Radiation had failed, and chemo was not recommended. He could have opted for surgery to remove the larynx and learned to talk again through a mechanical device. The Ranevskayas could have saved themselves from ruin by razing their beloved cherry orchard.

So: a party. Champagne and slices of his famous saffron spice cake, the one that had taken second prize in the Maui County Fair. The toast was given by the guest of honor: “At least I won’t die of AIDS!” he crowed, triumphant as his feathery voice allowed.

Even then, I didn’t quite believe it. “Uncle Herb” had been dying for as long as I could remember. After Paul’s death in 1988, he had moved from Hollywood to be near us, so my mother could help to care for him at the end, which the doctors assured him would be in three months or six — a year at the most.

“You won’t have to buy Myrlin a car when she gets her license,” he announced to my mother in his inimitable high style: part gallows humor, part drama queen. He punctuated his lines with deep drags on his cigarette — why quit smoking? “I’ll be dead by then and she can have mine.”

I, then 13, eyed the ’78 Ford Fairmont, with its bumper sticker from a California burger chain modified with a razor blade to read IN-N-OUT URGE, and prayed that he would outlive it, at least.

A peculiar fairy godfather, his gifts were eclectic, and often mostly intangible. Herb bought my first pair of shoes: white patent-leather Mary Janes, which, he gravely informed the stroller’s tiny occupant, must never, ever be worn past Labor Day. Then, gallantly wheeling me out the door, he had announced: “Now that was Saks. And someday I will present you at the Court of St. James’s.”

He never did present me at the Court of St. James’s, but he flew to Portland to see me graduate from college. He was on the phone when I brought my boyfriend around to the hotel to meet the folks, and held up a finger to us: Just a minute.

“Hello,” he said into the receiver with his perfectly clipped speech, “Is this the Eagle? Just to be clear, the Eagle, the leather bar? Mm-hmm.” He smoothed his neatly trimmed mustache. “And what would be a good time for an older gentleman from out of town to come in, have a drink, maybe meet a few of the locals? Eight o’clock?” He checked his watch. “Excellent. I’ll just have a little supper, then watch ‘Jeopardy!’ and finish the crossword puzzle, and I’ll be right over.” He clicked off the phone and peered over his glasses at my date. “So tell me — are you two having safe sex?”

He had by then become a fixture at the Maui AIDS foundation, doing education, outreach, client services. A legend as well, for though his tale — of cocktails, treatments, near-undetectable viral loads — is not uncommon now, back then it was extraordinary: an island of hope in a sea of despair. When he was diagnosed with cancer “unrelated to the HIV,” I remembered something my mother had said some years before, when a social worker at the foundation had died suddenly of a stroke, rattling everyone. Surrounded on all sides by death — but death tested for, foretold, that followed a predictable, inevitable course — we’d all forgotten that its underlying cause was not AIDS, but life.

After the party, Herb did not last long. A few weeks later, I received my last letter in his precise handwriting. Not an official will and testament, it nonetheless bequeathed to me my small inheritance. The Fairmont being long gone, these were remembrances of more modest taste — his amethyst ring; the Rockwell Kent illustrated Shakespeare (“… no need to feel you must read every word …”) and bookplate sketch.

But the most precious gift of all was humbly tucked into a separate envelope: a red ribbon from the county fair, and the recipe that had won it –  a yellowed newspaper clipping with his additions and innovations noted in ballpoint pen.

I am an imprecise cook normally, measuring my ingredients to the knuckle or by the pinch. But remembering Herb’s impeccable correctness in all things, I followed his instructions to the letter, grinding cloves and caraway seeds with my mortar and pestle, measuring out cinnamon and nutmeg by the half-teaspoon.

But before I poured the batter into the bundt pan, on sudden impulse I reached for the jar of cayenne pepper, and added just a sprinkle. I find it brings out the warmth of the saffron and gives the spices in the cake a little extra kick. So my recipe may not be exactly the same as my godfather’s, but it reminds me of him anyway: classic taste. Unexpectedly spicy. Improves as it ages. Goes well with Champagne, and dancing while the ship goes down.

Myrlin A. Hermes is a novelist living in Portland, Ore. Her most recent book, “The Lunatic, the Lover, and the Poet,” is dedicated to her late godfather. Find out more at her website.

Herb’s Spice Cake

Serves 16

I hired an archival researcher and a private investigator but no one can help me. Can you help me? I found out that many people came from all over the U.S. to attend this school and all I need is a list of names from around November 1961.  Please, please help me.

