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Susan Sontag, Wayne Koestenbaum tells us, "ate the world." If anybody’s appetite could rival hers its Koestenbaum’s. Here is a writer who scrutinizes every subject--Andy Warhol and Debbie Harry, opera and poetry, his own sexuality--with restless curiosity and creativity. The title piece--a hilarious, devastating account of surviving the AIDS crisis—is easily one of the best essays I’ve read in a long time.
Tinti (editor-in-chief of the amazing One Story magazine) earned plenty of comparisons to Robert Louis Stevenson for this let-me-just-read-a-few-pages-oh-my-god-how-is-it-already-2-am debut novel, a loving homage to 19th-century adventure stories. Not only does she keep her plot rolling along with expert pacing, but Tinti renders her cast of misfits—assassins, grave robbers, one-handed orphans—so compassionately that I was heartbroken to watch them go.
Whenever I thought "Oh, I know where this is going," Dan Chaon's interwoven narratives--a man searching for his missing twin; a recent high-school grad fleeing home with her history teacher; a young man faking his own death-- took me to far stranger, scarier, and sadder places. Few writers are as gleefully creepy (just try sleeping after you read this novel's first two pages); fewer still are as sympathetic to the often flawed, misguided ways we try to reinvent ourselves.
For a fellow “sprocket fiend”—someone who loves not only movies but the movies (the popcorn, the kitsch, the dark)—there is no better company than Patton Oswalt. I expected to love this book for his encyclopedic film knowledge and grim wit, but what I appreciated most was the self-deprecating, self-forgiving way Oswalt writes about overcoming the bitterness and laziness of his 20s to become a (relatively) confident artist and (relatively) happier person.
Is there anything Siri Hustvedt can't do? One minute she's effortlessly breaking down German philosophy, the next she's effortlessly breaking your heart. A fixture on tons of 2014 best-of lists yet somehow still overlooked, her latest novel uses diary entries, interviews, and other texts to tell the story of Harriet Burden--a frustrated artist who enlists three men to present her work as their own--and the people who pity, dismiss, defend, and love her. Think the formal playfulness of Nabokov crossed with the blood-boiling rage of Lauren Groff's Fates and Furies, all with a swagger and sensitivity only Hustvedt can pull off.
Klosterfans rejoice! Here is the book Gen X’s philosopher king has been building toward, one that combines his love of hypotheticals, his contrarianism, and his unparalleled pop-culture analysis to tackle the question that has nagged him throughout his career: why do we perceive the world the way we do? What about the possibility “that we are unable to isolate or imagine something fundamental about the construction of reality, and that the eventual realization of whatever that fundamental thing is will necessitate a rewrite of everything else?” As in: What if we don’t actually understand gravity? What if America’s commitment to democracy winds up being its downfall? What if Roseanne comes to be seen as “the most accidentally realistic TV show there ever was?” In trying (and, by his own admittance, likely failing) to predict what will matter to people in the future, Klosterman reminded me that empathy, even more than accuracy or insight, inspires the best criticism.
The final narrator in Rebecca Schiff’s The Bed Moved claims to “only know about parent death and sluttiness.” Yes, these stories (23 in just 139 pages!) cover plenty of death and sex, but Schiff’s women know about far more. Whether they’re obsessing over cancer blogs or visiting nude hot springs with their broke pot-dealer boyfriends, her characters wind up confronting the awkwardness of adolescence, the limits of empathy, the heartbreak of wanting too much or wanting too little. Lest this sound super heavy, please know that Schiff, nearly line by line, manages to be screamingly, jaw-droppingly, enviously HILARIOUS, a dream blend of Lorrie Moore and Amy Hempel that I’ll be gratefully reading for years to come.
“I’m trying to speak cinema in a language all its own.”
