newyorker--2020-01-20--N. K. Jemisin’s Dream Worlds

N. K. Jemisin’s Dream Worlds

Several years ago , N. K. Jemisin , the fantasy and science-fiction author , had a dream that shook her .
In her sleep , she found herself standing in a surreal tableau with a massif floating in the distance .
“ It was a chunk of rock shaped like a volcanic cone—a cone-shaped smoking mountain , ” she recalled .
Standing before the formation was a black woman in her mid-forties , with dreadlocks , who appeared to be holding the volcano aloft with her mind .
She was glaring down at Jemisin and radiating anger .
Jemisin did @ @ @ @ @ @ @ woman ’ s fury , but she believed that , if she did not ameliorate it quickly , the woman would hurl the smoldering massif at her .
Jemisin awoke in a sweat and jotted down what she had seen .
“ I need to know how that person became who she is—a woman so angry that she was willing to move mountains , ” she told me .
“ She was angry in a slow burn , with the kind of anger that is righteous , enough to change a planet .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ been through so much shit that she has been pushed into becoming a leader .
That ’ s an M.L.K .
I needed to build a world that would explain her.
” Jemisin ’ s writing process often begins with dreams : imagery vivid enough to hang on into wakefulness .
She does not so much mine them for insight as treat them as portals to hidden worlds .
Her tendency is to interrogate what she sees with if/then questions , until her field of vision widens enough for her to glimpse a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ The inspiration for her début novel , “ The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms ” ( 2010 ) , was a dream vision of two gods .
One had dark-as-night hair that contained a starry cosmos of infinite depth ; the other , in a child ’ s body , manipulated planets like toys .
From these images , Jemisin spun out a four-hundred-page story about an empire that enslaves its deities .
The book established her as a prominent new voice .
Jemisin is black , in her mid-forties , and wears her hair @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , she gazes sternly at the camera , as if ready for literary combat .
In person , she is much warmer , but she likes the picture .
Typically , at the center of her fiction , there is a character with coiled strength .
Jemisin , who has a degree in psychology , is interested in power and in systems of subjugation .
In her books , the oppressed often possess an enormous capacity for agency—a supernatural ability , even , that their oppressors lack—but they exist in a society that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Eventually , the world is reordered , often with a cataclysm .
The notes that Jemisin jotted down after her dream went into a folder on her computer where she stores “ snippets , ideas , random thoughts.
” Some are drawn from her reading of nonfiction : Jared Diamond ’ s “ Collapse , ” Charles Mann ’ s “ 1491 , ” Alan Weisman ’ s “ The World Without Us.
” Eventually , she told me , “ this fragment pairs up with that fragment , and they form @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” ( Voltron is an anime “ super robot ” that emerges when other machines combine—an artifact of eighties television that Jemisin enjoyed as a girl . )
Another file in the folder was from 2009 , when Jemisin attended a NASA-funded workshop , called Launchpad , where participants discussed what Earth might be like if it lost its moon .
Some speculated that our planet ’ s axis would tilt wildly , triggering haphazard ice ages , and that its core might lose its stability , causing earthquakes and volcanic eruptions .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ began to pair up .
She imagined a planet that had lost its moon and become seismically hyperactive .
Such a place , she reasoned , could sustain life , but just barely ; mass extinctions would be common .
If the woman in her dream inhabited that planet , she wondered , then what would her civilization look like ?
J. R. R. Tolkien once argued that the creation of an imaginary world was the highest form of artistic expression , but that it was also easily undervalued .
If it is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ remains off the page .
Before Tolkien wrote “ The Lord of the Rings , ” he invented a mythology , a history , and even languages for Middle-earth ; he explained to a friend , “ I wisely started with a map , and made the story fit ( generally with meticulous care for distances ) .
The other way about lands one in confusions and impossibilities.
” It annoyed him that people “ stupidly and even maliciously confound Fantasy with Dreaming , in which there is no Art.
” He wrote @ @ @ @ @ @ @ taken seriously , too .
Jemisin has no interest in pseudo-medieval Europe , but Tolkien would have recognized her rigor .
To get a firsthand feel for volcanoes , she flew to Hawaii to smell sulfur and ash .
To learn how people prepared for environmental stress , she researched end-of-days survivalists , though she stopped short of going into the wilderness to meet them .
( “ I wasn ’ t stupid , ” she told me . )
As the idea of an ever-shattering planet developed in her imagination , Jemisin @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , which she wryly called the Stillness .
She reasoned that its wealth would be concentrated in an urban center near the equator , at a geological spot that seemed stable , based on fault lines that she had sketched out .
She decided arbitrarily that the woman in her dream lived in the volatile hinterlands—and then began to treat that decision like a discovered fact .
“ I ’ m , like , O.K.
, why isn ’ t she working to stabilize this powerful , wealthy part of society ?
” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ she must have at one point been part of that life , but somehow got away.
” Gradually , the contours of a story emerged .
“ You let intuition do whatever it is going to do , ” she said .
“ I had a sentence in mind : ‘ Let ’ s start with the end of the world.
’ That can mean the literal end of the world , it can mean the end of a civilization , or it can mean grief .
That was the point where I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ The grief she understood .
Jemisin ’ s mother had become ill , and would not survive the decade .
After immersing herself in the Stillness for four years , Jemisin finished “ The Fifth Season.
” The story defied easy literary categorization .
It was sweeping but intimate , multilayered but simply told .
It could be read as an environmental parable , or as a study of repression , or as a meditation on race , or as a mother ’ s post-apocalyptic quest .
Jemisin wove in magical elements , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ they felt like scientific principles—laws of an alternative nature .
She evoked advanced technology , but made it so esoteric that it seemed like magic .
( Most of her imagined machines were made of crystal .
At some point , the inhabitants of the Stillness eschewed metallurgy ; the word “ rust ” even became an expletive . )
She took stylistic chances , too .
“ The Fifth Season ” at first appears to weave together the stories of three people , but late in the book Jemisin reveals that she @ @ @ @ @ @ @ story into three narratives , a formal echo of her broken world .
The protagonist is an “ orogene ” —a term that Jemisin derived from scientific nomenclature for a mountain-forming process—who can channel energies that quell or create earthquakes , with varying degrees of control .
For the dominant civilization , which enslaves the orogenes—for use as weaponry or as geological instruments—they are a reviled but necessary underclass .
The protagonist ’ s primary narrative blisters with rage and trauma .
Jemisin wrote it in the second person , the voice belonging @ @ @ @ @ @ @ until a later book .
“ I tried her voice in different forms , ” she told me .
“ I couldn ’ t get too close to her—she was angry with me in the dream , she ’ s not going to talk to me .
That doesn ’ t make sense , I know.
” In a different writer ’ s hands , the use of the second person might have registered as a gimmick , but Jemisin made the device integral to the plot , and deployed it with personality—a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a sense of immediacy .
( “ Look , the ash clouds are spreading already.
” ) “ The Fifth Season ” attracted wide acclaim for its inventiveness , world-building , and intricate assembly .
In 2016 , it won a Hugo Award for Best Novel—a first for a black writer .
The following year , a sequel , “ The Obelisk Gate , ” won again .
In 2018 , the final book in what became the “ Broken Earth ” trilogy , “ The Stone Sky , ” won , too @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the genre had achieved that recognition .
The three books sold more than two million copies worldwide .
The Times called them “ extraordinary.
” John Scalzi , the former president of the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers of America , heralded Jemisin as “ arguably the most important speculative writer of her generation.
” Jemisin lives in a duplex apartment in Brooklyn , with an office that looks out onto a garden , which she cares for meticulously .
For years , she was an urban literary nomad , working wherever she @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ I don ’ t go to coffee shops anymore , ” she told me in her office , late last year .
“ The best-seller life has made it possible to have this.
” She sat at a long desk against the wall ; at one end was a cluster of awards .
The room also contained a plush Darth Vader and a doll of Commander Uhura , from “ Star Trek.
” Beside a chair was a chrome lamp resembling a flying saucer ; Jemisin flipped a switch , and a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ saucer glowed .
She had bought it on a trip upstate .
“ I saw that lamp , I needed that lamp , ” she said .
“ It ’ s corny as hell , and it doesn ’ t light up shit .
It ’ s just for the mood , but sometimes when I am writing I want to be in that mood and summon the energies.
” Jemisin immediately followed the “ Broken Earth ” trilogy with two other books .