Into the Past

Dear Into the Past,

I love a mystery. I’m tempted to begin investigating myself. But I can’t do that. So you will have to keep at it.

It is hard to sustain a search without regular encouragement. So while I can’t fly there and help you look, I can offer encouragement to keep looking. Setbacks are to be expected. It will be slow going. You have to keep moving forward.

You may have begun to feel hopeless and want to give up. But if you give up you’ll never find out. At least if you keep at it until you have exhausted every avenue, you will have an answer. The answer may be that this man’s identity will never be known. At least that would be an answer. You will want the satisfaction of knowing you have done everything possible. So keep at it. If you become discouraged, take a break. Find elements of the investigation you can perform without expending much energy. But keep it going.

Be ready for your mind to play tricks on you. If discovering your biological father’s identity evokes any fear or uncertainty at all, then you may feel tired or discouraged because part of you does not even want to know. You may have thoughts like, Oh, who cares! Why bother! Beware of such thoughts. Your feeling that no one can help you may be one of those thoughts. Beware of the voice in you that says it is hopeless. That is the voice that really does not want to know.

But the real authentic you does want to know. Knowing where we come from is a deep human longing.

You hired an archival researcher and a private investigator. If their initial work turned up nothing, that is not so unusual. Such an investigation requires dogged thoroughness, going over ground already covered, doing things by rote even when it seems senseless, beginning yet again, trying illogical options on the off chance that something may lead to something. It can be maddening.

But there must be an answer! How many people can there be who attended ammunition-inspector school in Savanna, Ill., in November 1961?

The military keeps records. If this was a military operation there must be records. If there are records then they can be found. If you keep looking you will find them.

This column has many astute and creative readers. Perhaps one or more of them will have ideas or knowledge that may be helpful.

Good luck on your quest!

However, they have filed for bankruptcy twice.

My mom has worried about the electricity getting turned off because my dad did not pay it for two months, I have had my cellphone turned off multiple times, and there was a period of time where creditors were constantly calling. They have not been able to provide for me in a way where I felt like my basic needs were met (not just financially). The only thing that makes sense is that I am the oldest of four children and my youngest brother is autistic. He is 14, and was diagnosed 10 years ago. He is very bright, and is high-functioning (although it was worse when he was younger, and he would get violent). My mom was obsessed with trying to make him better and paid for expensive therapists of all kinds — supplements, medicine, you name it. That probably contributed to it significantly, but the first time they filed for bankruptcy, I don’t even think he was born.

I feel no sense of security in my life. I feel like I have had to shoulder a lot of responsibility prematurely. My mother was abused growing up, and she was absent from most of my childhood (not literally, but absent as a parent). The only real memories I have of her were of when she would lay in bed all day, and very little else. I was told a lot later in my life that when I was young she went to a treatment facility for a nervous breakdown and once was close to killing herself. Even when I was young, I had to do most things for myself, since my dad worked. I have an OK relationship with her now, but I don’t think it’s a typical mother-daughter relationship. If I have a problem, she does not offer to help in any way, she merely says, “sorry.” She has told me that she has too many problems going on in her life and that she can’t hear any of mine.

My mom and dad are still married, but their marriage is dysfunctional, and I have never seen them happy. My dad seems to be harboring a lot of anger and resentment from things that happened many years ago, and he doesn’t know how to deal with it. He spent my whole childhood telling me that we were a normal family and I believed it for a long time. I assumed a lot of dysfunctions were OK.

Most people consider me to be smart, and I did well in high school and college, even though it didn’t seem to matter that much to anyone else that I did well. When I was 18 and applying for colleges, my dad said he’d pay half if I went to one of the large public universities that was fairly close to home. It was not my first choice, but I went. The day before my new student conference, my mom told me I couldn’t go there because they didn’t have any money to pay for it and I needed to go to a cheaper school. With school starting in a couple weeks, that wasn’t even a viable option. My dad was still in denial about the whole thing, and I was left to fend for myself again. I went there, and I got by the first year without having to take any loans, and I got a few scholarships, but I ended up having to take some private loans after that. I filled out the FAFSA, but my parents made too much for me to qualify for anything other than some meager federal loans and the work-study program. I felt like college was supposed to be this liberating experience where I learned all this great information that challenged me. It was like that in some ways, but it was also extremely stressful because I had no money and did not know how I was going to make it sometimes. I worked through college, but that barely paid for anything. Almost every person I encountered had parents that were well-off. Very rarely did I encounter someone in my situation. I have been struggling financially trying to manage everything, but I feel so overwhelmed. When I get like this, it’s like my anger toward my parents gets unleashed, and I can’t keep it together. I feel like I could’ve gone to a much more prestigious school and not been saddled with debt if they had helped me like they were supposed to. I had always wanted to go to law school, but that was something I couldn’t even consider because of my undergrad debt. My best friend in college went to an Ivy League for law school, and sometimes I feel like I should’ve been there too. I am just as smart and capable. With the horror stories I hear about law school though, I am somewhat grateful I didn’t go. I wish I had had the opportunity to choose though.

