Zero: The Biography of a Dangerous Idea

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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]

An Essay About Nothing

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"Nothing will come of nothing: speak again." —William Shakespeare, King Lear (1606) Amongst the Adirondack woods outside of Hurley, New York is the Maverick Concert Hall, built from unadorned timber and topped with a wood-shingled and corrugated metal roof. On an evening in late August of 1952, an audience gathered here for the premier of nine works, including Pierre Boulez's polyrhythmic "First Piano Sonata" and Henry Cowell's The Banshee, in which the pianist must manipulate the instrument's strings. The organizers had used the I Ching to ascertain the program's order. By fortuitous coincidence, the most notorious composition was performed last. Written by John Cage, already among the most daring of American composers, it would be performed by David Tudor, a brilliant Swarthmore-trained pianist. Louis Menand writes in The Free World: Art and Thought in the Cold War that Tudor "was an indispensable figure in postwar avant-garde music because he was one of the few people in the world who could play it," a prodigy adept in discordance and atonality, but whose most challenging performance was at Maverick. Sitting down at the piano, Tudor opened his sheet music, started a stopwatch, and closed the fallboard. He then sat silently for 30 seconds while simply turning the score's pages. Tudor repeated these actions for the second movement, this time for two minutes and 23 seconds, and then for a third movement of one minute and 40 seconds. The score was nothing but a rest lasting for four minutes and 33 seconds. During the premier of 4'33", Tudor recalled that the audience was "incensed." Murmuring in the crowd, some shuffling, then sighing, and finally people getting up to leave as Tudor sat there. Though Cage was the composer of strange and incandescent music—Imaginary Landscape No. 1, which relies on using a phonograph as an instrument; Credo in Us, which uses a radio; and the minimalist and sanctified String Quartet in Four Parts—4'33" is the piece with which he became most associated. Ironically, beforehand Cage most brought to mind noise. The son of a Los Angeles inventor, he made his own instruments from hubcaps and brake drums, and pioneered the prepared piano wherein he placed utensils, screws, and bolts on the strings to produce a jarring cacophony. This was the man who in his 1937 manifesto The Future of Music had written, "I believe that the use of noise to make music will continue and increase," accurately predicting the advent of electronic music, "which will make available for musical purposes any and all sounds that can be heard." And now the composer would forever be linked with silence. From Cage's perspective, however, that night Maverick was resplendent with beautiful noises. In a Saturday Evening Post interview from 1968, he recalled, "You could hear the wind stirring outside during the first movement. During the second, raindrops began pattering on the roof, and during the third the people themselves made all kinds of interesting sounds as they talked or walked out." Sometimes the composition is reduced to gimmick, a pretentious stunt, but Cage had steadfastly worked at 4'33'', using tarot cards rather to decide the exact length of each movement. He would go on to say that it was his favorite piece. Menand explains that this work was "committed to a traditional view of art as a transformative experience, and [Cage and Tudor were] highly disciplined," with the latter counting out the exact length of each rest. Like much of experimental classical composition or modern art, if taken on its own terms 4'33'' is beautiful, a song that can be performed by anyone, anywhere, at any time. If you were at Maverick, you would have heard the cool wind of primordial autumn through the Hudson Valley, the summer's last crickets singing, the gentle patter of soft rain on a corrugated metal roof. Only the Western suspicion of nothingness causes some to dismiss the composition as joke or flatulence; such is the inability to countenance the absent, the silent, the void, whether in art and music, or nature and mathematics. Drawing from his own fascination with Zen Buddhism, Cage had become enraptured by the possibilities of silence—of nothingness. "It was at once a head-spinning philosophical statement and a Zen-like ritual of contemplation," writes Alex Ross in The Rest is Noise: Listening to the Twentieth Century, "a piece that anyone could have written, as skeptics never failed to point out, but, as Cage seldom failed to respond, no one else did." * On the hard rock of the