Mentioned in:
Most Anticipated: The Great Spring 2024 Preview
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]
Two Pisces Emote About the Passage of Time
Christine begins to fixate on certain turning points in her own history—what might have happened otherwise, if she’d made different choices.
Sometimes at night she wakes with a watery, stranded sensation, as if something that might have been hers is dissolving. In dreams she reaches for keys, cups, doorknobs—her hands slide through them. What if she had gone to some other college, or moved to some city other than New York? (But what, then, if she had never known Daisy?)
She knows it’s useless, to give attention to what can’t ever change. But it’s vivid, mesmerizing, to consider other lives.
The preoccupation reaches peak futility when Christine and Daisy move from Ditmas Park to the new apartment in Bushwick. An old boyfriend lives nearby; he and Christine meet up for a drink. He mentions he is dating someone new, and Christine feels unexpectedly annihilated. It’s as if something breaks open beneath a fine seam she’s been holding closed, effortfully, all her life.
She didn’t think she still had feelings for him, even. Now she ruminates on: how did she lose him, what mistakes did she make here? She lies on the new IKEA couch and cries endlessly, her grief like an infection. Daisy makes tea, she sits and listens. If Christine had not responded unkindly that one time. If she had not gone away that one summer. If she did not have such a temper. Then what, then what, then what?
I think I’ve fucked up, Christine says, her hands over her eyes. But Daisy is gently skeptical. No way, she says. You’re just going through something. She fixes a piece of Christine’s hair behind her ear, and her hand is soft on the side of Christine’s face. It’s hard when people move on, Daisy says. But at some point you have to just pull it together.
In January Daisy gets into astrology, with zeal. She’ll absorb herself with research on her laptop for hours, then emerge from her room to disclose her findings, her laptop balanced in the crook of one arm, the other reaching to switch on the tea kettle.
I think what’s going on with you is the influence of your moon in Capricorn, she says one night.
Christine has been watching television in a small, bleak trance, a blanket pulled up over her head. She makes herself sit upright in her cocoon. Moon in Capricorn feels very alone in the world, Daisy is explaining from the kitchen. I keep coming across the word orphaned.
And I have that? says Christine. Daisy is taking mugs down from the cupboard, her arm stretched up to reach the highest shelf. The tea kettle is beginning to steam, frantically.
Yes, says Daisy, That is what you have.
By February they’ve unpacked most of their boxes. They each turn twenty-seven—Daisy first, then Christine. On the morning of her birthday, before work, in their kitchen, Christine makes coffee and tries to explain how, for the first time ever, she is experiencing her age as a problem, a sort of mismatch. I feel too messy to be twenty-seven, she says. Twenty-seven should feel clearer. I haven’t achieved it. For one thing, I’m a receptionist. A temp receptionist.
Outside their window, it’s starting to rain a little. The kitchen light casts both their faces in a warm glow. It could be worse, says Daisy, who has a better job, at a startup, writing marketing copy. She says, I’ve been twenty-seven for days now. Christine makes a show of frowning as she pours herself some coffee. It’s a joke, Daisy says. Come on—it’s funny. Can you pour me a cup too?
That weekend they throw a shared birthday party. Daisy emails the invitation with the subject Two Pisces Emote About the Passage of Time. They both find that extremely clever, but the party is only okay. Christine drinks several cocktails too quickly, becomes ensnared in conversation with a co-worker of Daisy’s. They talk about a movie Christine loves, and he tells her that it’s overrated—Not that I’ve seen it, he adds, but from everything I’ve heard. Later, someone by the bar puts a hand on the small of Christine’s back to move her aside as he passes, a gesture so proprietary that Christine has to excuse herself, seething, to smoke a cigarette outside. Men think they can just move us out of the way, she says to the girl who gives her a light out on the sidewalk, and though she offers no context the girl says: For real.
I always forget I mostly hate this bar, Christine says later, while they both stand in line for the bathroom. Daisy leans her head against Christine’s shoulder and says, What we like is the idea of it.
