The Secrets We Kept
by Lara Prescott
(London: windmill Books, 2019)
We came to the Agency by way of Radcliffe, Vassar, Smith. We were the first daughters of our families to earn degrees. Some of us spoke Mandarin. Some could fly planes. Some of us could hand a Colt 1873 better than John Wayne. But all we were asked when interviewed was “Can you type?”
Page xvi.
Most of us viewed the job in the typing pool as temporary. We wouldn’t admit it aloud - not even to each other - but many of us believed it would be a first rung toward achieving what the men got right out of college: positions as officers; our own offices with lamps that gave off a flattering light, plush rugs, wooden desks; our own typists taking down our dictation. We thought of it as a beginning, not an end, despite what we’d been told all our lives.
Page xvii.
We typed so much, some of us even dreamed of typing. Even years later, men we shared our beds with would remark that our fingers would sometimes twitch in our sleep.
Page xxi.
I had an idea about how the world was, and anything contrary made me uneasy.
Page 28.
I preferred fading into the background. Life was easier being unnoticed - without the whistles that trailed other women, the comments that made them cover their chest with their purse, the eyes that followed them everywhere.
Page 41.
The first day back from vacation, even a short one, was always the worst.
Page 63.
The power that came from being a keeper of secrets. It was a power that some, myself included, found more intoxicating than any drug, sex, or other means of quickening one’s heartbeat.
Page 71.
We were in our early twenties and ready to take on the world. We were the kind of girls who’d grown up reading Treasure Island and Robinson Crusoe, then graduated to H. Rider Haggard’s She in high school. We bonded over the belief that a life of adventure wasn’t reserved for men, and we set out to claim our piece of it.
Page 79.
I’d discovered that powerful men would willingly give information to me whether I asked for it or not.
Page 80.
I never thought of myself as a spy. Surely the craft took more than smiling and laughing at stupid jokes and pretending to be interested in everything these men said. Th ere wasn’t a name for it back then, but it was at that first party that I became a Swallow: a woman who uses her God-given talents to gain information - talents I’d been accumulating since puberty, had refined in my twenties, and then perfected in my thirties. These men thought they were using me, but it was always the reverse; my power was making them think it wasn’t.
Page 81.
One’s mind can never get the entire story straight.
Page 88.
I felt a rush and could see why Teddy Helms had told me that one could get addicted to this line or work. I already was.
Page 145.
I wanted to be part of the group, but didn’t want it to seem like I wanted to be part of the group. One might think this scenario plays out only in high school or college, but the politics of friendship is tricky at every age.
Page 147.
In the OSS days, women had been entrusted with blowing up bridges, but just a few years later, the Agency was still testing the waters to see what we were capable of.
Page 149.
Since its OSS roots, the Agency had doubled down on soft-propaganda warfare - using art, music, and literature to advance its objectives. The goal: to emphasize how the Soviet system did not allow free thought - how the Red State hindered, censored, and persecuted even its finest artists. The tactic: to get cultural materials into the hands of Soviet citizens by any means.
Pages 165-166.
the Agency became a bit of a book club with a black budget. It was more appealing to poets and writers than book readings with free wine. We had our hands so deep in publishing you’d have thought we got a cut of the royalties.
Page 166.
A handsome man always sizes up another handsome man.
Page177.
One’s passion almost always outweighs talent.
Page 179.
Her hair was a deep red and perfectly curled - the kind of hair that makes you want to say the color aloud. My own hair resembled the color of an underbaked oatmeal cookie.
Page 206.
Obvious things are the hardest to spot.
Page 223.
People give away a lot more than they know.
Page 223.
You must adopt a certain understanding of who someone is in order to judge how he might act in different circumstances.
Page 224.
To become someone else, you have to want to lose yourself in the first place.
Page 241.
There are two types of ambitious men: those bred to be ambitious - told from a very young age that the world is theirs for the taking - and those who create their own legacy.
Page 242.
All men, all women, for that matter, secretly long for some great tragedy. It sharpens the lived experience. Makes for more interesting people.
Page 262.
Secrets were insurance in Washington, and a girl always needs a few in her back pocket.
Page 265.
To operate fully under instinct was a gift given to the animals; how much simpler life would be if humans did the same.
Page 284.
People will do anything to fill an uncomfortable silence.
Page 289.
We unveil ourselves in the pieces we want others to know, even those closest to us. We all have our secrets.
Page 308.
All relationships are built on small omissions.
Page 331.
Heartbreak can be freeing - the weight lifted, no one left o hurt or be hurt by.
Page 341.
The flat was furnished with the luxurious but eclectic décor of someone who was new to money and had hired someone to give him taste.
Page 346.
It was a thrill to be surrounded by so many people while still feeling unseen.
Page 350.
I’d rather step into the dark than be pushed.
Page 389.
Communist or capitalist, men are still men.
Page 398.
Anger is a poor replacement for sadness; like cotton candy, the sweetness of revenge disintegrates immediately
Page 399.
As the years passed, her age always stayed the same, her beauty sealed in amber.
Page 428.
I’d attempted to prepare myself for what it would be like; but it wasn’t anything like how I thought it would be. The air hadn’t changed, my heart kept beating, the earth kept spinning, and the realization that everything would go on, that the world was ever ongoing, felt like a horse’s kick to the chest.
Page 437.
All that was left to me was to remember.
Page 437.