I Feel Bad About My Neck: And Other Thoughts on Being a Woman

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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]

Nora and the Jews

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Last Thanksgiving, an older cousin of mine informed me that my mother, “in the tradition of a certain kind of Jewish woman,” had often” intentionally provoked debate.” Stupefied, I stared at him, unable to square this statement with the progressive, feminist father of two outspoken daughters I had always known him to be. “What do you mean?” I asked. “She liked to cause trouble,” he replied. “To disagree for the sake of it. She thrived on arguing.” Further explanation was not the antidote I had hoped it would be. Last summer, my uncle, who went to Beverly Hills High with one Nora Ephron and had the privilege of dating her for several months before she left town to attend Wellesley, informed me that Ephron’s wicked humor sprang from her “bitterness over not being pretty.” I said nothing. Pointing out the sexism of his claim, not to mention its antisemitic undertone, would, I knew, prove fruitless. He’d tell me I was nuts, that he could have said the same thing about a man, and that her being Jewish had nothing to do with her looks. Then I’d wish I’d never responded, doubt my intuition, and question my interpretation of the many previous personal experiences that had led to it. For a time in my childhood, we lived in a house in Coldwater Canyon, a winding mountain road that stretches between Beverly Hills and the San Fernando Valley in Los Angeles. My mother was an actress who had migrated from New York City to marry my father and pursue a career in television, and my dad, a graduate of Caltech, had a thriving medical practice. In my early years, they threw a lot of cocktail parties attended by various novelists-turned-screenwriters and performers, who, like my mother, desperately missed New York. One-liners flowed faster than the brandy at those parties, punctuated by bursts of garrulous laughter. At one such gathering, something happened that forever altered me. A porcelain-skinned actress with strawberry blond curls and piercing blue eyes—as upper-crust WASP in pedigree and appearance as they come—told a joke. It had a long setup, and alas, she flubbed the punchline. My father smiled at her and said the following words: “Don’t feel bad. Everyone knows that a beautiful woman can’t tell a joke.” I was five years old, still in pigtails, and seated at my father’s feet. I felt a flash of rage. At that moment, I hated my father, although I did not yet understand why. Childhood lessons come in fragments, like puzzle pieces, and it takes years to put the whole sordid picture together. All these years later, I understand that the comment was an assertion of male dominance: women who are not intellectually threatening are allowed to be considered attractive, but if they venture into the raucous boys’ club of comic jousting and win a round, they have to trade in their other trump card: their beauty. Maybe my father thought of quick wit as inherently masculine, a tool of courtship—and women are meant not to court but be courted. Humor is power, so too is beauty. Men can have both; women have to choose. * In 1947, my mother was a seven-year-old prodigy: a champion figure skater who performed regularly at Rockefeller Plaza, where even her practice sessions drew hundreds of onlookers. Despite her local fame—she was featured in a spread in Collier’s Magazine headlined “Skating Baby''—she was refused membership to the exclusive (and antisemitic) New York Skating Club. “Even as the camps were liberated and the full horrors of the war were exposed to the world,” she would remind me in a tone both wistful and haunted, “even then, the New York Skating Club refused me because I was a Jew.” (In a folder among my mother’s papers, I discovered a cache of letters exchanged by my grandfather and the New York Skating Club’s board, dancing around the “complications” of admitting his little girl.) Is it any wonder that my mother, like so many Jewish women of Ephron’s generation, and their mothers before them, prided themselves on cultural assimilation, on their ability to erase any trace of their origins or nationality—their otherness—and on melting into (white) gentile society? In her posthumous memoir Shy, Mary Rodgers, author of the Freaky Friday trilogy and daughter of composer Richard Rodgers, addresses the pathos inspired by early-twentieth-century distaste for Jewish women. Of her mother, she writes that she “was, or at least was promoted as, a rich East Side girl, a princess, an Edith Wharton character except Jewish—though… she tended to downplay that. She was, au fond, anti-Semitic, even though her mother had helped to create the Federation