For a birthday gift, Daisy buys Christine an astrological reading, to be conducted by video chat. Christine sets it up for the following Tuesday night—she emails the date, time, and place of her birth in advance. The astrologer, ethereal yet severe in the blurry chat window, explains that Christine’s natal chart shows a complex gathering of planets in her Twelfth House of Self-Undoing.
Also, he says, her Mars placement makes her impulsive, direct, and prone to irritation. It’s important you find healthy avenues for aggression, the astrologer tells her, as if he were prescribing a vitamin. You might take up martial arts, he says.
Impulsively, Christine does. She signs up for a class at the gym, and actually she finds she does love it, loves to punch and smack and kick, loves the way her leg flares out to meet the impassive bulk of the punching bag. Sweaty, shaking her hair out of her eyes, she feels exquisite, powerful, nearly divine. She goes back every week. She begins to feel better.
You are a goddess of war, says Daisy, who sometimes comes along to the gym, to use the bouldering wall. She reports that whenever she stops for a drink of water, she can see Christine in action through the glass door to the kickboxing room. Later, after her class, Christine will always join Daisy at the bouldering wall, and the two of them stand before its warty, multi-color grips, chalking their hands while Daisy points out ascents she expects Christine can handle.
Daisy is experienced at this, whereas Christine has almost no technique. She enjoys it, though: the trial-and-error climb, and then the controlled fall from the top, like she is a cat dropping out of a tree. Also she finds it hypnotic to sit and watch Daisy—balletic and agile, her shoulders bare in her tank-top, her hair in a braid down her back. You’re gorgeous up there, Christine tells her admiringly, one night after Daisy finishes a climb and is wiping chalk from her hands.
Daisy responds, grandly, I’m gorgeous everywhere. She twirls then, she kicks over her water bottle, so then they have to run to the locker-room for paper towels. I’m an idiot, says Daisy on her hands and knees, sopping up water, laughing.
Afterward they wash their hands, side-by-side at the locker room sink. Daisy cups her palms, splashes water over her face. Then she meets Christine’s eyes in the mirror, water running down her cheekbones and neck.
Okay, Daisy says. Can I tell you something?
*
And this is what unnerves Christine: the unseen potential in people she trusts. Lurking injury, how anyone could hurt her, leave her, any moment. She wakes at night, gripped with a steep and breathless dread. She dreams she is married to someone wonderful, but then she is knocking on their door and he won’t open it. He keeps coming to the window, but when he sees it’s her, he lets the curtain subside placidly back over his face. He looks resigned, though each time she knocks, he returns again to the window. It’s as if he’s hopeful someone is coming who isn’t her.
She dreams this too: Daisy walks through the apartment refusing to acknowledge Christine. Not in an angry way, exactly, only with the discipline of someone who has made the best decision, the clear and necessary choice. She looks, maybe, a little smug. Eventually she has Christine’s room removed, physically, from the apartment, sliced away as if it were an enormous square of cake. Afterward they stand together in the kitchen, and when Daisy finally speaks, her tone is relieved: I didn’t anticipate missing you, she says. And as it turns out, I don’t.
On this night when Daisy says at the gym that she’s moving to Austin, Christine describes the dream in detail, aware she is trying to seem maximally vulnerable and pained. It’s a terrible dream, she says. It makes me feel alone.
Maybe she can convince Daisy not to do it. They've decamped from the gym to a nearby bar, somewhere they can have a beer and talk this over, as Daisy put it. Daisy is quick to tell Christine that sharing the dream is a low blow—utterly low, she says—and unfair to disclose in this particular conversation. She says, You want me to feel worse than I already do.
Fine, says Christine hotly, Forgive me. She feels like a skipping record. We only just moved, she keeps saying, inanely. She gestures to the bartender: another. But Daisy is patient. I know, she says. It’s just that the job came up and I want the job.
It wasn’t intentional, she says. Surely you can understand that.
