Erasure: A Novel

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Most Anticipated: The Great Spring 2024 Preview

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

Several Attempts at Understanding Percival Everett

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Toward the end of Percival Everett’s 2021 novel The Trees, about a series of murders in present-day Money, Mississippi, the small town where 13-year-old Emmet Till was brutally lynched in 1955, a list of Black Americans who died by lynching is read aloud by an academic who is researching the origins of racial violence. The list, compiled by a local mystic, is only partial, but it is long and overwhelming. It contains many victims whose names remain unknown. One of the names on the list is David Walker, along with his wife and four small children, who are nameless. Walker and his family were murdered in front of their Kentucky home on October 3, 1908, by 50 members of the racist vigilante group the Night Riders, which accused Walker of swearing at a white woman. The lynching was well-documented, but the names of Walker’s wife and children are never mentioned. After the publication of The Trees, a reader from Tennessee wrote to Everett to tell him that David Walker’s wife was named Annie. Everett reflected on what this correction meant to him during his acceptance speech after winning the PEN/Jean Stein Award for his 2023 novel Dr. No. “Now when I do the reading, I say David Walker, Annie Walker, David and Annie Walker’s four children,” he said. “I would never have learned that, it would never have meant anything to me, if I hadn’t written about it. And that changed my life.” When I spoke with Everett recently, I asked him about the importance of that moment and he told me, “Not to downplay it, but as an artist from this culture, you have to hang on to those little moments. That’s sad to say.” We were speaking a few weeks ahead of the release of his latest novel, James. I have read roughly half of Everett’s 35 published works and I was, to put it mildly, nervous to be speaking with the man behind the books. I knew from the dozens of other interviews I had read with him that Everett doesn’t love doing press. “I wonder why?” he joked to me. Speaking over the phone, not having body language or cues to read, didn’t make our interview any easier. Maya Binyam, in her recent New Yorker profile of Everett, described feeling “like a lawyer at an unsuccessful deposition” during their initial interview. At the end of my interview, Everett apologized, noting that he is aware that he makes for a difficult interview subject. Everett doesn’t often validate specific interpretations or theories of his work. The fact that this work often manages to be simultaneously hilarious, ambiguous, deeply moving, and filled with a kind of muted anger at America complicates efforts to interpret either it or Everett’s politics. When he is in the humor to indulge interpretations, he will often entertain a potential reading by saying that it’s not what he intended, but, as far as he is concerned, the process of meaning-making, insofar as it can be said to be a duty, belongs to the reader alone—and it is the reader alone, through their engagement with the text, who completes this process of meaning-making. Everett refuses to hold your hand or tell you what to think. Curiously, this leaves you feeling like the wind has been taken out of your interpretation—or, in my case, my own. Knowing this, I decided to ask if he sees his work as complicating the idea of America and its history—if it would be fair to say that his writing forces Americans to confront what they would rather forget, even disabusing certain Americans of the lies they tell themselves about how fair and just their society is? Three recent works—James, The Trees, and The Book of Training (2019)—all published within the last five years, are ostensibly books about slavery and its firstborn, lynching. I try to draw a connection between The Trees—a reimagining of the history of lynching in America in which contemporary whites are made to pay for the sins of their ancestors—and his most recent book, James—a reimagining of one of the great American novels, Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn—as twinned reclamations, or subversions, of received narratives so ingrained in the American psyche as to be considered “canonical.” I am trying and failing to convey to Everett my belief that his fiction seems, to me at least, to be some of the most important and radical American fiction published in any century. But Everett is having none of it. The text is just the text and interpretation, he suggests, is above his pay grade. “Stories,” he tells me, “are stories.” * Everett’s own story begins in 1956, when he was born in Fort Gordon, Georgia, a military base which would later be renamed Fort Eisenhower as part of efforts to remove associations with the Confederacy. Discharged from the army, his father moved the family to Columbia, South Carolina, where Everett grew up. His paternal great-grandfather was Jewish, from Texas, and he married a formerly enslaved woman. Their child, Everett’s grandfather, became the first doctor in a family that would later boast a number of physicians