In 2018 , she released “ How Long ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a collection of short stories .
She also completed her next novel , “ The City We Became , ” the first installment of another trilogy , which is due out this March .
Submitting the novel to her editor , a few hours before midnight on New Year ’ s Eve , she felt depleted ; for more than a decade , she had been writing nearly a book a year .
She resolved to take 2019 off , but she couldn ’ t stay idle .
She sketched out the new @ @ @ @ @ @ @ also navigating calls from Hollywood , speaking engagements , side gigs .
Marvel Comics invited her to guest-write a series—an offer she declined , because she had already agreed with DC Comics to create a “ Green Lantern ” spinoff .
As we sat in her office , the first issue of her comic was slated for release in a few weeks .
“ This is an unusual year for me , ” she said .
“ Usually , I have only one thing to concentrate on.
” Above her desk she had @ @ @ @ @ @ @ truncated generational story .
“ Like most black Americans descended from slaves , it basically stops , ” she told me .
She once wrote about this loss—not merely the erasure of a backstory but also the absence of all that a person builds upon it ; as she put it , the “ strange emptiness to life without myths.
” She had considered pursuing genealogy , “ the search for the traces of myself in moldering old sale documents and scanned images on microfiche.
” But ultimately she decided that she had @ @ @ @ @ @ @ say .
“ They ’ ll tell me where I came from , but not what I really want to know : where I ’ m going .
To figure that out , I make shit up.
” Jemisin pointed to a photo of her father , Noah , as a young man—thin , confident , smiling—and spoke about his grandmother , a woman people called Muh Dear : “ She basically made her living doing fortunes—magic , for lack of a better term.
” In a story that Jemisin included in “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ?
, ” she envisioned Muh Dear as a shaman named Emmaline , facing down a malevolent fairy , the White Lady , who wants to take away her daughter .
( “ The White Lady was nearly all surface ; that was the nature of her kind .
That was how this meeting would go , then : an appearance of grace and gentility , covering the substance of battle.
” ) As the two spar , the White Lady draws Emmaline into a roiling dreamscape , in which it is possible @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the upheavals of the civil-rights movement ; the progress and the tensions that followed .
Amid the whorl of imagery , Emmaline offers to sacrifice herself in place of her child if her family is protected .
The fairy accepts the gesture : “ The White Lady closed the dream around Emmaline , and whisked her away.
” For Muh Dear ’ s real grandchildren , growing up in mid-century Alabama , there was no shortage of dangers .
Jemisin ’ s father was born in Birmingham , where the commissioner of public @ @ @ @ @ @ @ attack the Freedom Riders when their Greyhound buses arrived , in 1961 .
As Jemisin once recalled , her father spent part of his youth “ dodging dogs and fire hoses , turned on him and other Civil Rights protestors.
” Jemisin ’ s parents met as students at Alabama State University , and married shortly after graduating .
Noah wanted to devote his life to painting , so he applied to a graduate program at the University of Iowa , and the two moved to Iowa City .
Jemisin ’ s mother @ @ @ @ @ @ @ psychology , specializing in psychometrics ; she later administered I.Q .
tests .
When Jemisin was born , in Iowa , her parents named her Nora Keita .
After her first birthday , the family moved to Brooklyn , where Noah strove to establish himself .
For income , he taught art , and Janice taught grade-school science .
( He now has a painting in the Met , an abstract called “ Black Valhalla.
” ) “ We were in a beautiful little brownstone , ” Jemisin recalled .
“ We had @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
There was a gorgeous old mahogany bannister .
There were grapevines in the back yard , and a squirrel named Greedy who would come seeking pecans that my grandmother would send me from her tree in Alabama.
” When Jemisin was five , her parents divorced , and her mother moved to Mobile .
Jemisin went with her , and hated it : the regimentation of Southern society , the quasi-suburban alienation , the racism .
While she was in the fourth grade , the Klan burned a cross on the Mobile @ @ @ @ @ @ @ teen-ager named Michael Donald as he walked home from the store .
They hanged his body from a tree in a mixed-race neighborhood : a lynching , in the nineteen-eighties .
“ Not too far from my grandmother ’ s place , actually , ” Jemisin told me .
In a speech in 2013 , she recalled its impact on her family : “ I remember my grandmother sitting in her den with a shotgun across her knees while I cracked pecans at her feet .
I was maybe nine years old , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
She told me the gun was just an old replica—she ’ d brought it out to clean it .
I said , ‘ O.K.
, Grandma , ’ and asked whether she ’ d make me a pie when I was done.
” Jemisin mastered an outsider ’ s art of adaptation .
Shifting between Alabama and New York , where she spent summers with her father , she adjusted to the jarring differences across the Mason-Dixon Line , both social and personal—living in one home shaped by an artist and another @ @ @ @ @ @ @ she told me , was “ a schizoid experience.
” In Mobile , she shifted across racial divisions , too , attending a predominantly white school that had been forced to desegregate .
“ I had to get up at o-dark-thirty to ride the bus for an hour , ” she recalled .
To exchange comic books with her white friends , she met them clandestinely behind a building .
Science fiction appealed to her at a young age .
Little about her real life was cohesive , but imagined worlds could be @ @ @ @ @ @ @ logic .
“ I saw ‘ Star Wars ’ when it came out , because I was a creepy , obsessed space child , ” she told me .
Later , she mined her local library for science-fiction novels ; she covered the books in paper so that she could read them in class .
Jemisin also began to write , constantly .
Her cousin , W. Kamau Bell , who is now a comedian with a show on CNN , told me , “ I wanted to be a comic-book artist , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the front of my grandmother ’ s house , laying in the sun , writing , drawing , and talking .
We bonded over the fact that we felt like aliens in Mobile.
” Jemisin ’ s mother did not understand her daughter ’ s interest in otherworldly fantasies , or her non-stop writing .
But her father did .
In Brooklyn , she stayed up late with him to watch “ Star Trek ” and “ The Twilight Zone.
” Noah Jemisin encouraged his daughter to explore the city , and also @ @ @ @ @ @ @ would pass time , whole afternoons , not speaking to each other , ” she told me .
“ He would be working on a painting in his studio .
I would be sitting on the couch , writing.
” In the evenings , they went on walks .
“ He was my first real editor , ” she said .
“ One of my favorite memories is us walking across the Williamsburg Bridge .
This was before it got renovated .
It had fucking holes in it .
You had to be @ @ @ @ @ @ @ !
I would talk over story ideas and plotlines .
He would listen to all of that.
” One of her first childhood stories was a fable about a fantastical prehuman era in which animals built an advanced civilization , but then destroyed it—along with their ability to speak—in a war .
She told me , “ I actually published that , by putting two pieces of cardboard around it , wrapping them in paper , and binding it with yarn.
” On its surface , all science fiction is about change—technological , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ contact with the unknown or forces a reassessment of the familiar .
Nonetheless , the genre remains inextricably tied to the everyday—the biases and limitations of the writer ’ s time .
Jules Verne may have imagined the Nautilus as a futuristic steampunk submarine , but his book expresses a nineteenth-century vision , in which the natural world existed to be dominated by men .
“ How Long ’ til Black Future Month ?
” takes its name from an essay that Jemisin wrote in 2013 .
It begins with two memories of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ as a girl , excitedly taking it all in , and then as an adult .
“ I notice something : there ’ s nobody even slightly brown in the Jetsons ’ world , ” she wrote .
“ This is supposed to be the real world ’ s future , right ?
Albeit in silly , humorous form .
Thing is , not-white people make up most of the world ’ s population , now as well as back in the Sixties when the show was created .
So what happened to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of this show ’ s creators ?
Are they down beneath the clouds , where the Jetsons never go ?
Was there an apocalypse , or maybe a pogrom ?
Was there a memo ?
” “ The Jetsons ” was far from the worst example of racial exclusion .
Until 2015 , despite years of protest , the World Fantasy Award was a bust of H. P. Lovecraft , a white supremacist who believed that blacks were subhuman and who openly supported Hitler .
Even Tolkien ’ s masterwork , “ The @ @ @ @ @ @ @ complicated by race .
He had written his orcs to be revolting , devolved , violent agents of evil .
In a letter , he explained his thinking : “ They are ( or were ) squat , broad , flat-nosed , sallow-skinned , with wide mouths and slant eyes : in fact degraded and repulsive versions of the ( to Europeans ) least lovely Mongol-types.
” In Mobile ’ s public library , Jemisin read voraciously , but she almost never encountered characters who credibly represented someone like her .
Black writers @ @ @ @ @ @ @ at least the nineteenth century , but when Jemisin first immersed herself in the genre their work was either difficult to locate or difficult to recognize .
In early pulp science fiction , it was common for writers to sell their stories using pseudonyms , making their true identities almost impossible to discern .
Those few novelists who were openly recognized as black—in the early eighties , there were only four of any prominence—were often encouraged to avoid race in their work .