At the end of March they break their lease. Daisy is the one who takes the couch, because Christine has not yet paid her back for it.
Christine rents a studio—before this, she has never lived alone. The little couch she buys is delivered to the first floor, deposited in a cardboard box by the stairs. Afterward, she is unable to arrive at a satisfactory explanation of how she moved it to the third floor on her own. I guess I sort of rolled it end over end, she says to Daisy on the phone, I must have. The memory is vague. Daisy laughs and says, Did you black out or something?
The studio looks out on the backs of other buildings. In April, Christine tries growing plants on the fire escape—but then there is a strange, late snowfall, and in the middle of the night she has to bring them all in and set them by the radiator as the little cones of snow melt down. I’m sorry, she says to the plants, I didn’t foresee this.
It isn’t quiet, her new neighborhood. But somehow it’s like her apartment is hermetically sealed, hushed and silent as a small church. Sometimes this is serene and reminds her of childhood, of unearthing certain pleasures of solitude, lying across her bed, lost in thought. Other times the isolation of the apartment is an experience of disorientation and strange grief. Having watched Daisy box up her life and let go of what she would not be bringing with her, Christine decides to clear out many of her own belongings. She appreciates the sensation of stripping away what once delighted her—a feeling like she is getting out ahead of the inevitable. She bags clothes and sets them by the door, and the silence of her apartment seems to divorce her from context. She could be any person, anywhere.
Daisy texts When are you visiting? Will it be soon? But something is shifting. I can’t come, Christine tells her. I have to stay here.
She says it because something in New York is beginning to obsess her—she feels a small, troubling dissolution around her own sense of belonging, a feeling like she’s watching over an animal that could run from her. She has to stay close. In the silence of the apartment, she feels like she is drifting with the tide, and she tells herself out loud: You live here. And she thinks of Daisy’s astrologer who said: This is a watery phase of your life. You’ll feel like you’re going in circles. The current is taking you where you can’t see. As a child she moved frequently, it’s something she’s always been proud of, it makes her feel unusual, interesting, special. Daisy has always been jealous: All I have is Ohio, she likes to say.
Now the question of home transfixes Christine.
New York is the only city she’s lived for more than five years. It’s where she first became alert to the pleasures of knowing a place. Sometimes she cannot fathom Daisy’s choice to go, it seems to her like severing an artery. New York has symbolic weight for me, she says one night on the phone—and it feels, to her relief, like she has finally found words to describe all this. But Daisy only laughs at her: New York has symbolic weight for everyone, she says, I hate to break it to you. Later, she sends Christine a photo of herself, wearing a short-sleeve t-shirt, eating tacos in the sun.
But Christine means something different, about the accrual of personal history. About what it is to walk through this city and feel stirrings of meaning arise in places she has been. She misses the feeling of knowing her friend is in the next room, or will be home later. She liked feeling seen in this daily way by someone, in the course of years. With Daisy gone she finds her ideas about home and where she might locate it flower out disturbingly. When she’s alone, images come to her unbidden of living in all kinds of places—at the beach, in other countries, closer to her family, alone in a new city. The more ideas she has, the more possibilities she conjures, the more tenuous and unlikely home seems.
She finds her heart racing on subway platforms, or on weekend mornings waking up. She dreams she is living in an empty, quiet cube that has no door.
One day on the street, in May, the city becoming warm and living again, someone thinks he knows her, he pursues her up the block. I’m sorry, she tells him, turning at the corner when he touches her shoulder, I don't think we’ve met—and then she is irritated to feel her eyes well up with tears. I’m so sorry I chased you, says the man, obviously mortified. I didn’t mean to upset you. I feel terrible. He runs a hand through his hair, he emanates concern.
No, this isn’t your fault, Christine is saying, wiping her eyes with the heel of her palm. No, I’m sorry, my friend moved. It’s hard to explain.
She tips her head back, and the pattern of clouds blurs and shifts like wet ink. Traffic grumbles in her ears. Let me get you a coffee or something, she hears this man saying to her, apologetic. I’m Luke. Could I do that for you?
