Pickup Artist: Orange Theory

“I've been a little under the weather and was busy moving, but realized I haven't crossposted some articles I've been writing on Substack. Here is one of them, of which I'm very proud.”

This edition of Pickup Artist bounces from Antoine de Saint-Exupéry to military microhistories to DFW to Appalachian folklore to Mary Oliver and back again, including an explanation of neurological vs. metaphorical synesthesia that explains how we collapse metaphors as we read.

I’m often reading many books at once and will follow seemingly-strange threads down to their conclusion. It might be a specific author, tone, or theme. That’s all intentional, albeit in the moment.

This edition is more so about how I might find and layer a weird annotation. How I connect the reads once I’m in them. (My mind maps can look rather scary.)

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In this edition, I’m going to go down several threads and describe how each book sparked a completely different web of reads, and how that’s contributed to my understanding of a specific motif.

My apologies for the overwhelm, but this is a good explanation of how some annotations or observations just appear in a pattern and then solidify for me as symbols or themes.

How reading works

I view salience as crucial to the reading process; in a volume that’s 70,000 words, you have thousands of opportunities to connect to a specific word/image/evocation because the neuroscience of the reading process and language relies upon your own memory and associations. Which is why reading is subjective at its core!

I blame my studio art background for how I can extrapolate this way, but I do love laying it out in hindsight and explaining how I get from one topic to another. My creativity relies on a good ol’ fashioned conspiracy board and an abstracted web.

Credit / HBO True Detective Season One.

And I just love tracing threads and what infuses them. I tend to have a pretty good memory midway through any conversation, for example, and love going “Wait, we landed on pandas. How did we get there? Because we were talking about X which reminded us of Y which reminded us of Z.” My brain just finds it so fascinating. If we lose track of what we were talking about, I’m usually the one who can prompt the others.

So here’s how I ended up reading and obsessing over the meaning of oranges all year. Yes, the fruit.

A brief introduction re: the science of memory and synesthesia in metaphor—

One of my favorite papers I wrote in college (that was actually honored by the English department, woo) was about how to tell what is genuine neurological synesthesia versus linguistic or metaphorical synesthesia.

By that, I mean that most people know the medical edition of synesthesia of some people being able to smell colors or thinking the concept of Sunday has a pebbly texture, or whatever it might be. (I read a lot about our brain and the senses.)

Synesthesia happens naturally within language because of its inevitable compression. We have certain associations that we form so quickly that we’re not even conscious of all the layers we’ve applied to a specific concept. We each have different ones that we flatten into maybe a single word, which means each word or phrase or story evokes something varied for everyone and we’re all just hunting to articulate the overlap. (There’s cool science about this in regards to shared music taste too.) Which aesthetics trigger similarity cascades and why? Which associations does one trigger lead you to?

And that’s where the metaphorical aspect of synesthesia comes in, congealing into all these sensory moments or taps that a reader experiences because of the leaps and jumps they’re quickly making between one concept and another.

You can see this especially in a lot of poetry and verse because of its limitation; it relies on the gaps and the way these synesthetic connections will reverberate into a fuller experience for the reader. Advertising knows it too. Even nature.

From The Nature Fix by Florence Williams.

Some of it’s evolutionary, and some might be behavioral. For example, some songs make me thirsty. There’s a book that tastes like maple to me. And then I think about whether or not something feels orange because of its branding establishing that from the get-go, like some songs in the playlist above or the Small Damages book cover. (Gorgeous book by Beth Kephart.)

The diction from this passage is important in showing the oranges/dinner prep as an act of love despite it taking all of Estela’s willpower to do so. I get to the symbolism of that below. Intentional or not: it’s stunning to me.

So forgive me for the orange explanation of my reading thread below.

Now, this thread or association is a braid of several influences, not one book leading to another.

It’s not so much that one book led to another which led to another the way it did through my The Pitt to Done & Dusted thread, which covered hurricanes, Camus, dark Western masculinity, explorer narratives, and medical ethics.

It’s that I picked up a recurring theme or moment throughout several books that became meaningful to me. I say some intentional and some not because some are nonfiction and others are fiction. Sure, we pick which details to curate, but the assumption is that most nonfiction depicts real-life circumstance and thus, the presence of a fruit isn’t an allegory. Plenty is just coincidental! But now it’s part of the layer of my reading experience and the ecosystem of connected books within my brain.

It started with me reading about Navy SEALs.