My relationship with my dad is very strained now. We were very close when I was younger, and I am not sure why it changed. My dad has anger problems, and those have scarred a lot of my memories as a teenager.

A couple of years ago, I took my first job out of college and had to relocate for six months for a training program. While I was there, I was raped by a co-worker. My dad didn’t even call me to see if I was OK, and my mom said she couldn’t visit me because she didn’t have enough money for a plane ticket. That was a very low point in my life because I was in a state where I didn’t know anyone and the job made me feel completely isolated. I saw a therapist who helped me realize that I had a big drinking problem, but I did not deal with the anger. My whole goal was just to be able to function and get through it so I could move back.

The rape was traumatic, but there are many instances in my life where I feel I have been victimized. I feel like it’s because I have always sort of had to fend for myself, and I do not know how to respond or deal with it appropriately. Right now I work with someone who is always yelling, and I feel like I become a little girl again just trying to make the yelling go away. This makes me hate my job, which is already very stressful. I want a new job, but it’s not that easy to just get a new one.

The only person who has been supportive is my boyfriend, but he can’t solve my problems. He is still in school, which is a sore subject for me. I feel like I have very few friends that I can reach out to. I feel like a loner a lot of the time. I think I have learned to hide a lot of this well, though. I think a lot of people that don’t really know me think I am materialistic and somewhat high maintenance. I don’t think I am really that way, but it makes me feel better to have people think that than to think I am a very damaged person who can barely keep it together.

I am sorry this is so long and convoluted, but I am trying to make sense of everything and get past my negative emotions. I see a therapist, I took an antidepressant for three years (which I think was not very helpful), I try to exercise regularly, I have stopped drinking. I just feel like without the drinking I have all these emotions that are haunting me, and I have no way of numbing them.

I have tried very hard to deal with them and move on, but I can’t. I just get stuck focusing on it. Sometimes I feel like things in my life have gotten better, and then something will happen to me that knocks me on my ass and I am back to facing the same emotions. I have made a lot of progress in the last three years, but I still have so much more to go. Sometimes I feel like there’s no point in trying to keep living, because it’s just a vicious cycle that never ends. I feel like I only have one person that really cares, but he doesn’t know how to make it better.

Don’t get me wrong, I felt like I was in hell three years ago. I have made great strides since then. However, all of this makes me feel like one day I’ll trip and fall and just not be able to get back up.

Thanks,

Angry

Dear Angry,

This advice column runs long letters. People have long stories. We like to hear the whole story. That doesn’t mean we can fix everything.

Plumbing can be fixed. But here, there is no little problem to fix. There is instead a life to honor.

You have been hurt by your family. You have been raped by a co-worker and then abandoned by your family when you needed them. You wanted things and thought you would have them and then they were snatched away. Secrets have been kept from you. You feel great anger at your family, and you have drowned that anger in drinking, and now you feel confused and don’t know what to do.

So what can you do? I suggest you continue therapy and look into the archetypal, emotional and philosophical roots of your feelings about money — perhaps by looking into Inner Economics. Also, examine the teachings of Murray Bowen in family systems, which can help you decode the baffling effects of your family life.

Money is treated by many as a problem to be solved analytically, but often we feel too crazy about money to calmly do the problem-solving. We need first to confront our emotional conflicts about what money is and what it means.

This may sound out of the blue, but it is what I want to say: Ask yourself, What is the best part of you? What is the most alive, creative, singing part of you? What part of you really shines? Where is it that you feel most alive, most sure of yourself, in control — the place where forces greater than you seem to come into play and you work in tandem with them? In what situations do you achieve flow? Concentrate on these things for a while.

