The Hip Genius of Rion Amilcar Scott’s ‘The World Doesn’t Require You’

rion__02931_1559325810This review appears on paperbackparis.com:

Aspiring writers should proceed with caution when reading Rion Amilcar Scott’s second collection of short stories, The World Doesn’t Require You. One cannot delve into these magnificent, genre-bending narratives without sinking into a pool of envy and wonder at the imaginative power of his craft.  Like Scott’s debut, Insurrections, this collection features the fictional city of Cross River, Maryland, a town founded in the wake of the country’s only successful slave revolt. Its inhabitants—a motley cast of characters, from gangsters, sirens, and robots to two unbalanced professors studying loneliness and a down-and-out musician who happens to be the youngest son of God—battle with religion, deities, the transcendent power of music and the balance of fantasy and reality. Spanning decades from past to future, Cross River envelops all in its mythos and the brutal nature of its origins.

Scott’s writing zips with electricity, melding vibrant dialogue with pristinely structured prose. His linguistic playfulness, manifesting in asides, razor-sharp deployment of AAVE, and—in his novella, Special Topics in Loneliness Studies—the liberal usage of footnoting and a break from traditional prose structure with the inclusion of PowerPoint slides and photographs, hums with barely contained mayhem. Music comes as staccato bursts on the page, marrying rhythm and language in ecstatic waves—a feat reminiscent of writers such as Junot Díaz and the late Toni Morrison. While Scott allows the world of Cross River to take shape as it must, containing shadow play of the real world, he maintains a formidable level of control over his sentences and narrative structures. Nothing feels out of place as the reader moves from one story to the next, era to era.

Scott’s world-building rests on the specific experiences of African Americans in a Southern border state, but The World Doesn’t Require You fits easily into conversation with the work of William Faulkner and Gabriel García Márquez who created fantastic variations of their own places of origin, namely Yoknapatawpha County and Macondo. Márquez’s particular strand of magic realism—a genre born from centuries of violent political upheaval—presents itself in Scott’s fiction, a frenetic contribution to the “Big Bang” realm of speculative fiction. In this fluid sub-genre, characters often struggle to come into being in the midst of systemic trauma. The collision of forces that brings matter into existence is a gut-wrenching experience, one that leaves those in its wake reeling and overflowing with powerful energy. In “The Temple of Practical Arts,” Scott writes:

Through music, through the land, we were shapers of the world’s destiny, or at least we were training to be. After the Temple we were beggars, wanderers, hustlers, street buskers pitied by passersby and harassed by police, half-formed angels cast from Heaven. We became the stuff of nightmares. None of us, it turns out, were actually the luminous demigods we’d seen gazing from our mirrors…The Kid ruined this place, the Temple. He ruined us. Transformed us all from little symphonies into the faded plucks beneath the bleeding fingers of God the spent guitarist. The last thumps in the dying heart of God.

— excerpt from Rion Amilcar Scott’s The World Doesn’t Require You

These stories are foundational myths—a subtle re-writing of conventional narratives, and Scott’s references are multifaceted. There are obvious markings of certain literary predecessors, but we also see nods to hip-hop, academic discourse, and a subtle homage to the horror stylings of Jordan Peele. It’s impossible not to get caught up in Scott’s masterful command of these elements. And as for Cross River, we can only hope he will bring us there again.

Casey McQuiston’s ‘Red, White & Royal Blue’ Is A Summer TBR Essential

Red-White-Royal-Blue-Casey-McQuiston-Review-1This review appears on paperbackparis.com:

In the acknowledgments section of Casey McQuiston’s debut novel Red, White & Royal Blue, the author cites (among many things) Mitski’s “Texas Reznikoff” as a source of inspiration. This song—the kickoff track to Bury Me at Makeout Creek—distills the purest elements of McQuiston’s book: “But I’ve been anywhere and it’s not what I want / I wanna be still with you,” lilting and melancholic in its longing, then giving way to a raucous closing verse. It is a sketch that captures the niche every pair of lovers hopes to find, a secret place where they can “keep their socks on in bed.” Something ridiculous and hopeful like that.

Red, White & Royal Blue can claim all the above-used adjectives: pure, raucous, melancholic, ridiculous and hopeful. With it, McQuiston has given us an uproariously funny and beautifully crafted romantic comedy which also serves as a no-holds-barred indulgence for what could have been if the events of 2016 had happened differently.