ninth-century Chaturbhuj Temple in Madhya Pradash there is an otherwise inauspicious symbol chiseled as part of a calculation of the dimensions for a garden that grew flowers for ritual garlands: "0." Not the earliest instance of the number zero, but the most tangible of such antiquity, a little circle holding its emptiness within. Indian mathematicians had been using zero for 600 years by this point, for as early as the third-century the Sanskrit Bakhshali manuscript records a black dot inked onto birch bark as representing the strange number of complete absence. Zero had been gestured towards by mathematicians in other places, in earlier centuries: The Egyptians, for instance, used a numeric placeholder for nothing in their base 10 system, a symbol tellingly identical with the hieroglyph for "beauty," while the Babylonians, within their cumbersome sexagesimal system, signified zero as a merely a gap within numbers, as if something illicit and unspeakable. The Chinese mathematical treatise Sunzi Suanjing deployed a version as early as the first century, and even Ptolemy understood that nothing was often the result of arithmetic. To be out of flax seed, devoid of sorghum, empty of wheat—ancients could understand that. But to have nothing, in a deep, fundamental, elemental, metaphysical way, was contrary to the imagination. And yet nothing is what we got. It wasn't that the Egyptians or Greeks couldn't imagine zero—none of these cultures were mathematical slouches—but as Charles Seife writes in Zero: The Biography of a Dangerous Idea, the concept was so "abhorrent… that they chose to live without it." Having no pomegranates or dates left over is one thing; having nothing is something else. To the Greeks and Romans it was disorienting, abhorrent, ungodly. As Lucretius would bluntly state in his poem “On the Nature of Things” from the year 50 BCE, "We cannot conceive of matter being formed of nothing." What the Indians discovered was different from what the Babylonians, Egyptians, and Greeks had used. Hindu mathematicians posited that nothing is in fact something. For the Egyptians, the universe was born from the Nile; the Babylonian Enuma Elish described a primordial domain of "waters comingling as a single body," but the Hindu Rig Veda descends into a time before time, when even the "non-existent was not," a nothing so complete that it can consume even itself. By the seventh-century, 200 before the carving at Chaturbhuj, the mathematician Brahmagupta would confidently write in the Brahmasputha Siddhanta that "Zero divided by zero equals zero," among other correct arithmetical principles. Whether born from Vedic metaphysics or not, Indian mathematicians discovered that zero is convenient as more than mere placeholder; it is the invisible regent of the base 10 numeric system. Despite their repugnance at a vacuum, even Westerners would eventually accede to zero's practicality. By the ninth century, the Persian scholar Muhammad ibn Mūsā al-Khwārizmī was using Hindu numerals, which were transmitted to Al-Andalus in the south of what is today Spain, where they then migrated into Latin Christendom, known forever as Arabic numbers. The Italian polymath Fibonacci, of the famed sequence, was responsible for popularizing Arabic numbers and zero, gushing in his Liber Abaci of 1201 that the "nine Indian figures are 987654321. With these nine figures, and with the sign 0, any number may be written." A marked improvement over Roman numerals, zero and its nine siblings were a paradigm shift. Nothing, nil, nix, nada, zed, zero. Perhaps because of its similar pronunciation to the word for the mythic Western wind zephyr, Fibonacci used the Italian neologism zefiro, itself a bastardized translation of the Arabic sifr, which in an evocation of the endless, expansive eternity of the desert means "empty," itself borrowed from the Sanskrit sunya or "void." Even "empty" conveys something, but a void is the most abject darkness. What makes zero fascinating—and troubling—is that despite its unsettling abstraction it's extremely useful. Zero makes it possible to contemplate the deathless eternity of non-existence, as well as to make change at Starbucks. Robert Kaplan writes in The Nothing That Is: A Natural History of Zero that the "disquieting question of whether zero is out there or a fiction will call up the perennial puzzle of whether we invent or discover the way of things." Numbers are the most elegant of objects, for only they remain true while being not real, none of them more so than zero itself. What that in turn forces us to confront is whether or not nothing can ever truly mean anything, or if a vibrant thisness must ever float back in, like the sound of crickets on an upstate New York evening. * Critic James