The lively, moving conversations collected here, which span the auteur’s fifty-year career, chronicle the ways Bresson forged that language: by rejecting conventional narrative; by only hiring non-professional actors; by focusing not on images, but on the “relationships between images.” From these interviews emerges a man dedicated (for better or worse) to the restrictions and convictions he felt he needed to make something truthful. At a moment when the best visual storytelling has migrated from film to television (a trend Bresson predicted almost sixty years ago!), it is heartening to spend time with someone who believed, even during filmmaking's artistic peak, that there was still so much left to discover: “The cinema is immense," Bresson reminds us. "We haven’t done a thing.”
“The meaning of the city,” Gornick writes early in this sharp, sensitive memoir, “was that it made…loneliness bearable.” She more than proves her point with these snapshots of friendships personal and historical, (brief) romance, and the emotional sustenance that comes from inhabiting the streets of New York City, of interacting with everyone from homeless people and grocers to actors and strangers on the bus. Hilarious and heartbreaking, often in the same breath, these pages kept me welcome company over the two late nights I spent turning them a touch slower than usual, in the hope they might last just a little bit longer.
Satanic cults and Ouija boards, unsolved murders and serial killers: Ill Will has all the horror hallmarks that Dan Chaon fans have come to expect. But beneath these masterfully handled tropes is a gorgeous meditation on questions that have longed obsessed this author: Can we ever truly recover from loss? Can we ever truly be present? Can we ever truly know ourselves? In lieu of answers, Ill Will reminds us that, as one character puts it, “we were only peeping through a keyhole of our lives, and the majority of the truth, the reality of what happened to us, was hidden.” Bleak? Sure. But I take an eerie sense of solace in this, for good or
As a huge fan of his Sherlock Holmes homage Moriarty, I wasn’t surprised that Anthony Horowitz managed to create his own, instantly iconic version of an Agatha Christie detective in Magpie Murders. What did surprise me was discovering that novel stuffed, like a Russian nesting doll, into a second novel concerning a book editor convinced that the suicide of her most lucrative client––the arrogant mystery writer responsible for the Christie homage––was really murder. Yes, this have-your-cake-and-eat-it-too approach is deliciously clever, but Horowitz knows that the best whodunits are more than puzzles to be solved. I relished every plot twist, but it's the novel's insights into fame, privacy, and fiction-making itself that kept me turning pages.
After gifting thriller lovers with some of the best noir-tinged sci-fi I’ve ever read, Adam Sternbergh has delivered The Blinds, an equally riveting take on the western. Though western is too narrow a term for what Sternbergh’s up to in this novel, which centers on an isolated Texas town filled with murderers who have the memories of their crimes wiped away so they can start new lives. (Guess how that turns out.) Once again Sternbergh proves himself a master of I–need–to–know–what–happens–next–this–instant–or–I’ll–go–crazy plotting, but The Blinds also proves him master of moral murkiness, of raising fascinating questions about selfhood and forgiveness that linger long after the last page. To say any more would spoil the exhilarating sense of discovery I felt reading this novel––it’s best to go in…well, blind.
Jon Stewart always claimed nobody should get news from him. I, however, was one of those nobodies who relied on The Daily Show during the Bush and Obama years not only for headlines, but synthesis, analysis, catharsis. What The Daily Show (The Book) made me realize is that the creation of Stewart’s late-night landmark—which slowly, fascinatingly evolved from just another late-night show to the form’s gold standard—looked not unlike (an ideal) democracy itself, full of passion, difference, and debate. Plus every chapter’s packed with all the juicy backstage spats, scrapes, and hijinks you could ask for.
It may sound insulting to call Ms. Hempel Chronicles an anti-page-turner, but I mean this as the highest praise. I found myself reading Sarah Shun-Lien Bynum’s novel-in-stories as slowly as possible, lest I miss any of the delightful, devastating twists of language and emotion she so elegantly threads into each sentence. Anchored by their titular heroine––a middle-school English teacher who, not unlike her pupils, must daily navigate the perilous in-between of youth and maturity––the eight stories in Ms. Hempel Chronicles never treat the absurdities and sorrows of adolescence and adulthood with irony. Instead, Bynum infuses even the smallest, most recognizable encounters with a genuine sense of grace, concern, and wonder.
