We’re all going to die, apparently. I’ve known enough of death to assiduously avoid thinking about it until it’s too close to ignore. The other week I visited a friend in hospice. He spent his last days holding court and watching herons stalk frogs in the wetlands beyond the windows. His room seemed more like a hotel than a hospital, with floor-to-ceiling glass and plush lounge chairs. A few weeks earlier he’d had a cough checked, now he was dying—or at least, now he knew he was. There would be no heroic efforts to prolong his life, just medication to enhance its quality. He talked about what he valued. He felt at peace. The next week, he was too tired for visits, so we talked by phone. Then he slipped into death. It was timely to pick up “Being Mortal” by physician writer Atul Gawande a few days later.
We all know the quip about the certainty of death or taxes, but still they creep up and catch us unawares. We don’t consider our life’s end thoroughly enough, asserts Gawande. He writes to “lift the veil” on the whole ghastly institutionalized business of illness, aging and dying, in order to refocus on what he believes to be most important—sustaining meaning in life. He wants us to have an urgent conversation about issues of autonomy and maintaining the integrity of one’s life, so we don’t lose ourselves at the end. Read the rest of this entry »
With the holiday season already in full swing, “A Christmas Carol,” Charles Dickens’ yuletide story about surly old skinflint Ebenezer Scrooge, will once again be brought to life on stage and in countless TV movie adaptations. Yet most workers, in the wake of the Great Recession, can’t help but identity with Bob Cratchit, literature’s most put-upon worker. Given the devastation of both the national economy and the global economy, having a job and keeping a job, any job, has prompted many individuals to re-evaluate not only their work life but the very meaning of work itself. Creative writing has always provided fertile ground for such inquiries: fiction (“The Jungle,” “The Grapes of Wrath”), plays (“Death of a Salesman,” “Glengarry Glen Ross”) and the ragtag poetry of Charles Bukowski, Frank O’Hara and others, question our capitalistic system, the Scrooges who run it, and the value of what all workers do each day to earn a buck.
“Résumé,” Chicago poet Chris Green’s latest collection, takes readers on a contemplative journey through his hardscrabble employment history, which includes stints as a janitor, landscaper, adjunct poetry instructor, security guard and other wage-slave positions. The poems that comprise this slender collection explore the highs (such as they are) and plumb the depths of the catch-as-catch-can world of unskilled labor. Read the rest of this entry »
By Liz Baudler
Michael Harris can’t remember his partner’s phone number without his smart phone. Martine Rothblatt, on the other hand, created a robot modeled directly after her life partner. They’re poles apart, but in books published within the last three months, both writers diagram the same anxiety, asking technology to fill the gap our brains create.
While both books fall under the category of popular science, Harris, a journalist writing his first full-length book, takes a polemic tone. Rothblatt, trained as a scientist and the writer of more academic works on subjects from transgenderism to Middle East peace solutions, focuses on explanation and theory of anything that might be relevant to her subjects. “The End of Absence: Reclaiming What We’ve Lost in a World of Constant Connection,” Harris’ book, is almost entirely predicated on worry. Worries that we don’t get enough time alone without a buzzing, blingling techbeast. Worries that Harris and the rest of us don’t have the attention span to finish “War and Peace.” Worries that disconnection from the net is disconnection from humanity.
Rothblatt, writer of “Virtually Human: The Promise–and the Peril–of Digital Immortality” and the CEO of biotechnology company United Therapeutics, wants to connect us to a future full of technology like us. The gap Rothblatt aims to fill is of the more permanent kind: death. With a mindclone, a “humanly cyberconscious being” with the mindfile, or “stored digital information” about a person, death can be cheated. Life beyond death is not Rothblatt’s ultimate goal: she just lays out the mindclone as the logical next phase of technological development. But the reader can only conclude very few reasons to create another race of being—and an infrastructure for its existence. Read the rest of this entry »
I wish I’d had a taxi driver like Dmitry Samarov when I immigrated to Chicago. Our driver got lost on the way from O’Hare Airport, pulled over on a dark, midnight road by the Des Plaines River so we could check our map, then crashed through roadwork and over a bunch of orange traffic cones. Samarov seems a more careful driver, a meticulous observer of people and a sharp storyteller.
“Where To? A Hack Memoir” is a series of linked vignettes that are wry, hilarious and sometimes melancholic. Samarov, the immigrant “progeny of Soviet intelligentsia and an art school graduate,” describes the cab driver as a passing presence who sees the ugly, the beautiful and the inexplicable. Cab drivers are frequently immigrants, former professionals, now “forced back down to the bottom rung of the societal ladder.” They contend with a gritty city and ruthless cops. The bureaucracy is a time-sucking revenue collector, its authority figures despotic. Passengers are lovelorn, snowbound, disabled, drunk, sweet, amusing, obnoxious and sometimes famous. We glimpse it all. Read the rest of this entry »
Disclaimer: I’m not a fan of fighting. My teen son was a wrestler and endured his share of cauliflower ear, knee injuries, concussion and all-or-nothing coaches. My husband made a documentary about head injuries in sport, so I tend to be squeamish and protective of the human body. I therefore approached “Thrown” with caution.
It’s a layered, complex work about MMA fighters, their ambitions, obsessions and myth-making. Out of sweaty training basements and small-town fighting cages in the Midwest, we meet fighters Erik and Sean. Why do they fight? We are asked to weigh their world of “ecstatic experience” against the alternative offered by the healthy-minded, with their pre-natal yoga and gluten-free diets, “their dull if long lives of quietist self-preserving conformism.” By the end of the book, I’m in with the fighters. Read the rest of this entry »
After her first love dies, Jam Gallahue’s parents enroll her in a school for the “emotionally fragile, highly intelligent” teen to recover from her emotional distress. So begins Meg Wolitzer’s new young adult novel, “Belzhar.”