and dentists. Having grown up in the South, where he enjoyed his childhood, Everett has complicated, occasionally conflicting, feelings about the region. “The United States has used the South as a wonderful scapegoat,” Everett told an interviewer in 2005. “If you have a really awful member in your family, anytime you do something bad you can point to that member of the family and feel good about yourself—think you have done better. […] The North and the large western urban areas have excused their behavior toward minorities, the American word for downtrodden and disenfranchised peoples, by blaming the South for all the evils in the land.” After graduating from high school in Columbia at 16, Everett moved to Miami for an undergraduate degree in philosophy. There, he demonstrated an interest in Ludwig Wittgenstein and a knack for logic. He supported himself by teaching and playing jazz guitar. Later, he moved the Pacific Northwest, where he worked on sheep and cattle ranches and attended the University of Oregon for a brief stint of graduate work in language studies, specializing in ordinary language philosophy. That specific school of philosophy, insofar as I am able to grasp it, seems to insist that language itself can complicate how we understand and interpret the world. Its proponents believed that many philosophical problems arise out of the abstraction and misuse of language, and that these problems could be better understood, even solved, if we paid more attention to the language we use and the context in which we use it. Explaining his eventual disenchantment with the formal studying of philosophy, Everett said that the philosophical ideas that concerned him most were, he felt, best approached through dramatizing them in fiction. After he dropped out, Everett wandered through the country, worked odd jobs, and later moved to Providence, Rhode Island, where he began an MFA in Creative Writing at Brown University. Shortly after graduating, he published his first novel, Suder (1983), about a baseball player who goes on an odyssey after a spectacularly bad season, then began a career writing and teaching for a living. Everett bounced around the country again, this time teaching creative writing at universities. One of these was the University of Wyoming, during which time he lived on a Native American reservation. He fell in love with the West’s sparse, dramatic landscapes. He never left. “I am a Westerner,” Everett said in that same 2005 interview. “I don’t think about the South. I don’t want to return and live in the South. I want to see the sun set on the ocean.” He now lives in Los Angeles with his fourth wife, the writer Danzy Senna, and their two children. Though he had long ago left South Carolina, he hadn’t quite finished with it, at least not in his fiction. In 1996, Everett’s most well-known short story, “The Appropriation of Cultures,” was published in the literary journal Callaloo. It tells the story of Daniel Barkley, a young Black jazz guitarist who, irked after being egged on by some white college kids at a bar near the University of South Carolina to play “Dixie”—a 19th-century song nostalgic for the pre-Civil War American South, once popular in minstrel shows—notices that white people lose interest once he plays it. Later, when Daniel tries to buy a pickup truck, he notices a Confederate flag sticker on the windshield. The seller apologizes and offers to remove it, but Daniel insists on keeping it. The sight of Daniel driving around in a pickup with a Confederate window sticker attracts much attention and confuses those close to him. By the story’s end, Black Americans throughout South Carolina have appropriated the symbol, wearing Confederate flag lapels, putting the Confederate flag in their car windows, even using it to “dress the yards and mark the picnic sites of Black family reunions” until, eventually, the flag simply disappears from sight. Later, in 2004, he wrote an epistolary novel with the scholar James Kincaid, A History of the African-American People (Proposed) by Strom Thurmond, as Told to Percival Everett and James Kincaid, made up of fictional emails about the titular South Carolina senator’s fictional attempt to tell the history of African Americans. Thurmond is perhaps best known for holding the longest ever filibuster (24 hours and 18 minutes), which he staged in opposition to the Civil Rights Act of 1957. South Carolina, which was the first state to secede from the United States and the site of the beginning of the Civil War, has a notably complicated relationship with its past and its attendant racism. In 1989, when Everett was 33, he returned to Columbia, the city in which he’d grown up, after being invited to speak at the South Carolina State House. Instead of discussing his connection to the city, as I’m sure his audience expected him to, Everett used the opportunity to inform them that he would not speak there while the Confederate flag—that “symbol of exclusion,” as he has called it—was still being flown there, before walking off the stage. When, 26 years later, a 21-year-old white supremacist walked into a Bible study being held at a church in Charleston, murdering nine people in one of this century’s most violent anti-Black crimes, a debate