One thread started with the Navy SEALs. Because I live on an island with a ton of military, I met one of them. He’d just finished BUD/S and was midway through the year-and-a-half-long workup they do before shipping out somewhere.

Since I’m one of those people who likes to read up on what people around me are doing or are interested in, I read Dick Couch’s The Finishing School, which explains the pipeline he’d just entered. In any sort of strict training or regimen, there are very specific stages, and I wanted to be able to loosely follow what was going on without bugging him (which is also why Black Hearts has been on my shelf for forever; one of my Army friends said it gave a great overview of structure, acronyms, etc. as it was written by a journalist and not one of the service members used to all the jargon.)

I read SEAL Team Six first, which was…interesting and perhaps more inflated, but I loved how thorough and clear Couch’s microhistory was in contrast. Because I appreciated Couch’s writing so much and was still curious, I followed him into his first book, The Warrior Elite, which I actually loved despite it being what I’d fondly call a “Dad book.”

The Warrior Elite was colorful and vivid and detailed without feeling dramatized either; it had that holistic sense of purpose and specificity buried in every line that made me start to understand and make connections to the sense of ritual, identity, hunger, etc. that selection process both relies upon, sorts for, and intensifies.

The thread that caught my eye was the mention of an orange.

What most people (myself included) know about BUD/S is that there’s a portion of it called Hell Week in which they are straight up not allowed to sleep. (It’s been months since I read the book, but if I’m remembering correctly, they only get about 8 hours of sleep in total across the entire week.) Most people quit then and “ring the bell.”

According to Couch—within the specific SEAL class he followed through BUD/S—the brown shirts would hide these little treats or moments of encouragement in the equipment or in the bathrooms or wherever else they could; when in the water in their boats, the guys would cheat by allowing one or two people to get a nap in while the instructors couldn’t see them. Instead, they’d trade off.

The instructors let them, because a major part of the selection process involves the buildup of social cohesion (the military definitely relies on cult- and brainwashing mechanisms), and if they were cheating, it meant they were working together as a team.

From my review:

“The details of each moment made the book. From those who chose not to rest during the sleep period because it meant they weren’t going to be able to get into the water again; doubling-down; hiding that they were throwing up blood or had fluid in their lungs again; classmates helping others into the surf with knees so swollen they couldn’t walk (but could swim); alternating napping in the boats; the logs; the weight; rolling in the sand; getting hypothermic, warming in the clinic, and jumping in the truck to go right on back to surf torture; the glimmers of joy and satisfaction in the mud games; someone only giving up because their wrecked shoulder would punish their team down in the relay, and ending their SEALs dream with honor; the candy bars and oranges; blisters, fluid in the lungs, testing again and again, rollbacks, shivers, the delirium of sleep after.”

Anyway, the orange struck me as a particularly salient moment that exemplified the relief and magnification of small gestures in the depths of a pursuit, trial, hell—whatever it is that’s doing its best to break you. Especially in a process that so frequently emphasizes individual strength and nobody else being able to do it for you, it seemed moving that the most impactful moments were because of others’ attention and generosity.

In tandem, I’ve also been obsessed with explorers and sensory contrast.

All year, I’ve been on a huge explorers kick, which makes sense considering my book taste and need to push myself and all that. I’ve gotten so much comfort in reading about intensity and endurance, two concepts that often define me emotionally.

I’ve realized that many of my favorite books have a stellar sense of contrast—either in the depth of a specific arc, or in the literal sensory details.

That’s embodied here in After the North Pole by Erling Kagge, which I’ve talked about a lot this year. I’ve thought a lot this year about about dopamine being prediction error, and all that. The people who can most put themselves through a life pursuit that involves frank suffering and hitting your limits time and time again are those who can relish and appreciate the relief of contrast, although of course that can go too far in terms of restlessness and adrenaline. Many of those chasers can then find home or “normal” life flat or unappealing.

“Adventure is all about deliberately making life more difficult than it needs to be, and having far less control over yourself and your surroundings...In my experience, home is not somewhere we go without food and drink or feel unsafe. Yet when these are lacking, life seems somehow richer. When it is no longer a given that these primary needs will be met, you become acutely aware of them.”

Or in The Snow Leopard by Peter Matthiessen. The ultimate “happy list” items are contextual. Even endurance science relies on reframing pain as pleasure.

“Also, I love the common miracles—the murmur of my friends at evening, the clay fires of smudgy juniper, the coarse dull food, the hardship and simplicity, the contentment of doing one thing at a time: when I take my blue tin cup into my hand, that is all I do.”