Fitzsimmons, appraising an exhibition at the Stable Gallery in Manhattan in the fall of 1953, succinctly described the nothingness of 26-year-old painter Robert Rauschenberg's White Painting series as a "gratuitously destructive act." No neophyte himself, Fitzsimmons saw Rauschenberg as trading in cynical gimmicks, found objects from boulders to bicycle seats repositioned and given the aura of art, something done by Marcel Duchamp and Man Ray a generation before. "How dull they seem 25 years after Dada," wrote the critic. Yet it was White Paintings that particularly incensed Fitzsimmons. The series comprises five paintings, each of them with various numbers of panels. (Specifically: one, two, three, four, and seven panels.) Rauschenberg had applied commercial paint—the same sort produced by Sherman-Williams—and coated it in varying degrees of thickness across his canvasses. As with the ambient noise in the background of 4'33'', the White Paintings manifest differences of shade and darkness, and the compositions appear altered in various lights throughout the day. Hubert Crehan of Art Digest wasn't buying it; at an exhibition held a year later, he wrote that since Rauschenberg was "[d]etermined to avoid the responsibility of an artist, it is better that he should show blank canvases rather than the contraptions that he has hung in this side show." Rauschenberg, the son of fundamentalist Texans, painted the series in 1951 while at the Black Mountain College, an experimental institution in rural North Carolina that had also attracted such luminaries as choreographer Merce Cunningham and engineer Buckminster Fuller. Writing to his friend Betty Parsons that year, he described these "canvases organized and selected with the experience of time and presented with the innocence of a virgin." For Rauschenberg, it is "completely irrelevant that I am making them—Today is their creator." To immerse yourself in their monochromatic totality is to experience a paradox of nothingness. "Zero is powerful because it is infinity's twin," writes Seife. "They are equal and opposite, yin and yang. They are equally paradoxical and troubling… nothingness and eternity, the void and the infinite, zero and infinity." Journalists may have been dismissive of the White Paintings, but somebody who wasn't was a Black Mountain College professor who first saw them in Rauschenberg's North Carolina studio, an instructor of music named John Cage who described them in his book Silence as "airports for the lights, shadows and particles." Cage would fully credit Rauschenberg's paintings as the inspiration for his own 4'33''. Part of the enigma of Rauschenberg's paintings and Cage's composition is that although they're concerned with nothing, they're not nothing themselves. They're minimalist, non-representational, and for Fitzsimmons and Crehan they're not very good, but what they aren't is nothing. At best, both 4'33'' and the White Paintings are art which gestures towards nothingness, but it's impossible for them to be nothing. What would art which is nothing even be? Cage composed a song in 1962 entitled 0'0'', the entirety of the score a single sentence which read "In a situation provided with maximum amplification (no feedback), perform a disciplined action." A song entitled 0'00'' can by definition never be played while simultaneously played continuously, since every second is equally divisible by zero. "Dividing by zero," writes Seife, "allows you to prove, mathematically, anything in the universe." Cage and Rauschenberg's focus is the same as the apophatic theologians who adhere to an understanding that no positive qualifiers can be applied to anything as ineffable as God, and so a rhetoric of nothing must be used instead. As the third-century Church Father Tertullian argued in Apologeticus, "That which is infinite is known only to itself," which is equally true of God and nothing, because they're the same thing. Literature contends with the apophatic at a slant. When somebody says that a novel is "about nothing," they normally mean that they found it to be boring. That's not what I'm talking about. None other than Carl Jung wrote a blistering criticism of James Joyce's Ulysses in a 1932 issue of the Europäische Revue, complaining that the author had focused on a "day on which, in all truth, nothing happens. The stream begins in the void and end in the void." Respectfully, lots of stuff happens in Ulysses—Leopold Bloom eats offal, he gets attacked by an antisemite, he goes to a brothel. June 16, 1904 is a memorable day. When we try to imagine a literature that's actually about nothing, we are silenced—what one doesn't say is crucial. That's the method which French author George Perec took in his 1969 novel A Void. Perec was a founding