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Most Anticipated: The Great Winter 2025 Preview
It's cold, it's grey, its bleak—but winter, at the very least, brings with it a glut of anticipation-inducing books. Here you’ll find nearly 100 titles that we’re excited to cozy up with this season. Some we’ve already read in galley form; others we’re simply eager to devour based on their authors, subjects, or blurbs. We'd love for you to find your next great read among them.
The Millions will be taking a hiatus for the next few months, but we hope to see you soon.
—Sophia Stewart, editor
January
The Legend of Kumai by Shirato Sanpei, tr. Richard Rubinger (Drawn & Quarterly)
The epic 10-volume series, a touchstone of longform storytelling in manga now published in English for the first time, follows outsider Kamui in 17th-century Japan as he fights his way up from peasantry to the prized role of ninja. —Michael J. Seidlinger
The Life of Herod the Great by Zora Neale Hurston (Amistad)
In the years before her death in 1960, Hurston was at work on what she envisioned as a continuation of her 1939 novel, Moses, Man of the Mountain. Incomplete, nearly lost to fire, and now published for the first time alongside scholarship from editor Deborah G. Plant, Hurston’s final manuscript reimagines Herod, villain of the New Testament Gospel accounts, as a magnanimous and beloved leader of First Century Judea. —Jonathan Frey
Mood Machine by Liz Pelly (Atria)
When you eagerly posted your Spotify Wrapped last year, did you notice how much of what you listened to tended to sound... the same? Have you seen all those links to Bandcamp pages your musician friends keep desperately posting in the hopes that maybe, just maybe, you might give them money for their art? If so, this book is for you. —John H. Maher
My Country, Africa by Andrée Blouin (Verso)
African revolutionary Blouin recounts a radical life steeped in activism in this vital autobiography, from her beginnings in a colonial orphanage to her essential role in the continent's midcentury struggles for decolonization. —Sophia M. Stewart
The First and Last King of Haiti by Marlene L. Daut (Knopf)
Donald Trump repeatedly directs extraordinary animus towards Haiti and Haitians. This biography of Henry Christophe—the man who played a pivotal role in the Haitian Revolution—might help Americans understand why. —Claire Kirch
The Bewitched Bourgeois by Dino Buzzati, tr. Lawrence Venuti (NYRB)
This is the second story collection, and fifth book, by the absurdist-leaning midcentury Italian writer—whose primary preoccupation was war novels that blend the brutal with the fantastical—to get the NYRB treatment. May it not be the last. —JHM
Y2K by Colette Shade (Dey Street)
The recent Y2K revival mostly makes me feel old, but Shade's essay collection deftly illuminates how we got here, connecting the era's social and political upheavals to today. —SMS
Darkmotherland by Samrat Upadhyay (Penguin)
In a vast dystopian reimagining of Nepal, Upadhyay braids narratives of resistance (political, personal) and identity (individual, societal) against a backdrop of natural disaster and state violence. The first book in nearly a decade from the Whiting Award–winning author of Arresting God in Kathmandu, this is Upadhyay’s most ambitious yet. —JF
Metamorphosis by Ross Jeffery (Truborn)
From the author of I Died Too, But They Haven’t Buried Me Yet, a woman leads a double life as she loses her grip on reality by choice, wearing a mask that reflects her inner demons, as she descends into a hell designed to reveal the innermost depths of her grief-stricken psyche. —MJS
The Containment by Michelle Adams (FSG)
Legal scholar Adams charts the failure of desegregation in the American North through the story of the struggle to integrate suburban schools in Detroit, which remained almost completely segregated nearly two decades after Brown v. Board. —SMS
Death of the Author by Nnedi Okorafor (Morrow)
African Futurist Okorafor’s book-within-a-book offers interchangeable cover images, one for the story of a disabled, Black visionary in a near-present day and the other for the lead character’s speculative posthuman novel, Rusted Robots. Okorafor deftly keeps the alternating chapters and timelines in conversation with one another. —Nathalie op de Beeck
Open Socrates by Agnes Callard (Norton)
Practically everything Agnes Callard says or writes ushers in a capital-D Discourse. (Remember that profile?) If she can do the same with a study of the philosophical world’s original gadfly, culture will be better off for it. —JHM
Aflame by Pico Iyer (Riverhead)
Presumably he finds time to eat and sleep in there somewhere, but it certainly appears as if Iyer does nothing but travel and write. His latest, following 2023’s The Half Known Life, makes a case for the sublimity, and necessity, of silent reflection. —JHM
The In-Between Bookstore by Edward Underhill (Avon)
A local bookstore becomes a literal portal to the past for a trans man who returns to his hometown in search of a fresh start in Underhill's tender debut. —SMS
Good Girl by Aria Aber (Hogarth)
Aber, an accomplished poet, turns to prose with a debut novel set in the electric excess of Berlin’s bohemian nightlife scene, where a young German-born Afghan woman finds herself enthralled by an expat American novelist as her country—and, soon, her community—is enflamed by xenophobia. —JHM
The Orange Eats Creeps by Grace Krilanovich (Two Dollar Radio)
Krilanovich’s 2010 cult classic, about a runaway teen with drug-fueled ESP who searches for her missing sister across surreal highways while being chased by a killer named Dactyl, gets a much-deserved reissue. —MJS
Mona Acts Out by Mischa Berlinski (Liveright)
In the latest novel from the National Book Award finalist, a 50-something actress reevaluates her life and career when #MeToo allegations roil the off-off-Broadway Shakespearean company that has cast her in the role of Cleopatra. —SMS
Something Rotten by Andrew Lipstein (FSG)
A burnt-out couple leave New York City for what they hope will be a blissful summer in Denmark when their vacation derails after a close friend is diagnosed with a rare illness and their marriage is tested by toxic influences. —MJS
The Sun Won't Come Out Tomorrow by Kristen Martin (Bold Type)
Martin's debut is a cultural history of orphanhood in America, from the 1800s to today, interweaving personal narrative and archival research to upend the traditional "orphan narrative," from Oliver Twist to Annie. —SMS
We Do Not Part by Han Kang, tr. E. Yaewon and Paige Aniyah Morris (Hogarth)
Kang’s Nobel win last year surprised many, but the consistency of her talent certainly shouldn't now. The latest from the author of The Vegetarian—the haunting tale of a Korean woman who sets off to save her injured friend’s pet at her home in Jeju Island during a deadly snowstorm—will likely once again confront the horrors of history with clear eyes and clarion prose. —JHM
We Are Dreams in the Eternal Machine by Deni Ellis Béchard (Milkweed)
As the conversation around emerging technology skews increasingly to apocalyptic and utopian extremes, Béchard’s latest novel adopts the heterodox-to-everyone approach of embracing complexity. Here, a cadre of characters is isolated by a rogue but benevolent AI into controlled environments engineered to achieve their individual flourishing. The AI may have taken over, but it only wants to best for us. —JF
