CivilWarLand in Bad Decline: Stories and a Novella

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Most Anticipated: The Great Winter 2025 Preview

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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 [millions_email]

A Year in Reading: 2024

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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, 202120202019201820172016201520142013,  2011201020092008200720062005

The Evolving Comedy of George Saunders

How do you follow a masterpiece? Ideally with another. Such has been achieved by George Saunders. After his Booker Prize-winning novel, Lincoln in the Bardo—which feels, so far, like the early frontrunner for this century’s Ulysses—Saunders returns to literary fiction with another remarkable collection of short stories, Liberation Day. Those familiar with Saunders’s aesthetic will find the distinct features of his work have further evolved into delightful extremes. There’s the energetic language, the disciplined plot. He continues to introduce his high-concept premises without exposition, keeping the material strange. His characters—though tragic and hapless—are still treated with compassion. But there’s a clear change in the comedic sensibilities, an altered shade of the absurd, which allows Saunders to make this improbable advancement in his work. As a former student of Saunders’s, I understand I am not America’s first choice to objectively review Liberation Day. But as someone who recently reread all of his prior story collections, I want to examine a passage from each book—CivilWarLand in Bad Decline, Pastoralia, In Persuasion Nation, Tenth of December, and, now, Liberation Day—to consider how Saunders’s use and sense of humor have evolved over his short-story career. My wife, hearing me laugh into a state of mild convulsion while rereading “The Four-Hundred Pound CEO” for the dozenth time a few months ago, said to me: “You look so happy.” It was true. I felt happy. Comedy in literature, I think, is more rewarding than in any other form. The laughter comes about from a kind of close attention rarely required of us in our days filled with sedating labor and visual ads. It’s something Saunders is very much aware of: throughout his career, language itself has been the source and the object of his humor. And while his short stories are rightfully known for far more than their laughs, the comic is neither frill nor misdirection in his work. Rather, the language and the comedy are inseparable, much in the same way a map is necessarily connected to its represented geography: comedy occasions his voice, the combination of language systems that bring about that quality of Saundersness. So while it is notoriously tough to parse funny, and while there is also nothing less funny than trying to explain a joke, I hope to overcome both challenges in what follows by staying close to the language of his stories. Let’s start with “The 400 Pound CEO,” a story from CivilWarLand In Bad Decline, in which a ridiculed overweight man who works for a falsely-ethical racoon-removal business becomes the CEO through an unwitting act of violence. Below is how Jeffrey, our narrator, describes himself: These days commissions are my main joy. I’m too large to attract female company. I weigh four hundred. I don’t like it but it’s beyond my control. I’ve tried running and rowing the stationary canoe and hatha-yoga and belly staples and even a muzzle back in the dark days when I had it bad for Freeda, our document placement and retrieval specialist. When I was merely portly it was easy to see myself as a kind of exuberant sportsman who overate out of lust for life. Now no one could possibly mistake me for a sportsman. Notice the unassuming start to the paragraph, specifically the “I’m too large…” But by the next sentence we learn an unexpected detail. Four hundred? It’s a surprising excess. The relationship between these sentences is key. We’ve moved quickly from the familiar to the exaggerated, and it’s this surprise that pushes the paragraph into the realm of comedy. "I weigh four hundred,” is an all-time favorite sentence of mine. I love the unqualified number. Four hundred what? Pounds? Stones? Tons? Unbound, the number becomes too grand to comprehend. It’s a recurring move in Saunders’s work, to defamiliarize a word or phrase by removing its usual context. The deadpan quality to the announcement is both funny and sad: Jeffrey seems to be telling us how much he weighs with his eyes closed, dismayed that it needs to be repeated. Syntactically, the sentence could not be simpler. Four words, five syllables, a single declarative statement. But the simplicity also allows for speed. Funny is fast and fast is funny. In this sentence, we have little friction, and this lets the delivery