In 1967 , a few months after the notable African-American @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , he wrote to Analog magazine , seeking to serialize a daring , experimental space opera he had written , called “ Nova.
” Analog passed .
As an editor explained , Delany ’ s protagonist was half Senegalese , and white sci-fi readers would be unable to relate .
“ It was all handled as though I ’ d happened to have dressed my main character in a purple brocade dinner jacket , ” Delany later recalled , in an essay on racism in science fiction .
To be a black author @ @ @ @ @ @ @ meant navigating paradoxical demands : editors expected his work to carry no trace of his identity , but , no matter what he put on the page , they would inevitably view it as “ African-American science fiction.
” “ Nova , ” later published as a book , proved to be highly influential—a progenitor of the cyberpunk movement .
Delany recalled that he was frequently invited to speak on panels with Octavia Butler , the only other black author who had achieved his kind of visibility , even though their work was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ had to navigate the paradox .
“ When I began writing science fiction , when I began reading , heck , I wasn ’ t in any of this stuff I read , ” she told the Times before her death , in 2006 .
“ I wrote myself in.
” This simple goal was surprisingly hard to communicate .
Just before winning a Nebula for her tenth novel , Butler sat for an interview with Charlie Rose , who asked , “ Are you trying to create a new black mythology ?
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
“ I am telling stories that interest me.
” She spoke a little about what that meant , but Rose persisted : “ What , then , is central to what you want to say about race ?
” She replied , with a dismissive sting , “ Do I want to say something central about race aside from ‘ Hey , we ’ re here ’ ?
” She recalled a panel she had been on , in 1979 , with another writer .
“ He thought that it wasn ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in science fiction because you could always make any racial statement you needed to make by way of extraterrestrials , ” she told Rose .
“ If he was trying to start trouble he certainly succeeded.
” Butler later wrote a withering response to the writer ’ s comment , in Transmission magazine : “ Science fiction reaches into the future , the past , the human mind .
It reaches out to other worlds and into other dimensions .
Is it really so limited , then , that it can not reach @ @ @ @ @ @ @ who happen not to be white ?
” The essay was powerful , its impact negligible .
My own copy of Butler ’ s novel “ Dawn ” —a brilliant , eerie , thought-provoking book—is a paperback from 1988 .
The cover depicts a woman resembling Sigourney Weaver in “ Alien , ” even though the text clearly ( but lightly ) indicates that the protagonist is not white .
It contains no author photo , no bio .
Jemisin ’ s childhood encounter with “ Dawn ” was the same edition .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ that Butler was black .
Hudson Yards was crawling with superheroes and villains and oddballs : people dressed like Storm Troopers , like Batman , like Godzilla , like Care Bears .
It was the weekend of New York Comic Con , the Mecca of nerd culture that , every year , seems to grow bigger , more commercial , more theatrical in its costume pageantry .
One attendee wore a white dress supporting feathered Pegasus wings the size of a small hang glider .
I met Jemisin outside the Javits Center .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ a black blouse , and jeans , with her hair pulled back .
She is often invited to speak about her books at Comic Con , but , as a novelist , she is generally spared the titanic promotional machinery that surrounds the main attractions : the stars hyping Hollywood films , the pavilions hyping triple-A video games , the m.c.s hyping comic-book celebrities .
Jemisin , who describes herself as “ a supercharged introvert , ” is just fine with that .
This year , though , there was no avoiding one @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ Green Lantern ” spinoff , “ Far Sector , ” was scheduled for release just after the convention .
“ All right , ” she said .
“ I ’ ve got to get to the DC publicity area .
Where the hell is that ?
” We passed through metal detectors and into a huge atrium .
Surveying the hordes , she said , “ I am imagining there is a black hole under Javits sucking all the energy out of the people here.
” To get through the day , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ : first relaxing with a Lush bath bomb , then slaughtering some digital foes in Mass Effect 3 .
“ Far Sector ” is set at the edge of the known universe , in a multispecies city-state built on a Dyson sphere—a speculative megastructure , named after Freeman Dyson , who once postulated that hyper-advanced alien civilizations would seek to harness the energy of stars by encasing them in technological shells .
The story centers on Sojourner Mullein , an N.Y.P.D .
cop turned Lantern , who looks as if she has been @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Monáe .
Although it is a comic book , the writing carries Jemisin ’ s wry tone , interest in power , and unapologetic use of allegory .
The series opens with Mullein surveying a murder scene , while considering an aphorism from “ Things Fall Apart , ” Chinua Achebe ’ s novel of colonialism : “ A man who makes trouble for others is also making it for himself.
” It lingers in her mind , but Mullein dismisses it , noting , “ I ’ m the one causing the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Jemisin was in her twenties , she believed that a career in writing fantasy was closed to her , because of who she was .
Instead , she pursued a graduate degree in psychology , and later took a job as a career counsellor at a college in Springfield , Massachusetts .
“ God help me , ” she told me .
“ Isolated .
Also cold as fuck !
Nobody told me that , like , lake-effect snows happen in western Massachusetts.
” To keep herself sane , she kept writing , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ She still writes fan fiction , using secret identities that she guards aggressively . )
A few years later , she landed a position at Northeastern University , in Boston , but felt no less lost there .
In 2002 , when she turned thirty , she had a moment of crisis .
“ I was , like , Oh , God , I am in debt up to my eyeballs , I hate this town , I don ’ t like my boyfriend , ” she said .
“ I have got @ @ @ @ @ @ @ need to do to be happy ?
O.K.
, get out of debt , get out of Boston , get into writing—maybe make some money from it , maybe that can help.
” Jemisin considered applying to the Clarion writers ’ workshop , which specializes in science fiction and fantasy ; luminaries in the genre teach there .
But the workshop lasted six weeks—longer than she could take off from work .
Instead , she attended a one-week workshop on Martha ’ s Vineyard .
One instructor urged her to write some short @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the idea , but then relented , recognizing that the form ’ s constraints could sharpen her sense of pacing and character .
She subscribed to genre magazines to study some examples , then tried her hand .
“ How Long ’ til Black Future Month ?
” includes one of her earliest published stories , “ Cloud Dragon Skies ” ( 2005 ) , in which an ecological disaster has caused most of humanity to abandon Earth for a ring-shaped space colony , built from crushed asteroids , beyond Mars .
“ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ it , ” notes the narrator , a young woman named Nahautu , one of the few who stay .
The planet has rebounded , except for the atmosphere .
The toxic chemicals it has absorbed combine to form a new kind of life : One morning we awoke and the sky was a pale , blushing rose .
We began to see intention in the slow , ceaseless movements of the clouds .
Instead of floating , they swam spirals in the sky .
They gathered in knots , trailing wisps like @ @ @ @ @ @ @ watching us .
In just a few pages , Jemisin sketched a scenario filled with ambiguities and philosophical questions .
( How is nature defined ?
What represents progress ? )
The people on Earth decide to treat the animate clouds as natural—believing that , in a redemptive future , humanity must adapt to its ecosystem , not shape it .
But scientists from the space colony try to neutralize the effect , and the sky reacts violently , tearing up the planet .
Fleeing Earth in a coffinlike pod , Nahautu travels @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that is both better and lesser than the poisoned Earth .
She is not fully at home in either place .
In her new life , she becomes a storyteller .
DC Comics had a greenroom overlooking the Javits exhibition floor ; after Jemisin spoke on a panel at the Comic Con main stage , a publicist ushered her there .
Relaxed , she was in a joking mood .
“ My Twitter is full of bitch , ” she warned the publicist .
Online , Jemisin is an active , quick-witted commentator @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the writing life—with zingers and tart observations .
In 2015 , the Times invited her to write a column about science fiction , called “ Otherworldly ” ; she did so for two years , proving to be a perceptive and at times unsparing critic .
In 2017 , she described Andy Weir ’ s “ The Martian , ” a surprise hit that inspired a blockbuster film , as “ Robinson Crusoe in space , ” and his next novel , “ Artemis , ” as “ a 300-page film pitch that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ be more appealing after it goes to Hollywood.
” That year , TNT announced that it was going to develop Jemisin ’ s “ The Fifth Season ” into a series—an ambitious or perhaps foolhardy bid , given the book ’ s narrative complexity and experimental style .
“ These are payments for babysitters , but it ’ s more exciting to pretend I ’ m a drug dealer.
” The DC publicist asked Jemisin , “ Do you prefer to be called Nora or N.K .
?
” She laughed and said @ @ @ @ @ @ @ called me N.K .
when I was in trouble as a child , so every time someone says it , I ’ m , like , ‘ What ?
I didn ’ t do it !