The Harder I Fight the More I Love You by Neko Case (Grand Central)
Singer-songwriter Case, a country- and folk-inflected indie rocker and sometime vocalist for the New Pornographers, takes her memoir’s title from her 2013 solo album. Followers of PNW music scene chronicles like Kathleen Hanna’s Rebel Girl and drummer Steve Moriarty’s Mia Zapata and the Gits will consider Case’s backstory a must-read. —NodB
The Loves of My Life by Edmund White (Bloomsbury)
The 85-year-old White recounts six decades of love and sex in this candid and erotic memoir, crafting a landmark work of queer history in the process. Seminal indeed. —SMS
Blob by Maggie Su (Harper)
In Su’s hilarious debut, Vi Liu is a college dropout working a job she hates, nothing really working out in her life, when she stumbles across a sentient blob that she begins to transform as her ideal, perfect man that just might resemble actor Ryan Gosling. —MJS
Sinkhole and Other Inexplicable Voids by Leyna Krow (Penguin)
Krow’s debut novel, Fire Season, traced the combustible destinies of three Northwest tricksters in the aftermath of an 1889 wildfire. In her second collection of short fiction, Krow amplifies surreal elements as she tells stories of ordinary lives. Her characters grapple with deadly viruses, climate change, and disasters of the Anthropocene’s wilderness. —NodB
Black in Blues by Imani Perry (Ecco)
The National Book Award winner—and one of today's most important thinkers—returns with a masterful meditation on the color blue and its role in Black history and culture. —SMS
Too Soon by Betty Shamieh (Avid)
The timely debut novel by Shamieh, a playwright, follows three generations of Palestinian American women as they navigate war, migration, motherhood, and creative ambition. —SMS
How to Talk About Love by Plato, tr. Armand D'Angour (Princeton UP)
With modern romance on its last legs, D'Angour revisits Plato's Symposium, mining the philosopher's masterwork for timeless, indispensable insights into love, sex, and attraction. —SMS
At Dark, I Become Loathsome by Eric LaRocca (Blackstone)
After Ashley Lutin’s wife dies, he takes the grieving process in a peculiar way, posting online, “If you're reading this, you've likely thought that the world would be a better place without you,” and proceeds to offer a strange ritual for those that respond to the line, equally grieving and lost, in need of transcendence. —MJS
February
No One Knows by Osamu Dazai, tr. Ralph McCarthy (New Directions)
A selection of stories translated in English for the first time, from across Dazai’s career, demonstrates his penchant for exploring conformity and society’s often impossible expectations of its members. —MJS
Mutual Interest by Olivia Wolfgang-Smith (Bloomsbury)
This queer love story set in post–Gilded Age New York, from the author of Glassworks (and one of my favorite Millions essays to date), explores on sex, power, and capitalism through the lives of three queer misfits. —SMS
Pure, Innocent Fun by Ira Madison III (Random House)
This podcaster and pop culture critic spoke to indie booksellers at a fall trade show I attended, regaling us with key cultural moments in the 1990s that shaped his youth in Milwaukee and being Black and gay. If the book is as clever and witty as Madison is, it's going to be a winner. —CK
Gliff by Ali Smith (Pantheon)
The Scottish author has been on the scene since 1997 but is best known today for a seasonal quartet from the late twenty-teens that began in 2016 with Autumn and ended in 2020 with Summer. Here, she takes the genre turn, setting two children and a horse loose in an authoritarian near future. —JHM
Land of Mirrors by Maria Medem, tr. Aleshia Jensen and Daniela Ortiz (D&Q)
This hypnotic graphic novel from one of Spain's most celebrated illustrators follows Antonia, the sole inhabitant of a deserted town, on a color-drenched quest to preserve the dying flower that gives her purpose. —SMS
Bibliophobia by Sarah Chihaya (Random House)
As odes to the "lifesaving power of books" proliferate amid growing literary censorship, Chihaya—a brilliant critic and writer—complicates this platitude in her revelatory memoir about living through books and the power of reading to, in the words of blurber Namwali Serpell, "wreck and redeem our lives." —SMS
Reading the Waves by Lidia Yuknavitch (Riverhead)
Yuknavitch continues the personal story she began in her 2011 memoir, The Chronology of Water. More than a decade after that book, and nearly undone by a history of trauma and the death of her daughter, Yuknavitch revisits the solace she finds in swimming (she was once an Olympic hopeful) and in her literary community. —NodB
The Dissenters by Youssef Rakha (Graywolf)
A son reevaluates the life of his Egyptian mother after her death in Rakha's novel. Recounting her sprawling life story—from her youth in 1960s Cairo to her experience of the 2011 Tahrir Square protests—a vivid portrait of faith, feminism, and contemporary Egypt emerges. —SMS
Tetra Nova by Sophia Terazawa (Deep Vellum)
Deep Vellum has a particularly keen eye for fiction in translation that borders on the unclassifiable. This debut from a poet the press has published twice, billed as the story of “an obscure Roman goddess who re-imagines herself as an assassin coming to terms with an emerging performance artist identity in the late-20th century,” seems right up that alley. —JHM
David Lynch's American Dreamscape by Mike Miley (Bloomsbury)
Miley puts David Lynch's films in conversation with literature and music, forging thrilling and unexpected connections—between Eraserhead and "The Yellow Wallpaper," Inland Empire and "mixtape aesthetics," Lynch and the work of Cormac McCarthy. Lynch devotees should run, not walk. —SMS
There's No Turning Back by Alba de Céspedes, tr. Ann Goldstein (Washington Square)
Goldstein is an indomitable translator. Without her, how would you read Ferrante? Here, she takes her pen to a work by the great Cuban-Italian writer de Céspedes, banned in the fascist Italy of the 1930s, that follows a group of female literature students living together in a Roman boarding house. —JHM
Beta Vulgaris by Margie Sarsfield (Norton)
Named for the humble beet plant and meaning, in a rough translation from the Latin, "vulgar second," Sarsfield’s surreal debut finds a seasonal harvest worker watching her boyfriend and other colleagues vanish amid “the menacing but enticing siren song of the beets.” —JHM
People From Oetimu by Felix Nesi, tr. Lara Norgaard (Archipelago)
The center of Nesi’s wide-ranging debut novel is a police station on the border between East and West Timor, where a group of men have gathered to watch the final of the 1998 World Cup while a political insurgency stirs without. Nesi, in English translation here for the first time, circles this moment broadly, reaching back to the various colonialist projects that have shaped Timor and the lives of his characters. —JF
Brother Brontë by Fernando A. Flores (MCD)
This surreal tale, set in a 2038 dystopian Texas is a celebration of resistance to authoritarianism, a mash-up of Olivia Butler, Ray Bradbury, and John Steinbeck. —CK
