Emotions, in my experience, aren’t
covered by single words. I don’t believe in “sadness”, “joy”, or “regret”.
Maybe the best proof that the language is patriarchal is that it oversimplifies
feeling. I’d like to have at my disposal complicated hybrid emotions, Germanic
train-car constructions like, say, “the happiness that attends disaster”. Or:
“the disappointment of sleeping with one’s fantasy”. I’d like to show how
“imitations of mortality brought on by aging family members” connects with “the
hatred of mirrors that begins in middle age”. I’d like to have a word for
“sadness inspired by failing restaurants” as well as for “the excitement of
getting a room with a minibar”. I’ve never had the right words to describe my
life, (…).
Middlesex
By Jeffrey Eugenides
