→ February 9, 2019
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There There.

Tommy Orange’s debut novel There There draws its title from multiple sources, including the great Radiohead song of that name and the oft-used but misunderstood Gertrude Stein quote about Oakland, which might give you some idea of how hazy and broad the novel is as a whole. With twelve central characters in a novel of a scant 290 pages – including a lot of white space – there are interesting ideas but, for readers who like to connect with characters in novels they read, not much there here.

Orange is Native American, a enrolled member of the Cheyenne and Arapaho Tribes of Oklahoma (I was ignorant of this idea of enrollment before this) and the idea of being Native American in our current society, which simultaneously fetishizes aspects of indigenous cultures while putting substantial pressure on people of Native descent to assimilate. The twelve characters in There There are connected by a complex web of biological relationships and coincidental acquaintances, all of which leads them to a major pow-wow at whatever it is we’re calling the Oakland A’s stadium right now. Several of the characters plan to rob the powwow using 3D printed guns made by yet another character, which, of course, leads to a mass shooting event that closes out the book. (That’s a spoiler, but if you don’t see that coming by everything that comes before, we may need to talk about foreshadowing.)

The characters themselves don’t get enough page time to develop any depth or to distinguish themselves from each other – it’s not always this simple, but 14-15 pages per character doesn’t give the author much time to develop them – so I had a particularly hard time keeping their relationships straight. That’s exacerbated by what I assume was a major point of Orange’s – that the fractured nature of Native Americans living in a sort of parallel or shadow world next to ours can lead to fractured family relationships. Nobody in this novel has or grew up in a nuclear two-parent home where all members were biologically related, and many were raised by someone other than a parent. In that sense, the lack of definition around the characters works in the novel’s favor, because every individual seems just a little out of focus – and from the way many of them describe their upbringings, that may also represent how they feel.

There are other elements of Native culture present in the book that didn’t make sense to me in context, although I could simply have failed to understand them because I know so little about Native traditions. Several characters report pulling spiders’ legs out of their own legs – they’ll have a wound or cyst of some sort, and then will pull strands out of them that resemble spiders’ legs. It’s the only bit of magical realism in the novel – assuming that’s what it is – and it’s never explained, eventually just disappearing without explanation. If that’s a symbol, I missed it, and yet felt like there was something significant about the descriptions that I needed to grasp to fully understand the book.

And then there’s the mass shooting, which, unfortunately, is way too familiar in contemporary fiction, which is of course an artifact of how familiar mass shootings are in American life today. The way the shooting plays out makes it feel like a jumble of knots Orange used to tie off all of the loose threads he’d created over the course of the novel, and avoids the trap of having to give each of these characters individual endings. The failure to develop any of the characters also makes the ending – some are shot, at least one dies, some do heroic things – surprisingly inert for what should be an evocative portrayal of a gigantic trauma. You should feel something when a significant named character dies on the page; I was still trying to sort out who was who, leaving me disconnected from everything that happened to them.

I heard of There There from a site that tries to predict each year’s Pulitzer winner so that collectors can try to get first editions; this was currently their most likely title to win, although I don’t believe they had last year’s winner, Less, on their board at all. (They nailed the previous year’s winner, The Underground Railroad.) Perhaps they’re right – it has been positively reviewed, and stories about Native Americans in modern America would fit the Pulitzer’s guidelines favoring stories about the American experience. It just didn’t click with me in the least.

Next up: Already more than halfway through the Booker Prize-winning novel The Finkler Question by Howard Jacobson.

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→ January 17, 2019
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Milkman.

Anna Burns became the first Northern Irish writer to win the Man Booker Prize when her third novel, Milkman, took the honor in 2018. It’s an experimental novel, atypical for Booker winners, that reads like a more accessible Faulkner, and combines a story of the Troubles with the staunchly feminist narrative of its 18-year-old narrator for a result that is unlike anything I’ve read before.