land. The simple structure also creates a useful symmetry: similar to the relationship between two sentences, the first half makes what follows surprising and compelling. Can we anticipate the end of the sentence from how it begins? Generally, yes—except in comedic writing, which Saunders knows. Lastly, we need to look at that verb, “weigh.” The most obvious alternative to “I weigh” is “I am,” but there’s a meekness in that construction, an insubstantiality. Here the word “weigh” feels like the idea it signifies. There is heft, density. It is a burden to weigh. If this sounds cruel, Saunders lets us laugh by having Jeffrey state this is “beyond my control.” We are mostly laughing at the absurdity of his situation: the hopelessness, and the futile attempts to overcome this hopelessness. This is clear through the list that Saunders constructs, a list that begins with: “I’ve tried…” It’s another simple composition, the list, that delivers its comedy partly through its speed—there are no commas, no dashes, no chance to pause—and partly through its increasing specificity. Again Saunders begins with the mundane to jump to the hyper-specific. We move from “running” to “rowing the stationary canoe.” Using “rowing machine” would be a flatline, but “stationary canoe” provides an image of cramped and painful labor for Jeffrey. Then we’re into “hatha-yoga,” which, again unfamiliar, tells of the extreme measures Jeffrey has taken to try losing weight. There’s the “muzzle” he wore, an image sadly funny for how Jeffrey has been forced to humiliate and hurt himself. The more effort put into a hopeless situation, the more laugher that’s generated, because we, as readers, empathize with feeling ineffective in a painfully futile situation. And last in the list is what Saunders is perhaps most known for: his ability to call attention to the absurd dissembling in corporate speak; Freeda is the “document placement and retrieval specialist,” or someone who files things. But in the corporate parlance she is also inflated, she achieves a status too big for Jeffrey. In a final comedic move that establishes Jeffrey’s wit, he describes his transition from possibly resembling a “sportsman” to his current state. He ends the paragraph with, “Now no one could possibly mistake me for a sportsman.” We’re given a disjunctive syllogism—by stating only what he is not, Jeffrey invites us to fill in the absence with what he is. It reinforces that Jeffrey is not the joke, but instead someone fully aware of the joke in which he exists. In six sentences, the passage gathers registers from weight-loss programs, the workplace, the colloquial, and the ironically poetic. This is important: often what changes from story to story, from book to book, are the types of registers that Saunders arranges. * Much of the language in CivilWarLand In Bad Decline resembles an assured and lyrical spoken word. But there’s a shift in Pastoralia, the second book of Saunders’ stories, and below is an example from that collection, a passage from “The Barber’s Unhappiness.” The story involves a bitter barber who, in addition to his misanthropy, is plagued by a strange condition that leaves him with no toes: Later that month the barber sat stiffly at a wedding reception at the edge of a kind of mock Japanese tearoom at the Hilton while some goofball inside a full-body PuppetPlayers groom costume, complete with top hat and tails and a huge yellow felt head and three-fingered yellow felt hands, made vulgar thrusting motions with his hips in the barber’s direction, as if to say: Do you like to do this? Have you done this? The overlap between this passage and Jeffrey’s monologue can be found in the speed with which the information is delivered. There’s little punctuation; the only pause is to further qualify the “groom costume.” But notice the difference overall in syntax. While the passage from “The 400 Pound CEO” builds toward a multi-clause sentence after a few declaratives, in this passage we begin with a brisk multi-clause sentence that leads to questions that, though considered by the barber, are also directed toward the reader through the use of second person. We’re arriving at what’s funny through an inversion of the technique from “The 400 Pound CEO,” where we conclude with a direct address, a comic narrowing. The question is not: “Does he like this?” Or: “Do you all like this?” It is “you,” the reader and the barber, who have, for the purpose of the joke, collapsed into the same person. The barber is in a situation we understand to be absurd because we are brought there, to the exact same place, in the unfortunate aim of the yellow thrusts. Try reading this paragraph aloud. From the start you’ll feel a different lingual texture than Jeffrey’s monologue. It feels rounded and breathless, no staccato. This is partly attributable