The World Goes On

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Most Anticipated: The Great Spring 2024 Preview

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April April 2 Women! In! Peril! by Jessie Ren Marshall [F] For starters, excellent title. This debut short story collection from playwright Marshall spans sex bots and space colonists, wives and divorcées, prodding at the many meanings of womanhood. Short story master Deesha Philyaw, also taken by the book's title, calls this one "incisive! Provocative! And utterly satisfying!" —Sophia M. Stewart The Audacity by Ryan Chapman [F] This sophomore effort, after the darkly sublime absurdity of Riots I have Known, trades in the prison industrial complex for the Silicon Valley scam. Chapman has a sharp eye and a sharper wit, and a book billed as a "bracing satire about the implosion of a Theranos-like company, a collapsing marriage, and a billionaires’ 'philanthropy summit'" promises some good, hard laughs—however bitter they may be—at the expense of the über-rich. —John H. Maher The Obscene Bird of Night by José Donoso, tr. Leonard Mades [F] I first learned about this book from an essay in this publication by Zachary Issenberg, who alternatively calls it Donoso's "masterpiece," "a perfect novel," and "the crowning achievement of the gothic horror genre." He recommends going into the book without knowing too much, but describes it as "a story assembled from the gossip of society’s highs and lows, which revolves and blurs into a series of interlinked nightmares in which people lose their memory, their sex, or even their literal organs." —SMS Globetrotting ed. Duncan Minshull [NF] I'm a big walker, so I won't be able to resist this assemblage of 50 writers—including Edith Wharton, Katharine Mansfield, Helen Garner, and D.H. Lawrence—recounting their various journeys by foot, edited by Minshull, the noted walker-writer-anthologist behind The Vintage Book of Walking (2000) and Where My Feet Fall (2022). —SMS All Things Are Too Small by Becca Rothfeld [NF] Hieronymus Bosch, eat your heart out! The debut book from Rothfeld, nonfiction book critic at the Washington Post, celebrates our appetite for excess in all its material, erotic, and gluttonous glory. Covering such disparate subjects from decluttering to David Cronenberg, Rothfeld looks at the dire cultural—and personal—consequences that come with adopting a minimalist sensibility and denying ourselves pleasure. —Daniella Fishman A Good Happy Girl by Marissa Higgins [F] Higgins, a regular contributor here at The Millions, debuts with a novel of a young woman who is drawn into an intense and all-consuming emotional and sexual relationship with a married lesbian couple. Halle Butler heaps on the praise for this one: “Sometimes I could not believe how easily this book moved from gross-out sadism into genuine sympathy. Totally surprising, totally compelling. I loved it.” —SMS City Limits by Megan Kimble [NF] As a Los Angeleno who is steadily working my way through The Power Broker, this in-depth investigation into the nation's freeways really calls to me. (Did you know Robert Moses couldn't drive?) Kimble channels Caro by locating the human drama behind freeways and failures of urban planning. —SMS We Loved It All by Lydia Millet [NF] Planet Earth is a pretty awesome place to be a human, with its beaches and mountains, sunsets and birdsong, creatures great and small. Millet, a creative director at the Center for Biological Diversity in Tucson, infuses her novels with climate grief and cautions against extinction, and in this nonfiction meditation, she makes a case for a more harmonious coexistence between our species and everybody else in the natural world. If a nostalgic note of “Auld Lang Syne” trembles in Millet’s title, her personal anecdotes and public examples call for meaningful environmental action from local to global levels. —Nathalie op de Beeck Like Love by Maggie Nelson [NF] The new book from Nelson, one of the most towering public intellectuals alive today, collects 20 years of her work—including essays, profiles, and reviews—that cover disparate subjects, from Prince and Kara Walker to motherhood and queerness. For my fellow Bluets heads, this will be essential reading. —SMS Traces of Enayat by Iman Mersal, tr. Robin Moger [NF] Mersal, one of the preeminent poets of the Arabic-speaking world, recovers the life, work, and legacy of the late Egyptian writer Enayat al-Zayyat in this biographical detective story. Mapping the psyche of al-Zayyat, who died by suicide in 1963, alongside her own, Mersal blends literary mystery and memoir to produce a wholly original portrait of two women writers. —SMS The Letters of Emily Dickinson ed. Cristanne Miller and Domhnall Mitchell [NF] The letters of Emily Dickinson, one of the greatest and most beguiling of American poets, are collected here for the first time in nearly 60 years. Her correspondence not only gives access to her inner life and social world, but reveal her to be quite the prose stylist. "In these letters," says Jericho Brown, "we see the life of a genius unfold." Essential reading for any Dickinson fan. —SMS April 9 Short War by Lily Meyer [F] The debut novel from Meyer, a critic and translator, reckons with the United States' political intervention in South America through the stories of two generations: a young couple who meet in 1970s Santiago, and their American-born child spending a semester Buenos Aires. Meyer is a sharp writer and thinker, and a great translator from the Spanish; I'm looking forward to her fiction debut. —SMS There's Going to Be Trouble by Jen Silverman [F] Silverman's third novel spins a tale of an American woman named Minnow who is drawn into a love affair with a radical French activist—a romance that, unbeknown to her, mirrors a relationship her own draft-dodging father had against the backdrop of the student movements of the 1960s. Teasing out the intersections of passion and politics, There's Going to Be Trouble is "juicy and spirited" and "crackling with excitement," per Jami Attenberg. —SMS Table for One by Yun Ko-eun, tr. Lizzie Buehler [F] I thoroughly enjoyed Yun Ko-eun's 2020 eco-thriller The Disaster Tourist, also translated by Buehler, so I'm excited for her new story collection, which promises her characteristic blend of mundanity and surrealism, all in the name of probing—and poking fun—at the isolation and inanity of modern urban life. —SMS Playboy by Constance Debré, tr. Holly James [NF] The prequel to the much-lauded Love Me Tender, and the first volume in Debré's autobiographical trilogy, Playboy's incisive vignettes explore the author's decision to abandon her marriage and career and pursue the precarious life of a writer, which she once told Chris Kraus was "a bit like Saint Augustine and his conversion." Virginie Despentes is a fan, so I'll be checking this out. —SMS Native Nations by Kathleen DuVal [NF] DuVal's sweeping history of Indigenous North America spans a millennium, beginning with the ancient cities that once covered the continent and ending with Native Americans' continued fight for sovereignty. A study of power, violence, and self-governance, Native Nations is an exciting contribution to a new canon of North American history from an Indigenous perspective, perfect for fans of Ned Blackhawk's The Rediscovery of America. —SMS Personal Score by Ellen van Neerven [NF] I’ve always been interested in books that drill down on a specific topic in such a way that we also learn something unexpected about the world around us. Australian writer Van Neerven's sports memoir is so much more than that, as they explore the relationship between sports and race, gender, and sexuality—as well as the paradox of playing a colonialist sport on Indigenous lands. Two Dollar Radio, which is renowned for its edgy list, is publishing this book, so I know it’s going to blow my mind. —Claire Kirch April 16 The Notebooks of Sonny Rollins by Sonny Rollins [NF] The musings, recollections, and drawings of jazz legend Sonny Rollins are collected in this compilation of his precious notebooks, which he began keeping in 1959, the start of what would become known as his “Bridge Years,” during which he would practice at all hours on the Williamsburg Bridge. Rollins