Terminal Lucidity: Ways of Seeing and Thinking About Don DeLillo’s Late Style
I am taken by the unique vibration his work strikes deep in my organs, how different these internal resonances are from how DeLillo is regularly discussed in the contemporary landscape—how his work makes me feel, to be blunt about it.
Gulp Fiction, or Into The Missouri-verse: On Percival Everett’s “James”
Can one tell Twain’s story from Jim’s perspective without creating a flimsy, second-hand imitation of Jim’s voice which dooms the experiment from the start?
Washington, May 1956: On Clarice Lispector’s “The Apple in the Dark”
Perhaps, newly attuned to her own insatiable desire to create, she would reach her own form of understanding from the drafts that she would copy out eleven times by hand.
Nobody Knows My Name: On Maya Binyam’s “Hangman,” Claire Denis’ “White Material,” and African Fictions
African characters that go beyond the limitations of sympathy, to depict periods of upheaval where pity is a useless consolation, where we cannot generalize any specific case.
How to Be an Author and a Character Simultaneously
We have to rearrange our lives—to give a handful of days more weight than entire years, to give a few characters starring roles—so we can feel they are something more than administrative projects marked by disappointment.
Looking for Gauraa in “Notes”
Novels narrated through IMs or letters can manipulate the space between messages, relying on the reader to intuit the gap between what someone might be feeling and what they might be saying.
The Haunting Presence of a Network: On Eugene Lim
The text is interactive, necessitating the intervention of the reader for categorization of its entropic structures. Genre inflects, demands, and manages expectations anew: it’s a goddamned virus.
This Macabre, Whirling Orgy: On Márcia Barbieri’s “The Whore”
In the new post-apocalyptic world, the litany has been lost, the prater silenced. Catastrophe discards everything into the same junk pile of existence; which is to say, catastrophe turns everything into junk.
Nesting in the Wires: On Mário de Andrade’s “Macunaíma”
If the act of translation is often reduced to a dichotomy of foreignization and domestication, Dodson’s work is an interrogation; apropos of the book’s slippery relationship to the idea of national identity, of what constitutes the foreign and domestic in the first place.
View from the Couch: Success, “The Topeka School,” and “A Fan’s Notes”
The future novel resides with the fans. It will not be written from above or outside. Literature belongs to the davenport.
Andy Warhol Has Been Shot: On Nicole Flattery’s “Nothing Special”
But if it’s impossible to determine the combination of forces that might elevate a woman to the status of It Girl, that doesn’t mean we have ever stopped trying.
Sisyphean Domesticity: On Mieko Kanai’s “Mild Vertigo”
An inchoate despair is the dominant mood of the novel, as Natsumi’s feelings of emptiness, dizziness, and vertigo collide against her Sisyphean rituals of domesticity.
Sweating Through Space and Time: On Catherine Lacey’s “Biography of X”
Nothing feels like it can be trusted: the quotes, the packaging of the narrative, even the narrator herself. This, of course, makes the novel’s own point—that any telling of a story betrays much more about the speaker than the subject.
That Girl: On Kathleen Alcott’s “Emergency”
The best stories are about people who we don’t really know but think we could. Had we gone to that party we missed; had we been born without that mole.
True Enough: “The MANIAC” and “Oppenheimer”
Culpability is offloaded onto the very idea of science itself: unfeeling, inhuman, inevitable. These warnings do not allow for human ingenuity or variety of thought; they cannot imagine another way. But it’s a poor craftsman who blames his tools.
Told by an Idiot: On Jaroslav Hašek’s “The Man Without a Transit Pass”
Hašek is mocking authority and bourgeois respectability, of course, but the criticism is ultimately of the individual’s inability to tolerate being the butt of a joke. If the universe is absurd, then we shouldn’t be so foolish as to take it seriously.
Nomadic Hedonism: On Robert Plunket’s “My Search for Warren Harding”
The most beguiling aspect of My Search for Warren Harding is the way Plunket manages to discount the meaning of romance, literature, and history to such an extent that none much help us read his novel.
I don't want to talk about it: On Brandon Taylor’s “The Late Americans”
Taylor’s characters fail to reconcile deeper emotional desires with the reality that their immediate environment is not a place to escape, but rather the very territory in which “real life” happens.
Pathologies of the Après Garde: On Gary Indiana’s “Rent Boy”
Indiana’s easygoing syntax—the slippery, casual asyndeton that feels at once half-slangy and half-clinical—isn’t so much naturalistic as anthropological. But self-awareness, like an erection, is hard to keep up indefinitely.
Power, Morality, and the “Female Gaze”: On Eliza Clark’s “Boy Parts”
Boy Parts displays a preoccupation with photography’s enactment of power and control.