to the change in perspective, where a greater range of cadence is available to the slightly removed third-person narrator, a notable shift for Saunders between his first two books. The six stories and the novella that compose CivilWarLand in Bad Decline are all in the first person, but only two of the six stories in Pastoralia use first-person narration. While closely tied to the barber’s consciousness, the narrator of “The Barber’s Unhappiness” is a third-person perspective; it is not the barber composing the entirety of the sentence above, describing how he himself sat “stiffly” at the wedding. The perspective shift in Pastoralia allows Saunders to do what he does best comedically: to be both outside and of. He makes fun of his characters while empathizing with their suffering. I’ll end my analysis by returning to the passage’s exuberantly unusual combination of nouns. This is a pattern in all of Saunders’s comedy, the hyper-specific linked unexpectedly. The process is similar in spirit to how a writer creates a beautiful image through a surprising juxtaposition, but the effect depends on the type of objects juxtaposed. Consider the following words and phrases out of context, as if in a word bank for a child’s game: barber, wedding, Japanese, tea, Hilton, goofball, PuppetPlayers, vulgar, motions—what, exactly, do these words and phrases have in common? Saunders sees a connection. * There’s the well-documented satire in all of Saunders’s work, but the satire found in his third collection, In Persuasion Nation, feels different, partly because the subject being satirized is more often separate from the characters. Below is a passage from “Brad Corrigan, American,” a story set in a metaphysical sitcom world in which Brad is in danger of being written out of the show for his empathy toward a group of speaking corpses, who were killed in an act of genocide and have now appeared inexplicably in the backyard of the Corrigan home: Animal-rights activists have expressed concern over the recent trend of spraying live Canadian geese with a styrene coating which instantaneously kills them while leaving them extremely malleable, so it then becomes easy to shape them into comical positions and write funny sayings on DryErase cartoon balloons emanating from their beaks, which, apparently, is the new trend for outdoor summer parties. The inventor of FunGeese! has agreed to begin medicating the geese with a knockout drug prior to the styrene-spray step. Also, the pentagon has confirmed the inadvertent bombing of a tribal wedding in Taluchistan. Similar to the passage from Jeffrey, this begins with an innocuous and familiar register, the language of our ceaseless newsroom. The phrase “expressing concern” is mild, hardly an act of revolutionary protest, which makes the cruel act that the geese suffer so unexpected. Saunders builds on the image, introducing a technical phrase “styrene coating,” and then a strange adjective: “malleable.” Have we ever heard of a goose being covered in styrene coating? Or that a desirable feature of a goose is malleability? Rather than merely linking these unusual set of words through a list—and they are unusual: “DryErase,” “cartoon,” “emanating,” “parties”—Saunders develops the image in the manner of a narrative, a sequential unraveling. It’s the narrative progression that maintains the newsroom tone, letting Saunders compound the satirical details with the ability to make a sharp cutaway at any moment, a convention of televised reporting. But it's the “also” that makes this passage—the abruptness, the surprise. The adverb plays down what is to follow, establishes the future noun as forgettable. The same type of glibness in the documentation of the event recurs in how the pentagon frames it: “an inadvertent bombing.” This is not only a satire of the institutions themselves but of their obfuscatory language—satire by way of mimicry. Structurally, In Persuasion Nation is unlike any other Saunders collection. It features four sections grouped thematically, each opening with a fictional epigraph from a fictional textbook promoting American imperialist maxims. The colloquial registers that are a fixture in earlier stories here appear fractured, spoken by those who are confused, mumbling, unable to find the words for what they feel. * Moving to the collection that Saunders might be best known for, Tenth of December, we find a comedy focused again on the plight of a single character. See the below from a passage in “Al Roosten”: There had been that period in junior high, yes, when he had been somewhat worried that he might perhaps like guys, and had constantly lost in wrestling because, instead of concentrating on his holds he was always mentally assessing whether his thing was hurting inside his cup because he was popping a mild pre-bone or because the