“I like gaps, all my stories have gaps,” Alice Munro once wrote. “It seems this is the way people’s lives present themselves.” I’ve longed championed Munro’s theory, yet with his new novel All The Dirty Parts Daniel Handler has found a brilliant new use for gaps and fragmentation in fiction. Call it fragments as desire, each section in this book a succinct, sex-obsessed missive from seventeen-year-old Cole. What better form could there be for capturing the simultaneous intensity and fleetingness of teenaged male yearning, its surges of excitement and long stretches of emptiness? Handler never looks down on Cole’s erotic fixations, nor does he let his protagonist off the hook for his occasionally callous behavior. Instead, Handler’s crafted a novel that exemplifies, on every page, the one quality that too often gets lost amid all the dirty parts: unwavering empathy.
Regardless of my circumstances––time of day, location, mood––Lauren Clark's "I See Jeff Daniels In The Street" makes me tear up every time I read it. A meditation on mistaking the beloved character actor for one's dead father, the poem exemplifies the astonishing, devastating power of Clark’s debut. In line after line, they delve into the unsettling spaces where tenderness and violence overlap, where grief is never overcome but recast, where love's promises often fall short but sometimes, mercifully, fulfill themselves. More than enough material for most, but Clark makes room for plenty else: Greek mythology, Kim Kardashian, Wild Bill Hickok, Eric Clapton. "I know things," Clark writes, "that could crack hearts open like coconuts." Believe them.
A classmate recently recommended the title story of Robert Coover’s Going for a Beer, and ever since I’ve been thirsty for more: more of the playful invention, more of the comic energy, more of the startling emotion that Coover miraculously packed into this (only 1100–word!) gem. Little did I know there was sixty-five years worth of Coover to discover, which Going for a Beer mercifully whittles down to thirty stories. Besides his enviable range––martians and invisible men on one end, babysitters and grandmas on the other––Coover has a knack for discovering absurdity in the mundane and mundanity in the absurd, for conjuring catharsis from even the silliest premises. Imagine George Saunders and Steven Millhauser at their least inhibited, then multiply by one-hundred––now you’re in Coover territory. I, for one, won’t be leaving anytime soon.
Here’s how Yiyun Li praises a memoir by the Irish writer John McGahern: “No one’s vulnerability is more devastating than the next person’s, no one’s joy more deserving. What happens to McGahern is only life, what happens to us all.” Li recounts her own experiences—her upbringing in China, her year in the army, her arrival in America, her time in psychiatric hospitals after two suicide attempts—with a similar “only life” attitude. Weaving literary criticism and personal narrative, these essays not only interrogate painful memories with bluntness and grace, but also the role reading can play in offering respite from such pain. For Li, the pleasure of reading stems from being "with people who...do not notice one's existence." Reading Dear Friend, however, I felt mercifully noticed on page after page.
Labels abound in Stray City: gay, straight, feminine, masculine, daughter, parent. But it is the deeply recognizable characters who use those labels as both shields and solace that ground Chelsey Johnson’s captivating debut. Centered on Andrea Morales––a twenty-something who grows estranged from her strict Catholic family after coming out, only to later jeopardize her standing in the Portland lesbian scene after sleeping with a man and deciding to have his baby––Stray City interrogates the very meaning of sexual orientation, of family, of community. Johnson reminds us how every label, every grasp toward identity, carries with it the possibility of individuality, but also groupthink; of liberation, but also restriction. Thankfully, though, there seem to be no restrictions to Johnson’s talent: Stray City’s every page offers sly humor, spot-on detail, unceasing empathy. Reading this novel is not unlike the experience Andrea describes of playing a new album while lying on the floor: “You don’t just hear the music, you feel it. Your whole body listens.”