign)

It’s just before dawn when Isabel puts the final page down on the fat stack of paper that sits on the rumpled bedspread, next to an overflowing crystal ashtray and a crumpled soft-pack of cigarettes. She’d tried Wellbutrin and Xanax; she’d used patches and gum. In the end, the only thing that made her quit smoking was being pregnant.

But then, after everything, she couldn’t help but start up again. At first it was just a single cigarette per day, or two. Then it became a few, and within months she was back to full-throttle. Over the past couple of years, she’s tried to quit a few times, but not seriously. She anticipates — she accepts — failure. Because she doesn’t want to quit, not really. She wants instead to try, and fail.

Isabel picks up the manuscript with both hands, flips it over, and uses her thumbs to align the pages. She takes a deep breath, lets out a long sigh.

Another night lying in bed, working. She’d fallen asleep at 11, then woke sometime after 2, her mind unquiet. But it wasn’t until 3 that she admitted she was awake. She then picked up a manuscript and a pencil, and started working, page after page, all through the desperate hours. Vaguely reminiscent of those days when Nicky was an infant, in the middle of the night, sleep-deprived, awake in a dormant world. The small hours when a blanket of quiet smothers the city, but through the moth-eaten holes there’s the occasional lowing of a railroad in New Jersey, the distant Dopplered wail of an ambulance siren. Then the inevitable thump of the newspaper on the doormat, the end of the idea of night, even though it’s still dark out.

She stares across the room, off into the black nothingness of the picture window on the opposite wall, its severe surface barely softened by the half-drawn shades, an aggressive void invading the serene cocoon of her bedroom. The room is barely lit by a small bullet-shaped reading sconce mounted over the headboard, aiming a beam of light directly at the top of her head, creating a halo in the reflection in the window. An angel. Except she’s not.

Isabel shuffles into the dark hall, flips the light switch. She turns on the kitchen lights, and the coffee — switched from auto-on, which is set to start brewing an hour from now, to on — and the small television on the counter. Filling the lonely apartment with humming electronic life.

The coffee machine hisses and sputters, big plops falling into the tempered glass. She watches the contraption’s clock, changing from 5:48 to 5:49. Grabs the plastic handle of the carafe and fills the mug with hot, viscous, bitter, bracing caffeination. She takes a small sip, then a larger one.

She walks down the hall, lined with the photographs that she’d unearthed four years ago, when she was moving out of her matrimonial apartment, into this single-woman space in a new neighborhood, far from the painful memories of her home — of her life — downtown, where she’d been running into too many mothers, often with their children. Women she’d known from the playgrounds and the toy stores and the mommy-and-me music classes, from the gyms and grocers and coffee shops, from preschool drop-off and the waiting room at the pediatrician’s. All those other little children growing older, getting bigger.

So she’d bought herself a one-bedroom in an uptown full-service building, the type of apartment that a woman chooses when she reconciles herself that she’s not going to be living with another human being, probably forever. That she’s making her loneliness comfortable. Palliative care.

She lined this nice new hallway with framed photos. There she is, herself, a smiling little toddler. And with her mother on the first day of second grade. At college graduation with her two best friends. There are her grandparents, at the final family reunion before they both died, within weeks of each other. Isabel in a big white dress, aglow, in the middle of the panoramic-lens group shot. A much smaller print, lying in a hospital bed, beaming at Nicky in her arms, tiny and red and angry in his swaddling blanket and blue cap. A grainy shot of herself onstage in a little black dress, accepting an award, beaming again, but not as wide. Some joys aren’t as joyous as others.

It was more than possible — it was inevitable — to blame herself, her ambition, even though she’d never thought of herself as especially ambitious. But everyone has important moments, in any job, at any level of ambition. In the Supreme Court or a fourth-grade classroom, on an assembly line or a fishing boat, there are crucial days.

For Isabel the literary agent, this day was dominated by an auction she was running for a hotly anticipated second novel, whose author needed a lot of hand-holding, and whose bidders kept increasing their offers every half-hour, from mid-five figures to high-sixes in the course of the day. This lucrative 9-to-6 was followed by a 7 o’clock black-tie that included an honor for, and an interminable speech by, a different author of hers. So this frantic day, it featured a wardrobe change. And the evening portion was just as important work as the daytime; just because there was liquor and food and fancy dress didn’t mean it wasn’t work.