Train yourself to take note of your attractions. When you are attracted to something — clothes, or music, or ideas — give yourself permission to investigate. I suggest this because when we are dysfunctional about money, when things have been withheld from us, when we have been betrayed, we tend to believe that there is nothing in life we can have; everything is too expensive or beyond our means, or will be snatched away from us. So we impoverish ourselves. There are ways to get the things you truly need, the things that will complete you. This sounds a little mystical, but it need not be at all. It is as simple as saying, Hey, I like to play a round of golf on the weekends. “Normal” people do this all the time. It’s just those of us who grew up in strange and mysterious dysfunctional houses who think we can’t have any of those things.

You can have the things you want. Allow yourself to feel sad about the things that have happened. Allow yourself to work for the things you want.

Allow yourself.

The column should resume Monday, April 16.

Dear Cary,

I’m a 20-year-old female. I’ve been married for just a little under one year now. I also have a healthy 7-month-old son. I only had a relationship with my husband for one month before we got engaged. Two months after that I got pregnant.

Everything was great up until the engagement. The pregnancy made things a little better for about two months. We got married around the time I was 4 months. As time passed things got worse and we got distant. He has been all about himself and only did things for me to get stuff out of it for himself. He has been tempted to cheat and has talked inappropriately to other girls during our whole marriage. I finally got tired of it and I’m now at my mom’s. He wants me to come home but I can’t bring myself to do it.

He is horrible with money and we would have to get money from family to get the baby what he needs and get us food too. He left me in the hospital while I was 8 and a half months pregnant.

He still tries to bribe me to come back and it’s all about him again. He wants me to give him the rest of my money but I’m about to get my license and my sister is giving me her old car. It feels like he doesn’t want me to have money so I can’t get anything and I’ll need him. He makes $600 biweekly while I make less than $300. Although I love him I’m not in love with him. It feels like I stayed with him for the baby. Now I don’t know what to do. Should I go back and try to work it out even though I gave him a bunch of chances before and he hasn’t changed, or should I leave him for good? I’m torn between the two. Everyone says I should finally leave him but I’m not sure. Can you help?

Torn

Dear Torn,

It’s probably best for now that you take care of your baby and stay at your mother’s. You’re safe, you’re healthy and you have a healthy baby. If your mother will keep you there, then you have a stable place to raise this kid. You don’t need a man in your life right now. You need to concentrate on surviving, making a decent living and providing for your kid.

That may seem hard at times. You may feel lonely and truly want your husband. You may miss the intimacy and the good times. But your life has changed. You have some very grown-up challenges now.

It won’t be like this forever. At least maintain the situation as it is for a year or two and see how things go. Make stability your chief priority. Try to eliminate all the distractions and drama from your life right now, and just concentrate on raising your baby. Be grateful for your mom’s help and support. These are crucial months for your baby. The stronger you are, the more secure you feel, the better it will be for your baby.

Later, when you feel you have some breathing room, you can think about longer-term plans. Maybe your husband will fit into those plans and maybe not.

Can you stay with your mother while you endeavor to perhaps finish a college degree or get some training in a business or trade? Can she take care of the child while you are out of the house, or does she also have many outside obligations? How long can you imagine living with her? Are things OK or are they tense? If things are OK now, it may be that you and she could raise this child for the next few years. Then you could move out when the child is a little older and you’re on your feet financially.

These are the kinds of things you will need to think about.

Time is going to fly by. Since you are young, your perception of time is that of a young person. But marriage and child-rearing happen over years and decades. So does your relationship with your mother. These are slow-moving, evolving things. They require the long view. Your best decisions will not be based on how you feel right this moment, but on how things will be in three to five years.

So take some time to visualize how you want things to be in three to five years. Think about your baby and what will be happening then.

It’s hard for some people, myself included, to do this kind of thinking. We like to live in the moment. But planning does not necessarily require a calendar and a calculator. One way to start planning is to simply visualize things. Think about how you want it to be. Clip pictures from magazines or print images from the Internet that represent how you want things to be. Surround yourself with images of your ideal life. When you feel tense or frightened or confused, spend time visualizing the life you want to have. If you can imagine it, you can at least head in that direction. Then when people with some experience in life see your vision they can say, Hey, here is how you get from here to there.

Your child’s father at some point will most likely want to be in his life. That could be a positive thing. Your child will probably want to know his or her father. So do what you can to maintain a good relationship with him, even if you are apart. Just don’t let him take over your life; don’t believe his promises. Believe only what you see. He may not be mature enough and stable enough right now but that could change. So try not to burn your bridges. Just tell him that right now you have to do what’s healthiest and most financially stable for you and the baby.