chronicles everything from his daily routine to reflections on music theory and the philosophical underpinnings of his artistry. An indispensable look into the mind and interior life of one of the most celebrated jazz musicians of all time. —DF Henry Henry by Allen Bratton [F] Bratton’s ambitious debut reboots Shakespeare’s Henriad, landing Hal Lancaster, who’s in line to be the 17th Duke of Lancaster, in the alcohol-fueled queer party scene of 2014 London. Hal’s identity as a gay man complicates his aristocratic lineage, and his dalliances with over-the-hill actor Jack Falstaff and promising romance with one Harry Percy, who shares a name with history’s Hotspur, will have English majors keeping score. Don’t expect a rom-com, though. Hal’s fraught relationship with his sexually abusive father, and the fates of two previous gay men from the House of Lancaster, lend gravity to this Bard-inspired take. —NodB Bitter Water Opera by Nicolette Polek [F] Graywolf always publishes books that make me gasp in awe and this debut novel, by the author of the entrancing 2020 story collection Imaginary Museums, sounds like it’s going to keep me awake at night as well. It’s a tale about a young woman who’s lost her way and writes a letter to a long-dead ballet dancer—who then visits her, and sets off a string of strange occurrences. —CK Norma by Sarah Mintz [F] Mintz's debut novel follows the titular widow as she enjoys her newfound freedom by diving headfirst into her surrounds, both IRL and online. Justin Taylor says, "Three days ago I didn’t know Sarah Mintz existed; now I want to know where the hell she’s been all my reading life. (Canada, apparently.)" —SMS What Kingdom by Fine Gråbøl, tr. Martin Aitken [F] A woman in a psychiatric ward dreams of "furniture flickering to life," a "chair that greets you," a "bookshelf that can be thrown on like an apron." This sounds like the moving answer to the otherwise puzzling question, "What if the Kantian concept of ding an sich were a novel?" —JHM Weird Black Girls by Elwin Cotman [F] Cotman, the author of three prior collections of speculative short stories, mines the anxieties of Black life across these seven tales, each of them packed with pop culture references and supernatural conceits. Kelly Link calls Cotman's writing "a tonic to ward off drabness and despair." —SMS Presence by Tracy Cochran [NF] Last year marked my first earnest attempt at learning to live more mindfully in my day-to-day, so I was thrilled when this book serendipitously found its way into my hands. Cochran, a New York-based meditation teacher and Tibetan Buddhist practitioner of 50 years, delivers 20 psycho-biographical chapters on recognizing the importance of the present, no matter how mundane, frustrating, or fortuitous—because ultimately, she says, the present is all we have. —DF Committed by Suzanne Scanlon [NF] Scanlon's memoir uses her own experience of mental illness to explore the enduring trope of the "madwoman," mining the work of Charlotte Perkins Gilman, Virginia Woolf, Sylvia Plath, Audre Lorde, and others for insights into the long literary tradition of women in psychological distress. The blurbers for this one immediately caught my eye, among them Natasha Trethewey, Amina Cain, and Clancy Martin, who compares Scanlon's work here to that of Marguerite Duras. —SMS Unrooted by Erin Zimmerman [NF] This science memoir explores Zimmerman's journey to botany, a now endangered field. Interwoven with Zimmerman's experiences as a student and a mother is an impassioned argument for botany's continued relevance and importance against the backdrop of climate change—a perfect read for gardeners, plant lovers, or anyone with an affinity for the natural world. —SMS April 23 Reboot by Justin Taylor [F] Extremely online novels, as a rule, have become tiresome. But Taylor has long had a keen eye for subcultural quirks, so it's no surprise that PW's Alan Scherstuhl says that "reading it actually feels like tapping into the internet’s best celeb gossip, fiercest fandom outrages, and wildest conspiratorial rabbit holes." If that's not a recommendation for the Book Twitter–brained reader in you, what is? —JHM Divided Island by Daniela Tarazona, tr. Lizzie Davis and Kevin Gerry Dunn [F] A story of multiple personalities and grief in fragments would be an easy sell even without this nod from Álvaro Enrigue: "I don't think that there is now, in Mexico, a literary mind more original than Daniela Tarazona's." More original than Mario Bellatin, or Cristina Rivera Garza? This we've gotta see. —JHM Prairie, Dresses, Art, Other by Danielle Dutton [NF] Coffee House Press has for years relished its reputation for publishing “experimental” literature, and this collection of short stories and essays about literature and art and the strangeness of our world is right up there with the rest of Coffee House’s edgiest releases. Don’t be fooled by the simple cover art—Dutton’s work is always formally inventive, refreshingly ambitious, and totally brilliant. —CK I Just Keep Talking by Nell Irvin Painter [NF] I first encountered Nell Irvin Painter in graduate school, as I hung out with some Americanists who were her students. Painter was always a dazzling, larger-than-life figure, who just exuded power and brilliance. I am so excited to read this collection of her essays on history, literature, and politics, and how they all intersect. The fact that this collection contains Painter’s artwork is a big bonus. —CK April 30 Real Americans by Rachel Khong [F] The latest novel from Khong, the author of Goodbye, Vitamin, explores class dynamics and the illusory American Dream across generations. It starts out with a love affair between an impoverished Chinese American woman from an immigrant family and an East Coast elite from a wealthy family, before moving us along 21 years: 15-year-old Nick knows that his single mother is hiding something that has to do with his biological father and thus, his identity. C Pam Zhang deems this "a book of rare charm," and Andrew Sean Greer calls it "gorgeous, heartfelt, soaring, philosophical and deft." —CK The Swans of Harlem by Karen Valby [NF] Huge thanks to Bebe Neuwirth for putting this book on my radar (she calls it "fantastic") with additional gratitude to Margo Jefferson for sealing the deal (she calls it "riveting"). Valby's group biography of five Black ballerinas who forever transformed the art form at the height of the Civil Rights movement uncovers the rich and hidden history of Black ballet, spotlighting the trailblazers who paved the way for the Misty Copelands of the world. —SMS Appreciation Post by Tara Ward [NF] Art historian Ward writes toward an art history of Instagram in Appreciation Post, which posits that the app has profoundly shifted our long-established ways of interacting with images. Packed with cultural critique and close reading, the book synthesizes art history, gender studies, and media studies to illuminate the outsize role that images play in all of our lives. —SMS May May 7 Bad Seed by Gabriel Carle, tr. Heather Houde [F] Carle’s English-language debut contains echoes of Denis Johnson’s Jesus’s Son and Mariana Enriquez’s gritty short fiction. This story collection haunting but cheeky, grim but hopeful: a student with HIV tries to avoid temptation while working at a bathhouse; an inebriated friend group witnesses San Juan go up in literal flames; a sexually unfulfilled teen drowns out their impulses by binging TV shows. Puerto Rican writer Luis Negrón calls this “an extraordinary literary debut.” —Liv Albright The Lady Waiting by Magdalena Zyzak [F] Zyzak’s sophomore novel is a nail-biting delight. When Viva, a young Polish émigré, has a chance encounter with an enigmatic gallerist named Bobby, Viva’s life takes a cinematic turn. Turns out, Bobby and her husband have a hidden agenda—they plan to steal a Vermeer, with Viva as their accomplice. Further complicating things is the inevitable love triangle that develops among them. Victor LaValle calls this “a superb accomplishment," and Percival Everett says, "This novel pops—cosmopolitan, sexy, and funny." —LA América del Norte by Nicolás Medina Mora [F] Pitched as a novel that "blends the Latin American traditions of Roberto Bolaño and Fernanda Melchor with