member of the Oulipo, the French "Workshop of Potential Literature," which was composed of both writers and mathematicians fascinated by formal constraint. Perec's book is defined by an absence, written entirely without the letter "e," across an astounding 300 pages. Even more amazingly, A Void was successfully translated into English, where the letter "e" is even more common than in the French. "A gap will yawn, achingly, day by day," writes Perec, "it will turn into a colossal pit, an abyss without foundation, a gradual invasion of words by margins, blank and insignificant, so that all of us, to a man, will find nothing to say." As a description of emptiness, and well-crafted; because of the missing letter it's sublime. Still, it's hard to say that Perec's A Void is any more "about" nothing than Ulysses. It's actually a mystery novel: clues are found, leads are investigated, stuff happens. The radical calligraphic tradition known as "asemic" writing more fully skirts the edge of pure being. The term itself was first used in the late '90s by poets Tim Gaze and Jeff Leftwich, with the former writing in the first issue of the journal Asemic Movement that "anything which looks like writing, but in which the person viewing can't read any words," is asemic. The origins of the form are in eight-century China, around the same time that Indian mathematicians began exporting zero. Independent of undeciphered writing, like the ancient Mycenean script Linear B, or the enigmatic fifteenth-century Voynich manuscript that may or may not mean anything, asemic writing is the production of non-existent letters, illusory words, impossible sentences. Peter Schwenger writes in Asemic: The Art of Writing that the "result is a kind of cognitive dissonance: writing is evoked at the same time that we are estranged from it… something that calls for explanation—that is, a stimulus to thought." Arguably the first to produce such works was the master calligrapher and Tang Dynasty poet Zhang Xu, a member of the Chinese poetic group the Eight Immortals of the Wine Cup. Known for the flourish of his artistry, Zhang would drunkenly produce gorgeous cursive script, all of it meaningless. Along with his student Huaisu, such asemic calligraphy would become a central spiritual practice of Japanese Zen Buddhism, particularly the drawing of the Ensō, a perfect circle produced when the mind is cleared of everything. As with Cage's silence filled with noise or Rauschenberg's absence filled with shadow, so the Ensō has incredible detail, each strand and flourish of the brush producing a slightly different grain each time that the calligrapher draws her perfect circle, which looks exactly like a beautiful black inked number zero. Or, as another example, consider the English occultist, Rosicrucian, hermeticist, and kabbalist Robert Fludd's 1617 account of the universe's creation The Metaphysical, Physical, and Technical History of the Two Worlds, wherein he promises to reveal the secrets of reality's creation and so presents a black page. As with the White Paintings, Fludd's black square isn't uniform; there are places where the printer's ink hasn't adhered equally, where the darkness is both more and less. As if to underscore the relationship between nothingness and its ostensible opposite, Fludd writes at the border of the page (the thin line which is the only portion of not inked): “Et sic in infintum.” And so on to infinity. Eugene Thacker writes in the Public Domain Review that it was as if "Fludd had the intuition that only a self-negating form of representation would be able to suggest the nothingness prior to all existence, an un-creation prior to all creation." That's all that can be done to approach nothingness outside of mathematics: nothing can only be alluded to, and what better way than to enlist the aid of blackness, for as Fludd described that primordial zero it was "mist and darkness of this hitherto shapeless and obscured region… dark, and dense part of the abyss's substance." Another way writers' approach nothing is by still using superficially comprehensible language, but pushing it to the limits of semantic sense. "We turn over this seeming nonsense with a kind of reflective zest, savoring the difference between what it says and what it means," writes Kaplan in The Nothing That Is. Whether by paradox or pun, nothing is cornered obliquely. Kaons, the paradoxical statements of Zen Buddhism, that tradition the most comfortable to dwell in what's empty, often invoke nothingness. "Nothing exists," says the Zen priest, and the short sentence is nonsensical even though grammatically correct. This sort of statement embodies what's counterintuitive about nothing, it must "exist" (even our mathematics wouldn't work without