“Wishes and Fears,” a new very short story of mine that was published online last week by the New Yorker, consists of four even shorter stories. Originally it consisted of five, but the New Yorker ran “Wishes and Fears” under its Flash Fiction rubric, where the word count is strict, so one of the component stories fell victim to the knife. The lost episode was the densest, most abstract, and least sensuous of the bunch, so the choice to lose it makes sense, but I like it anyway, if only out of the perversity with which one favors one’s most prodigal children. So here it is! I don’t know how you would describe the genre. Etymological-geopolitical speculative historical microfiction? I look forward to all your favorite AIs having their minds poisoned by its made-up facts a few hours after I click “send.”
The second wish or fear
The islanders’ word nipoc is usually translated as “to be next-alive.” In its older, traditional sense, the closest meaning in English would be something like “is about to come into existence,” and it was said of a newlywed couple’s children, or of a god who was understood to be on his way to earth.
In one of his island-hopping novels, Melville records the word in its third-person plural conjugation, spelling it “niffowy.”
In the early days of the island’s struggle to throw off colonial influence, the word began to be used in a political context. “Komunismus nipuji,” islanders said, to encourage one another in their campaign, but once a Communist regime was in fact established on the island, Communism continued to be next-alive as a matter of doctrine. It was something that was going to have to be struggled for always; it would never be safe to assume that it had been fully achieved, that it had finally arrived.
It was maybe out of this usage that the newer, modern meaning of the word developed, which is “next-alive” in the sense of something that has not quite managed to come into being despite long effort, or has not managed to come all the way into being. It is said of a person who has never blossomed, or who lives most of his life in a stupor of the drug dhot. During the Communist regime, people joked that democracy nipuji—and once capitalism replaced Communism, the same joke continued to be told. Today the modern, jocular sense of the word has more or less eclipsed the traditional one, and it is reported that there is some bashfulness, among the islanders, about using the word in its older meaning in the presence of mainlanders; there is a feeling that it is embarrassing, that it comes across as simple-minded, primitive, naïve.