’ ” Jemisin began to abbreviate her name at the start of her writing career , fearing that an association with sci-fi would interfere with her professional work .
While she was at Northeastern , she imposed a strict deadline : to produce a novel within a year .
Because she had a full-time job , most @ @ @ @ @ @ @ night , but , she told me , “ after work , my brain just couldn ’ t make that shift.
” Mostly , she found herself mapping out ideas while doing the dishes or playing video games .
She wrote every evening before bed , even if she knew most of it would not survive a self-edit the next day .
The novel that resulted was set in a kingdom inspired by ancient Egypt , with a belief system that drew on Eastern and Western religious ideas , as well as the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of Jemisin ’ s invented humors is a form of healing magic tied to dreams .
A priestly caste , called Gatherers , harvests it from people whom a goddess judges to be corrupt ; the extractive process is deadly , but the system keeps the society in balance .
At the book ’ s opening , a skilled Gatherer botches an extraction .
In trying to figure out why , he learns that an assassin has been using the process to murder .
“ I was trying to appeal to traditional fantasy @ @ @ @ @ @ @ It is a bog-standard fantasy quest story.
” The book landed her an agent , Lucienne Diver , but no contract .
Diver told me , “ We got a lot of people saying , ‘ She ’ s amazing , but I don ’ t know how to fit her into the market.
’ ” She thought that the setting , the story ’ s complexity , the alchemy of Jemisin ’ s various source materials—the very attributes that made her stand out—also made the book hard to position for a first-time @ @ @ @ @ @ @ editor at Orbit , told me that she had loved the book but thought that it had no clear sales hook .
She told Diver , “ If she has anything else , I want to be the first to see it.
” Jemisin was convinced that the rejections , however politely stated , were code for the same editorial bigotry that Delany had faced in the sixties .
( In 2012 , after Jemisin had established herself , the book was published , as “ The Killing Moon , ” and nominated @ @ @ @ @ @ @ came very close to quitting , ” she told me .
“ I had a long dark tea-time of the soul , and basically somewhere in there I realized , People are just that racist .
If the only problem is that the book is full of black people—O.K.
, I got you .
I am going to write something full of white people , but it is going to be all about how evil those white people are .
‘ The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms ’ was that book .
It was me @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Jemisin ’ s anger with the industry , she produced a shrewd , philosophically playful page-turner that both reflected and transcended her feelings .
She decided to write it in the first person—unusual for epic fantasy , which often leans on the third person to accommodate expositional detours about the imagined world .
The story was no less original : it was about a warrior baroness summoned to an insular palace balanced on a pedestal , like an Eero Saarinen tabletop .
The baroness is drawn into court intrigues and must solve a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the society ’ s power structure , and along the way has interstellar sex with a god .
( Jemisin told me that the book could have been marketed as a romance . )
Diver shopped the manuscript , and it inspired an immediate bidding war .
Devi Pillai told me , “ I was , like , ‘ Mine !
’ ” By then , Jemisin was working unhappily at a for-profit college in New York .
“ I was at some stupid-assed retreat , and I kept ducking out to take @ @ @ @ @ @ @ told me .
Pillai won the auction , with a six-figure bid that included a commitment for two more books .
“ I started screaming , ” Jemisin told me .
“ People at the retreat were , like , ‘ Should we call somebody ?
’ ” For the first time , Jemisin could devote herself fully to writing .
When Orbit began promoting the book—comparing it to the work of Neil Gaiman and George R. R. Martin—she created a Web site for herself .
“ Do big kids squee ?
” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ think a squee is appropriate right about now .
I can ’ t see how a little squee would hurt .
Are we all agreed ?
’ Kay ?
Then here goes .
: :SQUEE : : ” In December , I caught up with Jemisin on the steps of City Hall , where she had come to research the second installment of her new trilogy .
Rather than build a fantastical world for it , she decided to use New York , a city that has always seemed a little unreal .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ , when I am walking , the air feels a particular way , or the light comes in at a particular angle , and the moment makes me feel like the city is alive and breathing.
” For the new trilogy , she had chosen to make these feelings literal , positing that any city , upon reaching the necessary urban development , could achieve sentience .
New York is about to transition when it is invaded by interdimensional aliens seeking to destroy it .
The story is part “ Ghostbusters , ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Across the 8th Dimension.
” Jemisin told me that the project was a chance to relax , “ an emotional palate cleanser , ” but it was also a coded critique of the sci-fi and fantasy genre .
The aliens take on Lovecraftian form ( “ The tendril mass looms , ethereal and pale ” ) and are fought off by a multi-ethnic , multi-gendered posse of underdogs—people Lovecraft would have hated .
More than a decade earlier , Octavia Butler had asserted , “ Hey , we ’ re here.
” But @ @ @ @ @ @ @ have to keep saying it.
” Recent history , she said , had made this evident .
In 2009 , after a white novelist posted a formula for “ writing the other , ” many people of color in the genre erupted in frustration , triggering a contentious series of online debates , known collectively as RaceFail , that unfolded for more than a year .
At a conference , Nalo Hopkinson , a Jamaican-Canadian writer , delivered a speech titled “ A Reluctant Ambassador from the Planet of Midnight , ” in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of anger to her white colleagues—making clear that Butler ’ s sense of invisibility was still sorely felt .
Jemisin told me , “ One blog was , like , ‘ If you ’ re a person of color who is into science fiction , speak up .
We ’ re doing a head count of how many of us exist.
’ And it was a huge number .
I had thought we were unicorns .
In fact , the post was titled ‘ The Wild Unicorn Herd Check-in.
’ ” Amid a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
In 2013 , she gave an impassioned speech about race in the genre , noting that a white supremacist had just run for president of the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers of America .
Though he lost , he had secured ten per cent of the vote , prompting her to criticize the “ great unmeasured mass of enablers ” who had been silent .
The former candidate , in turn , called her an “ ignorant half-savage ” in a racist screed .
Jemisin told me , “ That touched off @ @ @ @ @ @ @ violence poured in .
She scrubbed her online presence and began to vary her commute .
Jemisin ’ s successes were caught up in the foofaraw , too .
As the cultural divide sharpened , two blocs of conservative writers began interfering with the Hugos , using a loophole to shape the list of nominees ; until it was closed , two years later , people protested by selecting “ No award ” on ballots .
“ The Fifth Season ” won its award just after the loophole was closed .
Accepting her @ @ @ @ @ @ @ lectern , with the rocket-shaped award beside her , and declared , “ This is the year in which I get to smile at all of those naysayers , every single mediocre , insecure wannabe who fixes their mouth to suggest that I do not belong on this stage , that people like me could not possibly have earned such an honor , and that when they win it ’ s ‘ meritocracy , ’ but when we win it ’ s ‘ identity politics.
’ ” Holding up the award , she @ @ @ @ @ @ @ at those people , and lift a massive , shining rocket-shaped finger in their direction.
” In Jemisin ’ s forthcoming New York novel , “ The City We Became , ” she borrows from some of her experiences : the aliens induce alt-right trolls to assist them , and the protagonists gird against cyber-harassment .
“ Places like New York are inherently free-form , ” Jemisin told me .
“ If a bunch of fascists try to take over , New York could die.
” She said that she was curious to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ city , and the energy of a place like this , would resist that.
” In the City Council chambers , where she hoped to place a scene in her next book , Jemisin sat in a balcony and observed the rituals and the moods of Gotham politics .
There was a tribute to Pakistan ’ s founding father , and a bill to force real-estate developers to set aside apartments for the homeless .
She was especially keen on the way members conferred in side chats—a narrative opportunity .
“ I see @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of Robert ’ s Rules of Order , ” she noted .
After three hours , her stamina waned .
“ This is putting me to sleep , ” she whispered , and we stepped out into the cold , under a darkening sky .
The night before , a snow squall had enveloped the city and then quickly receded , as if on supernatural command .
To the north was the Williamsburg Bridge , which in Jemisin ’ s new book is destroyed by an alien creature , “ like some haunting @ @ @ @ @ @ @ material for “ The City We Became ” describes it as her most accessible book .
“ What seems to be happening , and I don ’ t know if I want to resist this , is an effort to push me into the mainstream , ” Jemisin said .
“ I am wrestling with , Do I want to let people call me the next Atwood , or whatever ?
They always want you to be the next such-and-such .
But I am still going to write what I am going to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ an idea that was unrelentingly sci-fi : people who mutate into spacecraft .
“ Like werewolves , but spaceships , ” she said , giggling .
“ I know , it ’ s corny .
I admit that it ’ s corny !
But it is an idea that persists in my head , and I keep wanting to explore it.
” ♦