Characters in Milkman go without names, including the narrator, a young woman who walks around with her head in a book and is literally and figuratively oblivious to the internecine warfare occurring around her, as well as the titular milkman – well, both milkmen. The milkman of the title isn’t actually a milkman, but rides around in a white van as if he were one. He’s in his 40s, associated with a local paramilitary group, and stalks the narrator while ensuring that everyone in their tightknit, gossip-ridden community knows that she is his, to the point where others, including her own mother, assume that she’s indeed having an affair with this dangerous, older man. There’s also a real milkman, whose role becomes apparent as the novel progresses; ‘maybe boyfriend,’ whom the narrator has been seeing for a year, who’s obsessed with cars, and whose life may be endangered by not-really Milkman; Tablets girl, who runs around poisoning people, including her own sister and eventually the narrator, but everyone seems to just take it as part of life; the boy the narrator calls Somebody McSomebody, who also tries to threaten the narrator into becoming his girl, which ends rather poorly for him in one of the novel’s few scenes of actual violence; and far more.

Burns layers a story of personal terror inside a story of the societal terror that affected Northern Ireland for decades. The narrator’s life is turned upside down by this unwanted attention from a man she barely even knows, but whose reputation in the community is enough to scare her and to convince everyone else she’s submitted to him willingly (even though she never submits to him at all). When the Milkman stalks her, he also inducts her, against her will, into a theater of the absurd that mirrors reality from that time and place, where violence split Catholics and Protestants, where any official authority was seen as essentially Ours or Theirs, where an act that shouldn’t merit a second thought, like going to the hospital, would be fraught with political and social implications. She’s suddenly seen to have taken sides, and even finds herself the unwitting beneficiary of the fear others have of the paramilitaries, which further underlines for her how potent the impact of this one man’s attentions towards her are.

Burns also surrounds her narrator with families who’ve been hurt by the violence in the community, directly or indirectly, including the one mother who, by the end of the novel, seems to have lost her husband and every one of her children to direct violence, related accidents, or suicide. The narrator’s father is dead when the novel opens, while her mother is a tragicomic figure who is convinced her daughter is a sinner, who believes every rumor she hears about her daughter (some from ‘first brother-in-law,’ who is both a gossip-monger and a creep), and who goes into hysterics over every bit of innuendo, which the narrator never wants to even acknowledge because it merely prolongs the agony.

Milkman is still quite funny and even hopeful in parts among the litter of tragedies and the ever-present specter of the stalker, although we do learn at the start of the novel that he’ll die before it’s over. The narrator’s third brother-in-law, while a peculiar man himself, takes on a protector role over his young sister-in-law, as does Real Milkman, whose interest in her is a side effect of his romantic interest in her mother. There are also signs of intelligent life amidst the gossips and harridans, including the “issue women,” a group of seven residents who embrace feminism when one hears of it in town and starts up a local women’s group in the backyard shed of one of the members (because her husband wouldn’t allow it in the house).

Of course, this is all set against the ever-present backdrop of the Troubles and you don’t need to know much at all about that conflict to appreciate Burns’ depiction of the effects of the sectarian violence on this particular neighborhood. Burns draws and redraws the picture of this time and place with swirling, inventive prose, in paragraphs that go on for days, often putting unlikely vocabulary in the mouths of her characters – esoteric or archaic words, or even words she’s just made up – to provide further much to the narrative. It’s not as difficult as Faulkner or Proust, but shows the influence of those early 20th century writers at the same time, both in a technical aspect and in how Burns uses her experimental sentence structure and vocabulary to contribute the reader’s sense of unease.

I’ve only read a few of the contenders for this year’s Booker but can at least understand why this novel won. It also feels like the third straight year where the prize has gone to a novel that does something different, as opposed to the prize’s history of going to literary works that still adhere to the traditional form and intentions of the novel. I could imagine this novel seeming abstruse to readers outside of the UK, given its setting during the Troubles, but that’s merely the backdrop for a rich, textured story that is as relevant today (with its #MeToo similarities) as it would be to a reader of that time and place.