of Jewish Charities thrift shops. Her anti-Semitism was really a version of class paranoia, and we all had it.” My own mother loved to say that Irving Berlin, “née Bailin,” invented American Christmas by penning the holiday classic “White Christmas.” (He also wrote the song “Easter Parade.”) She loved stories of Jewish immigrants who outdid the gentiles at their own game. So was she praising these Jews for their artistic prowess or for their success at erasing their own Jewishness? Unable to resolve the cognitive dissonance of my mother’s conflicted value system, I absorbed it nonetheless. Being Jewish meant you had to hide in plain sight, but also be surpassingly excellent. It meant fiercely supporting your cultural kin while rejecting the origin of that kinship. Other experiences reinforced the dissonance. I began working as an actor in television when I was 11. My agent, the fabulous chain-smoking Arletta Proche, had an office on Sunset Boulevard, a block away from where I lived in seventh grade. One day I came in to pick up sides for an audition, and Arletta told me to sit down. “We need to change your name,” she began breezily, as she reached down to pet one of the shaggy wolfhounds napping under her desk. (My last name was my father’s: Engelberg.) “I’m very limited in what I can send you in for with that name, because you don’t look Jewish,” Arletta continued. That was 1987, an era when Hollywood funneled “ethnic types” into the category of “character actor,” while “white bread types” could audition for leading roles. Ironically, a character actor is defined as one skilled enough to transform entirely for each role, but the connotation was the opposite; “character actor” was slang for anyone “ethnic-looking.” Meanwhile, I occupied a grey zone: I didn’t look gentile, but I didn’t look like what Hollywood thought Jews looked like, either. At 11, I was cast in a true-crime miniseries that starred Lee Remick as the Mormon-turned-Manhattan socialite Francis Bradshaw, who infamously murdered her father before he had a chance to disown her. She then used her fortune to buy membership on the board of the New York City Ballet. Her daughter, whom I played, studied at the company’s training ground, the School of American Ballet. Lee Remick, for those too young to remember her, was a virtual cartoon of a “shiksa goddess,” and my mother expressed both surprise and delight that I had “squeaked through” the casting process. What tipped the balance was their need for a real ballet dancer—the opening credits for all three nights featured my character, Ariadne, dancing in The Nutcracker. The production did bleach my hair and even considered contact lenses before filming began. Interestingly, my mother had played Tab Hunter’s sister in a live television production of Hans Brinker and The Silver Skates in 1959, when she was 19. Tab Hunter was a blonde, square-jawed matinee idol, and my mother, whose dark hair was also bleached for her role, told me how awful she felt being photographed next to him. By 13, I believed to my core that not only was there such a thing as looking Jewish, but that Jews who didn’t conform to this physicality had escaped a curse. This luck came with a caveat: If you didn’t “look” Jewish, it was imperative that you didn’t seem Jewish. Keep it under your hat. Be quiet, you made it in. “Quiet” in general seemed to be a good thing. My mother was a feminist, but she was also pragmatic, and she took a dim view of most mens’ ability to tolerate intelligent, outspoken women. (Perhaps my father, whom she divorced when I was 10, had reinforced this belief in his pithy way.) My first crush was a young actor who was far more handsome than he was quick-witted. My heart stopped when he asked me to dance at a mutual friend’s sweet 16. Afterward, we chatted about a movie he liked. I didn’t like it as much, and I told him why. His face transformed and I knew our romance was over before it began. I cried to my mother that night, and she told me that if I ever wanted to date, I had to “tone down the brilliance.” I flashed back to my conversation with the boy, and suddenly imagined myself as a vulture picking over the remains of a  mouse, blood dripping from my witch-like talons. My mother suffered a brain hemorrhage when she was 69. Overnight, she transformed into a helpless child with no short term memory, and went downhill from there. My first and only child was born two years later, when I was 36. Needless to say, my mother was not available for advice and support. Despite being happily married, I was far from having a healthy sense of self worth. The myth of the unattractive, loud-mouthed Jewish woman still shadowed me; and I worked hard to suppress any behavior that might reveal that I was one. And then, at 42, I found Nora Ephron. It happened this way: Anxious