Later Daisy will ask what even possessed her to agree. Very unlike you, she says, Though don’t get me wrong, I’m delighted. She adds, But please don’t ever marry him: Christine McQueen, what a terrible rhyme. I won’t be able to take you seriously. They both start laughing and then they can’t stop. I’m honestly having trouble breathing, Christine says into the phone. Daisy is cooking something in the background, her dishes clatter in Christine’s ear.
Then something shifts again.
She starts to find the weight of memory in the city oppresses her, infiltrates her present moment. Kissing Luke good night outside a bar, she realizes she once kissed someone else over there on the opposite side of Seventh Avenue. Meeting a college friend for a drink at a new place in her neighborhood, she realizes she's been here before, only now the bar has a different name, has multi-colored lights strung up, license plates nailed into the wall, an imitation of a place that’s been here longer.
My friend lives there, she says too emphatically to the bartender, pointing at Texas above the beer taps, and he laughs at her a little cruelly. When the city starts to bleed meaning this way, it feels like a sequence in a movie, though she can't precisely say how so. She feels like she is having an experience she knew would come to pass, as if she has traveled back to herself in these specific years in an attempt to change something immutable in her fate. She tries describing this to Daisy on the phone, but Daisy just keeps asking which movie she means. Not one particular movie, says Christine. I’m saying like a movie, you’re not hearing me.
She begins to consider how it would be to actually move away, a small experiment in self-betrayal. Home is deserting me, she tells someone at work, making coffee in the break room. She surprises herself by saying it, a very personal disclosure.
Sometimes she resurfaces from the subway onto some familiar corner, or the light hits the side of a particular building—and then she feels disbelief that the city existed before her and will without her. In books it always supplies a small thrill when a place of some private meaning is invoked: Washington Square Park, Amsterdam Avenue, the bar on Greenwich Ave. The Cooper Hewitt, the corner of 19th and Irving, West 12th Street. She writes exclamation marks in the margins, saves the moments of significance, intersections with her own existence. Other times it feels like she's living in a kind of dreamscape where imaginary futures hover everywhere, mapped onto different points around the city: detailed, fading, insubstantial. Any time she’s in Bushwick—running an errand, or meeting a friend—she tends to imagine the years she and Daisy would have shared on Stanhope Street. She walks past the building and she’ll picture them inside: Daisy making tea, or Daisy saying, Calm down, don’t lose your temper with me, I’m listening.
So on the few occasions Daisy is seized by moods of regret, Christine takes a perverse pleasure in it. She likes them both suffering the same lost vision. One night Daisy calls in the middle of the night. I miss you, she says. I feel fucking stupid, I don’t know where I am sometimes. Christine turns on the light. She says, You’ll be okay.
When she thinks about childhood, about the games she would play, imagining herself grown up, she can hardly believe she is still living on that same continuous timeline. In bars on weekends, she and Luke and their friends discuss their place in the larger unraveling of everything. They discuss the person they can’t imagine will be elected in the fall, and should they have children in the face of looming climate catastrophe. The future feels like it is coming fast, like it will be terrifying. She considers how Luke is genuinely reliable—he would surely protect their hypothetical family in the inevitable event of environmental apocalypse, for example, and sometimes this seems like the clearest reason for being with him. He is a gentler person than she is, fundamentally: I don’t take anyone’s shit, she says to him in passing one night at his apartment, and though she’s talking about someone else, a co-worker who condescended to her in a meeting, Luke seems to recoil as if she is dangerous.
In a newspaper obituary around this time, she reads the sentence She did not suffer fools, and it is in an aspirational spirit that she writes it down and tapes it to her mirror. She remembers the astrologer highlighting her Mars in Aries: the wild unleashing thrill of adrenaline, any time she allows herself to say something cutting, storm away. One night in June she fights with Luke while they're cooking at her apartment, she slams out into the street, into the humid dark night, and when he doesn’t follow her she walks miles through Brooklyn. She has no keys, no wallet with her—I have nothing, she wants to say to someone.