the autofiction of U.S. writers like Ben Lerner and Teju Cole," Mora's debut follows a young member of the Mexican elite as he wrestles with questions of race, politics, geography, and immigration. n+1 co-editor Marco Roth calls Mora "the voice of the NAFTA generation, and much more." —SMS How It Works Out by Myriam Lacroix [F] LaCroix's debut novel is the latest in a strong early slate of novels for the Overlook Press in 2024, and follows a lesbian couple as their relationship falls to pieces across a number of possible realities. The increasingly fascinating and troubling potentialities—B-list feminist celebrity, toxic employer-employee tryst, adopting a street urchin, cannibalism as relationship cure—form a compelling image of a complex relationship in multiversal hypotheticals. —JHM Cinema Love by Jiaming Tang [F] Ting's debut novel, which spans two continents and three timelines, follows two gay men in rural China—and, later, New York City's Chinatown—who frequent the Workers' Cinema, a movie theater where queer men cruise for love. Robert Jones, Jr. praises this one as "the unforgettable work of a patient master," and Jessamine Chan calls it "not just an extraordinary debut, but a future classic." —SMS First Love by Lilly Dancyger [NF] Dancyger's essay collection explores the platonic romances that bloom between female friends, giving those bonds the love-story treatment they deserve. Centering each essay around a formative female friendship, and drawing on everything from Anaïs Nin and Sylvia Plath to the "sad girls" of Tumblr, Dancyger probes the myriad meanings and iterations of friendship, love, and womanhood. —SMS See Loss See Also Love by Yukiko Tominaga [F] In this impassioned debut, we follow Kyoko, freshly widowed and left to raise her son alone. Through four vignettes, Kyoko must decide how to raise her multiracial son, whether to remarry or stay husbandless, and how to deal with life in the face of loss. Weike Wang describes this one as “imbued with a wealth of wisdom, exploring the languages of love and family.” —DF The Novices of Lerna by Ángel Bonomini, tr. Jordan Landsman [F] The Novices of Lerna is Landsman's translation debut, and what a way to start out: with a work by an Argentine writer in the tradition of Jorge Luis Borges and Adolfo Bioy Casares whose work has never been translated into English. Judging by the opening of this short story, also translated by Landsman, Bonomini's novel of a mysterious fellowship at a Swiss university populated by doppelgängers of the protagonist is unlikely to disappoint. —JHM Black Meme by Legacy Russell [NF] Russell, best known for her hit manifesto Glitch Feminism, maps Black visual culture in her latest. Black Meme traces the history of Black imagery from 1900 to the present, from the photograph of Emmett Till published in JET magazine to the footage of Rodney King's beating at the hands of the LAPD, which Russell calls the first viral video. Per Margo Jefferson, "You will be galvanized by Legacy Russell’s analytic brilliance and visceral eloquence." —SMS The Eighth Moon by Jennifer Kabat [NF] Kabat's debut memoir unearths the history of the small Catskills town to which she relocated in 2005. The site of a 19th-century rural populist uprising, and now home to a colorful cast of characters, the Appalachian community becomes a lens through which Kabat explores political, economic, and ecological issues, mining the archives and the work of such writers as Adrienne Rich and Elizabeth Hardwick along the way. —SMS Stories from the Center of the World ed. Jordan Elgrably [F] Many in America hold onto broad, centuries-old misunderstandings of Arab and Muslim life and politics that continue to harm, through both policy and rhetoric, a perpetually embattled and endangered region. With luck, these 25 tales by writers of Middle Eastern and North African origin might open hearts and minds alike. —JHM An Encyclopedia of Gardening for Colored Children by Jamaica Kincaid and Kara Walker [NF] Two of the most brilliant minds on the planet—writer Jamaica Kincaid and visual artist Kara Walker—have teamed up! On a book! About plants! A dream come true. Details on this slim volume are scant—see for yourself—but I'm counting down the minutes till I can read it all the same. —SMS Physics of Sorrow by Georgi Gospodinov, tr. Angela Rodel [F] I'll be honest: I would pick up this book—by the International Booker Prize–winning author of Time Shelter—for the title alone. But also, the book is billed as a deeply personal meditation on both Communist Bulgaria and Greek myth, so—yep, still picking this one up. —JHM May 14 This Strange Eventful History by Claire Messud [F] I read an ARC of this enthralling fictionalization of Messud’s family history—people wandering the world during much of the 20th century, moving from Algeria to France to North America— and it is quite the story, with a postscript that will smack you on the side of the head and make you re-think everything you just read. I can't recommend this enough. —CK Woodworm by Layla Martinez, tr. Sophie Hughes and Annie McDermott [F] Martinez’s debut novel takes cabin fever to the max in this story of a grandmother,  granddaughter, and their haunted house, set against the backdrop of the Spanish Civil War. As the story unfolds, so do the house’s secrets, the two women must learn to collaborate with the malevolent spirits living among them. Mariana Enriquez says that this "tense, chilling novel tells a story of specters, class war, violence, and loneliness, as naturally as if the witches had dictated this lucid, terrible nightmare to Martínez themselves.” —LA Self Esteem and the End of the World by Luke Healy [NF] Ah, writers writing about writing. A tale as old as time, and often timeworn to boot. But graphic novelists graphically noveling about graphic novels? (Verbing weirds language.) It still feels fresh to me! Enter Healy's tale of "two decades of tragicomic self-discovery" following a protagonist "two years post publication of his latest book" and "grappling with his identity as the world crumbles." —JHM All Fours by Miranda July [F] In excruciating, hilarious detail, All Fours voices the ethically dubious thoughts and deeds of an unnamed 45-year-old artist who’s worried about aging and her capacity for desire. After setting off on a two-week round-trip drive from Los Angeles to New York City, the narrator impulsively checks into a motel 30 miles from her home and only pretends to be traveling. Her flagrant lies, unapologetic indolence, and semi-consummated seduction of a rent-a-car employee set the stage for a liberatory inquisition of heteronorms and queerness. July taps into the perimenopause zeitgeist that animates Jen Beagin’s Big Swiss and Melissa Broder’s Death Valley. —NodB Love Junkie by Robert Plunket [F] When a picture-perfect suburban housewife's life is turned upside down, a chance brush with New York City's gay scene launches her into gainful, albeit unconventional, employment. Set at the dawn of the AIDs epidemic, Mimi Smithers, described as a "modern-day Madame Bovary," goes from planning parties in Westchester to selling used underwear with a Manhattan porn star. As beloved as it is controversial, Plunket's 1992 cult novel will get a much-deserved second life thanks to this reissue by New Directions. (Maybe this will finally galvanize Madonna, who once optioned the film rights, to finally make that movie.) —DF Tomorrowing by Terry Bisson [F] The newest volume in Duke University’s Practices series collects for the first time the late Terry Bisson’s Locus column "This Month in History," which ran for two decades. In it, the iconic "They’re Made Out of Meat" author weaves an alt-history of a world almost parallel to ours, featuring AI presidents, moon mountain hikes, a 196-year-old Walt Disney’s resurrection, and a space pooch on Mars. This one promises to be a pure spectacle of speculative fiction. —DF Chop Fry Watch Learn by Michelle T. King [NF] A large portion of the American populace still confuses Chinese American food with Chinese food. What a delight, then, to discover this culinary history of the worldwide dissemination of that great cuisine—which moonlights as a biography of Chinese cookbook and TV cooking program pioneer Fu