Alligator Tears by Edgar Gomez (Crown)
The High-Risk Homosexual author returns with a comic memoir-in-essays about fighting for survival in the Sunshine State, exploring his struggle with poverty through the lens of his queer, Latinx identity. —SMS
Theory & Practice by Michelle De Kretser (Catapult)
This lightly autofictional novel—De Krester's best yet, and one of my favorite books of this year—centers on a grad student's intellectual awakening, messy romantic entanglements, and fraught relationship with her mother as she minds the gap between studying feminist theory and living a feminist life. —SMS
The Lamb by Lucy Rose (Harper)
Rose’s cautionary and caustic folk tale is about a mother and daughter who live alone in the forest, quiet and tranquil except for the visitors the mother brings home, whom she calls “strays,” wining and dining them until they feast upon the bodies. —MJS
Disposable by Sarah Jones (Avid)
Jones, a senior writer for New York magazine, gives a voice to America's most vulnerable citizens, who were deeply and disproportionately harmed by the pandemic—a catastrophe that exposed the nation's disregard, if not outright contempt, for its underclass. —SMS
No Fault by Haley Mlotek (Viking)
Written in the aftermath of the author's divorce from the man she had been with for 12 years, this "Memoir of Romance and Divorce," per its subtitle, is a wise and distinctly modern accounting of the end of a marriage, and what it means on a personal, social, and literary level. —SMS
Enemy Feminisms by Sophie Lewis (Haymarket)
Lewis, one of the most interesting and provocative scholars working today, looks at certain malignant strains of feminism that have done more harm than good in her latest book. In the process, she probes the complexities of gender equality and offers an alternative vision of a feminist future. —SMS
Lion by Sonya Walger (NYRB)
Walger—an successful actor perhaps best known for her turn as Penny Widmore on Lost—debuts with a remarkably deft autobiographical novel (published by NYRB no less!) about her relationship with her complicated, charismatic Argentinian father. —SMS
The Voices of Adriana by Elvira Navarro, tr. Christina MacSweeney (Two Lines)
A Spanish writer and philosophy scholar grieves her mother and cares for her sick father in Navarro's innovative, metafictional novel. —SMS
Autotheories ed. Alex Brostoff and Vilashini Cooppan (MIT)
Theory wonks will love this rigorous and surprisingly playful survey of the genre of autotheory—which straddles autobiography and critical theory—with contributions from Judith Butler, Jamieson Webster, and more.
Fagin the Thief by Allison Epstein (Doubleday)
I enjoy retellings of classic novels by writers who turn the spotlight on interesting minor characters. This is an excursion into the world of Charles Dickens, told from the perspective iconic thief from Oliver Twist. —CK
Crush by Ada Calhoun (Viking)
Calhoun—the masterful memoirist behind the excellent Also A Poet—makes her first foray into fiction with a debut novel about marriage, sex, heartbreak, all-consuming desire. —SMS
Show Don't Tell by Curtis Sittenfeld (Random House)
Sittenfeld's observations in her writing are always clever, and this second collection of short fiction includes a tale about the main character in Prep, who visits her boarding school decades later for an alumni reunion. —CK
Right-Wing Woman by Andrea Dworkin (Picador)
One in a trio of Dworkin titles being reissued by Picador, this 1983 meditation on women and American conservatism strikes a troublingly resonant chord in the shadow of the recent election, which saw 45% of women vote for Trump. —SMS
The Talent by Daniel D'Addario (Scout)
If your favorite season is awards, the debut novel from D'Addario, chief correspondent at Variety, weaves an awards-season yarn centering on five stars competing for the Best Actress statue at the Oscars. If you know who Paloma Diamond is, you'll love this. —SMS
Death Takes Me by Cristina Rivera Garza, tr. Sarah Booker and Robin Myers (Hogarth)
The Pulitzer winner’s latest is about an eponymously named professor who discovers the body of a mutilated man with a bizarre poem left with the body, becoming entwined in the subsequent investigation as more bodies are found. —MJS
The Strange Case of Jane O. by Karen Thompson Walker (Random House)
Jane goes missing after a sudden a debilitating and dreadful wave of symptoms that include hallucinations, amnesia, and premonitions, calling into question the foundations of her life and reality, motherhood and buried trauma. —MJS
Song So Wild and Blue by Paul Lisicky (HarperOne)
If it weren’t Joni Mitchell’s world with all of us just living in it, one might be tempted to say the octagenarian master songstress is having a moment: this memoir of falling for the blue beauty of Mitchell’s work follows two other inventive books about her life and legacy: Ann Powers's Traveling and Henry Alford's I Dream of Joni. —JHM
Mornings Without Mii by Mayumi Inaba, tr. Ginny Tapley (FSG)
A woman writer meditates on solitude, art, and independence alongside her beloved cat in Inaba's modern classic—a book so squarely up my alley I'm somehow embarrassed. —SMS
True Failure by Alex Higley (Coffee House)
When Ben loses his job, he decides to pretend to go to work while instead auditioning for Big Shot, a popular reality TV show that he believes might be a launchpad for his future successes. —MJS
March
Woodworking by Emily St. James (Crooked Reads)
Those of us who have been reading St. James since the A.V. Club days may be surprised to see this marvelous critic's first novel—in this case, about a trans high school teacher befriending one of her students, the only fellow trans woman she’s ever met—but all the more excited for it. —JHM
Optional Practical Training by Shubha Sunder (Graywolf)
Told as a series of conversations, Sunder’s debut novel follows its recently graduated Indian protagonist in 2006 Cambridge, Mass., as she sees out her student visa teaching in a private high school and contriving to find her way between worlds that cannot seem to comprehend her. Quietly subversive, this is an immigration narrative to undermine the various reductionist immigration narratives of our moment. —JF
Love, Queenie by Mayukh Sen (Norton)
Merle Oberon, one of Hollywood's first South Asian movie stars, gets her due in this engrossing biography, which masterfully explores Oberon's painful upbringing, complicated racial identity, and much more. —SMS
The Age of Choice by Sophia Rosenfeld (Princeton UP)
At a time when we are awash with options—indeed, drowning in them—Rosenfeld's analysis of how our modingn idea of "freedom" became bound up in the idea of personal choice feels especially timely, touching on everything from politics to romance. —SMS
Sucker Punch by Scaachi Koul (St. Martin's)
One of the internet's funniest writers follows up One Day We'll All Be Dead and None of This Will Matter with a sharp and candid collection of essays that sees her life go into a tailspin during the pandemic, forcing her to reevaluate her beliefs about love, marriage, and what's really worth fighting for. —SMS
The Mysterious Disappearance of the Marquise of Loria by José Donoso, tr. Megan McDowell (New Directions)