Next up: A little light reading, Albert Camus’ The Plague.

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→ October 10, 2018
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Sabrina.

I’ve said a few times that I’ve never been a fan of comic books, neither as a kid even when I had friends who liked them nor as an adult when longer versions of these, often called graphic novels, have crossed over somewhat into the mainstream and even earned critical acclaim. Alan Moore’s Watchmen is often cited as the greatest or one of the greatest graphic novels ever published, but I found it thin, clichéd, and very short on plot. The form itself isn’t conducive to great storytelling because so much real estate is dedicated to the images that pushing a narrative forward becomes secondary to the artwork, and creating a plot worthy of the term “novel” would require several hundred more pages and, I imagine, a substantial amount of additional work for the artist.

So when Nick Drnaso’s Sabrina showed up on the longlist for this year’s Man Booker Prize, becoming the first graphic novel to earn the honor, my immediate question was whether the work was worthy as a novel, or simply there because of the novelty of the format. (It didn’t make the six-title shortlist, announced a few weeks ago; this year’s winner will be announced next Tuesday.) I can at least say, however, that Sabrina uses the graphic novel’s form to enhance the underlying story, adding to the senses of dread, suspense, and isolation that affect its central characters, while also creating a jarring sensation of unease as Drnaso switches settings without visual or textual warnings. The story itself is also different, with three interlocking narratives stemming from a single source, telling a contemporary tale of our disastrous modern media environment and how it affects the psyches of vulnerable people.

Sabrina herself only appears in a few panels at the start of the book; her disappearance and the discovery of her murder at the hands of a stranger set off the three main threads of the plot. Her boyfriend Teddy, devastated and unmoored by these events, goes to stay with his friend Calvin, an Air Force serviceman stationed in Colorado who works a job that is socially and emotionally isolating, while Sabrina’s sister Sandra is left to try to cope with her loss and the detritus of Teddy’s life with her sister. After Sabrina’s death is discovered and someone leaks video the killer recorded of her murder (never shown or described in much detail, but implied to be highly graphic), the story becomes the focus of American news outlets for several days, after which the mainstream media moves on to the next murder, allowing conspiracy theorists to step in, claiming the murder was staged as a false flag event and that the three protagonists of the book are actually crisis actors. Teddy ends up listening to an Alex Jones clone on the radio while he’s holed up in Calvin’s house, refusing to leave, even though doing so furthers his isolation and essentially claims his grief is fraudulent, while Calvin and Sandra are doxxed and harassed by delusional randos (including a stand-in for the fired FAU professor James Tracy, himself a Sandy Hook hoaxer).

There’s more narrative depth here than you’d find in a short story, albeit probably less than you’d get even in a 200-page novel; there is only so much a writer-artist can do with the aforementioned problem of visual real estate. Drnaso compensates brilliantly by packing subtext into many panels, with or without dialogue, that support that ongoing sense of unease or psychological imbalance. When the characters don’t feel ‘right,’ it’s immediately apparent in the panels – with their facial expressions or posture, with the angles from which Drnaso depicts them, and even sometimes with his use of lighter or darker shading in specific panels.

Sabrina probably also benefits in the minds of critics and readers for how of the moment the story is. We are inundated with fake or slanted news reports from sources outside the mainstream who have gamed various algorithms to appear higher on social media feeds or search engine results – I’ve seen links to Daily Caller and Gateway Pundit, both alt-right blogs with minimal editorial controls or regard for veracity in their stories, appear in the first ten results of Google searches – and conspiracy theories follow every tragedy that hits the news. The effects of this, itself an extension of our increased alienation from each other as we spend more time online and less in the real world, on something as difficult and fundamental as grief, especially when processing the horrible and sudden death of a loved one, are enough fodder for a book this length and then some. Drnaso has taken a critical, timely subject, and presented it in a new way, both with his art and with his storycraft, to produce a work that is worthy of the praise it’s received.