Be kind to your mother. She may get on your nerves from time to time but she is really saving your life. Take advantage of her willingness to help. She is probably excited about having a grandchild and will enjoy helping, but may feel at times that she’s overworked.

All the important people in your life are growing up. You’re all changing. There are great surprises and challenges ahead. Welcome to adult life!

Just take it one day at a time. You’ll be OK. You’ll get through this, things will get easier, and one day you’ll look back in amazement.

Why? you may ask. Because he is a complete and utter slob! He grew up on a farm and spends lots of time outside tending to his garden and fixing his many lawnmowers that he has fished out of the trash. I spend hours cleaning, all for him to destroy the house in literally a matter of minutes. It is ridiculous. To add insult to injury he does not wash his hands … EVER. Not even after going poo … I feel like I was hoodwinked and bamboozled, because there is no way in hell I would have ever put myself in a situation to live with one of my parents at this point and time in my life. I have expressed my frustration with the situation, but he doesn’t want to ever talk about it. I want to move, but right now I am not financially stable and I am so close to finishing school, I don’t want to jeopardize my studies.

Grown Woman Living in Daddy’s House

Dear Grown Woman Living in Daddy’s House

I don’t think you are an ungrateful daughter. I think you are a person reacting to a shitty situation in an understandable way.

After years of being self-sufficient you’ve been thrown back into dependent daughterhood. That has got to trigger some feelings you’re not prepared for. That’s got to be tough on the ego. It would be hard for it not to matter how well your father handled it.

And he’s not handling it all that sensitively, one must say. When our  survival is symbolically threatened, we sometimes reassure ourselves by making our immediate surroundings clean and healthy and spotless. It’s a good thing to do if you’re feeling threatened and insecure; it can cheer you up to clean house. So here’s an interesting symbolic contradiction: Here you have come to your dad to help you survive, and he is providing for you, yet also doing things that symbolically threaten your survival: Dirt, poo, infection, disease, loss of control!

Subconsciously it may be felt as aggression: Your dad is threatening your survival rather than nurturing it. He’s bringing danger into the house. He’s bringing dirt and disease into the house, meaning, symbolically, into your body. So he’s polluting you when you are trying to regain your strength. The literal-minded may quibble but we’re talking about emotions that take place below our conscious awareness, in the language of symbols.

On the surface he’s doing you a favor, and good for him. But he’s also not admitting your personhood or your power: He’s retaining his own power over his own place. That’s the prerogative of property ownership in a society that worships property. You are expected to grant him the prerogatives of ownership. But he’s not accommodating you, really, as a person. It may even feel as though he’s trying to push you out.

His hospitality may be begrudging; his messing up the house may be passive-aggressive; he probably wants to go on living as he is accustomed to living. There may also be some unspoken disapproval of your reversal of fortune, and perhaps a little unspoken “I told you so,” if you have been too independent for his liking. He may even be enjoying being the father to a relatively helpless daughter once again — a daughter who cannot force him to wipe his feet.

Assuming your parents are divorced, is he also repeating a pattern of conflict he had with your mother? Could be. They could have had fights over just such things. If those fights led to their divorce, you may also be experiencing uncomfortable memories of an earlier symbolic threat to your survival. Also, not to jump ahead, but this could also be a preview of the role reversal that happens as your dad ages and weakens and you take on the role of caretaker, being sure he washes his hands and wipes his feet, as a mother would do in raising a child.

But that’s just the messy symbolic stuff it’s my job to dredge up. On the surface, in the practical present, you’re a capable adult woman in control of her life and career. You’ve made yourself a plan that requires you to do some compromising. That’s what this is: It’s a conscious compromise. You’re still making your own choices. This is just temporary.

You’ve found shelter in a bad time. Your dad is your ally. He loves you. He’s providing you a place.  He’s doing what he can, in his way.

Hang in there, finish your course of study, thank your dad and stay positive. When you look back on this, as uncomfortable as it is now, you’ll be grateful there was a place for you to go. With the passage of time it may even become a fond if bittersweet memory.