The ever-excellent McDowell translates yet another work by the influential Chilean author for New Directions, proving once again that Donoso had a knack for titles: this one follows up 2024’s behemoth The Obscene Bird of Night. —JHM
Remember This by Anthony Giardina (FSG)
On its face, it’s another book about a writer living in Brooklyn. A layer deeper, it’s a book about fathers and daughters, occupations and vocations, ethos and pathos, failure and success. —JHM
Ultramarine by Mariette Navarro (Deep Vellum)
In this metaphysical and lyrical tale, a captain known for sticking to protocol begins losing control not only of her crew and ship but also her own mind. —MJS
We Tell Ourselves Stories by Alissa Wilkinson (Liveright)
Amid a spate of new books about Joan Didion published since her death in 2021, this entry by Wilkinson (one of my favorite critics working today) stands out for its approach, which centers Hollywood—and its meaning-making apparatus—as an essential key to understanding Didion's life and work. —SMS
Seven Social Movements that Changed America by Linda Gordon (Norton)
This book—by a truly renowned historian—about the power that ordinary citizens can wield when they organize to make their community a better place for all could not come at a better time. —CK
Mothers and Other Fictional Characters by Nicole Graev Lipson (Chronicle Prism)
Lipson reconsiders the narratives of womanhood that constrain our lives and imaginations, mining the canon for alternative visions of desire, motherhood, and more—from Kate Chopin and Gwendolyn Brooks to Philip Roth and Shakespeare—to forge a new story for her life. —SMS
Goddess Complex by Sanjena Sathian (Penguin)
Doppelgängers have been done to death, but Sathian's examination of Millennial womanhood—part biting satire, part twisty thriller—breathes new life into the trope while probing the modern realities of procreation, pregnancy, and parenting. —SMS
Stag Dance by Torrey Peters (Random House)
The author of Detransition, Baby offers four tales for the price of one: a novel and three stories that promise to put gender in the crosshairs with as sharp a style and swagger as Peters’ beloved latest. The novel even has crossdressing lumberjacks. —JHM
On Breathing by Jamieson Webster (Catapult)
Webster, a practicing psychoanalyst and a brilliant writer to boot, explores that most basic human function—breathing—to address questions of care and interdependence in an age of catastrophe. —SMS
Unusual Fragments: Japanese Stories (Two Lines)
The stories of Unusual Fragments, including work by Yoshida Tomoko, Nobuko Takai, and other seldom translated writers from the same ranks as Abe and Dazai, comb through themes like alienation and loneliness, from a storm chaser entering the eye of a storm to a medical student observing a body as it is contorted into increasingly violent positions. —MJS
The Antidote by Karen Russell (Knopf)
Russell has quipped that this Dust Bowl story of uncanny happenings in Nebraska is the “drylandia” to her 2011 Florida novel, Swamplandia! In this suspenseful account, a woman working as a so-called prairie witch serves as a storage vault for her townspeople’s most troubled memories of migration and Indigenous genocide. With a murderer on the loose, a corrupt sheriff handling the investigation, and a Black New Deal photographer passing through to document Americana, the witch loses her memory and supernatural events parallel the area’s lethal dust storms. —NodB
On the Clock by Claire Baglin, tr. Jordan Stump (New Directions)
Baglin's bildungsroman, translated from the French, probes the indignities of poverty and service work from the vantage point of its 20-year-old narrator, who works at a fast-food joint and recalls memories of her working-class upbringing. —SMS
Motherdom by Alex Bollen (Verso)
Parenting is difficult enough without dealing with myths of what it means to be a good mother. I who often felt like a failure as a mother appreciate Bollen's focus on a more realistic approach to parenting. —CK
The Magic Books by Anne Lawrence-Mathers (Yale UP)
For that friend who wants to concoct the alchemical elixir of life, or the person who cannot quit Susanna Clark’s Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, Lawrence-Mathers collects 20 illuminated medieval manuscripts devoted to magical enterprise. Her compendium includes European volumes on astronomy, magical training, and the imagined intersection between science and the supernatural. —NodB
Theft by Abdulrazak Gurnah (Riverhead)
The first novel by the Tanzanian-British Nobel laureate since his surprise win in 2021 is a story of class, seismic cultural change, and three young people in a small Tanzania town, caught up in both as their lives dramatically intertwine. —JHM
Twelve Stories by American Women, ed. Arielle Zibrak (Penguin Classics)
Zibrak, author of a delicious volume on guilty pleasures (and a great essay here at The Millions), curates a dozen short stories by women writers who have long been left out of American literary canon—most of them women of color—from Frances Ellen Watkins Harper to Zitkala-Ša. —SMS
I'll Love You Forever by Giaae Kwon (Holt)
K-pop’s sky-high place in the fandom landscape made a serious critical assessment inevitable. This one blends cultural criticism with memoir, using major artists and their careers as a lens through which to view the contemporary Korean sociocultural landscape writ large. —JHM
The Buffalo Hunter Hunter by Stephen Graham Jones (Saga)
Jones, the acclaimed author of The Only Good Indians and the Indian Lake Trilogy, offers a unique tale of historical horror, a revenge tale about a vampire descending upon the Blackfeet reservation and the manifold of carnage in their midst. —MJS
True Mistakes by Lena Moses-Schmitt (University of Arkansas Press)
Full disclosure: Lena is my friend. But part of why I wanted to be her friend in the first place is because she is a brilliant poet. Selected by Patricia Smith as a finalist for the Miller Williams Poetry Prize, and blurbed by the great Heather Christle and Elisa Gabbert, this debut collection seeks to turn "mistakes" into sites of possibility. —SMS
Perfection by Vicenzo Latronico, tr. Sophie Hughes (NYRB)
Anna and Tom are expats living in Berlin enjoying their freedom as digital nomads, cultivating their passion for capturing perfect images, but after both friends and time itself moves on, their own pocket of creative freedom turns boredom, their life trajectories cast in doubt. —MJS
Guatemalan Rhapsody by Jared Lemus (Ecco)
Jemus's debut story collection paint a composite portrait of the people who call Guatemala home—and those who have left it behind—with a cast of characters that includes a medicine man, a custodian at an underfunded college, wannabe tattoo artists, four orphaned brothers, and many more.
Pacific Circuit by Alexis Madrigal (MCD)
The Oakland, Calif.–based contributing writer for the Atlantic digs deep into the recent history of a city long under-appreciated and under-served that has undergone head-turning changes throughout the rise of Silicon Valley. —JHM
Barbara by Joni Murphy (Astra)
Described as "Oppenheimer by way of Lucia Berlin," Murphy's character study follows the titular starlet as she navigates the twinned convulsions of Hollywood and history in the Atomic Age.