The nanny called a couple times during Isabel’s 16 hours at work, worrying that Nicky’s cold or flu or whatever was getting worse. Dave was away on a business trip, and Isabel didn’t want Lupe to be the one to go to the doctor with Nicky; the nanny’s English would be generously described as weak, and sometimes that mattered. So Isabel made an appointment for first thing the next morning. Anyone would’ve done the same thing.

Isabel returned home after midnight, exhausted. She thanked Lupe and sent her home in a taxi, and let her cocktail dress fall to the floor, and collapsed into bed.

She was awakened at dawn by the screaming. Nicky was burning up, 106. She rushed downstairs with the boy in her arms, and ran around the block, panting and desperate, until she found a taxi.  “Don’t worry, Sweetie,” she said. “We’ll be at the doctor’s in a minute.” The hospital was only a mile away.

The taxi peeled away from the curb, the eerie blue light washing over the dingy white garbage trucks, the Mexican kids swabbing down the sidewalks in front of all-night delis, the street-cart vendors positioning their pastries in front of office buildings, the joggers with reflective stripes down their shorts, the normal business of a city’s day starting, coming to life.

“Are we there yet?” Nicky asked, as he had so many times. From the back seat of the shiny SUV that was cleaned every week by the guys in the garage, on their way out to the weekend house in East Hampton, back when her life looked like something to be envied. He had said it on the way to visit Dave’s parents in Oyster Bay, or hers upstate in the Hudson Valley. While heading to Vermont, for a ski weekend; to Cape Cod, to visit friends; to the Bronx Zoo and the Brooklyn Aquarium, Yankee Stadium and Citi Field. It was something the little boy asked, all the time.

But this was the last time.

In the back of the moldy-smelling taxi she pushed the fever-damp hair off her son’s hot forehead. “Nearly,” she said. He shut his eyes, and then slipped silently into a coma, there on the slippery silver vinyl seat of the taxi.

An hour later, Nicky was dead. A supervirus, said the young doctor, who had been up all night, up for who knows how long, working; he was tired and frustrated, and perhaps not as tactful as he could’ve been.

At the end of the hall Isabel stops at the spotlit photograph, a small black-and-white in the center of a vast expanse of stark white matting. A little boy, her baby, laughing on a rocky beach, running out of gentle surf, holding a little toy hammer. Isabel reaches her hand to her lips, plants a kiss on her fingers, and transfers the kiss to the little boy. As she does every morning.

There was, the doctor added, almost nothing she could’ve done. Almost.

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Memorial Day fiction: Are we there yet?

Salon exclusive: At the start of the summer fiction season, new stories from Chris Pavone and Natalie Bakopoulos

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Memorial Day fiction: Are we there yet? (Credit: iStockphoto/caracterdesign)

“Are we there yet?”

It’s a dreaded sentence. When it’s spoken by an anxious child from the back seat, it’s enough to make stressed-out parents wish they’d never taken a family vacation in the first place. And even if it’s delivered as a sing-songy punch line, from an impatient partner or spouse on a long road trip, it’s an irritating eye-roller of a joke.

So this Memorial Day weekend — the unofficial start of the summer vacation season, and therefore the summer fiction season — we asked two novelists to reclaim the sentence in a new and adult context. For our latest fiction project, there was only one simple rule: Each story had to include the line “Are we there yet?” in a fresh and surprising way.

Our authors are two people you should be taking to the beach with you this summer. Chris Pavone is the author of “The Expats,” the New York Times best-selling thriller with more satisfying twists than the Pacific Coast Highway. Natalie Bakopoulos is the author of “The Green Shore,” one of 2012′s most anticipated debut novels, a beautiful family drama that is set during another Greek crisis — the 1967 military coup.

To read the stories, just follow the links below:

“Megaphone” by Natalie Bakopoulos

“Almost” by Chris Pavone

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David Daley is the senior culture editor of Salon.

“Frankenstein” remixed

This masterful new adaptation of Mary Shelley's classic novel may be the best interactive fiction yet

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This originally appeared on The Chimerist, a site devoted to the intersection of art, stories, and technology.