So deeply in love was Jam that she’s not able to function as she did before. “Reeve was different from the boys I knew—all those Alexes, Joshes, and Matts. It wasn’t just his name. He had a look that none of them had: very smart, slouching and lean, with skinny black jeans hanging low over knobby hip bones.” Wolitzer fans dubious of forays into young-adult literature should breathe easily: that sentence doesn’t end with “and he was a vampire.”
While Wolitzer seems like the quintessentially adult writer, from the sharp wit of “The Wife” to the ambitious, decades-spanning “The Interestings,” she’s acutely aware of that that teenage soul is nothing if not fraught with drama. More like her fairy tale-ish “The Uncoupling,” Belzhar treads fearlessly into fantasy. Jam’s school isn’t an institution, this is no “Girl, Interrupted,” although that is close to what’s happened to our young heroine. Every student in the school is dealing with emotional problems and, presumably, has very wealthy parents to bankroll their child’s emotionally sheltering private education.
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When dealing with short story collections that aren’t what we like to think of as “novels in stories,” there’s an overriding philosophy that the first and last stories are usually the best two stories of the collection. The stuff in between is usually good, sure, but first and last stories are there to anchor the collection at both ends. The first story entices you to read the collection, while the last should send you off with an overwhelmingly positive opinion so strong you forget any duds that were in the middle. What makes Susan Hope Lanier’s debut collection “The Game We Play” odd then is that I don’t think it’s necessarily arranged this way.
Nevertheless, the biggest knock I can give against Lanier’s debut is that my favorite stories are buried in the middle. Not that the collection’s opener, “How Tommy Soto Breaks Your Heart,” doesn’t manage to entice, combining teenage angst and the aftermath of 9/11 to create a nice little flash piece, but it has a hard time competing with “Sophie Salmon” and “Felicia Sassafrass is Fiction.” “Sophie Salmon” is the story I would describe as more or less the collection’s heart: an optimistic, funny and touching love story that’s incited by what is likely the impending doom of its titular character. “Felicia Sassafrass is Fiction,” on the other hand, is the most adventurous piece of short fiction that I’ve read in a long time. It’s most easily described as like that part of “Breakfast of Champions” where Kurt Vonnegut decides to drop in on Kilgore Trout, but even as the biggest Vonnegut fan in existence, I have to admit Lanier is better at using language to position the author’s relationship with her creation, mocking the cliché gestures she gives Felicia, “She crosses her arms or falls to the floor, her eyes turning into two watering stop signs.” “Felicia Sassafrass is Fiction” does an exemplary job of capturing the kinks in the creative process; I’m a sucker for stories like that. Read the rest of this entry »
Tana French is finally back with the fifth book of the Dublin Murder Squad mysteries with “The Secret Place.” Her ingenious conceit continues, in which a minor character from a previous book becomes the lead character in the next—so in “The Secret Place,” the point of view is from Stephen Moran, a rookie cop from “Faithful Place.” Stephen is approached by Holly—the daughter of another detective on the squad. Part of the fun of French’s books is that an inscrutable minor character is opened up in a future book, completely changing the reader’s perspective.
Holly’s dad, Frank, went from hard-nosed prick in “The Likeness” to tough-guy-with-heart-of-gold in “Faithful Place.” Holly tells Stephen that she found a note in the “secret place”—a board at her school where girls are invited to pin up secrets, a place to release emotions but also a place carefully guarded by the faculty. Holly attends St. Kilda’s, a posh private girls’ school where a boy from the nearby private boy’s school was found killed one year ago. Holly’s note reads “I know who killed him.” Read the rest of this entry »
“The Future for Curious People,” writer and poet Gregory Sherl’s debut novel, seems tailor made to be adapted into Hollywood romantic comedy, though one with a science fiction bent. One of its alternating narrators, Godfrey Burkes, begins the novel proposing to his current girlfriend Madge, who doesn’t quite say yes or no, her response contingent on a trip to the office of Doctor Chin, a specialist in envisioning, a process that allows a sight into the future. (Romantic futures are the only ones that can be viewed legally.) Our other narrator, Evelyn Shriner, has just broken up with her boyfriend Adrian after a dismal visit with the same doctor, unsatisfied with their Chihuahua-filled future. Unsatisfied with all the futures she’s seen, Evelyn’s a repeat visitor to Chin’s office. But from the moment that Evelyn rummages through her purse for her ID, handing things to Godfrey in the process and prompting him to tell us “she’s completely beautiful—unruly hair, deep brown eyes, skin the color of the sun, and those pretty lips clamped down around a few flimsy scraps of her identity,” it’s pretty clear who is going to end up with whom. The only question is how, which is answered through suggestive envisioning sessions, comical misunderstandings and the requisite large romantic gesture. Read the rest of this entry »
By Steve Gadlin
David Yow’s book “Copycat (and a litter of other cats)” features a collection of his cat artistry. When my wife picked it up and thumbed through it, she said, “this is pretty good,” and held on to it for another fifteen minutes. In most households, this would constitute a pretty good review. In my home, it meant a little something more.
You see, I also draw cats. A lot of ‘em. A few years ago I started a website called IWantToDrawACatForYou.com as a joke-slash-social-experiment. A fortuitous trip to ABC’s “Shark Tank” and a deal with Mark Cuban later, it has become an accidental business for me. To date, I’ve drawn 17,228 cats. So if there’s any person in this world who has an excuse to turn her nose at David Yow’s book, it’s my wife. A “pretty good” from her has to be worth at least a “totally awesome” from a non-cat-drawing family. Read the rest of this entry »