Pei-mei. —JHM On the Couch ed. Andrew Blauner [NF] André Aciman, Susie Boyt, Siri Hustvedt, Rivka Galchen, and Colm Tóibín are among the 25 literary luminaries to contribute essays on Freud and his complicated legacy to this lively volume, edited by writer, editor, and literary agent Blauner. Taking tacts both personal and psychoanalytical, these essays paint a fresh, full picture of Freud's life, work, and indelible cultural impact. —SMS Another Word for Love by Carvell Wallace [NF] Wallace is one of the best journalists (and tweeters) working today, so I'm really looking forward to his debut memoir, which chronicles growing up Black and queer in America, and navigating the world through adulthood. One of the best writers working today, Kiese Laymon, calls Another Word for Love as “One of the most soulfully crafted memoirs I’ve ever read. I couldn’t figure out how Carvell Wallace blurred time, region, care, and sexuality into something so different from anything I’ve read before." —SMS The Devil's Best Trick by Randall Sullivan [NF] A cultural history interspersed with memoir and reportage, Sullivan's latest explores our ever-changing understandings of evil and the devil, from Egyptian gods and the Book of Job to the Salem witch trials and Black Mass ceremonies. Mining the work of everyone from Zoraster, Plato, and John Milton to Edgar Allen Poe, Aleister Crowley, and Charles Baudelaire, this sweeping book chronicles evil and the devil in their many forms. --SMS The Book Against Death by Elias Canetti, tr. Peter Filkins [NF] In this newly-translated collection, Nobel laureate Canetti, who once called himself death's "mortal enemy," muses on all that death inevitably touches—from the smallest ant to the Greek gods—and condemns death as a byproduct of war and despots' willingness to use death as a pathway to power. By means of this book's very publication, Canetti somewhat succeeds in staving off death himself, ensuring that his words live on forever. —DF Rise of a Killah by Ghostface Killah [NF] "Why is the sky blue? Why is water wet? Why did Judas rat to the Romans while Jesus slept?" Ghostface Killah has always asked the big questions. Here's another one: Who needs to read a blurb on a literary site to convince them to read Ghost's memoir? —JHM May 21 Exhibit by R.O. Kwon [F] It's been six years since Kwon's debut, The Incendiaries, hit shelves, and based on that book's flinty prose alone, her latest would be worth a read. But it's also a tale of awakening—of its protagonist's latent queerness, and of the "unquiet spirit of an ancestor," that the author herself calls so "shot through with physical longing, queer lust, and kink" that she hopes her parents will never read it. Tantalizing enough for you? —JHM Cecilia by K-Ming Chang [F] Chang, the author of Bestiary, Gods of Want, and Organ Meats, returns with this provocative and oft-surreal novella. While the story is about two childhood friends who became estranged after a bizarre sexual encounter but re-connect a decade later, it’s also an exploration of how the human body and its excretions can be both pleasurable and disgusting. —CK The Great State of West Florida by Kent Wascom [F] The Great State of West Florida is Wascom's latest gothicomic novel set on Florida's apocalyptic coast. A gritty, ominous book filled with doomed Floridians, the passages fly by with sentences that delight in propulsive excess. In the vein of Thomas McGuane's early novels or Brian De Palma's heyday, this stylized, savory, and witty novel wields pulp with care until it blooms into a new strain of American gothic. —Zachary Issenberg Cartoons by Kit Schluter [F] Bursting with Kafkaesque absurdism and a hearty dab of abstraction, Schluter’s Cartoons is an animated vignette of life's minutae. From the ravings of an existential microwave to a pencil that is afraid of paper, Schluter’s episodic outré oozes with animism and uncanniness. A grand addition to City Light’s repertoire, it will serve as a zany reminder of the lengths to which great fiction can stretch. —DF May 28 Lost Writings by Mina Loy, ed. Karla Kelsey [F] In the early 20th century, avant-garde author, visual artist, and gallerist Mina Loy (1882–1966) led an astonishing creative life amid European and American modernist circles; she satirized Futurists, participated in Surrealist performance art, and created paintings and assemblages in addition to writing about her experiences in male-dominated fields of artistic practice. Diligent feminist scholars and art historians have long insisted on her cultural significance, yet the first Loy retrospective wasn’t until 2023. Now Karla Kelsey, a poet and essayist, unveils two never-before-published, autobiographical midcentury manuscripts by Loy, The Child and the Parent and Islands in the Air, written from the 1930s to the 1950s. It's never a bad time to be re-rediscovered. —NodB I'm a Fool to Want You by Camila Sosa Villada, tr. Kit Maude [F] Villada, whose debut novel Bad Girls, also translated by Maude, captured the travesti experience in Argentina, returns with a short story collection that runs the genre gamut from gritty realism and social satire to science fiction and fantasy. The throughline is Villada's boundless imagination, whether she's conjuring the chaos of the Mexican Inquisition or a trans sex worker befriending a down-and-out Billie Holiday. Angie Cruz calls this "one of my favorite short-story collections of all time." —SMS The Editor by Sara B. Franklin [NF] Franklin's tenderly written and meticulously researched biography of Judith Jones—the legendary Knopf editor who worked with such authors as John Updike, Sylvia Plath, Elizabeth Bowen, Anne Tyler, and, perhaps most consequentially, Julia Child—was largely inspired by Franklin's own friendship with Jones in the final years of her life, and draws on a rich trove of interviews and archives. The Editor retrieves Jones from the margins of publishing history and affirms her essential role in shaping the postwar cultural landscape, from fiction to cooking and beyond. —SMS The Book-Makers by Adam Smyth [NF] A history of the book told through 18 microbiographies of particularly noteworthy historical personages who made them? If that's not enough to convince you, consider this: the small press is represented here by Nancy Cunard, the punchy and enormously influential founder of Hours Press who romanced both Aldous Huxley and Ezra Pound, knew Hemingway and Joyce and Langston Hughes and William Carlos Williams, and has her own MI5 file. Also, the subject of the binding chapter is named "William Wildgoose." —JHM June June 4 The Future Was Color by Patrick Nathan [F] A gay Hungarian immigrant writing crappy monster movies in the McCarthy-era Hollywood studio system gets swept up by a famous actress and brought to her estate in Malibu to write what he really cares about—and realizes he can never escape his traumatic past. Sunset Boulevard is shaking. —JHM A Cage Went in Search of a Bird [F] This collection brings together a who's who of literary writers—10 of them, to be precise— to write Kafka fanfiction, from Joshua Cohen to Yiyun Li. Then it throws in weirdo screenwriting dynamo Charlie Kaufman, for good measure. A boon for Kafkaheads everywhere. —JHM We Refuse by Kellie Carter Jackson [NF] Jackson, a historian and professor at Wellesley College, explores the past and present of Black resistance to white supremacy, from work stoppages to armed revolt. Paying special attention to acts of resistance by Black women, Jackson attempts to correct the historical record while plotting a path forward. Jelani Cobb describes this "insurgent history" as "unsparing, erudite, and incisive." —SMS Holding It Together by Jessica Calarco [NF] Sociologist Calarco's latest considers how, in lieu of social safety nets, the U.S. has long relied on women's labor, particularly as caregivers, to hold society together. Calarco argues that while other affluent nations cover the costs of care work and direct significant resources toward welfare programs, American women continue to bear the brunt of the unpaid domestic labor that keeps the nation afloat. Anne Helen Petersen calls this "a punch in the gut and a call to action." —SMS Miss May Does Not Exist by Carrie Courogen [NF] A biography