it), but to apply language to it is absurd. Another early instance of playing with nothing’s semantic confusions appears in Homer’s The Odyssey, when Odysseus blinds the cyclops and tells him that his name is "Noman," so that the poor monster cries that "it is no man that is slaying me." And in the seventeenth-century, the notorious libertine John Wilmot played with the concept in his atheistic lyric "Upon Nothing." Critic Stephanie Burt explains in Poetry that Wilmont "relies on a pun, treating 'nothing' sometimes as if it were the name of a thing, the opposite of some other thing, and at other times, more properly, as the absence of any nameable thing." Both Kaons and Wilmot's lyric show the inadequacies of language: "Ere Time and Place were, Time and Place were not, /When primitive Nothing Something straight begot;/Then all proceeded from the great united What." A more contemporary example of the same punning is in John Lennon's lyrics to "Across the Universe" from the album Let it Be. "Nothings gonna change my world," Lennon pleadingly sings in the chorus, alongside his own Hindu mantra. This can be read two ways; either as a statement of stasis, or if "nothing" is an ineffable something as an axiom of transformation. The question is whether the lyric is about adding by zero or multiplying by it—or dividing by it—which is integral. Nothingness is a field of potentiality, electric sparks of maybe flittering in and out of reality. Nothing is the greatest literature. As with kaons, this can be read two ways—either that it's impossible to categorize any one work as better than all the rest, or that some ineffable "nothing" is what is literally the greatest work of literature. I err towards the literal, as paradoxical as it might seem. Fiction is sustained through nothingness, it spins elaborate illusions. Miguel de Cervantes's Don Quixote is a tangible character, but his status is as imagined as those giants. "Thou hast seen nothing yet," Cervantes writes, and it is true, a reader has seen nothing. Then there is the question of where authorial inspiration comes from —from the detritus of scattershot reading and misplaced experience, or from the void itself? In Creation: Artists, Gods & Origins, Peter Conrad asks  "where our ideas come from. The puzzle of origins… is at its most perplexing and enticing when I think about the inception of art. Every time a sentence is written or a line sets out on a journey across a canvas or a row of notes organized into a melody, we see a world being created." Obviously, artists draw inspiration from their influences: there was no Cage without Arnold Schoenberg, no Rauschenberg without Duchamp. And yet there are alternative models as well, for as Conrad writes, "To create… meant to make something out of nothing," for the "creation itself… had no objective existence, no reason to exist at all." Obviously as writers our texts are a tissue of many inspirations, and yet the example of Genesis posits spontaneously generated creation. What would a creation of no influences even look like? It might sound like 4'33'' or look like the White Paintings. For some ancient philosophers, particularly the Stoics and Epicureans, nothing (in the positive sense) was a palliative when confronting death, since nothing isn't to be feared. "Death, therefore, the most awful of evils, is nothing to us," wrote Epicurus, "seeing that, when we are, death is not come, and, when death is come, we are not." (How reassuring this is depends on your disposition.) Nothing and existence are twins in inscrutability, both equally strange and hard to visualize. "Why is there something rather than nothing?" asks William Gottfried Leibnitz in his 1714 treatise Monadology; Martin Heidegger later called this the "fundamental question" in his Introduction to Metaphysics. The earliest form of the query came in the fifth century BCE from Parmenides: "Nothing comes from nothing" was his answer, as good as any response that's been given. * Because the ancient Greeks were so uncomfortable with non-existence, they affirmed that the universe has always been here. Holding to the perennial existence of the universe was dogma in physics until well into the twentieth-century, when both theoretical models and observational data substantiated that there had in fact been a time before time. As early as 1912, astronomers detected a Doppler Shift from distant stars (latter proven by Edwin Hubble to actually be galaxies), the identical phenomenon of wave compression and expansion that explains the change in pitch from a passing car. This alteration in light waves proved that the universe was expanding. Georges Lemaître, a Belgian theoretical physicist and Jesuit priest, proposed that that the universe had once been much