A bristling yet alluring doohickey, ostensibly about a week away from the workaday world, Gabe Durhams Fun Camp also signals the end for one of American publishings finest escapes from the ordinary.
The Traymore Rooms, a novel at once hugely ambitious and never above an off-color crack, aspires to be the late triumph of a long career.
Over the past decade, in our finer quarterlies, few names have turned up more often than Jacob M. Appel. You also found him among the finalists for awards in the short storyand among the prize-winners. I myself once floundered in Appels wake, merely a finalist while he was the finalist.
About halfway along, just as were getting the hang of Luke Goebels wild and voluble debutnot so much a novel as a narrative kaleidoscope, putting a few essential shapes and colors through one tumble after anotherwe arrive at a whole new configuration. We come to the peyote trip.
Over in Italy, Time Ages In a Hurry was one of a spate of Antonio Tabucchi titles preceding his death in early 2012. He wasnt that old, 68, but hed long been battling cancer, and in his last year friends and family moved him from Siena, where he taught, to Lisbon, the home of his heart.
Amelia Grays Gutshot bristles in the best way. Just about every prick and sting compels you to seek more, to take up the next storygingerlyand the next. Indeed, the authors second set of short fiction represents an advance for her in its size alone.
For a form defined by length, the novel depends remarkably on what it leaves out. Even a novelist who prefers to let the weeds go, a Proust or a Wallace, has to prune away a few.
Lincoln Michel has brought off a worthy debut in Upright Beasts, a rowdy klatch of stories with a number of winners. The fictions leave their most beautiful bruises about halfway through, as the author swings without a hitch from the relative realism of the section titled “North American Mammals” to the stories collected under “Familiar Creatures,” each of them a wild narrative hair.
Here we have two new selections of stories from two New Yorkers, both on smaller presses, both by men we might still call young. More significantly, both refract their light through the same aesthetic prismoften throwing off lovely colors, I must add.
Few writers can match the bifurcated careerbifurcated yet brimfulof Frank Lentricchia. Starting at the end of the 1960s, as a professor at Duke, Lentricchia established himself as a literary critic of muscle and subtlety.
It can look as if the poet Campbell McGrath is moving away from his strengths, in his new “Hubble Space Telescope: the Galaxies (1990).” Indeed, the piece appears in a book, XX: Poems for the Twentieth Century, about which you might say the same.
If the expression “natural-born storyteller” hasn’t yet gone to the glue factory, then these two novels take the nag out for a fresh canter. Grace is a début for Natashia Deón, whose credentials include a PEN Fellowship, and while Allison Amend has three earlier books, and some prize recognition, she’s still young enough to have whipped up something new for Enchanted Islands.
For a story beset with some of the ugliest traumas of fractured contemporary America, Mary Troy’s busy new novel careens along with remarkable lightheartedness.
Paging through Daša Drndić’s Belladonna, you can’t miss the lists of the dead. Twice during the later going, the text interrupts itself for page after page of names, in smaller-font double-columns. Names of the murdered, to be sure: victims of the Holocaust.
“I saw within myself,” admits our narrator, “a kind of ignorance that grew deeper the more I looked at it.” Sounds about right for his novel, too: the more deeply Vengeance draws us in—really, it’s hard to look away—the greater its ambiguity.
Among the many shocks and felicities in Joshua Mensch’s Because, one of the best is his way with a semi-colon.
In her debut novel, Animals Eat Each Other, Elle Nash has no interest in testing boundaries; instead, she crashes right through.
Hades, Gehenna, Hell: every culture has one, a realm of punishment without end. By any name, too, it’s been inspiration without end. For creative types, the Awful Place allows awesome freedom.
A persistent cliché insists that Big Publishing doesnt like small fictions, yet such work keeps turning up on mainstream houses.
Towards the end of Salman Rushdies new Quichotte, we get the précis. We hear it from the author, but crucially, thats not our author. The busy Manhattanite of 72, former PEN President, Booker Prize winner and more, the fatwa survivor who recently delivered a droll cameo on HBO.
Which version counts as the truth? That dangerous term? Plainly, Azar would answer both, arguing that the Old Gods still hold value, “still alive and reacting,” even as she recognizes how “mysticism didn’t offer any simple solutions to murder, plunder, poverty, or human injustice.”
Social Poetics, contains a history of the contemporary working class: booksellers, Amazon warehouse workers Powells staff, paper mill workers [ ] editors and copyeditors [ ] janitors and nightshift mothers who clean all these office spaces . The list goes on, soon enough reaching the book in our own hands. Every line seems soaked with the sweat of labor. If a creative writing text ever raised a call to the barricades, its this one.