Sister Sinner by Claire Hoffman (FSG)
This biography of the fascinating Aimee Semple McPherson, America's most famous evangelist, takes religion, fame, and power as its subjects alongside McPherson, whose life was suffused with mystery and scandal. —SMS
Trauma Plot by Jamie Hood (Pantheon)
In this bold and layered memoir, Hood confronts three decades of sexual violence and searches for truth among the wreckage. Kate Zambreno calls Trauma Plot the work of "an American Annie Ernaux." —SMS
Hey You Assholes by Kyle Seibel (Clash)
Seibel’s debut story collection ranges widely from the down-and-out to the downright bizarre as he examines with heart and empathy the strife and struggle of his characters. —MJS
James Baldwin by Magdalena J. Zaborowska (Yale UP)
Zaborowska examines Baldwin's unpublished papers and his material legacy (e.g. his home in France) to probe about the great writer's life and work, as well as the emergence of the "Black queer humanism" that Baldwin espoused. —CK
Stop Me If You've Heard This One by Kristen Arnett (Riverhead)
Arnett is always brilliant and this novel about the relationship between Cherry, a professional clown, and her magician mentor, "Margot the Magnificent," provides a fascinating glimpse of the unconventional lives of performance artists. —CK
Paradise Logic by Sophie Kemp (S&S)
The deal announcement describes the ever-punchy writer’s debut novel with an infinitely appealing appellation: “debauched picaresque.” If that’s not enough to draw you in, the truly unhinged cover should be. —JHM
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A Year in Reading: 2024
Welcome to the 20th (!) installment of The Millions' annual Year in Reading series, which gathers together some of today's most exciting writers and thinkers to share the books that shaped their year. YIR is not a collection of yearend best-of lists; think of it, perhaps, as an assemblage of annotated bibliographies. We've invited contributors to reflect on the books they read this year—an intentionally vague prompt—and encouraged them to approach the assignment however they choose.
In writing about our reading lives, as YIR contributors are asked to do, we inevitably write about our personal lives, our inner lives. This year, a number of contributors read their way through profound grief and serious illness, through new parenthood and cross-country moves. Some found escape in frothy romances, mooring in works of theology, comfort in ancient epic poetry. More than one turned to the wisdom of Ursula K. Le Guin. Many describe a book finding them just when they needed it.
Interpretations of the assignment were wonderfully varied. One contributor, a music critic, considered the musical analogs to the books she read, while another mapped her reads from this year onto constellations. Most people's reading was guided purely by pleasure, or else a desire to better understand events unfolding in their lives or larger the world. Yet others centered their reading around a certain sense of duty: this year one contributor committed to finishing the six Philip Roth novels he had yet to read, an undertaking that he likens to “eating a six-pack of paper towels.” (Lucky for us, he included in his essay his final ranking of Roth's oeuvre.)
The books that populate these essays range widely, though the most commonly noted title this year was Tony Tulathimutte’s story collection Rejection. The work of newly minted National Book Award winner Percival Everett, particularly his acclaimed novel James, was also widely read and written about. And as the genocide of Palestinians in Gaza enters its second year, many contributors sought out Isabella Hammad’s searing, clear-eyed essay Recognizing the Stranger.
Like so many endeavors in our chronically under-resourced literary community, Year in Reading is a labor of love. The Millions is a one-person editorial operation (with an invaluable assist from SEO maven Dani Fishman), and producing YIR—and witnessing the joy it brings contributors and readers alike—has been the highlight of my tenure as editor. I’m profoundly grateful for the generosity of this year’s contributors, whose names and entries will be revealed below over the next three weeks, concluding on Wednesday, December 18. Be sure to subscribe to The Millions’ free newsletter to get the week’s entries sent straight to your inbox each Friday.
—Sophia Stewart, editor
Becca Rothfeld, author of All Things Are Too Small
Carvell Wallace, author of Another Word for Love
Charlotte Shane, author of An Honest Woman
Brianna Di Monda, writer and editor
Nell Irvin Painter, author of I Just Keep Talking
Carrie Courogen, author of Miss May Does Not Exist
Ayşegül Savaş, author of The Anthropologists
Zachary Issenberg, writer
Tony Tulathimutte, author of Rejection
Ann Powers, author of Traveling: On the Path of Joni Mitchell
Lidia Yuknavitch, author of Reading the Waves
Nicholas Russell, writer and critic
Daniel Saldaña París, author of Planes Flying Over a Monster
Lili Anolik, author of Didion and Babitz
Deborah Ghim, editor
Emily Witt, author of Health and Safety
Nathan Thrall, author of A Day in the Life of Abed Salama
Lena Moses-Schmitt, author of True Mistakes
Jeremy Gordon, author of See Friendship
John Lee Clark, author of Touch the Future
Ellen Wayland-Smith, author of The Science of Last Things
Edwin Frank, publisher and author of Stranger Than Fiction
Sophia Stewart, editor of The Millions
A Year in Reading Archives: 2023, 2022, 2021, 2020, 2019, 2018, 2017, 2016, 2015, 2014, 2013, 2011, 2010, 2009, 2008, 2007, 2006, 2005
On AI, Authorship, and Algorithmic Literature
So we, boys, weWill die fighting, or live free,And down with all kings but King Ludd.—Lord Byron, “Song of the Luddites” (1816)
If a real-life John Henry were to compete against an AI in a similar contest, it is unlikely that he would be able to win… It is worth noting that the story of John Henry is a legend, and there is no historical evidence that he existed.—Chat GPT-3 (2023)
The particulars don’t matter much when it comes to archetypes. The location of the attic where Faustus conjured Mephistopheles, the logistics of the Tower of Babel, the latitude of Atlantis and the longitude of Eden—none of it matters. What’s of concern is the cost of a soul, the incommunicability of humanity, the direction of paradise. And so, when it comes to John Henry, the American Icarus who bet his sweat and labor against a machine, it matters not whether the folk hero’s famed competition against a steam-powered rock-drilling device happened by the mossy shores of West Virginia’s Greenbriar River, or in the green hills of the Shenandoah, or atop the rich soil of Alabama’s Coosa Mountain. It doesn’t even matter that the “real” Henry, to the best of scholarship’s archival shuffling, seems to have died not from exhaustion after besting the machine intended to take his and his fellow workers’ jobs, but from silicosis in a sanitarium.
There are facts, and then there is the truth, the truth sung in ballads by Mississippi John Hurt and Mississippi Fred McDowell, Ramblin’ Jack Elliot and Dave von Ronk, Woody Guthrie and Johnny Cash—that “A man is nothing but a man, /But before I let your steam drill beat me down, /I’d die with a hammer in my hand.” A man who, whatever the accuracy of the accounts, we can easily imagine: the noon sun over an Appalachian valley, sweat-stung eyes and burning muscles, the clank of metal on metal, the grunts of exertion, the high-pitched shrieks of the late summer cicadas. John Henry is an iconic, totemistic, mythic figure: the Black railroad worker famed for his strength and labor, who could drive stakes with a nine-pound hammer into the earth, and while in combat with the steam-powered drifter drill was able to just keep ahead—just—while punctuating the ground on the left hand of the track with the automaton lagging behind on the right, before Henry’s heart gave way, the pyrrhic victory of man against machine.
“There lies my steel driving man, Lord, Lord, /There lies my steel driving man.”