Next up: I’m reading an Agatha Christie novel before diving into Vernor Vinge’s mammoth Hugo-winning novel A Deepness in the Sky.

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→ September 20, 2018
→ By

Florida.

The National Book Award announced its longlist for its 2018 fiction prize last week, and among the ten titles was Florida, the new short story collection from Lauren Groff. She was previously nominated for the same honor for her 2015 novel Fates and Furies, which earned widespread critical acclaim and was also shortlisted for the National Book Critics Circle Award. Florida is a good bit shorter and showcases Groff’s ability to craft a compelling narrative in just a handful of pages, with the typical inconsistency of most short story collections but some standouts that rank among the best things I’ve read all year.

The stories in Florida are connected only by that state, which is the setting for most of them and the place of origin for central characters in the others, with recurring themes across stories like the pernicious effects of climate change (including the existential fears it causes for various characters), physical or metaphorical sinkholes, or growing income disparity in a state often associated with ostentatious wealth. Groff paints a grim portrait of the state’s present and its future in stories that range from psychological horror to pleas for empathy, turning the so-called “Sunshine State” into a vaguely menacing and often depressing backdrop for stories of lives gone awry.

The best story in the book – and quite possibly the best story of any length I’ll read in 2018 – is “Above and Below,” which tells of an adjunct professor who slides far too easily into homelessness and follows her over several weeks and months of living in her car, in a homeless encampment, in a flophouse hotel, and more, documenting her own feelings through the process of simply trying to stay alive and safe. The story, about 30 pages long, manages to touch on so many aspects of the protagonist’s life, including her broken relationship with her mother and stepfather, as well as the way superficial factors affect our sense of self and how people within our lives can quickly become invisible to us. There’s so much heartbreak in this brief work that I found it easy to understand and empathize with the main character, even though I’ve never experienced any of this; nothing hit me harder than the moment when she thinks she’s been recognized by a former coworker and is mortified by the thought of him seeing her in her current state, only to realize he’s seen right through her and is looking at someone else.

The other true standout in the collection is “Dogs Go Wolf,” which reads like a horror story, with two young girls left alone in an island cabin by their mother who may be off partying (although as with most off-screen details in Florida, Groff leaves much of this ambiguous) while a storm approaches and the girls’ supplies start to dwindle. They’re young enough to be scared of imminent threats but probably should be more scared about who’s going to rescue them, and manage to keep themselves feeling somewhat safe by telling each other stories – a theme, that stories can nourish and comfort us, that recurs throughout the novel in all manner of settings.

One maddening aspect of Florida is Groff’s insistence on leaving characters without names. Once in a while, it can be a clever rhetorical device, something that helps make a story seem more universal, or that can emphasize the dehumanizing experiences a character undergoes, but when every story has the same feature, it begins to feel like affect rather than a purposeful decision on the part of the author. The opening and closing stories appear to include the same central character, a woman who in the first part is trying to avoid making a scene at home after dinner and in the second has her two young sons with her on a quixotic working vacation to research Guy de Maupassant in France, but she’s also one of the least sympathetic figures in the entire collection, someone who hamstrings herself with questionable choices and rash decisions, and even in 70-plus pages featuring her, the reasons for her odd behavior are never made clear.

I haven’t read any other nominees for the National Book Award yet, so I have no idea where Florida might rank, but I do expect to see it come up frequently in best-of-2018 lists given its quality and Groff’s history. It’s certainly miles ahead of the latest Pulitzer Prize for Fiction winner, the forgettable novel Less, with stories here that will stay with me for months, and a hazy, sluggish atmosphere throughout the collection that left me feeling dazed the way a humid summer day in Florida itself would.

Next up: Nancy Mitford’s The Pursuit of Love.

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