Alex Claremont-Díaz, son of the United States’ first female president (yes, it takes us there), has only ever wanted to pursue a career in politics. His manic high energy and fierce intelligence charm everyone, making a name for himself as a man about town and a member of the White House trio—a formidable triptych consisting of Alex; his sister June, a budding journalist; and Nora, their best friend/Veep granddaughter/wunderkind of data analysis. Media outlets hail them as the pinnacle of high-achievement and effortless cool—the who’s who of millennial success. Everyone wants to know them.

Despite the constant press attention and the pressures associated with being a part of the First Family, Alex has no intention of slowing down or avoiding the limelight. Ambition reigns supreme until he reaches his goals. After graduation from George Washington University and a much-coveted stint on his mother’s re-election campaign, it’s upward and onward for the handsome, bold-as-brass twenty-two-year-old. Until, of course, it isn’t.

An invitation to the British royal wedding leads to a run-in with Alex’s arch-nemesis, Prince Henry of Wales, and everything goes up in flames. Upending a $75,000 wedding cake tends to piss off a lot of people, and in the midst of another election cycle, the potential for Revolutionary War Part II could prove disastrous at a time when all parties involved are under constant scrutiny. Until things blow over, the two must pretend to be best friends. Charity events, Wimbledon, polo matches: the goal is to make this one colossal mishap look like a misunderstanding.

What begins as mutual disdain—or what Alex believes to be mutual disdain—begins to give way to something inscrutable. Their charade (miracle of miracles!) turns into real friendship. Henry is not the “stuck-up product of inbreeding” Alex believed him to be. But when everything in Alex’s life can be analyzed, memorized and filed away for future use, the fact he is unable to parse his feelings towards Henry is troubling.

When the trio hosts their New Year’s Eve gala, the flood gates open. Henry kisses Alex, and, like the most banal eureka moment of all time, Alex realizes the “prickling, unsettling annoyance” he felt all these years was actually longing. The relationship that develops between Alex and Henry invites all manner of calamity, essentially sealing their death warrants if anyone were to find out. What they have grows in pitch and fervor over eight months.

The stumbling, ebullient thrill of the new comes accompanied with the disorienting levels of obsession that so easily expel all rational and cohesive thought for the sake of endless cataloging. The inexplicable shock to the system that transforms lovers into seasoned archivists: every inch of flesh, every breathing pattern, every embarrassing tic, every sour mood—all collected in a whirl of sensory overload. Then, as the pressure surrounding their circumstances builds even greater, it shifts to the incandescence of a love like sleep, as John Green famously described it—something that happens slowly, and then all at once. Despite their best efforts, Alex and Henry cannot quit each other, and what starts as a fling turns into unadulterated devotion.

The tricky part of any novel such as this is moving past the romantic bits. So many of them end with the lovers coming together after a game of cat and mouse, but such is not the case for these two. The latter third of the book exemplifies McQuiston’s true prowess as she reveals Alex and Henry to themselves and to us as readers when they are forced to decide whether or not they can pursue their relationship.

Can the half-Mexican son of the first female president go public with such a relationship without destroying his parents’ political careers as well as ending his own nascent ambitions? More pressingly, can Henry unshackle himself from the pillory of monarchic tradition and allow himself happiness?

McQuiston delves into all this and more while remaining pitch-perfect in her balance of comedy and emotional turmoil throughout the novel. Her command of character development, plot pacing and narrative give the impression of a writer who has several novels under their belt rather than one. The fact that this book has caught on like wildfire is testament enough to her abilities.

Despite my initial reservations upon reading the book’s description, this novel never feels like wishful thinking, though many might suggest the imaginative haven McQuiston creates is just that. It is certainly something to retreat into when everything seems so existentially bad all the time. Yes, it is, at its core, a gooey, queer love story, full of foul-mouthed Texans and icy monarchs and millennial jargon, but this re-imagining of what could have been can just as easily foment a desire for real change in some unsuspecting reader.

It goes without saying that the concepts of “dissent” and “resistance” should extend beyond the use of the words themselves in casual conversation. McQuiston’s goal with this novel was certainly one of comfort. Of course. Surely we needed it. But Alex and Henry were able to obtain freedom for themselves through action and the support of a close-knit community, so the idea at the heart of this book—that those in a state of precarity can eschew the restraints of political and social tradition for what is actually moral—can inspire the movement from vision to reality. Like the final verse of “Texas Reznikoff”, such freedom is their raucous exit music, something demanding to be heard.