of Elaine May—what more is there to say? I cannot wait to read this chronicle of May's life, work, and genius by one of my favorite writers and tweeters. Claire Dederer calls this "the biography Elaine May deserves"—which is to say, as brilliant as she was. —SMS Fire Exit by Morgan Talty [F] Talty, whose gritty story collection Night of the Living Rez was garlanded with awards, weighs the concept of blood quantum—a measure that federally recognized tribes often use to determine Indigenous membership—in his debut novel. Although Talty is a citizen of the Penobscot Indian Nation, his narrator is on the outside looking in, a working-class white man named Charles who grew up on Maine’s Penobscot Reservation with a Native stepfather and friends. Now Charles, across the river from the reservation and separated from his biological daughter, who lives there, ponders his exclusion in a novel that stokes controversy around the terms of belonging. —NodB June 11 The Material by Camille Bordas [F] My high school English teacher, a somewhat dowdy but slyly comical religious brother, had a saying about teaching high school students: "They don't remember the material, but they remember the shtick." Leave it to a well-named novel about stand-up comedy (by the French author of How to Behave in a Crowd) to make you remember both. --SMS Ask Me Again by Clare Sestanovich [F] Sestanovich follows up her debut story collection, Objects of Desire, with a novel exploring a complicated friendship over the years. While Eva and Jamie are seemingly opposites—she's a reserved South Brooklynite, while he's a brash Upper Manhattanite—they bond over their innate curiosity. Their paths ultimately diverge when Eva settles into a conventional career as Jamie channels his rebelliousness into politics. Ask Me Again speaks to anyone who has ever wondered whether going against the grain is in itself a matter of privilege. Jenny Offill calls this "a beautifully observed and deeply philosophical novel, which surprises and delights at every turn." —LA Disordered Attention by Claire Bishop [NF] Across four essays, art historian and critic Bishop diagnoses how digital technology and the attention economy have changed the way we look at art and performance today, identifying trends across the last three decades. A perfect read for fans of Anna Kornbluh's Immediacy, or the Style of Too Late Capitalism (also from Verso). War by Louis-Ferdinand Céline, tr. Charlotte Mandell [F] For years, literary scholars mourned the lost manuscripts of Céline, the acclaimed and reviled French author whose work was stolen from his Paris apartment after he fled to Germany in 1944, fearing punishment for his collaboration with the Nazis. But, with the recent discovery of those fabled manuscripts, War is now seeing the light of day thanks to New Directions (for anglophone readers, at least—the French have enjoyed this one since 2022 courtesy of Gallimard). Adam Gopnik writes of War, "A more intense realization of the horrors of the Great War has never been written." —DF The Uptown Local by Cory Leadbeater [NF] In his debut memoir, Leadbeater revisits the decade he spent working as Joan Didion's personal assistant. While he enjoyed the benefits of working with Didion—her friendship and mentorship, the more glamorous appointments on her social calendar—he was also struggling with depression, addiction, and profound loss. Leadbeater chronicles it all in what Chloé Cooper Jones calls "a beautiful catalog of twin yearnings: to be seen and to disappear; to belong everywhere and nowhere; to go forth and to return home, and—above all else—to love and to be loved." —SMS Out of the Sierra by Victoria Blanco [NF] Blanco weaves storytelling with old-fashioned investigative journalism to spotlight the endurance of Mexico's Rarámuri people, one of the largest Indigenous tribes in North America, in the face of environmental disasters, poverty, and the attempts to erase their language and culture. This is an important book for our times, dealing with pressing issues such as colonialism, migration, climate change, and the broken justice system. —CK Any Person Is the Only Self by Elisa Gabbert [NF] Gabbert is one of my favorite living writers, whether she's deconstructing a poem or tweeting about Seinfeld. Her essays are what I love most, and her newest collection—following 2020's The Unreality of Memory—sees Gabbert in rare form: witty and insightful, clear-eyed and candid. I adored these essays, and I hope (the inevitable success of) this book might augur something an essay-collection renaissance. (Seriously! Publishers! Where are the essay collections!) —SMS Tehrangeles by Porochista Khakpour [F] Khakpour's wit has always been keen, and it's hard to imagine a writer better positioned to take the concept of Shahs of Sunset and make it literary. "Like Little Women on an ayahuasca trip," says Kevin Kwan, "Tehrangeles is delightfully twisted and heartfelt."  —JHM Traveling: On the Path of Joni Mitchell by Ann Powers [NF] The moment I saw this book's title—which comes from the opening (and, as it happens, my favorite) track on Mitchell's 1971 masterpiece Blue—I knew it would be one of my favorite reads of the year. Powers, one of the very best music critics we've got, masterfully guides readers through Mitchell's life and work at a fascinating slant, her approach both sweeping and intimate as she occupies the dual roles of biographer and fan. —SMS All Desire Is a Desire for Being by René Girard, ed. Cynthia L. Haven [NF] I'll be honest—the title alone stirs something primal in me. In honor of Girard's centennial, Penguin Classics is releasing a smartly curated collection of his most poignant—and timely—essays, touching on everything from violence to religion to the nature of desire. Comprising essays selected by the scholar and literary critic Cynthia L. Haven, who is also the author of the first-ever biographical study of Girard, Evolution of Desire, this book is "essential reading for Girard devotees and a perfect entrée for newcomers," per Maria Stepanova. —DF June 18 Craft by Ananda Lima [F] Can you imagine a situation in which interconnected stories about a writer who sleeps with the devil at a Halloween party and can't shake him over the following decades wouldn't compel? Also, in one of the stories, New York City’s Penn Station is an analogue for hell, which is both funny and accurate. —JHM Parade by Rachel Cusk [F] Rachel Cusk has a new novel, her first in three years—the anticipation is self-explanatory. —SMS Little Rot by Akwaeke Emezi [F] Multimedia polymath and gender-norm disrupter Emezi, who just dropped an Afropop EP under the name Akwaeke, examines taboo and trauma in their creative work. This literary thriller opens with an upscale sex party and escalating violence, and although pre-pub descriptions leave much to the imagination (promising “the elite underbelly of a Nigerian city” and “a tangled web of sex and lies and corruption”), Emezi can be counted upon for an ambience of dread and a feverish momentum. —NodB When the Clock Broke by John Ganz [NF] I was having a conversation with multiple brilliant, thoughtful friends the other day, and none of them remembered the year during which the Battle of Waterloo took place. Which is to say that, as a rule, we should all learn our history better. So it behooves us now to listen to John Ganz when he tells us that all the wackadoodle fascist right-wing nonsense we can't seem to shake from our political system has been kicking around since at least the early 1990s. —JHM Night Flyer by Tiya Miles [NF] Miles is one of our greatest living historians and a beautiful writer to boot, as evidenced by her National Book Award–winning book All That She Carried. Her latest is a reckoning with the life and legend of Harriet Tubman, which Miles herself describes as an "impressionistic biography." As in all her work, Miles fleshes out the complexity, humanity, and social and emotional world of her subject. Tubman biographer Catherine Clinton says Miles "continues to captivate readers with her luminous prose, her riveting attention to detail, and her continuing genius to bring the past to life." —SMS God Bless You, Otis Spunkmeyer by Joseph Earl Thomas [F] Thomas's debut novel comes just