Quick Aside About This Within My Own Book—

Even within my own book, contrast was a fundamental need I insisted on when vetting relevant parties within publishing. At certain points in the process, you’re making significant decisions based on having similar visions for your work, and this felt like a crucial pillar.

Basically: my own book takes place at an all-girls summer camp, which can be giddy and euphoric and silly and childlike, and I think the Gothic elements rely on the sense of contrast, so I didn’t want to follow a particular path I sometimes see in moody speculative books. There’s a lexicon of dark / forest / earth / rot / eerie / shadow (that I really love!!!!), but that blurs the atmosphere in a very specific way. I call them “dark & stormy” books, and they are a favorite category of mine, especially incorporating the rise and symbolism of folk horror.

I still have plenty of that vocabulary and aesthetic within my book, but I balance it with what I deem a necessary sense of lightness or innocence at points too because the narrative is a complicated coming-of-age grappling with the very difficulty of finding that balance. One of the primary questions of my book has been about the difference between happiness and relief.

It’s a hard line to walk because I think it’s easier to lean into a full-on, devoted aesthetic on a branding level. It’s easier to market, undoubtedly, and I’m smart enough to execute that. But I don’t think Mountain Sounds would be nearly as immersive or cinematic without walking that tightrope of contrast exactly in the way that it does.

And then, of course, we have the orange as simply symbolic of a small, ordinary pleasure without contrast. This poem by Wendy Cope appears a lot, for example, exuding a certain sentiment of basic beauty recognizable in writers like Mary Oliver and Joy Sullivan.

The orange tied together my military + explorer threads!

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry is a striking example of how these explorer and military threads intersected on this; both polar explorers and special forces trainees have a vested interest in pushing their body (and hopefully, soul) to its limits, and may land in total survivalist landscapes in which regret, contrast, and the comforts of home are in question.

But that’s not why I picked up Wind, Sand, and Stars—his memoir—initially. I picked it up because I went to a wedding celebration in Paris last year for two dear friends (who’d gotten married during COVID, but weren’t able to celebrate then.)

Because the bride’s father gave a toast using a quote from the author that I thought was gorgeous, building on my personal ideals of partnership and balance.

“Love does not consist of gazing at each other, but in looking outward together in the same direction.”

Now, in the book, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry crash-lands in the desert, presuming he will die. And then, at one point, exhausted and delirious, he and his companion find oranges:

“Stretched out before the fire I looked at the glowing fruit and said to myself that men did not know what an orange was. “Here we are, condemned to death,” I said to myself, “and still the certainty of dying cannot compare with the pleasure I am feeling. The joy I take from this half of an orange which I am holding in my hand is one of the greatest joys I have ever known.”

The sentiment reminds me a lot of Alexandre Dumas’s emphasis in The Count of Monte Cristo being that man cannot appreciate joy without suffering first. It also coincides with this idea of the classical hero’s journey being that man has to go endure/test himself/suffer before “returning home” or experiencing actual happiness. In these necessary arenas, as Erling Kagge says, the distance between heaven and hell is so small.

While I don’t think everyone should have to encounter trauma to appreciate the little things or moments of softness, it’s a thought that threads through a lot of these military, explorer, survivalist curiosities, especially in regards to ideals of traditional masculinity.

The orange is special in each of these books or poems, but most so when it’s given to someone.

Now, I thought it was curious that the orange specifically popped up in so many books in a row. Symbolically, its color also seems like a bright spot of hope or joy in the darkness? Not to get too abstract, because it is random or lucky in nonfiction. In fiction, it’s another story.

This spring, I read Sunrise on the Reaping by Suzanne Collins, which most people are at least familiar with; in this YA dystopian series, sponsors have the opportunity to send gifts to the children tributes battling to death in the arena. As the stakes heighten and the pool of possible victors shrink, it gets more and more expensive to send food. One of the most shiver-inducing moments in the first book is (spoiler ahead!) when one of the poorest districts pools together its money to buy the main character some bread as a symbol.

Within my Sunrise on the Reaping discussion, I talked a lot about the contrast of kindness and how it’s often even more powerful to be generous or light or soft when it’s desperately needed than to take the easy way out and harden. Kindness is a form of endurance and a way of maintaining a sense of self in a situation that’s trying to dehumanize you. Worse, people will get you wrong and assume it’s weakness, so it’s in fact tougher to stick with your “right” thing and know your gesture is being misunderstood. Even then, people don’t always love seeing contrast, or mirroring, or becoming aware of shames or ugly situations. I think it’s a lot tougher to maintain that standard in gritty scenarios because it’s easier to turn away or lean into validation of ego.