 

Ruth Ware Meets Paula Hawkins in Lucy Foley’s ‘The Hunting Party’

The Hunting Party Lucy Foley Book Review

This review appears on paperbackparis.com:

What happens when a group of friends travels to a remote estate in the Scottish Highlands for New Years? One would hope for an opportunity to catch up—to reminisce about old times and rekindle the connections that are becoming more tenuous as the years pass. Eight friends whose shared history encompasses more than a decade should be enjoying an exciting and carefree annual holiday. But the idyllic getaway they signed up for almost immediately takes a turn for the sinister as the group’s fault lines begin to shift, revealing irreparable damage just beneath their veneer of perfection.

Lucy Foley takes her cue from the Agatha Christie playbook in her fourth novel, The Hunting Party. We know from the beginning someone ends up dead. Who is the victim? And who among the handful of people staying at this remote lodge could have done it? Among the group of friends, there is the center: Miranda. She is the sun around which everyone orbits, and we quickly learn that she wields a certain amount of power over the others. There is Miranda’s distant husband, Julien; Bo and Nick, the perfect couple; Samira and Giles, new parents to an infant daughter; Mark, who is prone to violent outbursts; Mark’s girlfriend, Emma, the newcomer; and Katie, the shy, illusive watcher. The only other people present are the lodge manager, Heather, and the gamekeeper, Doug — both isolating themselves from the outside world as well as a strange Icelandic couple who show a little too much interest in the gore of hunting.

Like the best mystery writers, Foley reveals over time the circumstances leading up to the victim’s death, dropping breadcrumbs and peeling back layers as she moves back and forth through time in the narrative, which is told from the perspective of five characters: Heather, Doug, Miranda, Katie, and Emma. Geographically isolated and trapped by snow, the festive atmosphere quickly becomes a playing field for shifting power dynamics and the sad, grasping claw of highly-educated professional thirtysomethings in their effort to recapture the days of their youth, not realizing that, perhaps, too much has changed.

Foley examines the subtle shifts in mood—the secrets threatening to leak out—with razor-sharp precision, and infuses the nostalgia and half-baked attempts at fun with subtle hints of sadism, violence, and callous disregard as it flits through her characters’ minds. For Heather and Doug, she plumbs the depths of loss and grief. Most remarkably, the landscape itself takes on a life of its own, as though the freezing Scottish winds are sinking into the lodge fixtures as if through flesh.

Police can’t reach the lodge until the snow clears. With a murderer sitting amongst their numbers and no one else in sight, Heather begins piecing together what happened to the ill-fated guest. Foley paces the dual narrative perfectly until the two finally meet. Her combination of character study and atmosphere become the key ingredients of a tightly-wound, expertly crafted mystery. And once you begin this book, you won’t be able to stop.

Revisiting “The View From Saturday” by E.L. Konigsburg

viewLast July, Jia Tolentino published a retrospective review of E.L. Konigsburg’s 1996 masterpiece The View From Saturday. Her thoughts on the novel regarding its subtleties and the author’s clear, spare language encouraged me to read the book again. I must have been in 4th or 5th grade when I read it for the first time, slightly younger than the cosmically strange protagonists of the story, and I loved it. The idea of four precociously intelligent 11-year-olds bonded by an indescribable energy fascinated me at the time. Undoubtedly, I believed myself to be just like them, when, in fact, I was no where near as clever or formal.

The four students–Noah, Nadia, Ethan, and Julian, aka “the Souls”–represent Mrs. Olinski’s 6th grade academic bowl team. They decimate the competition and find themselves in the finals. No one can understand how these four random students outwitted teams of 7th and 8th graders. Even Mrs. Olinski can’t quite identify what drew her to her team. As the novel progresses, the narrative doubles back on itself with pieces of the story fitting into place as each character’s perspective is told.

As with all good novels, Konigsburg manages to say a lot through very little. She writes cleanly and clearly, but there’s an element of mysticism or magic (sometimes overt) in the way she tells the story. In many ways, the spareness of the book’s sentences convey the preternatural clearsightedness of the children and their ability to understand the things about themselves that those around them cannot.

So many of the details in this story would have been lost on me as a child. I loved the story, and I understood the idea of it. I thought it was perfect at the time. Nevertheless, the deftness of Konigsburg’s writing paired with the intricacies of the story’s plot never would have occurred to me.