Several years ago, N. K. Jemisin, the fantasy and science-fiction author, had a dream that shook her. In her sleep, she found herself standing in a surreal tableau with a massif floating in the distance. “It was a chunk of rock shaped like a volcanic cone—a cone-shaped smoking mountain,” she recalled. Standing before the formation was a black woman in her mid-forties, with dreadlocks, who appeared to be holding the volcano aloft with her mind. She was glaring down at Jemisin and radiating anger. Jemisin did not know how she had triggered the woman’s fury, but she believed that, if she did not ameliorate it quickly, the woman would hurl the smoldering massif at her.
Jemisin awoke in a sweat and jotted down what she had seen. “I need to know how that person became who she is—a woman so angry that she was willing to move mountains,” she told me. “She was angry in a slow burn, with the kind of anger that is righteous, enough to change a planet. That’s a person who has been through so much shit that she has been pushed into becoming a leader. That’s an M.L.K. I needed to build a world that would explain her.”
Jemisin’s writing process often begins with dreams: imagery vivid enough to hang on into wakefulness. She does not so much mine them for insight as treat them as portals to hidden worlds. Her tendency is to interrogate what she sees with if/then questions, until her field of vision widens enough for her to glimpse a landscape that can hold a narrative. The inspiration for her début novel, “The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms” (2010), was a dream vision of two gods. One had dark-as-night hair that contained a starry cosmos of infinite depth; the other, in a child’s body, manipulated planets like toys. From these images, Jemisin spun out a four-hundred-page story about an empire that enslaves its deities. The book established her as a prominent new voice.
Jemisin is black, in her mid-forties, and wears her hair in dreadlocks. In her author photo, she gazes sternly at the camera, as if ready for literary combat. In person, she is much warmer, but she likes the picture. Typically, at the center of her fiction, there is a character with coiled strength. Jemisin, who has a degree in psychology, is interested in power and in systems of subjugation. In her books, the oppressed often possess an enormous capacity for agency—a supernatural ability, even, that their oppressors lack—but they exist in a society that has been engineered to hold them down. Eventually, the world is reordered, often with a cataclysm.
The notes that Jemisin jotted down after her dream went into a folder on her computer where she stores “snippets, ideas, random thoughts.” Some are drawn from her reading of nonfiction: Jared Diamond’s “Collapse,” Charles Mann’s “1491,” Alan Weisman’s “The World Without Us.” Eventually, she told me, “this fragment pairs up with that fragment, and they form a Voltron, and become a story.” (Voltron is an anime “super robot” that emerges when other machines combine—an artifact of eighties television that Jemisin enjoyed as a girl.)
Another file in the folder was from 2009, when Jemisin attended a NASA-funded workshop, called Launchpad, where participants discussed what Earth might be like if it lost its moon. Some speculated that our planet’s axis would tilt wildly, triggering haphazard ice ages, and that its core might lose its stability, causing earthquakes and volcanic eruptions. The fragments in Jemisin’s folder began to pair up. She imagined a planet that had lost its moon and become seismically hyperactive. Such a place, she reasoned, could sustain life, but just barely; mass extinctions would be common. If the woman in her dream inhabited that planet, she wondered, then what would her civilization look like?
J. R. R. Tolkien once argued that the creation of an imaginary world was the highest form of artistic expression, but that it was also easily undervalued. If it is done well, much of the labor remains off the page. Before Tolkien wrote “The Lord of the Rings,” he invented a mythology, a history, and even languages for Middle-earth; he explained to a friend, “I wisely started with a map, and made the story fit (generally with meticulous care for distances). The other way about lands one in confusions and impossibilities.” It annoyed him that people “stupidly and even maliciously confound Fantasy with Dreaming, in which there is no Art.” He wrote about elves. He wanted to be taken seriously, too.
Jemisin has no interest in pseudo-medieval Europe, but Tolkien would have recognized her rigor. To get a firsthand feel for volcanoes, she flew to Hawaii to smell sulfur and ash. To learn how people prepared for environmental stress, she researched end-of-days survivalists, though she stopped short of going into the wilderness to meet them. (“I wasn’t stupid,” she told me.)
As the idea of an ever-shattering planet developed in her imagination, Jemisin drew a map of a Pangaea-like supercontinent, which she wryly called the Stillness. She reasoned that its wealth would be concentrated in an urban center near the equator, at a geological spot that seemed stable, based on fault lines that she had sketched out. She decided arbitrarily that the woman in her dream lived in the volatile hinterlands—and then began to treat that decision like a discovered fact. “I’m, like, O.K., why isn’t she working to stabilize this powerful, wealthy part of society?” Jemisin told me. “Well, she must have at one point been part of that life, but somehow got away.” Gradually, the contours of a story emerged. “You let intuition do whatever it is going to do,” she said. “I had a sentence in mind: ‘Let’s start with the end of the world.’ That can mean the literal end of the world, it can mean the end of a civilization, or it can mean grief. That was the point where I decided that her son had died.” The grief she understood. Jemisin’s mother had become ill, and would not survive the decade.
After immersing herself in the Stillness for four years, Jemisin finished “The Fifth Season.” The story defied easy literary categorization. It was sweeping but intimate, multilayered but simply told. It could be read as an environmental parable, or as a study of repression, or as a meditation on race, or as a mother’s post-apocalyptic quest. Jemisin wove in magical elements, but she systematized them so thoroughly that they felt like scientific principles—laws of an alternative nature. She evoked advanced technology, but made it so esoteric that it seemed like magic. (Most of her imagined machines were made of crystal. At some point, the inhabitants of the Stillness eschewed metallurgy; the word “rust” even became an expletive.)
She took stylistic chances, too. “The Fifth Season” at first appears to weave together the stories of three people, but late in the book Jemisin reveals that she has merely shattered her protagonist’s story into three narratives, a formal echo of her broken world. The protagonist is an “orogene”—a term that Jemisin derived from scientific nomenclature for a mountain-forming process—who can channel energies that quell or create earthquakes, with varying degrees of control. For the dominant civilization, which enslaves the orogenes—for use as weaponry or as geological instruments—they are a reviled but necessary underclass. The protagonist’s primary narrative blisters with rage and trauma. Jemisin wrote it in the second person, the voice belonging to a narrator who is not revealed until a later book. “I tried her voice in different forms,” she told me. “I couldn’t get too close to her—she was angry with me in the dream, she’s not going to talk to me. That doesn’t make sense, I know.”
In a different writer’s hands, the use of the second person might have registered as a gimmick, but Jemisin made the device integral to the plot, and deployed it with personality—a voice with quirks and, occasionally, a sense of immediacy. (“Look, the ash clouds are spreading already.”) “The Fifth Season” attracted wide acclaim for its inventiveness, world-building, and intricate assembly. In 2016, it won a Hugo Award for Best Novel—a first for a black writer. The following year, a sequel, “The Obelisk Gate,” won again. In 2018, the final book in what became the “Broken Earth” trilogy, “The Stone Sky,” won, too. No author in the history of the genre had achieved that recognition. The three books sold more than two million copies worldwide. The Times called them “extraordinary.” John Scalzi, the former president of the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers of America, heralded Jemisin as “arguably the most important speculative writer of her generation.”
Jemisin lives in a duplex apartment in Brooklyn, with an office that looks out onto a garden, which she cares for meticulously. For years, she was an urban literary nomad, working wherever she could park herself with a laptop. “I don’t go to coffee shops anymore,” she told me in her office, late last year. “The best-seller life has made it possible to have this.” She sat at a long desk against the wall; at one end was a cluster of awards. The room also contained a plush Darth Vader and a doll of Commander Uhura, from “Star Trek.” Beside a chair was a chrome lamp resembling a flying saucer; Jemisin flipped a switch, and a band of tiny red lights on the saucer glowed. She had bought it on a trip upstate. “I saw that lamp, I needed that lamp,” she said. “It’s corny as hell, and it doesn’t light up shit. It’s just for the mood, but sometimes when I am writing I want to be in that mood and summon the energies.”
Jemisin immediately followed the “Broken Earth” trilogy with two other books. In 2018, she released “How Long ’til Black Future Month?,” a collection of short stories. She also completed her next novel, “The City We Became,” the first installment of another trilogy, which is due out this March. Submitting the novel to her editor, a few hours before midnight on New Year’s Eve, she felt depleted; for more than a decade, she had been writing nearly a book a year. She resolved to take 2019 off, but she couldn’t stay idle. She sketched out the new trilogy’s second installment, while also navigating calls from Hollywood, speaking engagements, side gigs. Marvel Comics invited her to guest-write a series—an offer she declined, because she had already agreed with DC Comics to create a “Green Lantern” spinoff. As we sat in her office, the first issue of her comic was slated for release in a few weeks. “This is an unusual year for me,” she said. “Usually, I have only one thing to concentrate on.”
Above her desk she had hung family photos: glimpses of a truncated generational story. “Like most black Americans descended from slaves, it basically stops,” she told me. She once wrote about this loss—not merely the erasure of a backstory but also the absence of all that a person builds upon it; as she put it, the “strange emptiness to life without myths.” She had considered pursuing genealogy, “the search for the traces of myself in moldering old sale documents and scanned images on microfiche.” But ultimately she decided that she had no interest in what the records might say. “They’ll tell me where I came from, but not what I really want to know: where I’m going. To figure that out, I make shit up.”
“I’ll call my tech guy.” Cartoon by Danny Shanahan Copy link to cartoon Copy link to cartoon Shop Shop
Jemisin pointed to a photo of her father, Noah, as a young man—thin, confident, smiling—and spoke about his grandmother, a woman people called Muh Dear: “She basically made her living doing fortunes—magic, for lack of a better term.” In a story that Jemisin included in “How Long ’til Black Future Month?,” she envisioned Muh Dear as a shaman named Emmaline, facing down a malevolent fairy, the White Lady, who wants to take away her daughter. (“The White Lady was nearly all surface; that was the nature of her kind. That was how this meeting would go, then: an appearance of grace and gentility, covering the substance of battle.”) As the two spar, the White Lady draws Emmaline into a roiling dreamscape, in which it is possible to glimpse America’s future: the upheavals of the civil-rights movement; the progress and the tensions that followed. Amid the whorl of imagery, Emmaline offers to sacrifice herself in place of her child if her family is protected. The fairy accepts the gesture: “The White Lady closed the dream around Emmaline, and whisked her away.”
For Muh Dear’s real grandchildren, growing up in mid-century Alabama, there was no shortage of dangers. Jemisin’s father was born in Birmingham, where the commissioner of public safety allowed the Ku Klux Klan to attack the Freedom Riders when their Greyhound buses arrived, in 1961. As Jemisin once recalled, her father spent part of his youth “dodging dogs and fire hoses, turned on him and other Civil Rights protestors.”
Jemisin’s parents met as students at Alabama State University, and married shortly after graduating. Noah wanted to devote his life to painting, so he applied to a graduate program at the University of Iowa, and the two moved to Iowa City. Jemisin’s mother, Janice, pursued a degree in psychology, specializing in psychometrics; she later administered I.Q. tests.