broke out over the fact that much of South Carolina’s Confederate past was still on display in the state. Graywolf, Everett’s former publisher, posted the full text of “The Appropriation of Cultures” on their website following the massacre. A month later, in July 2015, then-governor Nikki Haley signed a bill to remove the Confederate flag from the state capitol. If, as Marx would have it, the tradition of all dead generations weighs like a nightmare on the brains of the living, it seems to weigh especially heavily on Everett’s. Anthony Stewart, a professor of American Literature at Bucknell University, once said that Everett “writes about the experience of being Black, but he does not write about the experience of being Black as a problem to be solved or a condition to be endured.” For Everett, as a writer, that has meant exploring the evolution of American racism, from dramatizing small, personal moments of racial microaggressions to more seismic interrogations of its history with lynching, what Everett once referred to as “a white American pastime”. * Among academics who follow and write about Everett’s work, there appears to be no consensus on how to begin approaching his 24 novels, four short story collections, six books of poetry, and one children’s book. This is to say nothing of the fact that Everett is an accomplished painter, though this is not something many critics or academics incorporate into their understanding of him. Everett himself views each work as distinct, though he admits that he sees all of the works (except Suder) as being in conversation with one another. His style is for the most part uncategorizable, and the shape of his career, if you were forced to draw it, would be an endlessly widening gyre. It’s not a case of there being one too many exceptions to the rule. The exceptions, by which I mean the books that make it hard to discern Everett’s thematic, political, and cultural concerns, are the rule. One thing that can be said with a degree of certainty is that Everett enjoys playing games with his readers. Whether it’s dramatizing a philosophical and linguistic problem for readers to ponder over, giving racist characters playful names like Chalk Pellucid or Pinch Wheyface, or even through finding new ways to force readers into reconsidering the process through which they draw meaning from engaging with a text, Everett’s writing is marked by an unwillingness to ever settle into what might be expected from it. To give two examples: Glyph (1999) is narrated by a baby with an IQ of 475 who won’t speak, and I Am Not Sidney Poitier (2009) tells the story of a young man named Not Sidney Poitier, who was raised by Ted Turner and bears a striking resemblance to Sidney Poitier, in which Everett himself appears as an eccentric professor. When Everett was commissioned by an independent press to write an introduction to The Jefferson Bible (2004)—Thomas Jefferson’s attempt at creating his own condensed version of the life of Jesus by translating and abridging the gospels—he used the opportunity to set the record straight on Jefferson’s life. He highlighted the fact that Jefferson had enslaved hundreds of people and had a sexual relationship with the enslaved woman Sally Hemmings, with whom he fathered multiple children. The work featured an imagined dialogue between Everett and Jefferson. The introduction also expressed a certain degree of admiration for Jefferson, who at least aspired towards intellectualism—something which could be not said of then-president George W. Bush. (Everett has been outspoken about his disdain for Trump, whom he credits with making it permissible to be so stupid in America today.) In 2019, Everett released The Book of Training, a prose poem that takes the form of a found document, specifically a handbook on breaking (training) slaves. It fooled me. When I bought a second hand copy, I remember being surprised after noticing racist marginalia commenting on the text. Somebody had not gotten the point Everett was trying to make. That person was me. Everett had, of course, written the marginalia and baked it into the published book. He got a good chuckle when I told him this, and said that, while he never could have foreseen it, he was, of course, delighted by my misreading. A year after The Book of Training, Everett published Telephone, which features three different endings. Which ending you read depends on which of the three nearly-identical covers you happened to buy. (Each featured a compass pointing in one of three directions.) The novel is Everett’s most formally experimental to date, and perhaps the most notable example of his efforts to completely absolve himself of responsibility for what his work means. There is an approach within art and literary criticism to understanding an artist’s work by dividing their output into periods—early, middle, and late, for example. Many artists’ concerns change over time, and their art often changes to reflect this. Sometimes, it’s possible to pinpoint certain developments in a career—aesthetic, political, or formal—to a single work. While it’s tempting to try to map changes onto Everett’s career, the work simply does not permit it. Themes and landscapes might recur for a book or two then disappear, only