That’s a bit much, she can picture Daisy saying. I’m just one person who left. Your life is pretty good. She starts to have dreams of Daisy saying this, dreams where Christine tries to hit her but her hands are too heavy to lift. She wakes up mortified to have lost her temper, as if it really happened. Meanwhile in her waking life, she repeatedly loses her temper with Luke. It embarrasses her in the aftermath, it always does, her reactions looming out of proportion—her words heedless, unforgiving, and appalling when reviewed. She’d like to take things not so personally. Though Daisy has always adored her temper: It lights me up, she likes to say. It’s who you are.
Then it’s July, hot and damp. One night, Christine argues with Luke in a restaurant, and when she gets up and says she’s leaving, he lets her, as if defusing the tension is the thing that matters most. She can feel his eyes follow her out the door into the fine rain. Waiting for the light to change at 6th, she feels irritable and grim, disturbed and broken, and when a taxi blares its horn she says aloud to no one: Fuck you.
As if to punish her, the rain picks up with huge and ominous momentum. The light changes, headlights illuminate bright swaths in wet pavement. She crosses the street at a run and takes shelter under the awning of a closed bagel shop to root for her umbrella in her bag. When she realizes she’s left it in the restaurant, she tips her head back against the glass storefront, closes her eyes.
The sound of the cascading storm is a long unceasing hiss on the pavement.
Then a man and woman flail breathlessly into the space beside her, laughing helplessly. Christine opens her eyes, looks over to smile weakly in greeting, but they seem to barely register her. Oh my god, the woman is saying mirthfully, as she wipes her face with her hands, pushes them back through her wet hair like she is stepping from a shower. An expression of longing passes over the man’s face, and he reaches out and kisses her, and in Christine’s chest something desperate seems to unfurl.
It has been three months since Daisy moved. Through this first sad flush of their apartness, Christine has been unable to comprehend why other people’s happiness provokes her greatest longing for her friend. Daisy might smirk, if she were here—clocking the look on Christine’s face. She’d say to this couple, Excuse me, no displays of affection in front of my sad friend. Or she might turn to Christine with a parody of infatuation on her face and say, Should we also kiss? Probably we should, right? This is when the sound escapes from Christine, a wail that surprises her as much as it seems to surprise the other two. They turn to look at her with alarm. They will tell this story for years, Christine thinks. Probably they will laugh, recalling the overreacting girl in the rainstorm. And this inevitability fills her which such anger that when the couple asks, Are you all right? Christine steps into the torrent and doesn’t look back.
The city is a shiny, dissolving stain before her, it wavers in her vision. As she walks, she reaches into her pocket and dials Daisy, rain beading furiously on the screen of her phone, the drops clinging to each other. She presses send on the call, she hears the tiny ring and then the crackle of the line, a small opening in time and space. The phone is slick in her hand, as Daisy’s miniature voice in the storm says, Chris? Hello?
Just then the phone is falling from her grasp. It slips into a rivulet of water, a clear splotch of light, and goes streaming toward the storm drain. Christine gets on her knees; she’s like a child in a tide pool. Her hands are like two starfish in the water. The man and woman from the awning float above with their umbrella saying, Let us help you, tell us what you lost. The M8 bus is going past her, and the water rising from its wheels is bright abundant champagne gold. The rain is sliding down her face and neck, the phone keeps slipping from her fingers, the phone becomes a fish that swims away. The bus is disappearing toward the Hudson, but when Christine looks back here comes the same M8. Same graffiti swirled across its front, and so much tidal water rising up again. She is a skipping record. She is the phases of the moon. She is a city bus forever circling this route, as Daisy’s voice, below the water, tries to say her name.
*
"Two Pisces Emote About the Passage of Time” from I Meant It Once (c) 2023 by Kate Doyle. Reprinted with permission of Algonquin. All rights reserved.