I know she loved me more than anything, and she sacrificed a lot to try to give me a good life, but as a kid, I felt as if I was battling her alcoholism for her. I would constantly find single-serving wine bottles stuffed between couch cushions, and it was an almost nightly occurrence for her to drink herself to sleep, leaving the house a mess and me to throw away the empty bottles and rinse out the glasses she would leave next to the couch. After she would go to bed, it was usually a coin flip whether or not she would rise from her sleep to stalk around the house staring blindly at everything and shouting incoherently. More than once she, thoroughly drunk, thought I was a burglar and tried to attack me. The first time this happened I was 11, and in her mind she had gone back in time and thought I was going to steal her baby (me). She nearly strangled me.

What made my childhood much easier was the fact that I had grandparents nearby who did not seem to struggle with alcoholism or poverty or depression. They were good people who seemed to rise above all the stupidity we are capable of. In fact they helped my mother make ends meet on a few occasions, and they always seemed to come to the rescue when we were in a jam. I felt more often than not that my grandparents were like my real parents, and my mother was like some big crazy sister who loved me a lot but was still trying to figure things out.

And from a young age, the lesson they kept quietly teaching me was that alcoholism was a demon in our family. It ran in our blood, and had ruined cousins, uncles and sisters. And the best way to avoid this fate was not to start at all.

And for my part I promised myself that I would never drink, or smoke, or do drugs.

And I never did.

A lot of people may not believe me, but I have never so much as sipped a beer, or taken a drag from a cigarette. And there is my problem. Everyone who knows me knows that I don’t drink, and I feel like I’ve put myself in this box where I will never drink.

This was fine for my early 20s, and in some ways I felt superior for not having blown hundreds of dollars at the bars, or woken up with hangovers, or been so drunk I couldn’t remember what happened to me. I have always been in control of my life, and that is something I take pride in.

But I also feel like there is this whole side to life that I may be missing out on, and that maybe I should relax these rules I’ve created for myself. I feel that a lot of people can’t relate to the fact I don’t drink, and I also would sometimes really like to be able to have a beer with my friends and be their equal, and not this always-sober outsider. A few weeks ago at a champagne brunch with friendly strangers who didn’t know I don’t drink, the waiter poured me a glass of champagne, and when they toasted I held it up and looked at it for a long time before I realized my wife was staring at me.

What to do?

Dear What to Do,

Testing yourself for alcoholism is like testing yourself for flammability. You’re probably not. But what if you are?

“Given the fact that alcohol-dependence seems highly heritable,” why take the risk?

Why not instead ask what needs alcohol might satisfy, and then find other ways to satisfy those same needs? Why not seek safe, life-enhancing alternatives to drinking? Why not read Abraham Maslow and design your life around the quest for peak experiences?

We raise our glasses and drink ceremonially to sanctify some event or passage. We all drink from the same bottle. By imbibing the same drink, we are joined; it is a kind of sacrament. You can mime the gestures but something pulls you to fully engage. Of course it does. This is not just about getting a little champagne in your mouth. It is a powerful ritual.

My suggestion is to find even better ways, more direct, honest and compelling ways to have this same ritual bonding and expression of shared esteem and purpose. I suggest you make this a lifelong pursuit. Make it a way of undoing for good the perhaps multigenerational history of alcoholism in your family.

This way, if those who dispute the role of genes in alcoholism are correct, and behavioral factors are more important, then you will still be doing something to eradicate certain behaviors that were leading to case after case of alcoholism. You will be finding something that members of your family have a particular need for, and satisfying that need.

Look for something that seems cool but not too cool, something you’ve always wanted to do, something you’re drawn to, that’s maybe a little outside your normal range but not totally kooky and weird.

For instance, it may be possible to participate in the ecstatic communality of a sweat lodge. I don’t know. Maybe a sweat lodge would be too weird for you. I don’t know how much facial hair you have, or what your body mass index is. I’m just saying, identify the underlying principle and then find something that suits your social tastes.

That there are things wrong in the world, that there are things so awful in this world that knowledge of them drives us to want to blot them out of consciousness. Read today’s piece by Noam Chomsky, for instance, for a reminder of how thinly “normal American life” veils our history of brutal atrocities.

How are you supposed to think about these things and not feel as though you are going mad? How are you supposed to have a conscience and not feel trapped by history? How are you to take all this in, as a young person? How to reconcile knowledge of evil done in one’s name with the innocent desire to believe in one’s country, to identify with one’s countrymen, to feel strong and patriotic and confident about the future?

These, too, are legitimate questions. So, my friend, I urge you to take seriously the genetic and environmental risk factors for alcoholism, and actively seek ways to have ecstatic experiences in this insane world without killing yourself. Adopt adaptive behaviors that don’t make things worse.