newyorker--2020-01-20--“Pregrets,” by Anselm Berrigan

“Pregrets,” by Anselm Berrigan

I spent a certain amount of cash at Forbidden Planet Tower Records , the corner store on 9th & 1st , southeast corner , the corner store on 9th & 1st southwest corner the corner store on 7th & 1st , northwest corner , the candy shop on 1st between 7th & 8th with the Mr. Do !
standup video game , the pizza parlor on St. Marks & A , southwest corner with Moon Patrol , the candy shoppe on A between 8th & 9th with Double Dragon , the corner store on St. Marks & A , northwest @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Pizzeria , Oscar ’ s newstand on St. Marks & 1st Garibaldi ’ s groceries with the buggy booberry cereal on 9th & 1st , northwest corner , the Yankee Stadium right field bleachers , Gem Spa ’ s video game alcove on the St. Marks side , & I want , I want to be paid properly for my childhood acting career , no powdered candy , no welcome to golden folks as forks , roll-tap consolation , it ’ s gon na be really really hurt , your shot , beard @ @ @ @ @ @ @ t mishandle the low strike , low helicopter hover in the pen , aluminum dog uploads obey the love- me principles , kick to metaphorical id , tomorrow ’ s probable parables charting chromophobes , the promise of another person walking by makes an empty street so frightening in the sketch , chase on the walk-off de- flection , the walk-off bobble , splinter of consciousness in the old open bowl head , don ’ t tell the aleatories they ’ re being aggressive , a cabbie ran that candy shop on 11th @ @ @ @ @ @ @ shop & he wasn ’ t a cabbie he told me , front to back , through his cab ’ s slot

Audio: Read by the author.
I spent a certain amount of cash at Forbidden Planet
Tower Records, the corner store on 9th & 1st, southeast
corner, the corner store on 9th & 1st southwest corner
the corner store on 7th & 1st, northwest corner, the
candy shop on 1st between 7th & 8th with the Mr. Do!
standup video game, the pizza parlor on St. Marks &
A, southwest corner with Moon Patrol, the candy shoppe
on A between 8th & 9th with Double Dragon, the corner
store on St. Marks & A, northwest corner, that preceded
Nino’s Pizzeria, Oscar’s newstand on St. Marks & 1st
Garibaldi’s groceries with the buggy booberry cereal on
9th & 1st, northwest corner, the Yankee Stadium right
field bleachers, Gem Spa’s video game alcove on the St.
Marks side, & I want, I want to be paid properly for my
childhood acting career, no powdered candy, no welcome
to golden folks as forks, roll-tap consolation, it’s gonna
be really really hurt, your shot, beard at bad & gives
still can’t mishandle the low strike, low helicopter
hover in the pen, aluminum dog uploads obey the love-
me principles, kick to metaphorical id, tomorrow’s
probable parables charting chromophobes, the promise
of another person walking by makes an empty street
so frightening in the sketch, chase on the walk-off de-
flection, the walk-off bobble, splinter of consciousness
in the old open bowl head, don’t tell the aleatories
they’re being aggressive, a cabbie ran that candy shop
on 11th & 1st when it was a candy shop & he wasn’t
a cabbie he told me, front to back, through his cab’s slot