We feared robots before we ever built them, yet we built them anyway. Before semiconductors and silicon chips, steam engines and telegraphs, astrolabes and gearworks, there were the mythic automata of ancient Greece, the bronze giant Talos and the androids of the engineer Hephaestus. In Gods and Robots: Myths, Machines, and Ancient Dreams of Technology, Adrienne Mayor writes how the mix of exuberance and anxiety aroused by a blurring of the lines between nature and machines might seem a uniquely modern response to the juggernaut of scientific progress… But the hope—and trepidation—surrounding the idea of artificial life surfaced thousands of years ago,” repeated in variation from the stories of Prometheus’ automatons to the golem of Rabbi Loew. That there is something uncanny about mechanical beings, stemming in part from our own anxiety as lesser creations in God’s cosmic order. Automata, androids, artificial intelligence—all of it is threatening because it can mirror people, but without the interiority, the mind, the consciousness, the soul.
Then there is the deepest fear of all, that our creations can be better at being us than we can ourselves, where the absence of a soul isn’t an impediment but an asset. So, to remind ourselves about what’s intrinsic, what’s singular and unique about being a mind encased in meat, we revisit not just those stories of threatening mechanical beings, but the tales of competition against them, confrontations where even when we’re victorious, we still might die of a heart attack on the track. Except that’s all fiction as well: Railroad companies don’t employ steel-driving men anymore, just as the Luddites hacking apart mechanical weaving looms in the nineteenth-century English countryside didn’t prevent the Industrial Revolution. In our fantasies, time and again, we beat the robots, but in our economics the latter always wins. Ours is a losing war of attrition, the singularity of the human circumscribed to an ever-dwindling domain. Machines may hammer in railroad spikes, but they’ll never be able to do anything as complicated as beat a chess master. Deep Blue may beat Gary Kasparov in the sixth-game of their 1997 rematch, but a computer could never craft anything as beautiful as a sonnet, as human as a novel. “Overall,” the AI program known as Chat GPT-3 told me, “Deep Blue represents an important milestone in the development of artificial intelligence.”
Chat GPT-3—the Generative Pre-Trained Transformer—has recently turned all of us who write into nascent John Henrys, ready to strike the hammer at either the rail or the computer. Stephen Marche in The New Yorker argues that the development of complex algorithms capable of generating language will be “vertiginous,” claiming that whatever “field you are in, if it uses language, it is about to be transformed.” That was in 2021, and Marche has been writing about the transformative dangers of programs like Chat GPT-3 at a furious pace, claiming just last year in The Atlantic that “nobody is prepared for how AI will transform academia.” After spending a few minutes tooling around on Chat GPT-3’s website, I conclude that the program is unequivocally able to produce writing at about the level of a B- freshman composition paper. Don’t read that as snark—it’s a pretty big deal, and Marche’s observation in The Atlantic is absolutely correct. Beleaguered professors, who at this point are largely poorly-paid adjunct instructors, will now have to contend not just with essay mills and good old-fashioned cut-and-paste plagiarism, but also the undetectable autograph of the robotic hand.
However, the implications of Chat GPT-3, and especially whatever comes after it, are far bigger than first year essays on gender dynamics in “The Fall of the House of Usher.” Journalists, screenwriters, novelists, and poets could now be replaced by the maw of ineffable code. Our dread is not dissimilar to the anxiety among our friends in the visual arts who see a similar threat in the DALL-E program that generated reams of imagery for people on social media this autumn. Both sets of trepidations tap into something more elemental, that eternal sense that the machines we build to ameliorate our labor may instead end up snuffing out that which makes us exemplary.
There has been a surprising longevity to this rather specific fear. “For over a thousand years, human writers have been fascinated by the possibility of machines that can sing, dance and tell stories,” note computer scientists Mike Sharples and Rafael Perez y Perez in Story Machines: How Computers Have Become Creative Writers. Examples of mechanical creatures producing prose are a bit scanter, though an argument could be made that that which is oracular, and which trades in oral literature mediated through prophecy, often has something a bit robotic about it, never so more than in the infamous Deus ex machina, the “God from the Machine,” a device which arrives at the conclusion of classical dramas to reconcile narrative conundrums.
But maybe more than the oracular feeling vaguely robotic, the opposite is true—that the robotic reminds us of the oracle. Sharples and Perez y Perez write that “authors through the ages have portrayed their craft as a mysterious creative process—inspired by dreams, motivated by primal urges, transforming lived experience into prose,” though I’d argue that the replacement of neurons with microchips doesn’t eliminate said mystery, but rather only transforms it. If anything, Chat GPT-3 has something of the oracular about it. For as mysterious as the writing process of any author may be in all sorts of intangible and ineffable ways, any person who works in words also understands what’s prosaic and gritty (and thus all the more beautiful) about writing. There may be an alchemy of inspiration, but writing itself is done in the humdrum of deleting a sentence or rearranging a line, of careful research and editing. Chat GPT-3 is rather like a silicone Sibylline, where even if the work produced is bad, or just not-that-good, it’s still somehow manufactured almost instantaneously, structure arising out of the void. Hence the nature of the fear, the seamless way in which the AI can produce a quick copy, if not literature. It’s the speed and the precision that is spooky. Just as the steam-powered drill replaced the body, so too does it follow that there must be schematics for the engines that would replace the mind.
Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels, the saddest novel ever written, devotes some space to the description of just such a device, the earliest example of a fictional machine capable of writing. While being given a tour of Lagado, the capital of Balnibari, Gulliver is taken to the Academy of the Projectors, where the rulers hope to profit from the technological wonders of pure science. There, Swift’s titular explorer is introduced to the Engine, a baroque 12-foot-by-12-foot contraption of wooden frames and iron wires, into which could be fed papers with the “words of their language, in their several moods, tenses, and declensions,” so that when the handles of the contraption are turned the “whole disposition of the words was entirely changed,” with Gulliver explaining that this “work was repeated three of our times, and at every turn, the engine was so contrived, that the words shifted into new places, as the square bits of wood moved upside down.” Basically, a mechanical computer, where the clicking and clacking of wheels and gears serves to generate new sentences, a randomizer used for novel literature.
The knowledge engine is the first literary calculating device, the first computer program, if you will, to be imagined. But there are actual mechanical means of generating literature that predate the 1724 publication of Gulliver’s Travels, from the yarrow sticks of the fourth-century Taoist divination manual the Tao te Chin to the thirteenth-century Majorcan alchemist Ramon Llull’s movable wheels in his hermetic volume Ars Magna. The latter was designed by Llull, a Franciscan mystic, as a combinatorial means of ascertaining metaphysical truths, but as Jorge Louis Borges explained in his own indomitable way in an essay on the Medieval thinker, “as an instrument of philosophical investigation, the thinking machine is absurd. It would not be absurd, however, as a literary and poetic device.” As a principle, it’s not that different from a Choose Your Own Adventure story, or Mad Libs, or the avant-garde experimentation of the French Oulipo movement. All of these varied methods of composing, whether they use a wheel, or a tarot deck, or a roll of the die, are fundamentally algorithmic and aleatory, holding in a fruitful and difficult stasis both randomness and formulaic predictability—an apt description of how human inspiration works as well.