tip was sticking out an airhole, and once he was almost sure he’d popped a mild pre-bone when he found his face pressed against Tom Reed’s hard abs, which smelled of coconut, but, after practice, obsessing about this in the woods, he realized that he sometimes popped a similar mild pre-bone when the cat sat on his groin in a beam of sun, which proved he didn’t have sexual feelings for Tom Reed, since he knew for sure he didn’t have sexual feelings for the cat, since he’d never even heard that described as being possible. And from that day on, whenever he found himself wondering whether he liked guys, he always remembered walking exultantly in the woods after the liberating realization that he was no more attracted to guys than to cats, just happily kicking the tops off mushrooms in a spirit of tremendous relief. Here Saunders satirizes the absurd masculine impulse to not only be heterosexual but to constantly justify one’s heterosexuality, and he accomplishes this with a flashback from the story’s protagonist. There’s a casual loquacity in the language—and throughout the collection as a whole—that contributes to what’s so funny. It starts with that “yes” that shakes the progression of the sentence, then continues when we learn of the “pre-bone,” the word “thing” being used to describe his penis, the unfortunate pain of its “tip.” We laugh at the repetition of a funny word, “pre-bone,” and in how its cause changes from Tom Reed to a cat. Further, its repetition shows Al’s obsession, his worry, a comedy steeped in its character. Notice too that just like the cause of the pre-bone changes, so does the location. Saunders’s comedy is located in the physical world: we transition, for instance, from a wrestling match to a scene where a cat is not just “on his groin,” but on his groin “in a beam of sun.” The third-person narration pulls directly from Roosten’s available language system, and the “beam of sun” is funny for how it suggests something deserving of a spotlight, an absurd situation combined with the elementary poeticism belonging to Roosten, who could describe the general sunlight but instead shapes the light into a “beam.” It’s the same when we learn that Roosten is worrying about this “in the woods.” We’re in his head while he’s in a place that tells us more about how he feels—in this case, a need for solitude, for being in the truth of nature. Imagine Thoreau contemplating the ambiguous sources of his “pre-bone.” Saunders wants us to compare Roosten’s futile wrestling techniques to the pitiful strength he shows by “happily kicking the tops of mushrooms,” eliminating phallic objects likely in other beams of sun. To use a Saunders’s word, it’s a relentless “escalation” of the comedic. There’s also an absurd logic at play in this passage. We see it in the words “because” and “since,” as well as their repetition, which suggests a continual reaching for a truthful conclusion. Similar to how the Brad Corrigan passage generates comedy through the compounding, shifting registers that form a sense of narrative, here Roosten, in the process of justifying his heterosexuality to himself, creates comedy through the evidence he cites: the impossibility of desiring a cat sexually—something he also tries to justify by citing that “he had never even heard that described as being possible.” The “never even” brings us back to that casual register, and rather than claiming on his own the impossibility of desiring a cat, he supports the claim with the fact that other people have not mentioned this to him. We finish definitively with the language of storytelling. “And from that day on” is how we might expect a fairy tale to end, which is why it’s so funny that instead this is the story of a man justifying his heterosexuality, a story he will apparently return to again in the future. What I think might be most important here, though subtle, are the brief digressions. In general, Saunders relies little on digression for comic effect. His stories are tight, plot-driven; all the language contributes to some forward motion. While the logic of the comedy might be what defines the humor in Tenth of December, it’s those moments when we receive the full name of the boy inducing the pre-bones, “Tom Reed,” and the subordinate clause that qualifies his abs, which “smelled like coconut,” that are funny despite slowing down the progression of the sentence. These are hardly perceptible digressive twitches, but they foreshadow part of the comedic shift in Liberation Day. * Similar to Pastoralia, Saunders’s new collection opens with its longest story, the titular “Liberation Day.” The premise feels like a combination of Tenth of December’s “Semplica Girl Diaries” and “Escape From Spiderhead”: through the limited perspective of a man who is “Pinioned” to a wall with others, memory erased, connected