newyorker--2020-01-20--Octavia Spencer Follows the Clues

Octavia Spencer Follows the Clues

“ Eighteen years ago , I was flying home to Alabama , ” the actress Octavia Spencer said recently , perched on the edge of a friend ’ s couch in Los Angeles .
Her voice was raspy , like a scratched record ; her eyes roved around the room .
On the plane , she recounted , she ’ d been seated next to John Douglas , the former F.B.I .
behavioral scientist who specialized in serial killers .
( He was the model for Clarice ’ s boss in “ The Silence of the Lambs.
” ) Spencer @ @ @ @ @ @ @ obsessed with murder , psychopaths , and crime .
“ I had read ‘ Mindhunter , ’ ” she said .
“ I kept looking at him , kept looking at him .
Finally , the flight attendant said , ‘ Mr .
Douglas , can I bring you some water ?
’ I said , ‘ I knew it was you !
’ We talked the whole flight.
” The house , decorated for Christmas , belonged to Nichelle Tramble Spellman , the showrunner of “ Truth Be Told , ” a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ TV , starring Spencer as a crime reporter .
The house smelled of vanilla and cloves—Spellman ’ s sisters were coming over later to bake cookies—and under the tree was a huge box containing a new mixer from D. B. Weiss and David Benioff , the creators of “ Game of Thrones.
” ( With Weiss and Benioff , who are both white , Spellman and her husband , who are both African-American , created “ Confederate , ” a show about an alternative outcome to the Civil War , which was scrapped @ @ @ @ @ @ @ The fireplace was flanked by black Santas and filled with black angels , which Spellman had ordered from Etsy .
Spencer was the first African-American actress to win an Academy Award—for her portrayal of a maid in “ The Help ” —and then be nominated for two more in back-to-back years .
“ I was being offered everything , ” she said , gingerly pouring cream into teacups of Earl Grey and passing them around .
“ I was , like , ‘ Listen , guys .
What you don ’ t know @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ Columbo , ” “ Murder , She Wrote , ” “ Homicide : Life on the Street.
” ’ ” Poppy Parnell , her character in “ Truth Be Told , ” is a Pulitzer Prize-winning investigative journalist who , fearing that her reporting helped send an innocent man to prison twenty years earlier , launches a podcast to reëxamine the case .
Sarah Koenig , the star of the hit podcast “ Serial , ” advised her on the role .
“ It was definitely wish fulfillment , ” Spencer said @ @ @ @ @ @ @ me reading as a child—mysteries , because I ’ m dyslexic .
For me , it was always about engaging with a narrative .
The ones that really grabbed me start with ‘ Jane is walking home alone , she walks into her house and hears a prowler ’ —gasp .
What happened ?
” Spellman , who has written two detective novels , mentioned “ Nancy Drew.
” “ That ’ s what I broke my teeth on , ” Spencer said .
“ I read every last one of them .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ at , I don ’ t know , like , eleven ?
” “ I scared myself to death with that book , ” Spellman said .
“ My daddy kept saying , ‘ Put it down.
’ I was , like , ‘ I can ’ t. ’ ” “ Do you think there was ever any gold in ‘ S-Town ’ ?
” Spencer asked , referring to the popular true-crime podcast .
“ I think there was.
” She paused to contemplate John B. McLemore , the Alabama horologist at @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Ugh , I love that guy ’ s voice .
It sounds like Tate.
” Tate Taylor , a Mississippian who directed Spencer in “ The Help , ” “ Get on Up , ” and “ Ma , ” was her roommate for seven years .
They met on the set of “ A Time to Kill , ” where she worked in extras casting .
“ We were three weeks into prep , and I was so bored , ” she said .
“ The weekend before we started shooting , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ hair , looking like Zack from ‘ Saved by the Bell , ’ and I thought , I think I might stay !
A lifelong friendship was born .
He ’ s very handy at decorating and very handy at fixing things.
” Spencer went on , “ I do have that deductive-type reasoning .
I can tell my girlfriends when someone ’ s stepping out : ‘ Well , here ’ s the situation .
Do you want to know ?
’ I ’ m usually that person who it ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ right ?
I ’ m , like , I ’ m not always right , I just see .
The clues are there.
” In the show , Spencer ’ s character is affluent , childless , and professional—a far remove from the Jim Crow-era women she has often portrayed .
( In the novel on which the series is based , Poppy is white . )
“ I am thrilled to Pete to not have to , in this case , worry about the color of my character , ” Spencer said @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to play black women .
I know that sounds crazy .
I am a black woman .
Black men get to play characters that are just men .
Very seldom do black and Latina women get to play just women.
” Spencer topped off her tea and eyed the biscuits Spellman had laid out .
The conversation turned to forensic matters—did you know that a missing hyoid bone is a sure sign of strangulation ?
—and kidnapped women .
Playing Poppy , Spencer said , had inspired her to make her own podcast @ @ @ @ @ @ @ crime , ” she said .
“ It ’ s really scary that I ’ m this encyclopedia of true crime .
If it happened in the United States , if it ’ s a serial-killer case , I know it.
” She smiled , gap-toothed , conspiratorial .
“ You know who else ?
Tilda Swinton !
Tilda Swinton is the Octavia Spencer to the European-killer world.
” ♦

Octavia Spencer Illustration by João Fazenda
“Eighteen years ago, I was flying home to Alabama,” the actress Octavia Spencer said recently, perched on the edge of a friend’s couch in Los Angeles. Her voice was raspy, like a scratched record; her eyes roved around the room. On the plane, she recounted, she’d been seated next to John Douglas, the former F.B.I. behavioral scientist who specialized in serial killers. (He was the model for Clarice’s boss in “The Silence of the Lambs.”) Spencer had recognized him because she’s obsessed with murder, psychopaths, and crime. “I had read ‘Mindhunter,’ ” she said. “I kept looking at him, kept looking at him. Finally, the flight attendant said, ‘Mr. Douglas, can I bring you some water?’ I said, ‘I knew it was you!’ We talked the whole flight.”
The house, decorated for Christmas, belonged to Nichelle Tramble Spellman, the showrunner of “Truth Be Told,” a series that aired last month on Apple TV, starring Spencer as a crime reporter. The house smelled of vanilla and cloves—Spellman’s sisters were coming over later to bake cookies—and under the tree was a huge box containing a new mixer from D. B. Weiss and David Benioff, the creators of “Game of Thrones.” (With Weiss and Benioff, who are both white, Spellman and her husband, who are both African-American, created “Confederate,” a show about an alternative outcome to the Civil War, which was scrapped amid protest in the Twitterverse.) The fireplace was flanked by black Santas and filled with black angels, which Spellman had ordered from Etsy.
Spencer was the first African-American actress to win an Academy Award—for her portrayal of a maid in “The Help”—and then be nominated for two more in back-to-back years. “I was being offered everything,” she said, gingerly pouring cream into teacups of Earl Grey and passing them around. “I was, like, ‘Listen, guys. What you don’t know about me is that I am diehard “Columbo,” “Murder, She Wrote,” “Homicide: Life on the Street.” ’ ” Poppy Parnell, her character in “Truth Be Told,” is a Pulitzer Prize-winning investigative journalist who, fearing that her reporting helped send an innocent man to prison twenty years earlier, launches a podcast to reëxamine the case. Sarah Koenig, the star of the hit podcast “Serial,” advised her on the role.
“It was definitely wish fulfillment,” Spencer said. “It’s what kept me reading as a child—mysteries, because I’m dyslexic. For me, it was always about engaging with a narrative. The ones that really grabbed me start with ‘Jane is walking home alone, she walks into her house and hears a prowler’—gasp. What happened?”
Spellman, who has written two detective novels, mentioned “Nancy Drew.”
“That’s what I broke my teeth on,” Spencer said. “I read every last one of them. I was reading ‘Helter Skelter’ at, I don’t know, like, eleven?”
“I scared myself to death with that book,” Spellman said. “My daddy kept saying, ‘Put it down.’ I was, like, ‘I can’t.’ ”
“Do you think there was ever any gold in ‘S-Town’?” Spencer asked, referring to the popular true-crime podcast. “I think there was.” She paused to contemplate John B. McLemore, the Alabama horologist at the center of the story. “Ugh, I love that guy’s voice. It sounds like Tate.” Tate Taylor, a Mississippian who directed Spencer in “The Help,” “Get on Up,” and “Ma,” was her roommate for seven years. They met on the set of “A Time to Kill,” where she worked in extras casting. “We were three weeks into prep, and I was so bored,” she said. “The weekend before we started shooting, Tate saunters in with his little wavy hair, looking like Zack from ‘Saved by the Bell,’ and I thought, I think I might stay! A lifelong friendship was born. He’s very handy at decorating and very handy at fixing things.”
Spencer went on, “I do have that deductive-type reasoning. I can tell my girlfriends when someone’s stepping out: ‘Well, here’s the situation. Do you want to know?’ I’m usually that person who it’s, like, Why are you always right? I’m, like, I’m not always right, I just see. The clues are there.”
In the show, Spencer’s character is affluent, childless, and professional—a far remove from the Jim Crow-era women she has often portrayed. (In the novel on which the series is based, Poppy is white.) “I am thrilled to Pete to not have to, in this case, worry about the color of my character,” Spencer said. “I’ve always had to play black women. I know that sounds crazy. I am a black woman. Black men get to play characters that are just men. Very seldom do black and Latina women get to play just women.”
Spencer topped off her tea and eyed the biscuits Spellman had laid out. The conversation turned to forensic matters—did you know that a missing hyoid bone is a sure sign of strangulation?—and kidnapped women. Playing Poppy, Spencer said, had inspired her to make her own podcast. “I want to talk true crime,” she said. “It’s really scary that I’m this encyclopedia of true crime. If it happened in the United States, if it’s a serial-killer case, I know it.” She smiled, gap-toothed, conspiratorial. “You know who else? Tilda Swinton! Tilda Swinton is the Octavia Spencer to the European-killer world.” ♦