to reappear a decade later. Categories, like colors, refuse to stay within the lines, bleeding into one another. Ideas stretch out into new forms before doubling back on themselves. An endless, widening gyre. * Everett’s latest novel, James, is a reworking of one of the most important works of American literature, Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. Now Everett, who turns 68 this year—and who, despite having flown under so many people’s radars for close to four decades, has managed to elude fame, earn a die-hard following, and, at the very moment decide he’s ready, make the move from an independent to a large, corporate publisher—appears set to gain his widest readership yet. Its publication coincided with the film American Fiction, an adaptation of Everett’s best-known novel, 2001’s Erasure, receiving the 2024 Academy Award for Best Adapted Screenplay. Directed by Cord Jefferson, the movie has won a slew of awards, dusted off arguments about diversity within the arts, and nearly made Everett a household name in the process. The movie, like the book, follows Theoloneus “Monk” Ellison (Jeffrey Wright), a little-read writer struggling against publishing’s demand that his books fit into its conception of what Black audiences want. When his agent laments that his books just aren’t Black enough, Monk responds, “I’m black, and this is my book.” He is enraged to find that his novels have been shelved in the African American studies section, rather than under fiction. As a joke, Monk writes, under a pseudonym, an exaggerated parody of what publishers expect, replete with drugs, deadbeat dads, single mothers, violence, and rape. Written in an “authentic” vernacular (“There be all these beautiful, fine-ass bitches walkin round wearing nuffin but strings over they nipples and shit”), the novel, Fuck, is a massive success, enriching Monk—and leaving him more despondent than ever, feeling like a cultural and literary sellout. Everett has made clear on a number of occasions that he is not Monk, and Monk is not him. But he’s also said that he shares a number of experiences and frustrations with Monk—specifically, the expectations around his identity as a Black man struggling to reconcile his individuality with the collective Black identity imposed on him by white America. American Fiction is an enjoyable, accessible, and Hollywood-friendly adaptation of Erasure, though it lacks much of the book’s acid ironies, sanding the edges off the acerbic racial, intraracial, and class politics in the process. One of the notable ways American Fiction diverges from Erasure is its ending. Whereas Erasure ends with the scene of Monk at a prestigious award ceremony, terrified of being found out as the writer of Fuck, American Fiction takes the story a beat further, ending on a playfully metafictive note, showing Monk being driven around the lot of a Hollywood studio. The script of his novel in his hand, he glances knowingly at a forlorn-looking Black actor dressed as a slave. When Erasure was first published by the University Press of New England, Doubleday wanted to republish it as the inaugural book in a series showcasing African American authors. The imprint was called Harlem Moon, and it did not last long. The irony of life imitating art was not lost on Everett. “I couldn’t do that to my book,” he told Bookforum in 2005, “even though I was tempted by the idea of invalidating the imprint with this particular book.” After almost three decades at independent publishing houses, and two decades after turning down Doubleday’s imprint, Everett’s James—which some are already calling his “masterpiece”—was sold to Doubleday in what was described as a “major deal.” His move from Graywolf to Doubleday coincided, give or take a year, with the retirement of his longtime editor, Fiona McCrae. Everett’s first few novels, which were published by Faber & Faber, were edited by McCrae. When she decided to leave Faber for Graywolf in 1994, Everett followed. He stayed at Graywolf for almost 30 years, during which time he maintained a strong and productive editorial relationship with McCrae, who allowed him total creative freedom. James is Everett’s first book not to be edited by McCrae. When I asked him how he felt about the move from Graywolf to Doubleday, Everett said that he felt loyalty to people, not institutions. He made clear that he was very happy at Graywolf, and there didn’t appear to be animosity surrounding the move. He went into his interviews with publishers and editors with quite a bit of skepticism about the big publishing houses. After all, he said, he’d begun his career at a big publishing house. (Suder was published by Viking.) In the end, he went with Doubleday and Lee Boudreaux, whom he described as “a delight to work with,” as his editor. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn has long been one of Everett’s favorite novels, and he cites Twain as the writer who first showed him the power of humor. The decision to write his own version of it, he explained, did not arise out of any dissatisfaction with Twain’s novel. He says that despite the flaws and unevenness of the novel—due, in no small part, to the fact that Twain abandoned it for two years—Everett has read it 15 times and still admires it. His interest in reimagining the story spiked when he began to think more deeply about the relationship between Huck and Jim. Everett’s version revolves around Jim, or James, who escapes from slavery after learning he may be sold to a man in New Orleans and separated from his wife and daughter. While in hiding, he meets Huck, who tells him that his family has already been sold off, and so begins James’s journey to rescue them. Though James’s mission is to save his family, much of the novel’s focus is on his relationship with Huck.“ It’s not hard to see that the only true father figure in the novel is in fact Jim, for Huck,” Everett said. “That was intriguing, and I started to do a little research, because I became interested in Jim, and started to realize that no one had tried to write any part of this story from the point of view of Jim. Which I found really bizarre, but I of course had to admit to myself that I had never really thought of it either.” Cartoonish as he was, Jim is a largely sympathetic figure in Twain’s novel, but he is not a three-dimensional character. At that time, his friendship with a young white boy was taboo and regarded as progressive; retrospectively, the novel has received a lot of flak for its racist stereotypes and epithets. “James’s story is not one that Twain would have been capable of writing, and had nothing to do with his experience in the world,” Everett told me, “however much he might have witnessed a lot of the social conditions of the time.” By telling the story from Jim’s perspective, Everett completely reframes where its conflict lies. Through it, we discover how James and other enslaved people learn to survive by playing dumb for the benefit of their white captors. Everett knew from the beginning that language would have to be central to James’s story. “The lynchpin for everything was language,” he told me. “To me, that’s the most important part because that’s how we understand the world.” Early in the novel, James teaches his nine-year-old daughter, Lizzie, and some of the other children who are slaves how to “signify,” or avoid addressing “any subject directly when talking to another slave.” When the slaves are alone and out of earshot of white people, they slip into speaking to one another in standard English—what we call code switching today. It’s only with the appearance of white people that they speak in the dialect that we see Jim use in Twain’s novel. “White folks expect us to sound a certain way and it can only help if we don’t disappoint them,” James tells the children. “The only ones who suffer when they are made to feel inferior is us. [...] It always pays to give white people what they want.” At one point, he notes that it’s important to occasionally make a particularly egregious grammatical mistake so that white people can feel superior and correct them: Lizze cleared her throat. “Miss Watson, dat sum conebread lak I neva before et.” “Try ‘dat be,’ I said. “That would be the correct incorrect grammar.” “Dat be sum of cornbread lak neva I et,” she said. “Very good,” I said. Inasmuch as James shows the power of language to oppress, central to the novel is the idea that language can also be a tool of resistance. At its core, the book is about language and power—who possesses them, and what that means for those who don’t. Throughout all his suffering, and despite his initial lack of agency, language becomes a sanctuary for James. When he begins reading some books during his trip down the river with Huck, he feels that he is elsewhere, finally able to tap into an experience that goes beyond his own chattel existence. During naps, he dreams that he is speaking with philosophers like Voltaire, Locke, and Rousseau, playfully debating them on how some of their writing condoned, and was used to justify, slavery. “Language is also our only refuge, and it’s our only way of maintaining contact with people that make up our world and our community,” Everett told me. “It’s the only thing that allows us privacy from our oppressors, so language is necessary in resistance.” Everett’s characters are often lonely, solitary types—the subdued hydrologist narrator of Telephone, the ambivalent painter who narrates So Much Blue, Monk in Erasure—and it’s not a stretch to say that many of them are seriously depressed. But their depression stems not just from chemical imbalance, but the world in which they find themselves—and how frequently they are misunderstood within that world. James is no exception. He is intensely lonely and afraid as he travels up and down the Mississippi River, looking for his family, unable to be or express his authentic self. And even if he finds his family, they will still be enslaved, still be seen and treated as property, still never be legibly human to those in power. Despite all this, James endures. After he meets a slave who gives him a pencil stolen from his master, he begins scribbling down his thoughts, writing his own story into existence. Later, when he discovers that the slave has paid the ultimate price for stealing that pencil, James’s resolve to rescue his family from bondage strengthens, and he realizes that the violence done to him will have to be met with more violence. Everett told me he