two years after a powerful memoir of growing up Black, gay, nerdy, and in poverty in 1990s Philadelphia. Here, he returns to themes and settings that in that book, Sink, proved devastating, and throws post-service military trauma into the mix. —JHM June 25 The Garden Against Time by Olivia Laing [NF] I've been a fan of Laing's since The Lonely City, a formative read for a much-younger me (and I'd suspect for many Millions readers), so I'm looking forward to her latest, an inquiry into paradise refracted through the experience of restoring an 18th-century garden at her home the English countryside. As always, her life becomes a springboard for exploring big, thorny ideas (no pun intended)—in this case, the possibilities of gardens and what it means to make paradise on earth. —SMS Cue the Sun! by Emily Nussbaum [NF] Emily Nussbaum is pretty much the reason I started writing. Her 2019 collection of television criticism, I Like to Watch, was something of a Bible for college-aged me (and, in fact, was the first book I ever reviewed), and I've been anxiously awaiting her next book ever since. It's finally arrived, in the form of an utterly devourable cultural history of reality TV. Samantha Irby says, "Only Emily Nussbaum could get me to read, and love, a book about reality TV rather than just watching it," and David Grann remarks, "It’s rare for a book to feel alive, but this one does." —SMS Woman of Interest by Tracy O'Neill [NF] O’Neill's first work of nonfiction—an intimate memoir written with the narrative propulsion of a detective novel—finds her on the hunt for her biological mother, who she worries might be dying somewhere in South Korea. As she uncovers the truth about her enigmatic mother with the help of a private investigator, her journey increasingly becomes one of self-discovery. Chloé Cooper Jones writes that Woman of Interest “solidifies her status as one of our greatest living prose stylists.” —LA Dancing on My Own by Simon Wu [NF] New Yorkers reading this list may have witnessed Wu's artful curation at the Brooklyn Museum, or the Whitney, or the Museum of Modern Art. It makes one wonder how much he curated the order of these excellent, wide-ranging essays, which meld art criticism, personal narrative, and travel writing—and count Cathy Park Hong and Claudia Rankine as fans. —JHM [millions_email]

A Year in Reading: Garth Risk Hallberg

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I. For me the pandemic began in earnest on March 11--the same day I first made the acquaintance of my now old-frenemy Zoom. One of my graduate students had recommended it the night before, after a straw poll had found that most of her colleagues would rather the week’s class not be held in person. I’ll admit it’s a bit hard, so many months later, to explain why I myself wasn’t better prepared for this; had I not spent an entire session, back when I'd barely heard of Wuhan, lecturing from the classroom’s remotest corner and insisting between sneezes, “Don’t worry--hay fever!”? Hadn’t my mother-in-law (of doughty pioneer stock) left behind an entire closetful of toilet paper and canned beans at the end of her last visit, five days ago? And hadn’t the first documented case of community spread in New York walked into an ER a half mile from campus in the interim? Weren’t swaths of Westchester County already locking down? But denial is a mother, too, I guess, and cordons sanitaires and “airborne toxic events” still seemed possible only in novels. So when I called my department chair the next morning to check was I allowed to hold this week’s class online, my main feeling was a (perhaps prophetic) dubiousness about distance learning. His response? “Well, as of Friday, the college has suspended all in-person interactions for the rest of the semester, so you might as well get a jump on things.” Gulp. On the syllabus that day was Mrs. Dalloway. I should state for the record that I already vibrate at a sympathetic frequency with this novel, bursting into unaccountable tears every fifteen pages or so--and at different places each time. Indeed, my ideal reading of Mrs. Dalloway, a reading of perfect Buddhist attunement, entails crying continuously from the first sentence to the last and then dying immediately after. (Of joy. In the year 2072). Wikipedia informs me it’s Montherlant, not Chekhov, who said that happiness writes white--i.e., generates no contrast, leaves no mark on the page--and though exceptions range from the denouement of War & Peace to Updike’s short story “The Happiest I’ve Been,” the rule more or less holds…which is why Clarissa Dalloway is so singular in world literature. Through the whole of the novel that comprises her, she remains more or less happy, more or less lucky (privileged, we’d say). “What a lark! What a plunge!” Nor does much compensatory plot eventuate around her to stoke suspense. No, the mystery that haunts these pages--among the most vivid ever written--is one of pure consciousness: what makes Clarissa, on a June day in 1923, so particularly aware of her happiness, so exquisitely open in the face of the virile alternatives--the self-pity of Peter Walsh; the self-satisfaction of “admirable” Hugh Whitbread; the terrible auto-auto-da-fé of Septimus Smith? Every fiction must on some level address the Passover question, Why is this day different from all other days?…and a fortiori with Mrs. Dalloway, to whom, as in a Seinfeld episode, so little seems to happen. Reading in and around the book through the years, I’ve become more and more aware that any answer starts with World War I. Though Mrs. Dalloway is set a half-decade after the armistice, it very much--consciously, I think--sustains the illusion of the first summer of peacetime. Indeed, given the scale of the recent trauma, the 20 million dead, part of the wonder Clarissa feels walking through her city’s crowded streets may be that there's anyone left to crowd them. And look: that “violent explosion” over there turns out to be a motorcar backfiring. And the “airplane bor[ing] ominously into the ears of the crowd” is “actually” just “writing something! making letters in the sky!” Glaxo…no, Kreemo…no, toffee! The sweetness one feels here is, in part, relief: What she loved was this, here, now in front of her…or did it not become consoling to believe that death ended absolutely? but that somehow in the streets of London, on the ebb and flow of things, here, there, she survived, Peter survived? How do you make happiness visible? Try darkening the page. Still, another question has nagged at me: why the three-year time lag? Why not set the thing in 1919? Then, going back through the text in the dwindling hours of my Zoom virginity, I was struck by something I’d forgotten or overlooked in previous readings: a note struck rather more softly, muffled by subclauses and parentheticals and oblique angles of vision. Look again, for example, at our first outward vision of Clarissa, a charming woman, Scrope Purvis thought her…a touch of the bird about her, of the jay, blue-green, light, vivacious, though she was over fifty, and grown very white since her illness. There she perched, never seeing him, waiting to cross. And there it is, for anyone reading amid a pandemic: Her illness. But which illness? A few lines later, we find Clarissa sensing, just before Big Ben strikes the hour, a particular hush, or solemnity; an indescribable pause; a suspense (but that might be her heart, affected, they said, by influenza). This is all on the second page! I was almost reluctant to google “Woolf dalloway Spanish flu” (and reassured by the then-paucity of results; apparently others had missed the pianissimo, as Woolf’s contemporaries wouldn’t have been able to do.) But yes, Virginia Woolf herself had survived the Spanish flu (Cf. “On Being Ill”). It had killed a further 230,000 Britons, and nearly killed her, too. And so, I heard myself positing a few hours later in my “personal meeting room,” to a gallery view of tiny faces, this book we were all holding in our various hotspots was not just suggesting what life might feel like after wartime, but showing us what it was going to feel like--underneath the contingencies of our different circumstances, and notwithstanding the horror, and the suffering, and the