about my first mammogram, I stopped beforehand at Barnes & Noble to ease my nerves. The shop had a display for I Feel Bad About My Neck, a collection of Ephron’s earlier essays mixed with more recent reflections on middle age. I’d never felt ready to read a book about middle age before, but now I plucked it from the shelf. I read the first few pages and plunked my money down. I did not feel lonely on the crosstown bus, nor in the dreary waiting room of the Weill Cornell Breast Imaging Center. By the time I left the office that drizzly spring evening, I had finished the book. I immediately moved on to the rest of Ephron’s books: Crazy Salad and Scribble Scribble and Wallflower at the Orgy and Heartburn. In all these books I found sophistication, sagacity, confidence, wit: the jewels that made her prose sparkle. Ephron wrote unsentimental, tough-minded essays, several of which, such as “A Word About Breasts” and “On Having Never Been a Prom Queen,” address the topic of physical beauty. Ephron felt that beauty was a valuable commodity, and indeed, one that she envied, but if a sense that she was not Greta Garbo pervaded her with gloom, she never let it show in her writing. She wrote about political conventions, authors she adored, authors she despised, women’s periodicals, vaginal products, feminism, her enviable good fortune in finding a rent-controlled apartment in New York City. In her autobiographical novel Heartburn, she wrote about humiliation, about being dumped by your husband for another woman near the end of your second pregnancy, whale-like and bloated and waddling to group therapy. Ephron’s humor did not spring from bitterness, but from its opposite: a life-affirming determination to find the upside of a challenge. She also understood that nothing eases pain like laughter. Her essays are now de rigeur, as canonical as, well, “White Christmas” at Christmastime. Finding Ephron’s essays as I entered my forties was serendipitous, or maybe just the opposite: I had instinctively sought what I needed at that time in my life. As a person who had recently gestated, spent three years breastfeeding, and had at last delivered her four-year-old to her first day of preschool, I faced a vista. I now had six hours a day, between dropoff and pickup, in which I could do something other than visit playgrounds, make tiny lunches, and sing lullabies—well, not a vista so much as, say, a view from a decent-sized window. My top priority was earning money. I had begun to sell my own writing here and there, banging out essays while my daughter napped. I wrote on any topic I could snag a few dollars for. (Eight years ago, online periodicals swallowed personal essays the way a whale devours plankton: opening up its giant maw and collecting them en masse with no discrimination.) Anyway, those six free hours gave me some time to ponder my “next act.” Struggling as I was with the changes wrought by motherhood, I craved inspiration. Nora Ephron, who had written about womanhood with unique panache, fit the bill. There are a lot of fanciful qualities that mothers are associated with and saddled by. But our culture rarely sees mothers as glamorous, and at least for my generation and the ones before it, that goes triple for Jewish mothers. Here’s what Nora showed me: that not only could you be glamorous and Jewish, but it could be your very Jewishness—your cultural rhythms, gilded by trace amounts of Yiddish inflection and biting Jewish humor—that was the actual source of your glamor. Nora was the intersection of three identities: woman, Jew, mother. She was also seductively witty, elegantly to the point, and stylish even when discussing her darkest days. As a bonus, for me, she was the daughter of an alcoholic, and handled even this—perhaps especially this—with her characteristic light touch, providing a master class in revelation without maudlin excess. “One day,” Ephron writes in her 2010 essay “The Legend,” “my mother was not an alcoholic, and the next day she was a complete lush.” That’s not how it went down with my own mother, who was hooked on opiates from the time I was a toddler. Like Phoebe Ephron, my mother was a woman of great talent and accomplishment who knew how to throw a dinner party like nobody’s business. She was a competitive figure skater, a dancer on Broadway, and an actress on television, appearing on lots of shows, including Days of Our Lives and Bewitched. But in my youth, she became a speech-slurring, hollow-eyed, pathos-ridden addict. She had her reasons. I shy away from the narrative built on childhood trauma, at least trauma as mild as having a mom who was out of it on prescription drugs. It feels too easy, too undignified, and definitely too personal. Besides, as Mary Rodgers writes, again about her own mother, “You can’t stay angry at people when you