(For that reason, we could also veer into Flannery O’Connor’s emphasis on “moments of grace” when discussing the oranges. In her definition, grace is almost a violent thing because it forces you to confront change or truth you’ve been avoiding, which is an idea I’ve also mulled over a lot this year. Grace, endurance, redemption. The right orange at the right time.)

And then we get to the love and folklore of oranges themselves.

So in all these books, I noted the orange motif. Some given, some found.

In fiction, the orange now goes along with the contrast of small kindnesses. In nonfiction, it’s bundled together with survivalist narratives—and part of that’s sheer luck.

I personally have a lot of baggage around having “earned” anything (especially in regards to small pleasures”) so love to think about how a lot of that wiring aligns with traditional ideals of heroism being a path through suffering—leading to relief and eventual gratitude.

The first specifically-orange read I think of is I’ll Give You the Sun by Jandy Nelson, which is a blisteringly radiant book. In this YA, one of the narrators (Jude) follows this eclectic Bible of teachings her grandmother gave her. One of the laws she follows is this:

“If a boy gives a girl an orange, her love for him will multiply.”

Now, that’s always been a striking image to me. I love that book, and reread it frequently. Nelson makes a lot of weird choices that makes the book distinctive and bright and moving. I’ll Give You the Sun is iconic.

“If a boy gives a girl an orange, her love for him will multiply. I catch it in my open palm. “Oh no you don’t,” I say, tossing it right back to him. “Odd response,” he says, catching it.”

For my own book research, I recently read Doctoring the Devil: Notebooks from an Appalachian Conjure Man by Jake Richardson, and it included folklore like using a mixture of orange candy, sugar, and peppermint in a love powder.

And then, meanwhile, I’m reading True Nature: The Pilgrimage of Peter Matthiessen—a 1500-page biography of the explorer—which includes a story about his first wife, Patsy Southgate, showing up at his door with an orange after a fight.

For some reason, lovers love oranges.

Relatedly, there was also an orange peel theory floating around the Internet a year or so ago (not to be confused with Orangetheory, the boutique fitness brand.) Specifically, users were testing their partners by asking them to peel an orange for them or bring them a coffee.

I thought the idea is a little silly. For one, I can peel my own oranges and would never think to ask someone to peel for me? But the explanation is that it’s just trivial enough that someone’s willingness might indicate their attitude towards the relationship.

I don’t think testing in small ways is healthy, because there can be a thousand and one reasons someone turns you down that have nothing to do with the depth of their affection and care for you, so we veer into dangerous territory when we start viewing everything as an isolated symbol. Do it as a bit, but not as a genuine barometer. I’m pretty straightforward and generous in that way: not one for games.

But in literature—across explorer picks, biographies, microhistories, literary YA, and my own book—the test of an orange sure is fun.

Nowadays, for me, I associate oranges, intentionally or not, with the idea of rare tenderness when you need it. That last desperate sense of kindness when you’re exhausted and need to rest. Often, it seems to be used in a context of forgiveness and reconciliation too, which goes along with my “moments of grace” curiosity. So that ethos reverberates into my own book, where I wrote this (which makes more sense in contrast.)

Just that absolute moment of small, tiny softness when you’re over the edge.

I have a lot of the color in the book too, for plenty of reasons.

• brightened the damp tile, tingeing everything orange.
• fawned over an unnaturally orange snow-cone Lenore brought me.
• like the gritty orange pumice soap Etta bought in bulk at the hardware store
• shimmered orange in the storm-tarnished light
• the tip of his cigar scorched orange
• smelled like oranges instead of mint

Shortly after making all these connections, I had the distinct pleasure of seeing a friend’s engagement announcement in which she showed off her ring next to a pile of orange peels in the drive back home with her fiancé. Coincidental, but so lovely. And Lord knows they love each other as deeply as the symbol suggests.

If you know any other books that include orange imagery, I’d love to hear about them.

Update, Nov 2: I’m watching Étoile, and at one point, Cheyenne gives her mentee Susu an orange after the youngin is ruthless in an audition. Since many people find Cheyenne to be pretty abrasive overall, this moment also seems to fit the orange motif!