death--to step outside on the first spring day after the pandemic ended. “Because the pandemic will end,” I said, trying to will some optimism out into the ether. “And for a brief while we’ll all get a chance to become Virginia Woolf. Everything will be illuminated-- for about two weeks, until it becomes habitual again--in the light of the possibility of there being nothing at all.” As many of us have learned, there’s no digital equivalent of “room dynamics”--no "Zoom feel"--but I sensed, or hallucinated, a change in the digitized listening. Then the tiny heads began to bob. For a moment, this century-old work of experimental fiction was letting them, and me, see past the catastrophe flooding our screens. And I’d have been happy to leave things there, to go away and cry more Micawberish tears, but then one of my students spoke up. We’d been looking earlier at the novel’s point-of-view movements--the flit to Scrope Purvis, for example--and she’d noted a rough principle: the characters had to be in physical proximity (passing on a street corner, say) for the perspective to jump from one to another. Now she ventured, tentatively, “Is it possible there’s a formal side to the pandemic thing, too? It’s like the point-of-view in the novel moves as a contagion, an airborne virus.” “That’s exactly what it goddamn does,” I fired off almost instantly, like a neuron in some larger brain. “And that’s exactly what the novel as a form can do. Woolf has just watched this mode of transmission kill 50 million people worldwide, and however consciously, this is her response, her deep wish. She’s trying to re-engineer the mechanisms of death to create an epidemic of life.” II. For a long time, that exchange with my students, connection building on connection, would remain the high point of my year in reading. I recount it at length not to suggest that March and April weren’t among the worst reading months of my life; they were. Back in the halcyon days of January, I’d agreed to review a 300,000-word novel, expecting it to take three weeks, and now I was managing to get through about 2,500 words a day--which hardly even seemed to matter, against the fact that equally many people were dying, millions more being thrown out of work as the economy went dark. Even if this novel was worthwhile, which it was, who was going to rush out and buy it, and where? As I mushed my school-age children (figuratively) through the arctic wastes of Google Classroom, I was having a vocational crisis of sorts, thinking often of the old Philip Roth line about reality outstripping our capacity for invention. I’d once dismissed it as “promoting a competition that doesn’t really exist,” but maybe reality was outstripping that, too. Still, I kept thinking about Mrs. Dalloway. It stood for me, even then, as an object lesson in what fiction could make happen, if I could make myself equal to it: an anti-quarantine, an unsheltering, a positive contamination where we blow right through the six-foot gap with our neighbors and spend weeks afflicting their apartments, years inhabiting their minds. And I continued on some level to suspect that Roth was wrong, and “reality hunger” a category error. The shared subjectivity of literature wasn’t an illusion or an escape so much as something you first had to be able to imagine yourself halfway toward if it was ever to become real. Imaginative literature, it should be said, doesn’t begin and end with fiction, and I did manage during this period to find some consolation in works of journalism. Because the public library was closed--a loss almost as significant as that of the schools--I found myself trolling the little free ones suddenly popping up like mushrooms all around my neighborhood, and in one of these I found a book called Complexity, by M. Mitchell Waldrop. My fascination with systems theory and its cousin chaos theory dates back to Jurassic Park, but I’ve never had the technical grounding to do much but poetically misunderstand them, so I was edified and then engrossed by the clarity of Waldrop’s reporting on the scientific work of the Santa Fe Institute, in the early 1980s…even as his account of “organized complexity,” all those entangled variables and feedback loops, stoked some concerns about putting Jared Fucking Kushner--the Chauncey Gardiner of legacy admissions, New Jersey’s answer to Candide--in charge of the fucking supply chains. I was less surprised to find myself loving Gay Talese’s The Kingdom and the Power; he’s among my favorite of the New Journalists. Still, given the seeming desiccation of its subject matter (a game of thrones played out on the New York Times masthead in the 1950s and ’60s), I’d put off reading this one, and now was struck by the sheer chutzpah of Talese’s 40-page dives into the heads and lives of his characters--real people, all. And on the subject of chutzpah, or moxie, or elan, or brio, I should recommend The Brown Album, an essay collection by my old friend Porochista Khakpour, which happened to be published at the height of the first COVID wave. Though its pieces were written over a decade and for a range of magazines, the through-line is fearless self-examination, delivered in the same antic voice that drives Khakpour’s excellent novels. Oddly enough, it would be Anthony Trollope who, in early May, led me back into fiction. I can think of at least a dozen Victorian novelists whose prose I find more compelling, but costume drama and home repair are my cinematic mac and cheese, and after we’d exhausted the This Old House archives, my wife and I had been tranquilizing ourselves at night with the pretty-good Amazon Prime version of Dr. Thorne. On a whim, I ordered the book, fetched it from the depopulated loading dock back of the bookstore took it to the park, and there it was, returned as it had vanished: the infectiousness of life. I felt like I was learning to read again, curling up with Madeleine L’Engle. I had only to pick up Dr. Thorne to be whisked away to the planet Barsetshire, with its vast deposits of meaningful choices. Now if only I could find a way to smuggle them back to 2020… III. But around me, the weather was warming up, whatever force driving the green fuse through the flowers…and fewer people were getting sick, fewer dying, the abnormal becoming the new normal. I found myself sitting in the backyard (what a lark! What a plunge!) amid the companionable silence of the non-traffic and the distant squalling of my daycareless three-year-old’s non-nap, and relaxing my deflector shields enough to be transported. I visited midcentury Paris via A Fairly Good Time, Mavis Gallant’s sublime one-upping of Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Dipped into Chicago’s Bronzeville with my teen idol Gwendolyn Brooks in her mini-bildungsroman Maud Martha, as authentic a work of American modernism as I’ve encountered. Hit the New Orleans-South Texas-Mountain West stations of the cross in Katherine Anne Porter’s novella trilogy Pale Horse, Pale Rider--the one bit of pandemic reading I allowed myself. I wondered: Why don’t more people read Katherine Anne Porter? The genius Mavis Gallant? And why on earth is a standalone Maud Martha out of print? It hasn’t been quite as often in recent years that a new novel struck me as similarly imperishable, but this summer brought two that did. One was Baron Wenckheim’s Homecoming, the latest and purportedly last novel by László Krasznahorkai. It had been one of the first books in my entire life to intimidate me with its size, not because the page count (550ish) was so high, but because the length and intensity and compositing of Krasznahorkai’s sentences can resemble a lava slide of black type. I was similarly slow years ago to pick up The Melancholy of Resistance, at half the length. But aside from being one of the greatest living writers, Krasznahorkai is funny, too--like Kafka is funny--and Baron Wenckheim is his funniest book, so wild and savage and subtle and depressingly true (its thoroughly corrupted Hungary a mirror for what increasingly seems a rusted-out America) that I had literal difficulty putting it down. I’d allotted something like a month; I finished it in a week. And immediately I grabbed Krasznahorkai’s volume of stories, The World Goes On, because I