When I read it for the first time, I was focused solely on the four kids, wholeheartedly wanting to be them. Mrs. Olinski’s realizations throughout the book didn’t register with me as much as they did when I read it as an adult. Her character seemed perfect, then, and wise. But there’s a moment when she goes to Silington House for the first time and she is overcome by jealousy at the family interactions going on around her. It’s a striking moment of rage that exemplifies just how masterful Konigsburg is as a writer.

Ottessa Moshfegh Celebrates the Weird in ‘My Year of Rest and Relaxation’

my-year-of-rest-and-relaxation-book-reviewThis review appears on paperbackparis.com:

Ottessa Moshfesh has distinguished herself as one of the most accomplished writers of this century. Her novel Eileen and the short story collection Homesick for Another World showcase her natural affinity for the weird. Moshfegh’s latest novel, My Year of Rest and Relaxation, is no exception.

The story is told through an unnamed narrator who we learn is a beautiful, wealthy young woman, orphaned several years prior to the events of the book. She has all the fixings of a comfortable life among the Manhattan milieu of which she’s a part, but in reality, she has only one goal: to sleep for one year. More than sleep, she wants to completely shut off all conscious thought. She quits her job, squares away her finances, and prepares to remove herself from society.

After locating the worst psychiatrist known to man, she gluts herself on an impressive cocktail of psycho-pharmaceuticals to achieve her utopia of complete withdrawal. Unfortunately, the master plan isn’t quite foolproof. Reva, the narrator’s friend since college, visits regularly looking to confide in the narrator and jealously muse over the wealth and beauty she herself does not possess. The narrator observes Reva as something of a circus side-show, bearing witness to her problems while also judging her for her vacuity and resenting her presence.

As the novel progresses, the narrator realizes even the powerful drugs she consumes aren’t enough to erase certain memories and urges. She remembers the aloofness of her parents and their eventual deaths, her father’s by cancer and her mother’s by suicide. And she remembers the degrading relationship she maintained with an older man named Trevor who treated her poorly, but whom she still calls in drug-fueled blackouts. The narrator views these memories unsentimentally, though they irk her for their incessancy. She relies on the final tool in her arsenal—a drug that blacks her out for days at a time—finally putting an end to the thing in her for which she has no name: grief.

Moshfegh’s deft and humorous account of the narrator’s quest for rest and relaxation explores the ways in which we mourn and preserve ourselves in the face of immense sorrow. The misanthropic malaise evidenced in the narrator’s need for oblivion parallels our modern collective urge—the atavistic impulse—to withdraw from a society that requires our digital presence at all times. We also see the stirrings of late-capitalist criticism in the way the narrator vivisects her own entitlement, beauty, and luxury, Reva’s need for entitlement, glamour and wealth, along with society’s exploitation of art for commercial gain. In this way, Moshfegh presents the malignancy plaguing her narrator as something both personal and communal. Even if the events of the novel take place nearly twenty years ago—in the months leading up to 9/11—the themes Moshfegh expresses are strikingly relevant.

Moshfegh builds this story with her trademark wit and precision along with an unflagging sense of the hilarity in being weird.

Family Secrets Unravel in Liz Nugent’s ‘Lying in Wait’

Lying-in-Wait-Liz-Nugent-ReviewThis review appears on paperbackparis.com:

Liz Nugent‘s latest novel Lying in Wait is a masterclass in dissecting the ripple effects of murder. In the fall of 1980, Annie Doyle is murdered by a wealthy Dublin couple. We know the how, the where, and the why early in the novel. These driving murder mystery elements play no role in this story. Instead of pursuing a breadcrumb narrative to and ending of truth and resolution, Nugent makes the reader an omniscient observer — presenting all the details of this sordid tale through the perspectives of three separate characters. In doing so, we, the voyeurs, must watch in horror as Annie’s death leads to a lifetime of poison and malice for all those who remain living.

Annie’s murderers — Andrew and Lydia Fitzsimmons — avoid suspicion by wielding their wealth and social status as a shield. Nobody would suspect an upstanding judge and his pretty, unassuming wife in the death of a junkie prostitute, but a few key details catch the attention of one astute detective and the Fitzsimmons 18-year-old son, Laurence. Lydia, incapable of empathizing with anyone outside her class feels little remorse over her role in the murder and attempts to shade over her crime as an unfortunate mishap that Annie was asking for by virtue of her status as a guttersnipe.