understand that they couldn’t help being who they were.” My grandmother had been a stage mother for the ages, hitting my mother over the head with a hairbrush when she didn’t land her jumps and informing her that she was “rotten from the day she was born.” Now that’s the kind of trauma that can alter a life’s path. Later, my mother was torn by marriage from the only city she ever loved and plopped down in the only city she ever hated. Abused from a young age and therefore vulnerable to depression, she could not help who she became. In spite of this, my mother was funny, beautifully dressed, tough and feminine and ineffably, rhythmically Jewish. Like Nora Ephron: Jewish but glamorous. Jewish and glamorous. Glamorous, in part, because she was Jewish. I didn’t notice this in my youth, that my mother's humor and her twist on life were inextricably bound to an ancient tongue and culture she had all but renounced. But I realized it when I read Nora Ephron. Further, Nora had a mom she missed, a mom who was for long periods of her life not a good mother because addiction had stolen her away. Addiction (and then brain injury) stole my mother as well, and Nora’s essays provided the guidance I needed. She gave me a way of looking at the world that made things tolerable: if you laugh, it lifts some of the emotional burden of life. Also, it is possible to speak your mind—and write—without self-indulgence. Get over yourself, she seems to say. Have some perspective. Laugh and the world laughs with you. In her 2013 essay collection, Sister Mother Husband Dog, Nora’s sister Delia Ephron characterized their mother this way: “My mother believed in non-conformity. We, her daughters, were expected to be non-conformists, too.” In their house, she continues, “laughter was the point, not prayer.” There’s a lot to unpack in that sentence. It is a rejection of the religion that marks Jews as “other,” but also a declaration of humor as a cultural fingerprint. Ethnic shame and cultural pride have long tangoed in the bloodstreams of American Jews. Phoebe Ephron might have offered mixed lessons on being Jewish, but her belief in feminism was wholehearted. To get out of PTA meetings, Phoebe would say, “You’ll just have to tell them your mother can’t be there, she has to work.” Nora recalls Phoebe as a mother “who had it all, before there was such a thing.” My mother’s deepest regret was not returning to her career after she had her children. Whatever you do, she warned, don’t give up. My mother found other ways to assert her identity after she became a mother, however small and ineffectual. For example, she loved to tell people that two days after she gave birth to my sister, she was at Saks Fifth Avenue for the annual glove sale. It used to annoy my sister, our mother’s pride in her instant postpartum fitness and her rejection of such gooey things as breastfeeding and proximity to her newborn. But my mother, whether she knew it or not, was expressing something more significant: She was still a person. She was a person who had had a baby, but she could still leave the house for the sake of fashion or a bargain or whatever other errand she felt justified the departure. Meanwhile, when Heartburn was published, Ephron was pilloried by the press: “The infidelity of husband toward a wife is banal compared to the infidelity of a mother toward her children,” read the astonishingly misogynistic Vanity Fair review. “Here is Carl Bernstein and adultery; there is Nora Ephron and child abuse. It is no contest.” So Ephron was a terrible mother—nay, an abuser—for writing about her husband’s infidelity because writing about it would damage her sons. The mind boggles. Richard Cohen, a friend of Ephron’s who wrote about her in his 2017 book She Made Me Laugh, affirms that among their social circle, it was “a common refrain. What about the kids? What about Max and Jacob? When they grew up, what would they think of their father… They would be the talk of the Upper West Side sliding pond, the sandbox, the lox line at Zabar’s. They would be ruined.” To be clear: Heartburn is about a woman’s distress at the end of her marriage. It’s about feeling foolish and fat and forgotten, and about negotiating with life for a better narrative, a happier act two. Heartburn is not about Ephron’s sons; it does not reconstruct moments from their childhoods, such as their malapropisms, or their first crushes, or whether their favorite stuffed toys were elephants or teddy bears. (Meanwhile, male writers like Calvin Trillin built careers in part by writing about their kids’ quirks, to the tune of dollar signs and critical acclaim.) As for what the boys would think of their own father, is it incumbent upon spouses who’ve been cheated on to keep the treachery secret? Their dad did something dishonorable, but it falls to the mother