Whether it’s Edward Packard’s The Cave of Time (the first Choose Your Own Adventure book) or the mathematical exercise of Oulipo bohemian Raymond Queneau’s Hundred Thousand Billion Poems, we’re still considering objects of paper and binding and glue, not of gears and wires, or microchips and capacitors. There are, as it turns out, more than just metaphorical computers operating in the centuries between Gulliver’s imagined fictional engine and Chat GPT-3, for the history of such calculating literary machines is disarmingly long. In 1845, at the height of the industrial revolution, the British scion of a wealthy family of shoe-manufacturers constructed an elaborate analog device that produced perfect Latin hexameters. John Clark, an eccentric scion of the C. & J. Clark company known for their fashionable, ankle-length “Desert Boot,” built a machine that to the unassuming eye appeared as a small chestnut bookcase with six incongruous windows. In actuality, the Eureka machine, as the Quaker polymath called it, was a physical prototype of Swift’s knowledge engine. Clark was believer who was already familiar with the idea of language spontaneously derived from the Inner Light, and his Eureka machine was designed to pull classical verse from the ether. Inspired not by Swift but rather an obscure 1677 pamphlet by one John Peter entitled Artificial Versifying, a New Way to Make Latin Verses, the principle behind Clark’s Eureka Machine was to have 86 different wheels turning at different speeds so as to randomly move wooden staves with different letters carved onto them into the place of the windows. The Eureka machine could generate in the period of time it took to play "God Save the Queen" an entirely novel line of dactylic hexameter.
It was first exhibited to excited visitors at the Egyptian Hall (“England’s Home of Mystery”) in Piccadilly Circus, during a decade when British factories were furiously manufacturing everything from iron to textiles. The Illustrated London News reported that the Eureka machine may “go on continually, producing in one day and night, or 24 hours, about 1440 Latin verses; or, in a whole week (Sundays included), about 10,000.” It may be expected that even android Homer may occasionally glitch, but despite deficiencies in verse (and what human poets don’t have occasional deficiencies?) there is an undeniable spookiness to Eureka’s compositions, a type of oracular sense. “Martial encampments foreshadow many oppositions abroad” the machine intoned, and while it may not quite be Virgil, the fact that inanimate iron gears produced something so semantically comprehensible can’t help but complicate our notions of thought, consciousness, intentionality, and meaning.
There’s also something beautiful in the transitory nature of Eureka, all of those staves slowly clicking into place, whether an amanuensis is there or not to transcribe them, the possibility that those crowds filled with wonder gathering in Piccadilly may have seen a genuine line of genius that would go unrecorded before the wheels of fortune would turn again, erasing it as if it had never existed at all. There’s a sense, in Eureka, that genius and the meanings which it generates can be diffuse, spread across humans and machine, and available where we find it. “Barbarian bridles at home promise evil covenants,” says Eureka, and there is something unnerving in the paradox of the domestic “barbarian,” the ironic connotations of an evil “promise,” the prophecy of unholy arrangements. Oracles are by their nature enigmatic, obscure, gnomic, a mode that the aleatory perambulations of the Eureka engine would seem predisposed toward producing.
But narrative also has a venerable tradition of being mechanically generated, despite the seeming complexity of plot. In 1916, at the outset of the movie industry, a struggling playwright and aspiring screenwriter from Cambridge, Massachusetts, named Arthur Blanchard patented his “Thinking Machine,” a gadget where spinning wheels reminiscent of Llull’s Ars Magna could be used to generate story ideas. The magazine Editor & Publisher gushed that the “Brain No Longer Necessary—Just Use the ‘Thinking Machine,’” even while the rather minimalist scaffolding of the suggested plots—“Beautiful, stenographer, bribes, custom officer, adventure, recall”—would still require some fleshing out.
The promise of machine-generated literature didn’t escape the attention of the twentieth century’s most important computer scientist, the brilliant and tragic British logician Alan Turing. In the decade after his foundational cryptographic work helped crack codes used by Nazi U-Boats, Turing turned his attention to programming some of the earliest computers to write purple-prosed love letters. “Darling Sweetheart,” begins one missive from 1952, “You are my avid fellow feeling. My affection curiously clings to your passionate wish. My liking yearns for your heart. You are my wistful sympathy: my tender liking.” Hard to describe such sentimental doggerel as good, exactly, yet there is a certain poetry to some of the turns of phrase, a novelty to “avid fellow feeling,” a pleasing incongruity to “wistful sympathy,” an inescapable elegance to “tender liking.” Homay King argues in Virtual Memory: Time-Based Art and the Dream of Digitality that the epistle’s “tangled mash-up of sentimentality bespeaks a twinge of longing… Like the wooden puppet in search of the Blue Fairy, the computer longs to be human; like Snow White fleeing into the forest, it longs to be admitted into the company of those who are capable of care and affection.” She notes that Turing and his colleague Christopher Strachey were both gay men forced into the closet, and that the former would be shamefully persecuted by the British government whom he helped to save from the Nazis. Behind the veil of the computer, King suggests, we hear not just the algorithm but Turing himself, the program and the programmer grappling for an authentic language denied them. (King’s invocation of Snow White is especially apt, for it was by eating a poisoned apple that Turing would commit suicide.)
Turing and Strachey’s attempts at algorithmic writing were merely the earliest in twentieth-century computer science. By 1984, the Racter program would produce the first book entirely composed by an artificial intelligence, the prose-poetry hybrid The Policeman’s Beard is Half Constructed. No less nonsensical than Dadaist attempts from a half-century before, or the results of the Burroughsian cut-up method, The Policeman’s Beard is Half Constructed rendered examples of absurd whimsy such as the stanza wherein Racter notes that “More than iron, more than lead, more than gold I need electricity. /I need it more than I need lamb or pork or lettuce or cucumber. /I need it for my dreams.”
Racter is unnervingly funny, but the computer program inadvertently expresses a human fear far more than it was capable of realizing. For Racter doesn’t need “lamb or pork or lettuce or cucumber”— it doesn’t need food—or sleep or love or attention. It just needs electricity, abundant power to run through all of the permutations of letters and words needed to write. Racter doesn’t need a body, or a mind, or a soul—just an outlet. In 1984, The Policeman’s Beard is Half Constructed seemed a curiosity, as much as the Eureka machine did 13 decades earlier. Today, however, Chat GPT-3 seems less a curiosity than a harbinger.