Andrew, on the other hand, does not deal well with his crime. Who knew a history of angry outbursts would lead to him strangling a woman he hired to carry his baby so Lydia could finally have another child? On top of his business partner running away with the family money, the guilt becomes too much to bear. Meanwhile, Laurence is piecing together the events of that night and comes to the realization of what he believes to be solely Andrew’s crime. Their already strained relationship becomes further damaged as the mounting anxiety and disdain begin to seep into every aspect of their lives.

Fast forward to five years later. Andrew is dead. He made it only six weeks after the murder before having a heart attack. Laurence is still obese and subdued — resigned to covering up his father’s crime, which his mother now knows he’s aware of. Lydia — the darkest and most sinister character in Nugent’s story slowly reveals more about her past. Her killing blow to Annie’s head wasn’t her only act of violence, and that act has left her in a limbo between perpetual childhood and suffering motherhood. Even as Laurence makes attempts at living an independent life, Lydia’s relationship with him grows ever more toxic and dependent.

It seems like they’ve struck a hopeful balance when Laurence find work as a government employee and begins dating a mousy young woman named Bridget. It isn’t love, but Laurence is relatively content even though the shadow of Annie Doyle, and his obsession with her, still covers life like a veil. When he meets Gerry Doyle, the insidious notions of class and wealth passed on to him by Andrew and Lydia begin to recede. Gerry separated from his wife after Annie’s disappearance, blaming him for her broken life. When she was a teenager, Annie became pregnant. Gerry sent her to a mother and daughter home — a notorious institution run by the Catholic Church where women are renamed, forced to perform manual labor, and eventually give up their children. Unable to escape those years of her life, Annie fell into drug and alcohol abuse.

Annie family never stopped hoping for her return. Especially her sister, Karen — the ultimate link between past and future. But the cops never do much to investigate, and they’re told to simply move on. Karen marries young, and works in a dry cleaner until she’s discovered by a modeling scout who’s son was none other than the detective who had suspicions about Andrew Fitzsimmons five years prior. Through her, she learns that Annie is most certainly dead, which sends her on a mission to find the killer.

When Laurence meets her, past, present, and future are set in motion towards one of the most twisted endings to ever grace the pages of a thriller. Nugent paces each character’s narrative to a steady rhythm of dread, misplaced trust and rage. Laurence, Karen and Lydia inch closer and closer to each other, drawn inexorably towards a cataclysmic end.

But Nugent isn’t solely interested in the ways a murder can bend the course of events over time. Lying in Wait also bears the mark of Ireland’s troubled history of shaming women in the name of religion, fostering a culture of abuse by men and those in power, and the way undesirable members of society are subjugated into silence.  Annie, who falls prey to these forces, avenges the atrocities of her life in death.

Unfortunately, not all is redeemed, and in the end, we find the cycle has continued.

On “Royals” by Rachel Hawkins

Image result for royals rachel hawkinsRachel Hawkins’ latest novel is another young adult addition to the spate of royal wedding literature that burst onto the scene in 2011 after Kate and William’s nuptials. Royals, it seems, came just in time for another such highly publicized event. I think we all know what I’m referring to there…No? Congrats on finding a hole deep enough on this earth where even those wedding bells couldn’t reach you. Despite my general disinterest in the royals and their weddings, the fiction that publishing companies fling in front of us can be delightfully readable. Such is the case with Hawkins’ latest.

In this sweet little page turner, the eccentric 17-year-old, Daisy Winters, is grudgingly thrust into the spotlight when her older sister, Ellie, gets engaged to the crown prince of Scotland. (Yes–the fictional, kilt-wearing, haggis-eating counterparts of those posers in the south). After spending her entire life under the radar, Daisy finds herself the subject of tabloid gossip columns, many speculating that she’ll end up with the crown prince’s supremely eligible younger brother, Sebastian.

Meanwhile, Daisy just wants to fit in and act the right way without making a scene. Ellie already disapproves of nearly everything she does. But dodging tabloid rumors and the hell-on-wheels shit show that is Sebastian while pleasing the entire royal family (most notably the ice queen who sits on Scotland’s throne) isn’t an easy task. Ellie and her fiance Alex appoint Seb’s school friend, Miles, to be Daisy’s de facto tutor in all things royal. Of course they immediately dislike each other. Miles thinks Daisy is after money and fame; Daisy thinks Miles is a jerk. (Rightfully, I might add).

Hawkins crafts every scene with the ease that only the best writers can. Humor and calamity dovetail into a perfectly paced comedy of manners. Reading Royals has me on the hunt for more wedding mayhem, but I doubt I’ll find anything as well crafted. But Hawkins has her readers covered. Royals is only book one…