wanted him to go on, too. (“A Drop of Water” and “That Gagarin” are perfect places, by the way, for the László-curious to toe the magma.) The other best new novel I read in 2020 was Hilary Mantel’s The Mirror and The Light. It was the last book I’d bought before the lockdown, and it, too, came to seem intimidatingly large, back when I was making it through a few pages a day. But I couldn’t just let it glower at me from the shelf like that, accusing me of abandoning Thomas Cromwell halfway to the chopping block. I picked it up and was pretty much knocked over. For one thing, I hadn’t remembered the richness of Mantel’s sentences. Great prose replenishes the language it’s written in, and for me, the alchemical care with which Mantel handles the Latinate and the Anglo-Saxon does just that; here she is, for example, hovering around some of the very mysteries I’d been thinking about: Don’t look back, he had told the king: yet he too is guilty of retrospection as the light fades, in that hour of winter or summer before they bring in the candles, when earth and sky melt, when the fluttering heart of the bird on the bough calms and slows, and the night-walking animals stir and stretch and rouse, and the eyes of cats shine in the dark, when colour bleeds from sleeve and gown into the darkening air; when the page grows dim and letter forms elide and slip into other conformations, so that as the page is turned the old story slides from sight and a strange and slippery confluence of ink begins to flow. You look back into your past and say, is this story mine; this land? Is that flitting figure mine, that shape easing itself through alleys, evader of the curfew, fugitive from the day? I have always sort of dreaded historical fiction, apart from the novels of Robert Graves and Marguerite Yourcenar, but finishing the Cromwell trilogy made me want to read more, if only to try to figure out how Mantel had evaded the typical problem, gotten fact and speculation back into living alignment. Then I recalled that I had yet to read the less famous of Yourcenar’s masterworks, The Abyss, about an alchemist in the Low Countries at the start of the Reformation. And once Maine’s travel ban had softened and we could go there for a while in August, I took the book with me. I’d be reading it on the same small island where Mme. Yourcenar was buried. It’s not entirely a compliment when people call Yourcenar’s writing “marmoreal”--the connotation is of willed majesty, but also airlessness and weight--but nor is it wholly unfair. Yourcenar’s dialogue is marmoreal. So is the opening of The Abyss, a kind of false front. But then Yourcenar’s obsessiveness takes over, along with her fantastic imagination and her astonishingly syncretic erudition. The novel is as dense and rich and dark as a sachertorte, but also deeply nourishing. And as with any number of her essays (collected in The Dark Brain of Piranesi or That Mighty Sculptor, Time) or the companion piece “Nathanaël” (with its lapidary umlaut) it’s hard to emerge looking at modernity in quite the same way. IV. And now comes the part when I realize I, too, have gotten caught up in my enthusiasms, and indulged them at too great a length - though out of solicitude, reader! The holidays are upon us, and you deserve some of the old normal! And because these look to be dark months ahead, let me blaze through a few more recommendations that might keep you going, as they did me. From post-Yourcenar forays into Europe: Lord of All the Dead, in which the Spanish master Javier Cercas brings to a haunting conclusion his three-book exhumation of his country’s Civil War and its memory…also, the tragicomic palaver of Bohumil Hrabal’s Dancing Lessons for the Advanced in Age, a novel written in a single sentence…and Magda Szabó’s wonderful Abigail, which enfolds the historical irruptions of her own youth in the forgiving rhythms of a young-adult boarding-school novel…and, executing a similar strategy, but along much darker lines, Scenes from The Life of a Faun, by Arno Schmidt, a late German writer of Joycean proclivities about whom I expect to have more to say a year from now. And then some gems of English prose: Gerald Murnane’s collected stories, from Down Under (which I got onto via an excerpt in Music & Literature)…Dr. Jeckyll & Mister Hyde (which I got onto via Andrew O’Hagan)…and Thomas More’s Utopia (which I got onto via Thomas Cromwell, yet whose depiction of certain existing societal arrangements as at heart insane seems to resonate urgently with the protest--the insistence--that Black Lives Matter). And then some other new novels I loved: Colum McCann’s Apeirogon, a piercing documentary collage slash tone poem about Israeli human beings and Palestinian human beings…Rachel Cusk’s Outline, as good as everyone says, but for different reasons--and with the added appeal, if “lava flow of black type” doesn't appeal, of cutting as swiftly and cleanly as a knife through butter…and Inside Story, whose formal and conceptual overload allows Martin Amis to abandon all hope of Nabokovian perfection and write more loosely and candidly than he has since the first part of The Pregnant Widow--just too-clever-by-half enough. And finally, my other allergy: the memoirs. I can’t remember ever having read more than one of these in a year, and then only by aging rock stars, but apparently my imperviousness to memoir has weak spots. One is for material so unlikely that no writing at all is required to make it interesting (Keith Richards, I’m looking at you.) The other is for writing so lively that even an account of watching hotel-room cable becomes indelible (as with Patti Smith’s M Train.) I happened to read three memoirs this year that fulfilled both briefs at once. The first was Tara Westover’s Educated. Not only does she go from home-schooling with her survivalist sectarian family in Idaho to a year at Oxford (that’s before Dad becomes the King Lear of essential oils); Westover is obviously a born storyteller, writing with tremendous pace, honesty, emotion, and detail. Jack Goldsmith--the former head of the Justice Department’s Office of Legal Counsel under George W. Bush--writes a somewhat drier prose line; you may remember him blowing the whistle on warrantless surveillance. But he’s also, weirdly, the stepson of the longtime prime suspect in the Jimmy Hoffa disappearance (played in The Irishman by Landry from Friday Night Lights), and his book about it, In Hoffa’s Shadow, never puts a foot down wrong. And then there’s Patricia Lockwood. If, as Greil Marcus had it, mid-'70s Springsteen was a ’57 Chevy running on melted-down Crystals records, then Lockwood is Gerard Manley Hopkins and Big Maybelle reprising Thelma and Louise in a T-Top Trans Am--her Updike piece in the LRB is for my money the best piece of literary criticism written this decade. So it seems almost cosmically unfair (but a lark! and a plunge!) that she is also the daughter of a Catholic priest whose thing for whammy bars and Fox News is matched only by his antipathy toward pants. Or maybe it makes perfect sense, I don’t know. In any case, I’d happily spend 2021 reading Priestdaddy over and over (though my wife, whom I kept awakening with my cackles, might dissent). And as with any star, Lockwood’s light is indistinguishable from her burning. At graver moments, like the chapter called “Voice,” I had the experience Mantel describes so well: Is this my life, or my neighbor’s conflated with mine, or a life I have dreamed and prayed for; is this my essence, twisting into a taper’s flame, or have I slipped the limit of myself—slipped into eternity, like honey from a spoon? In short: Priestdaddy and books more generally got me to the far side of this year's pain not by distraction, but by guiding me into and then through it. It’s going to be a long winter, people, and we’re going to need that wherever we can find it: stars and more stars, candles upon candles...figurations of brightness, however dark the ground. More from A Year in Reading 2020 Do you love Year in Reading and the amazing books and arts content that The Millions produces year round? We are asking readers for support to ensure that The Millions can stay vibrant for years to come. 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