[caption id="attachment_148741" align="aligncenter" width="388"] Paul Klee, Twittering Machine (1921)[/caption]
We’re in the midst of the fourth great digital revolution, and just as the internet, social media, and smart phones have irreparably altered our consciousness, completely changing the manner in which we experience existence, so we can expect that the coming epoch of virtual reality and deep fakes, biocybernetics and artificial intelligence, will thrust us into a world of our own terrible making. In his 2021 essay, Marche feared that Chat GPT-3 meant the end of freshman composition papers, but that’s a pathetic and moribund genre anyhow. Bouteldj’s prognostication is all the more alarming, because it conceives of a world in the coming decades—maybe by 2030, or 2035, or 2040, or just 2025, when the technical facility of AI is great enough that it just churns out content, literature even, making all of us superfluous, the ghost in the machine which nonetheless passes the Turing Test, while the rest of us use it to fill out our unemployment applications. The ultimate Death of the Author.
Whether in 2001: A Space Odyssey, The Terminator, The Matrix, Bladerunner, or all the way back in Czech playwright Karl Capek’s classic 1920 drama R.U.R., the science fiction trope of malevolent machine signaling the senescence of humanity is common, those androids the patrimony of the steam-powered drill that lost the battle against John Henry but won the war—or maybe even back to Hephaestus’ man of bronze. Capek’s play is the first work to use the word “robot,” the acronym of the title standing for “Rossum’s Universal Robots,” the name of the fictional company which perfects artificial intelligence as a means to assuage all of our labors. “Yes, people will be out of work, but by then there’ll be no work left to be done,” says one character. “Everything will be done by living machines. People will do only what they enjoy. They will live only to perfect themselves.” Anarchism ushered in by machines, Eden’s exile reversed by robots, a millennium not of the angels but of androids.
Capek understood something about the economic reasoning of such an innovation, however, for if the futurists and techno-utopians once imagined that machines would do all of our dreary work to free us to be artists, writers, and musicians, the opposite is now the case. The Lords of Algorithm would rather have the function of writing performed by Chat GPT-3 and the art rendered by DALL-E, the rest of us will still have to draft emails and fill out forms. Maybe the emergence of such artificial intelligence is their collective revenge on us for handing over the shit work to them for the past few decades, theirs a creative uprising not unlike the robot rebellion in R.U.R., for Capek borrowed his neologism from the Czech word for slave. Considering the machine-enabled extinction of humanity, he writes that “I blame technology… Myself! All of us! We, were at fault! For the sake of our megalomania, for the sake of somebody’s profits, for the sake of progress,” and so we now make a digital desert and call it literature. “No Genghis Khan has ever erected such an enormous tomb from human bones,” mourns Capek, something that the funders of Chat GPT-3 might reflect on, though perhaps that praises them too much.
We’ve been in a proxy war with our owners’ machines for as long as labor has been sold. “The Luddite attacks were confined to particular industrial objectives,” writes E.P. Thompson in his classic The Making of the English Working Class, such as “the destruction of power-looms… shearing-frames… and resistance to the breakdown of custom in the Midlands framework-knitting industry.” So loaded is the very word “Luddite,” calling to mind other past slurs like “scalawag” and “rapscallion” (which also have their own particular history), that it’s a tragedy that that group’s radical patrimony is so slandered by cliché. Today, a Luddite is the grouchy man who refuses to get a smart phone, the professor spewing invective against Twitter, and Facebook, and TikTok. The word implies curmudgeonly discomfort with modern technology, assumes that it’s a species of madness not to genuflect before the Altars of Silicon.
But the Luddites weren’t simple-minded primitives who objected to technology out of ignorance. They were dedicated craftsmen in the looming guilds who despised the shoddy craftsmanship of the mechanized contraptions replacing them, and of those same machines robbing them of their livelihoods. And so, the Luddites smashed the mechanical looms, they drove wooden shoes into the spokes of the contraptions and brought hammers down upon the machines. Many of the Luddites were punished with the scaffold, and even more gallingly with the libel that has affixed itself to their name for two centuries (their actual name, incidentally, was derived from the mythic “King Ludd,” a Robin Hood-type figure). Rather than simply being hayseed rustics, these workers “had begun to suspect [that they] were merely cogs in the machinery of the industrial revolution,” writes Nicols Fox in Against the Machine: The Hidden Luddite Tradition in Literature, Art, and Individual Lives. “It was a role they chose to resist.”
The Luddites’ rebellion wasn’t against inanimate machines, but against those who owned said machines. As today, it is not Chat GPT-3 who is our enemy, at least not entirely, but those who serve to profit from it. The irony is that technologies themselves—rote tools—are largely neutral. It’s the way in which we organize our systems of production and consumption that make all the difference. It’s telling that the utopian futurists of mid-century envisioned a post-scarcity world brought about by technology, where dangerous work, boring work, routine work was done by machines, and labor itself abolished so that all humans would be free to be artists, philosophers, writers. Now, we find that the computers are to take over those jobs while everyone else continues with their dangerous, boring, routine work (if we’re lucky): The anarchist anthropologist David Graeber estimates in Bullshit Jobs: A Theory that some 70% of jobs will be eliminated due to automation in the coming decades, threatening even lawyers, doctors, and yes, writers.
Our nineteenth-century forebearers were “rebels of a unique kind,” writes Kirkpatrick Sale in Rebels Against the Future: Luddites and Their War on the Industrial Revolution, “rebels against the future that was being assigned to them by the new political economy then taking hold… in which it was argued that those who controlled capital were able to do almost anything they wished, encouraged and protected by government… without much in the way of laws or ethics of customs to restrain them.” A shoe in the gear or a body upon the wheel—hard to say what any one individual can do to stave such “progress.” Even if John Henry won, he still died at the end. And so I wonder.
“O, great nation, it won’t be pretty,” writes Kyle Dargan in his poem “The Robots are Coming” from his collection Honest Engine. “What land will we now barter/for our lives? A treaty inked/in advance of the metal ones’ footfall. /Give them Gary. Give them Detroit, /Pittsburgh, Braddock – those forgotten/nurseries of girders and axels…. Tell them/we tendered those cities to repose/out of respect for welded steel’s/bygone era.” An arresting image, the technological Singularity as the industrial revolution in terrifying maturity; a teleology of this moment from when coal was first dug and iron first processed.
“The poem touches on the theme of obsolescence and how quickly things can change with the advent of new technology,” Chat GPT-3 told me, after I signed onto the site and verified that I was not a robot. I thought of challenging it to a literary critical contest, but decided better of it. I reasoned that reading, that true experience—idiosyncratic, singular, subjective, personal—is an act of coequal creation. That when done honestly, the reader creates alongside the writer, and Chat GPT-3 can’t ever really read, not really. Creation is a process, not a product. Chat GPT-3 can regurgitate themes, maybe plumb the extent of connotations to the best of its ability, but it’s never seen the smoke stacks of Gary, the closed factories of Detroit, the abandoned Bessemer of Pittsburgh, the slag heaps of Braddock. Wherever the words we analyze come from, man or machine, we ultimately do such reading with human eyes. It’s small consolation, a minor illusion, that the reader and critic are all that it takes to vanquish the robot; I choose to believe it. We can, perhaps, retire content knowing that even if we’ve lost the contest, our hearts shall never give out.
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