Together, Joyelle McSweeneys Toxicon and Arachne and Rachel Eliza Griffithss Seeing the Body: Poems go a long way towards providing this dark moment its definitive accompaniment. More astonishing still, the poets bring off triumphs distinctly different. Youd never mistake McSweeneys heartbroken stammer for Griffithss blue wail, yet either outcry will set your back-hairs prickling. Either could wind up a prizewinnerthough good luck choosing between themand in any case the texts will go on providing their unique, adult consolations for whatever sorrows lie in wait.
In Theories of Forgetting, Lance Olsens 12th novel and 25th book, he may have brought off the boldest departure of a career dedicated to such takeoffs. The formatting allows the text to be read in either direction, each featuring different fonts.
I can’t deny the spell cast by Swing Time, Zadie Smith’s latest. I can’t hold back from declaring it first a career peak, one she’ll be hard-pressed to top, and beyond that a steep challenge for any novelist out there.
Zimbabwe's social fabric has often been in shreds, the worst toll often taken on the women: an ongoing catastrophe that provides the best background for appreciating the novels of Tsitsi Dangarembga
Celestial Bodies delivers a cornucopia, the drama tasty whether it concerns a long day of overwrought celebration, scented with incense and envy, or a midnight tryst in the desert, mixing torment and ecstasy. Juggling multiple perspectives, eschewing straightforward chronology, the narrative coheres nevertheless.
Texas may be the southernmost point in the U.S., but it gets awfully cold. The chill pervades Larry McMurtrys best novels, like The Last Picture Show (1966), in which the biting winds may carry away a young mans soul. The same threat hangs over Brandon Hobsons new slip of a novel, Deep Ellum.
The most notable risk is the cutting-edge contemporaneity. The denouement of Golden House unfolds pretty much at the moment we read it, in later 2017, and its tragic climax the previous fall has a lot to do with the tragedy of the last election.
Both these texts expand the mind, taking the reading experience to places most never risk. One, Dreamlives of Debris, gets up into rarified air indeed, cleansing the system. As for The Gift, that’s perhaps less bracing, but always tangy and whip-smart. Before I explain further, however, I’ve got to look back half a century.
Before I consider a personal book, perhaps I should offer a personal story. My first substantive encounter with David Shields, following some long-distance business, was an interview for his 2017 selection of essays, Other People.
Just shy of puberty, Saba suffers all sorts of disorientation, even at first sight of her family hut: Arent refugee camps built with tents? Later, between the huts, she gets lost in alleyways a labyrinth. Complicating matters, by local standards Sabas a mongrel, Eritrean-Ethiopian half from an occupied country and the other half from the occupying.
Not only does Dubravka Ugresic’s novel appear in translation; you could say it’s about translation. The latest from a busy, brainy Croatian—her 14th book, half of them fiction—Fox consists primarily of worrying at various texts, though not all of them are literary.
First encounter with Blake Butlers new novel may leave you dazzled, yet also disoriented, and if so youll find a point of reckoning in Roberto Bolanos 2666.
You might call D. Foy’s Patricide a long and sorrowful aria over abuse in the home and its lingering damage; or you might call it a portrait of the scuffling white male, here in the U.S., detailing their recent tumble from King of the Mountain; or then again, it may be a scuzzball spiritual journey, Siddhartha Goes to AA, in which multiple addictions shred a young man almost to bits before he staggers to a kind of Buddhist enlightenment.
That familiarity is what Id emphasize. Myself, I love whats outré and of-the-moment about Girl, Woman, Other. I was at once won over by its fast and loose way with the English sentence, quasi-colloquial, with minimal punctuation and capitalization, sometimes breaking down into short stacks of single lines. Yet it doesnt take an aesthete to find the prose accessible. Anyone can appreciate Evaristos sensitivity to the passions in her people.
A violent intensity might erupt at any minute, an adolescent mood swing might hit like a tsunami, and yet the story maintains a canny and scrupulous realism. This author couldnt be more alert to psychologys delusions and societys con games. Shes both a cool cat and a bleeding heart, combining both in passage after passage that, just for starters, speak volumes about the skill and vitality Ann Goldstein brings to her translation.
For much of his career, on many of his books, one of the country’s most celebrated novelists confined his bio to a single line: “Don DeLillo lives in New York.” That was it, and more recently, as I dug into connections between the man’s work and his native city, I often suspected I wasn’t offering much better.
Marco Rafalà rouses us to applause with How Fires End. The novel teeters suspensefully between the good-hearted and bloody-minded.
So too, the texts set up an engaging biplay between longer work and shorter, alternating pieces of a dozen pages with those of three paragraphs. Yet neither writer skimps on suffering or dread. Neither suffers a blind spot, some ugliness theyd prefer to avoid, though Fawkes deals more in terror, Clark in sorrow.
Gay Talese tells me it feels strange not to begin a Monday morning in “the Bunker.” By this he means his Manhattan workspace.