Whatever interactive fiction is (and we’re still figuring that out) it suffers from all the problems of traditional fiction and then some. The vast majority of novels and short stories aren’t much good, but when a branching fiction — along the lines of the old “Choose Your Own Adventure” children’s books — fails to engage, the first impulse is to blame the form rather than the content. Let “Frankenstein,” just released by Inkle Studios and Profile Books, serve as a reproach to that reflex. The app is a creative, subtle and sensitive adaptation of Mary Shelley’s classic novella, and it has singlehandedly renewed this critic’s hopes for interactive fiction.

What this “Frankenstein” isn’t is a replication of the source text with the addition of a lot of digital doohickeys like sound effects and illustrations that animate when tapped. The app is all about the text, even if it is beautifully framed by period art and anatomical illustrations. The reader is presented with a screenful of narration and then offered one or more responses to it. The preferred response, when tapped, delivers up another screen of text. (In an absurdly pleasing visual touch, these appear as sheets of paper fasted together by straight pins.) According to the press materials, the reader’s responses will shape the way the narrative is presented, although not to the degree of substantively changing the plot.

This is an important point. The pleasure of storytelling lies in the dynamic between the surprising and the inevitable. The reader wants to feel the story is going somewhere, that its events follow from each other in meaningful, but not too obvious ways. When a story can go anywhere, it feels meaningless. In Mary Shelley’s novella, which is saturated with the Western tradition of the tragedy, Viktor Frankenstein’s character is such that he must create a monster, and the monster’s body is such that he can never belong among human beings however much he yearns to. A “Frankenstein” that ended with either misfit finding a comfortable place in the world would be a travesty.

But that doesn’t mean the reader doesn’t long for the story to unfold otherwise; that’s the nature of tragedy. The great insight that writer Dave Morris brings to this adaptation of the novel is that while a reader cannot significantly change the outcome of the story, the interactive element can change the shading and flavor of the tale. It can be mournful and reflective or action-packed. The creature and his creator can show greater or lesser ambivalence about their own behaviors. The ambiguity of both figures is baked into Mary Shelley’s novella, and while Morris has nearly doubled the word count of the original, this mostly amounts to playing up or down what’s already there.

Morris — a novelist who has written graphic novels, games and, yes, Choose-Your-Own-Adventure stories for kids — has changed the original text in other ways, as well. (Let’s take a moment here to point out to all future narrative app developers that hiring a real writer who actually knows what he or she is doing is totally worth it.) He’s moved the setting to revolutionary France, a choice that shows shrewd understanding of the idealistic political climate that affected Shelley’s thinking; the new Republic is its own kind of Frankenstein’s monster. He’s also eliminated much of the 19th-century framing of the tale and converted it into two present-tense narrations. One is Frankenstein’s dialogue with either himself or a (possibly imaginary) companion. The other is a second-person account of the monster’s first weeks of life as it spies on a family of dispossessed French nobility and has the chance to observe the loving relationships it can never enjoy itself.

Morris presents the reader with choices I’ve not encountered in other interactive fictions. Is humanity mostly good, or mostly evil? Does the most recent development make you (the monster) feel hope or despair? Is the revolution the dawn of a brave new world or a descent into chaos and barbarity? While I’m usually skeptical that present-tense narration increases the “immediacy” of a story, in this case, it really does work, particularly in the sections concerning the monster. Depending on your own outlook, you may urge him to keep trying to connect with humanity, or promptly forward him on to homicidal rage.

In either case, the narrative is shaped not by the reader deciding to turn left or right, to go down into the cellar or to get out of the house — the usual actions offered on the choose-your-own menu. Instead, the options have more to do with personality and interpretation, beliefs and ideas. As a result of the reader’s choices, the characters seem more like him- or herself, with a concurrent ratcheting up of emotional investment. To my surprise, I found myself more moved by this adaptation of the Shelley novel than I have been by the source text. (Although the app does include the original if you want to compare and contrast.) This is the only interactive fiction I’ve ever read with that quintessential, old-fashioned readerly avidity: the hunger to know what happens next. Of course, I already knew, but that didn’t matter at all.

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Laura Miller

Laura Miller is a senior writer for Salon. She is the author of "The Magician's Book: A Skeptic's Adventures in Narnia" and has a Web site, magiciansbook.com.

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