Take One
Kelefa Sanneh’s insightful deep dive into the world of Mike White omitted mention of White’s first solo TV creation, a short-lived prime-time soap called “Pasadena,” from 2001 (“Trouble in Paradise,” February 17th & 24th). Three years before his sitcom “Cracking Up” débuted, Fox execs had courted White, hoping to bring his unique sensibility to their network. But, as he began to deliver, they seemed to have second thoughts about what they’d bought. After just four of the show’s thirteen deliciously offbeat episodes had aired, it was cancelled. In much the same way that Truman Capote’s early short stories glimmered with what was to come, “Pasadena,” which was ahead of its time, explored many of the uncomfortable themes that permeate White’s work today. As a showrunner of this seminal series, I had the great fortune to observe the genesis of White’s process, and I continue to applaud his well-earned success.
Mark B. Perry
Los Angeles, Calif.
For Christ’s Sake
Lawrence Wright’s article about the alliance between women on Texas’s death row and a contemplative order of nuns is extraordinary, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t quibble with Wright’s description of Eucharistic adoration (“Sisterhood,” February 17th & 24th). According to Catholic belief, when bread and wine are consecrated, they become the actual body and blood of Christ, in a process called transubstantiation. So, when the sisters prostrate themselves in the presence of the Eucharist, they are worshipping not merely that which “evokes what Jesus served at the Last Supper,” as readers might erroneously infer, but Jesus himself.
Mathias Mietzelfeld
Unadilla, N.Y.
Spider Senses
Kathryn Schulz’s piece on spiders reminded me of my own encounters with tarantulas while living in Costa Rica (Books, February 17th & 24th). It was 1978, and I had just arrived at the house in San José where I was renting a room. I had barely put down my luggage when a large, hairy spider marched across the ceiling. I acquired cans of insect spray and attacked the creature until a soggy glob plopped onto the floor. Moments later, two new ones took its place. Again I sprayed, and more tumbling ensued.
After several days, flying cockroaches descended. Lesson learned: the three tarantulas were the defensive redoubt that had repelled the roaches. Today, with nary a silverfish, cockroach, or other uninvited creature in sight, my wife and I revere spiders as our saviors.
Jeff Colflesh
Menlo Park, Calif.
As a reformed arachnophobe, I read Schulz’s article with both fascination and sympathy. My fear of spiders began in childhood, when I heard the myth that the average person annually swallows eight in her sleep. For the next three decades, I killed every spider that I saw. My spree ended twelve years ago, after I smote one so completely that there was nothing left to wipe up. I suppose that its absolute obliteration moved me. Who was I to consign an entire life order to death?
I soon discovered a wolf spider living in my bathroom. It’d taken residence in a rolled-up copy of this magazine. I named him Boris. Months later, when ants made a summer pilgrimage to my plants in the window, I began dropping them into Boris’s silken den. He was around for about a year, and I actually cried when I found his dead body.
Kelly Kerney
Richmond, Va.
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