to keep it hidden? Frankly, I’d rather my own mother have written a comic souffle about my father’s many infidelities than simply relay the bad news in dreary conversations. Still, her flaw in talking about it too much was nothing compared to his flaw in committing the offense. I loved and adored my father—he was a terrific dad in numerous ways and I miss him terribly—but my own dealings with him taught me that he was no saint, and certainly not the feminist he thought himself to be. If anyone thought Heartburn revealed anything that the boys and their social circles didn’t know about already, they had another think coming. * The German Jews who arrived on America’s shores in the first great wave considered themselves more cultivated than the second-wave Jews from Russia, who were mostly peasants. German Jews, who tended to come from cities, were more refined, less religious, and eager to become “American.” Many of them considered the Eastern European Jews who followed an embarrassment. “Ordinarily, the earlier Jewish immigrants tried to emulate the social graces of the old guard,” writes Michael Alexander in Jazz Age Jews. “Unlike children of the great Eastern European migrations, descendents of earlier immigrants tended more readily to adopt the social views of the American establishment…. That is to say, when earlier waves of immigrant Jews had come to America they identified up, not down.” Mary Rodgers writes in her memoir that her mother made sure that people knew she came from a higher class than her husband, the illustrious Richard Rodgers: “She claimed her people were German Jews, unlike my father’s, who were Russian.” As for my own mother, she was always inexplicably proud of her grandmother’s recipe for lentil soup. “It’s German lentil soup,” she would explain. Rye bread without caraway seeds? Not in my mother’s house! That was Russian rye. In The Follies of God, author James Grissom quotes Elia Kazan’s reflection on the psychological forces that drive people throughout their lives: ”Always go to the beginnings. The real person will always be found there.” Kazan was speaking of the actress Jessica Tandy, who carried the shame of childhood poverty into her adult life. She was careful to hide any trace of her origins, to compensate with acute attention to her demeanor in the public sphere. Kazan says that he cast Tandy as Blanche in “A Streetcar Named Desire” after seeing that “she understood the lies we tell in order to survive.” In at least one of her essays, I sense that Nora Ephron is telling one such lie. In "Journalism: A Love Story," Ephron writes that Condé Nast editor Jane Green served as a role model: “She was an older woman, about twenty-five, very stylish and sophisticated, and she knew everyone too.” Green, Ephron continues, also once asked her “what kind of Jew” she was. About which Ephron writes: “I had never heard of the concept of what kind of Jew you were. Jane was a German Jew, which was not to say she was from Germany but that her grandparents had been. She was extremely pleased about it. I had no idea it mattered.” I don’t believe that Nora Ephron had “never heard” of the concept of “what kind of Jew you were”—it was too common a refrain in Jewish households of the era. It was still common in households of my era. But claiming that she hadn’t heard of it implies indifference, and indifference implies confidence—that she was so carefree, so certain of herself that she was oblivious to social distinctions. I think this was Nora’s “lie.” It is a blink-and-you-miss-it kind of lie, one that only women particularly invested in this part of her identity—such as myself—might catch. But the lie fell apart later on. Nora’s cover was blown by what she later produced: her films. * In a recent essay for the New Yorker, Rachel Syme writes that “the great irony of Ephron’s afterlife is how quickly she’s been reduced to sentimental lore. Since her death… the romanticization of her work has swelled like a movie score. A writer of tart, acidic observation has been turned into an influencer: revered for her aesthetic, and for her arsenal of life-style tips. On TikTok, memes like ‘Meg Ryan Fall’—the actress starred in Ephron hits like When Harry Met Sally, Sleepless in Seattle, and You’ve Got Mail—celebrate the prim oxford shirts, baggy khakis, and chunky knit sweaters that Ephron immortalized on screen. Syme goes on to blame her fans’ conflation of the writer “with the genre—romance—that she interrogated. I wish this were true. Instead, the fault lies not with Nora’s fans, but with Nora herself. Screenwriting was her second act, or maybe her third, depending on how you divide her career. The first film she both wrote and directed was autobiographical; it was called This Is My Life, and it starred Julie Kavner as a stand-in for Nora. The film