to a machine that allows his owner, Mr. U., to generate entertaining fictional stories from earlier centuries, we find Saunders cranking the dials on his unusual sound. Here is a passage that takes place when the “jamming” Mr. U., after leading several rehearsals, has the speakers perform for his guests: Lauren goes first, Speaking of her City (arranged N/S along river, Hunger, Raining, Exaltation) in one long sentence. Mid-way through, Craig joins in, Speaking of his City in iambic pentameter: arranged E/W, no river, white, Winter, overrun by oats. Then, with Lauren and Craig still Speaking, I join, and Speak of my City (Sad, Summer, green-blue, arranged N/S along river, blue-green canoes oriented toward the celebration island like magnet needles, the lucky shopkeepers and workers dreamily trailing their hands behind in the cool, clean water, as, with fireworks bursting overhead, they are rowed past the orange-brown cafes toward the one bastion of happiness in their disappointing lives). As in other stories, Saunders finds a comedic conceit that allows him to focus on language itself. The characters are used by Mr. U. for entertainment, and those imprisoned want to deliver admirable performances. The source becomes the material, the referent the signifier. But the passage is representative of a newer move for Saunders, one he introduced in his novel Lincoln in the Bardo: a polyphonic clash that creates forward motion and comedy through its alternating speakers. Unlike Bardo, though, where characters might politely switch between their monologues in a nineteenth-century register, in “Liberation Day” Saunders has each description mimicked by one controlled voice, a character who is then able to create humor through how he chooses to represent what the others say. From Jeremy, we learn of Lauren’s river through the uncommon grouping: “Hunger, Raining, Exaltation.” The summary of Craig’s story begins with an internal rhyme: “river, white, Winter”—but Saunders disrupts the pattern with the detail that Craig’s river area was “overrun by oats,” to form the referenced iambic pentameter. The oats image Saunders could summarize by using the single capitalized word, “Oats,” but instead he has Jeremy end the sentence on a phrase that defies the expectation raised by the prior objects of the list. We then finish on Jeremy’s crescendo, the longest and most extravagant river description, which is again contained in parentheses. Saunders begins with “Sad, Summer,” a stage setting that immediately creates friction. We get the compound modifier to describe the water in “green-blue,” which is then reversed to describe the canoes, a technique that signals the comic intentions of the lyricism in the manner of a Seinfeldian stare. Jeremy ends below a literal explosion of fireworks with a telling metaphor: “one bastion of happiness in their disappointing lives.” The comedy here comes from the excess, the mid-evil word, “bastion,” and the quick shift from happiness to disappointment. Notice how essential the digressive material is to the passage. All of the comedy turns on the information in the parentheses—without this, we only have the factual, and Craig. I’m not suggesting that “Liberation Day” is different because Saunders uses a certain kind of punctuation, or even that this is the first time he has used digressive comedy, but instead that here the digressive feels more significant in its space and function. There is another layer in how the narrator seems to be, perhaps unconsciously, referring to his own situation: “one bastion of happiness in their disappointing lives.” It’s a phrase that might easily apply to the imprisoned Jeremy who is determined to please his jailer. But now the language operates on two levels: to entertain and to reveal the interior life of the speaker—an interior life that, at present, seems unaware of its sadness. The comedic effect in the “Liberation Day” passage is notably different from others: there’s nothing slapstick in the above, nor is there a sense of social satire. It’s not laugh out loud sort of funny. Much like Kafka’s shrinking hunger artist, much like Beckett’s Krapp, the dark humor comes from despair. Earlier Saunders characters often arrive at a state of transcendence through death—obtaining an otherworldly ability to leave behind their material conditions. For instance, the narrator of “CivilWarLand in Bad Decline,” once he is murdered, becomes a ghost with “perfect knowledge.” In “Escape from Spiderhead,” our narrator departs his body when he chooses to kill himself in order to spare other prisoners, breaking through the roof and vanishing into the sky. But in Liberation Day, there is no escape built into the plot. Instead, characters find reprieves from suffering in the same way a writer might: by retaining a private comedic language.