Copyright 2016 NPR. To see more, visit

Copyright 2016 NPR. To see more, visit

Copyright 2016 NPR. To see more, visit

Copyright 2016 NPR. To see more, visit

Arizona Hispanics Poised To Swing State Blue

46 minutes ago
Copyright 2016 NPR. To see more, visit

Copyright 2016 NPR. To see more, visit

Edit note: This report contains accounts of rape, violence and other disturbing events.

Sex trafficking wasn't a major concern in the early 1980s, when Beth Jacobs was a teenager. If you were a prostitute, the thinking went, it was your choice.

Jacobs thought that too, right up until she came to on the lot of a dark truck stop one night. She says she had asked a friendly-seeming man for a ride home that afternoon.

Jacobs says he gave her something in an old McDonald's cup — a drug — and as she was waking up the man announced that he was a pimp. Her pimp.

The Boston Citgo sign, all 3,600 square LED feet of which has served as the backdrop to Red Sox games since 1965, is now officially a "pending landmark."

Spanish Surrealist Salvador Dalí spent much of the 1940s in the U.S., avoiding World War II and its aftermath. He was a well-known fixture on the art scene in Monterey, Calif. — and that's where the largest collection of Dalí's work on the West Coast is now open to the public.

Copyright 2016 Fresh Air. To see more, visit Fresh Air.


In A Vivid Memoir Of Life In Pakistan, A Vortex Of Tragedies

Apr 7, 2013
Originally published on April 8, 2013 12:15 pm

Rajesh Parameswaran is the author of I Am An Executioner: Love Stories.

Sara Suleri Goodyear's heartbreaking 1989 memoir of life in Pakistan, Meatless Days, circles backward and forward in time and space, from Lahore to Connecticut and around again. The author renounces plot in favor of an intimate, impressionistic survey of her family's tragic history.

Goodyear's father, a prominent journalist deeply invested in Pakistan's politics; her mother, a gracefully reserved English professor from Wales; her imperious sister Ifat, beautiful and adored by the younger Sara; siblings, friends, boyfriends; as well as figures from Pakistan's inescapable history — all are presented to the reader as they present themselves to Goodyear herself: familiarly, often with much of their background left unsaid.

People are already in the past before we see them described; loss and presence overlap. For example, in a chapter about her brother Shahid, Goodyear alludes to the violent death of her sister Ifat, a death she is not yet willing to describe: "[I]n this story, Ifat will not die before our eyes. It could not be countenanced. How could I tell Shahid's story and let Ifat die before his eyes? Have I nothing in me, then, to intervene between him and that great indelicacy?"

Goodyear is intensely aware of the ways writing and memory shape each other. She was, I should say, my thesis adviser in college. Our last interaction was more than a year after graduation, when she declined to write me a reference letter because she apparently no longer remembered me. The selective power of her attention felt callous and eccentric to me then; but in this book, it works like a lifesaving device for someone whose tragedies yawn like vortexes around which she warily circles.

Goodyear writes most beautifully around what she struggles to avoid. The passages touching her sister Ifat are among the most wrenching and transcendent in the book. She recalls, for example, a childhood night with Ifat spent praying, in the belief that such prayer will turn tap water into milk. It does not work:

"In any case — although I did not know it then — to fall asleep on Ifat's bed was milk enough, to sleep in crumbling rest beside her body. Sometimes like water she runs through the sentences of sleep, a medium something other than itself, refracting, innocent of all the algae it can bear and capable of much transmogrification. Her water laps around me almost in reproach: '"You were distracted, when I requested your attention. You were not looking. I was milk."'

The elegiac immediacy of this passage, the elaborateness of its metaphor, the language teetering on the edge of overreach — these are hallmarks of Meatless Days. Here, she describes her stubborn grandmother dragging home to her appalled family a live goat to be butchered for the festival of Eid: "Like a question mark interested only in its own conclusions, her body crawled through the gates ... moving in her eerie crab formations, [she] ignored the hangman's rope she firmly held as behind her in the gloaming minced, hugely affable, a goat."

Comedy and tragedy, tenderness and horror, sit close to one another in this remarkable book, doing justice to the piecemeal, intimate ways memory actually lives in the mind.

You Must Read This is produced and edited by the team at NPR Books.

Copyright 2013 NPR. To see more, visit