bombed both critically and commercially. From this she seemed to learn the lesson that a Jewish actress with a Jewish sensibility was not something that could carry the box office. And I think she made a decision: never again. Even before she cast Meg Ryan as her journalist counterpart in When Harry Met Sally, she cast Meryl Streep as Rachel Stamsat in the film adaptation of Heartburn. Rarely does Streep fail to convey the essence of a character, but on more than one occasion, she has failed at believably playing a Jew. By the time we get to When Harry Met Sally, Meg Ryan plays Ephron’s stand-in. Ephron had written that she had “no idea” that it mattered “what kind of Jew” she was. “And by the way,” she continued, “it didn’t really. Those days were over.” Maybe she believed that when she wrote those words, but it’s hard to fathom that she still believed it when she was casting Meg Ryan as her movie counterpart. Let me start with a caveat: I love When Harry Met Sally as much as anyone of a certain age—by which I mean people old enough to have seen it for the first time in an actual movie theater. Still, it marks a transition: Ephron’s foot on the slippery slope to her own erasure. It is a Christmas card of a movie, featuring what is arguably the greatest montage of snowy New York City images ever. Yes, there is some biting dialogue, and even discernibly Jewish couples describing their youthful exploits, but overall, it is a gentile film in look and feel. And then we get to Sleepless in Seattle and You’ve Got Mail, films so treacly and poorly plotted one would never guess they were written by the same woman who penned Heartburn. The films are airbrushed of any trace of the real Nora Ephron, or at least who she was when she invented herself as a writer. It is the blandness that is the most disappointing, or maybe the way the camera lingers on Meg Ryan’s lustrous hair and sparkling blue eyes. Or it’s that the characters Ryan plays—still ostensibly stand-ins for Nora—have been knee-capped by sweetness. Where is the acerbic wit, the joy in iconoclasm, the confidence that made her essays distinct? If people love the films for the chunky knit sweaters, it’s because their visual aesthetic is all there is to love about them. The words are no longer the point. It makes me think about how Nora Ephron ultimately rejected her idol, Dorothy Parker. Syme writes that “once Ephron started reading deep into Parker’s work, she found much of it to be corny and maudlin and, to use Ephron’s withering words, so embarrassing.” But that’s because Ephron wasn’t looking in the right place. Had Ephron ever read, for example, Parker’s essay introducing James Thurber’s collection, Men, Women, and Dogs? The piece is written with a masterful mixture of delicacy and force. “The Telephone Call,” one of Parker’s short stories, remains a startlingly accurate and nuanced portrait of romantic heartache. Many years ago, my father asserted that a beautiful woman couldn’t tell a joke. Ephron seems to agree with him in her films, or is at least willing to play to this peculiar convention. Meg Ryan is mostly the straight man to Billy Crystal in When Harry Met Sally. True, Carrie Fisher gets a few terrific punchlines, but her character is the “unconventional” sidekick.  But Ephron’s essays (and one novel)  are another story: in those, Ephron is the leading lady and the funny one. Which is precisely what made her so beautiful to me. She had escaped the trap; she had been sharply assertive and intensely appealing at the same time. Men were charmed by her and women wanted to be her. She made bluntness an artform and made female confidence an aesthetic standard for other women to aspire to. She made a keen sense of humor as stylish as a vintage Chanel handbag. She was glamorous not despite her humor, but because of it. She sent my father to the naughty chair with her words, banished the rules about gender and humor with the swoop of her pen. At least she did for me. In response to a beautiful friend complaining that she was “losing her looks,” Ephron once wrote: “One of the few advantages to not being beautiful is that one usually gets better-looking as one gets older; I am, in fact, at this very moment, gaining my looks.” This is Ephron at her best; even as she reveals a hard-nosed acceptance of her own lack of traditional beauty, she spreads her lustrous feathers with a brilliant bon mot. And the sentiment expresses something I hope could be true for all women, whatever mythologies distort our self-images: we should all be gaining as we get older; gaining in self-worth by tossing out the beliefs that have made us fear raising our hands in school, being clever, or demanding credit for our work. Because wising up and claiming your spot in the world? Well, let’s just say it’s a very good look. [millions_email]