smaller— infinitesimally small before it exploded outward creating space and time—and that indeed the universe had first moments. In an article published in a 1931 issue of the journal Nature, Lemaître described the universe's origin from a "primaeval atom," now believed to have happened a little under 14 billion years ago. As a faithful Catholic, Lemaître was excited that the universe had a beginning, something that Genesis allegorically indicated. Partisans of Parmenides were less delighted; astronomer Fred Hoyle emerged as the most steadfast detractor of the hypothesis, with Hoyle having slurred Lemaître's hypothesis in a 1949 BBC interview as being the "Big Bang theory." To explain the seeming expansion of the universe, Hoyle proposed the alternate "steady state theory," which claimed that some unexplained phenomenon continually created new matter which gave the appearance of expansion, even while space and time were eternal. In 1964, however, physicists Arno Penzias and Robert Wilson were able to detect the slight cosmic background radiation that was the after-echo of Lemaître's primeval atom, conclusive evidence that the universe had an origin, and that at one point there had been nothing. The faint whispers of that cataclysmic birth permeate all creation, speaking to us of the time when there was no time, even hidden within the sound of radio static. Centuries before Lemaître, the doctrine of Creatio ex nihilo held that God generated existence from nothing, a direct rebuke to Parmenides and the eternal universe of the Greeks. Translations of Genesis are variable—arguably the ex-nihilo rendering is inaccurate—but by the third-century it had become the preferred interpretation. First associated with Theophilus of Antioch in the third century, by the fourth the Church Father Ephrem the Syrian would confidently write in his commentary on Genesis that "it is evident that heaven and earth came to be from nothing." A radical shift in Western consciousness, this embrace of nothingness. That the Rig Veda and Genesis share nothingness is perhaps a clue as to why zero was embraced when it was introduced to Christendom. To imagine that God created the world from nothing is to imagine nothing, and that's to court madness, and also to imagine that the latter encompasses the former. "One may wonder, 'What came before?'" asks physicist Andrei Linde in an interview from Awake! magazine. "If space-time did not exist then, how could everything appear from nothing?" He argues that this "remains the most intractable problem of modern cosmology." In the fourth-century, St. Augustine had an exasperated answer when queried about that question: "[God] was preparing hells for people who inquire into such profundities." Which is hilarious, and also not what he said. Augustine actually offered up this reply an example of the precise answer that shouldn't be given Rather Augustine admitted,as he did often, that "I am ignorant of what I do not know." Nothing, ultimately, exists beyond physics and metaphysics, it's something wholly total, alien, and other, and yet only this non-existence beyond non-existence makes it possible for there to be a something. Sixteen years ago, in a laboratory on the campus of Brandeis University, psychologist Irene Pepperberg discovered that a 28-year-old African grey parrot named Alex could conceive of zero. Able to count groupings of colored blocks, when all of the objects were removed from in front of him, Alex correctly identified the result as "none." Later, when asked what the difference was between two blocks of identical shape, size, and color, Alex responded the same way. Possessor of over 100 words and the only animal recorded to have asked a question (he wanted to know the name of the color grey), Alex had the intelligence of a two-year-old child, according to Pepperberg, though most humans can't use zero until kindergarten. Alex joined a rarefied group of creatures capable of subtracting a number from itself, including crows, squirrel monkeys, chimpanzees, and even honey bees. Zero threads through existence, not-being and being inseparable from each other, as everything is built on a foundation of that which is not. Without the rest, there is no music; without the interior, there is no bowl. To live without meaning is to live for itself, the purest form of equivalence that there is. Both nothingness and infinity are closer than our very heartbeats. On the evening before Alex unexpectedly died, he turned to his guardian and said "You be good, I love you. See you tomorrow," as wise and true as anything ever said. Like all of us, he either merged with nothing or the infinite, but if you've been paying attention, you already understand that there is no difference. [millions_email]