rejected the term “revenge fantasy” that some reviewers used when writing about The Trees. Revenge fantasy, correction, complication—Everett rejects all of these ways of interpreting The Trees, and has reservations about any attempts to similarly interpret James, which will surely be made in time. Revenge, correction, complication—like slave narrative, or Black, or white—are, after all, just labels. And though labels are a way to help us frame our understanding of something, they are also another layer of abstraction we apply to things, ultimately further complicating how we (mis)understand them. I suspect that labels are the very thing that led Everett to seek answers in the philosophy of ordinary language—and, I imagine, to his decision to eventually abandon it. * The Percival Everett International Society (PEIS) was founded in 2014 by a group of American and French academics “to foster critical and cultural engagement with Everett’s work by academics, independent scholars, and others interested in his writing and other artistic production.” One of the founding members of PEIS, Anne-Laure Tissut, teaches English Literature at the University of Rouen in France and has translated many of Everett’s novels into French. When I asked her about Everett’s writing, and the process of reading and translating Everett over time, Tissut noted the difficulty in trying to say anything representative about his work. “And isn’t that the thing with Everett,” she said. “Beyond the many similarities to be found between those works in conversation [with each other], each follows a distinct path and develops its own formal and more generally aesthetic features, addressing its own specific issues.” For Tissut, it’s about seeing resonances in the works. She is reluctant to endorse specific readings and doesn’t think it’s helpful to segment and understand his work in periods—there are too many exceptions. She has, however, noticed an evolution in some of his recent works towards a more open interrogation of racial prejudice and violence in America. Tissut qualified this by saying that Dr. No, which foregrounds Everett’s longstanding interest in the idea of negation and nonsense—which is not unrelated to the project of ordinary language philosophy—ensures that any attempts to bundle and understand recent works together would mean omitting and overlooking certain works. Everett himself occasionally attends PEIS conferences, engages with the academics who study his work, and fields questions about it. I recently attended via Zoom a conference held at the University of Paris, at which Everett answered questions about The Trees. During that particular event, organizers had invited the French filmmaker Alexandre Westphal for a screening and discussion of his 2022 documentary, Through The Writer’s Mirror, about Everett and his work. The film was shot over five years and features a series of interviews with Everett, filmed mostly at his home in Los Angeles. In it, Everett appears unusually unguarded, at times sheepishly talking at length about the history of lynching in America or, when consulting maps of Wyoming, about the lakes and rivers he fished while living there. Later, I spoke about my attempts to interview and understand Everett with Joe Weixlmann, copresident of PEIS and the editor of Conversations with Percival Everett, a compilation of three decades’ worth of notable interviews with Everett (the cover of which features a picture of Everett with his pet crow, Jim). Weixlmann explained that Everett doesn’t want to limit reader’s interpretations of his work. “There is nothing to tell,” he told me, “only text to consider.” For me, the precise joy derived from reading Everett’s fiction lies in its embrace of contradiction and ambiguity, in its gameness to confound. My favorite Everett novel, 2017’s So Much Blue, arguably his most deceptively simple and yet most artful novel, seems to be divorced from many of the themes and ideas whose surface I have spent the past several thousand words trying to scratch. It follows Kevin Pace, a depressed, aloof, middle-aged abstract painter living with his wife and children. Despite occasional moments of public and fiscal recognition for his art, Kevin has managed to remain at arms length from his contemporaries, and he generally prefers the solitary work of marking art in his studio to company. The secrets he keeps from his wife—an infidelity, a horror he witnessed in El Salvador, and something his teenage daughter confides in him—drive the novel’s plot. Kevin decides to obscure and abstract these secrets, and the guilt they have created, on a canvas he keeps hidden in a second studio. After his wife learns that he has kept their daughter's secret from her, they get into an argument, and Kevin decides he doesn’t want to keep his other secrets any longer. He stops himself from speaking “pointless apologies, empty words,” and instead takes his wife out to the studio to show her his painting, on which he has buried his secrets in shades of one color—blue. His wife is confused, but he insists that now she is looking at everything there is to know. Like Kevin’s painting, Everett’s writing is filled with secrets. Sometimes, we might just not know how to read them. [millions_email]