Life is Not a Zero-Sum Game

Yesterday, I finished reading Beggars and Choosers by Nancy Kress, the sequel to Beggars in Spain. I enjoyed this book and found it engaging enough that the problems I had with Beggars in Spain no longer bother me.

As I noted in my reaction to Beggars in Spain, given the power of the other genetic modifications on the Sleepless, the lack of a need to sleep seems almost like an afterthought. Apparently Kress realized this as well, because in this book, humanity is divided into four groups (listed here in decreasing order of genetic modification):

1. Super-sleepless (AKA Supers)
2. Sleepless
3. Donkeys
4. Livers[^1]

The Sleepless are pretty much written out of the story — most of them are in prison by this point, and the ones who aren't are pretty much helpless to affect the course of the story. The Sleepless are still necessary to the overall arc of the story, though, as without them there would be no Super-sleepless.

I think the problems that I still have with both this book and with Beggars in Spain come down to them being the first two parts of a trilogy where the parts are pretty much inseparable[^2]. Looking back from Beggars and Choosers, Beggars in Spain becomes sort of a prologue ("I told you that story so I can tell you this one..."). I don't really feel like it would be possible to tell the story of Beggars and Choosers without having told Beggars in Spain first — there's simply too much to try to squeeze it all into early chapters and/or memories. At the same time, Beggars and Choosers suffers from "second book of a trilogy" disease: it doesn't end so much as just stops.

Also, I'd like to remind/inform you: I keep a list of links to the monthly logs of books that I read at this sticky post, and the monthly logs contain links to the reactions I've written. If you see a book title without a link, it means I haven't written a reaction to that book, but if you'd like to hear what I thought about it, leave a comment and I'll write a reaction!

[^1] I think "Livers" in this context is rather an awkward word — my mind immediately went to the organ, but instead it's formed from the very "to live."

[^2] It seems like there ought to be one word for "three stories told in three consecutive books which share the same world and characters" and another word for "one story split into three books because of the limitations of bookbinding and/or the nature of the publishing industry," instead of using "trilogy" for both.

I am reminded of a statement by the former mayor of Bogotá, Antanas Mockus, a politician who employed artistic strategies in his office: "When an artist goes to prison, they take a piece of chalk and draw a line some centimetres from the wall to define their space, so they can have a bit more restrictions (sic). But by making those restrictions they in fact liberate themselves." A line can be a border and simultaneously an assertion of freedom. Being able to decide on your own limits, your strengths and weaknesses, is always empowering, offering a certain degree of sovereignty even in the direst situation.

Joanna Warsza, "Open Mic: Joanna Warsza on the Art of Open Group," *Artforum," October 2025, p. 110.

I've been thinking about this since I read it an hour or so ago. I think the quote from Mockus helped Warsza to set up for presenting her idea, but I don't think Mockus (at least as presented in this quote or — as I think is likely — in this translation of his quote) appears to quite understand what was going on in those prison cells. I don't think the artists wanted to "have a bit more restrictions (sic)," but instead, as Warsza put it, to "decide on [their] own limits."

When I was younger and studying poetry in school[^1], I never really understood why someone would choose to write poetry once prose had been invented, which seemed to me to be a superior method for conveying ideas. It's only later, as I learned more and started producing art of my own, that I learned the potential value of working within a set of restrictions, whether self-imposed or those of a traditional form. And looking back, I wonder if this value of restriction is something that my teachers could have explained to me, or if it's something that I had to figure out on my own in order to understand it.

[^1] Confession: I never really liked or (apparently) understood poetry.

Today I finally had sufficient time around lunchtime to try Cincinnati chili. I fixed it according to the article on "How to Eat Cincinnati Chili Like a Local" and then sat down to eat it. I didn't like the first bite. So I ate some more, hoping it would get better with further exposure. By the time I had eaten half of the serving, I gave up and decided I just didn't like it. So I disposed of it, brushed my teeth, then brushed my teeth again because I could still taste it in my mouth. I wish I liked it, because the concept sounded interesting, but I don't.

I think I might try eating "regular" chili on spaghetti, because it wasn't the "on spaghetti" part that I disliked, but in the meantime I'm over here eating peppermints one after another to try to clear the taste in my mouth. (I'm really not trying to be overly dramatic here. It's just very rare that I try something and don't like it, so I'm having trouble coping with it.)