newyorker--2020-01-20--Briefly Noted Book Reviews

Briefly Noted Book Reviews

Mudlark , by Lara Maiklem ( Norton ) .
From high tide to low , the level of the Thames near London Bridge drops seven feet , revealing a foreshore that yields an unusual bounty : objects from across the centuries , preserved in the mud .
This engrossing memoir evokes the subculture of the “ mudlarks , ” who scour the banks for fragments of London ’ s past .
Their discoveries serve as entry points into the history of the river and its environs : scenes from long ago emerge from Roman castration clamps , medieval brooches , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ on the synthetic clothes , plastic bags , and polystyrene of the modern era proves a sobering conservationist coda .
Maiklem elegantly juxtaposes the fragile “ wood , straw , reeds , leather and bone our ancestors left behind ” with the “ permanence of the things we throw away today.
” America for Americans , by Erika Lee ( Basic ) .
This sweeping account draws parallels between Benjamin Franklin ’ s worry over “ swarthy ” Germans “ herding together ” in the eighteenth century and Donald Trump ’ s race-baiting @ @ @ @ @ @ @ has been an indelible “ American tradition , ” deployed to social and political ends since the country ’ s founding .
A manifesto as much as a history , the book shows how every large immigrant group since Franklin ’ s time—Irish , Chinese , Italian , Mexican , Middle Eastern—was “ scripted ” by populist demagogues as alien and threatening .
Allowing “ a vocal and mobilized minority to dictate policy for the majority , ” she writes , risks unmaking the country that immigrants helped create .
Christmas in Austin @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
In this sequel to “ Weekend in New York , ” the close-knit Essinger siblings—Paul , Susie , Jean , and Nathan—revisit their childhood home , in Austin .
With narration that deftly shifts from one family member to another , Markovits weaves together the drama of three generations : the siblings navigate the professional and romantic frustrations of adulthood ; their parents must come to terms with the lives their children have fashioned ; and the siblings ’ own children begin to encounter moral dilemmas .
The product is a loving @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s myriad functions : “ information-producing machine .
.
.
decision-requiring machine .
.
.
argument-creating machine .
.
.
catering company and cleaning service .
.
.
childcare and school.
” The Living Days , by Ananda Devi , translated from the French by Jeffrey Zuckerman ( Feminist Press ) .
This unsettling novel follows the doomed relationship between Mary , a white Londoner in her seventies , and Cub , a thirteen-year-old boy of Jamaican heritage .
Mary , alone in a decaying house in Notting Hill , suffers from arthritis @ @ @ @ @ @ @ encounter with Cub , she takes him into her home and her bed .
She is rejuvenated , but Cub is wary and his family , already affected by the city ’ s gentrification , is alarmed .
Devi is alert to the ways in which social forces , such as racism and ageism , are reshaping London ’ s already complex post-colonial landscape , and her fluid , poetic language memorably conjures a union of two outcasts .

Mudlark, by Lara Maiklem (Norton). From high tide to low, the level of the Thames near London Bridge drops seven feet, revealing a foreshore that yields an unusual bounty: objects from across the centuries, preserved in the mud. This engrossing memoir evokes the subculture of the “mudlarks,” who scour the banks for fragments of London’s past. Their discoveries serve as entry points into the history of the river and its environs: scenes from long ago emerge from Roman castration clamps, medieval brooches, and sixteenth-century ivory sundials. A chapter on the synthetic clothes, plastic bags, and polystyrene of the modern era proves a sobering conservationist coda. Maiklem elegantly juxtaposes the fragile “wood, straw, reeds, leather and bone our ancestors left behind” with the “permanence of the things we throw away today.”
America for Americans, by Erika Lee (Basic). This sweeping account draws parallels between Benjamin Franklin’s worry over “swarthy” Germans “herding together” in the eighteenth century and Donald Trump’s race-baiting today. Xenophobia, Lee argues, has been an indelible “American tradition,” deployed to social and political ends since the country’s founding. A manifesto as much as a history, the book shows how every large immigrant group since Franklin’s time—Irish, Chinese, Italian, Mexican, Middle Eastern—was “scripted” by populist demagogues as alien and threatening. Allowing “a vocal and mobilized minority to dictate policy for the majority,” she writes, risks unmaking the country that immigrants helped create.
Christmas in Austin, by Benjamin Markovits (Faber). In this sequel to “Weekend in New York,” the close-knit Essinger siblings—Paul, Susie, Jean, and Nathan—revisit their childhood home, in Austin. With narration that deftly shifts from one family member to another, Markovits weaves together the drama of three generations: the siblings navigate the professional and romantic frustrations of adulthood; their parents must come to terms with the lives their children have fashioned; and the siblings’ own children begin to encounter moral dilemmas. The product is a loving and nuanced portrait of a family’s myriad functions: “information-producing machine . . . decision-requiring machine . . . argument-creating machine . . . catering company and cleaning service . . . childcare and school.”
The Living Days, by Ananda Devi, translated from the French by Jeffrey Zuckerman (Feminist Press). This unsettling novel follows the doomed relationship between Mary, a white Londoner in her seventies, and Cub, a thirteen-year-old boy of Jamaican heritage. Mary, alone in a decaying house in Notting Hill, suffers from arthritis and incipient dementia. After a chance encounter with Cub, she takes him into her home and her bed. She is rejuvenated, but Cub is wary and his family, already affected by the city’s gentrification, is alarmed. Devi is alert to the ways in which social forces, such as racism and ageism, are reshaping London’s already complex post-colonial landscape, and her fluid, poetic language memorably conjures a union of two outcasts.


newyorker--2020-01-20--Exploring Family Trauma in “My Name Is Lucy Barton”

On the subject of his vocation , Philip Roth liked to quote Czeslaw Milosz : “ When a writer is born into a family , that family is finished.
” It ’ s a great aphorism , pithy and cavalier , as emphatic as a gunshot .
To write is to declare a loyalty that runs deeper than blood , to make a pledge to the self and its expression ; to write well is to tell the truth about what you have seen , starting with where—and who—you come from .
That , anyway , is what Milosz , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ make the selfishness at the heart of a writer ’ s life sound like the glorious liberation it is .
But there ’ s also a riskier exposure at stake .
The writer who bares others ’ secrets must also bare her own , standing vulnerable before the people who purport to know her best .
When a writer is born into a family , the family is finished , not just because the child is bound to tell the truth about her parents but because she must tell the truth about herself @ @ @ @ @ @ @ My Name Is Lucy Barton ” is the story of a writer reckoning with the legacy of a scarred family life and slowly coming to terms with the costs and the rewards of her art .
When Lucy is in her early twenties and newly married , she moves with her husband to New York , where they live in the West Village .
Lucy is from Amgash , Illinois , more of a pinprick on the map than a town proper , and she grew up poor , sharing a single room @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and her parents , a seamstress and a repairman of farm machinery ; there was no heat , no toilet , and never enough to eat .
Lucy got good grades , though , and escaped to Chicago on a scholarship .
And she began writing stories .
Two have been published , but she is shy about saying so .
A neighbor takes an interest in her and , when he learns what she does , advises her to be ruthless .
Lucy is caught short .
“ I did not think @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” she tells us .
How she learns to become so is the subject of this quiet yet surprisingly fierce book .
“ My Name Is Lucy Barton ” was published in 2016 and quickly landed at the top of the Times best-seller list , bumping down “ The Girl on the Train , ” a thriller about a scorned , alcoholic woman , and “ All the Light We Can not See , ” a historical heart-tugger about a blind one .
Evidently , people also wanted to read about a more @ @ @ @ @ @ @ almost too recognizable to warrant sustained attention—that is , one who suffers doubt but holds out hope for clarity , who applies herself imperfectly but insistently to the task of living .
Now they can see her , too , in the form of Laura Linney , who stars in a one-woman adaptation of Strout ’ s novel ( directed by Richard Eyre , at the Manhattan Theatre Club ’ s Samuel J. Friedman ) .
The set , designed by Bob Crowley , is minimal .
A single hospital bed and a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Behind the furniture are three nested screens , onto which are alternately projected the Chrysler Building—faintly shimmering by day , a bright beacon in the murky city sky by night—and the corn and soy fields of Lucy ’ s childhood , explosively green , as if touched up with Hulk-colored food dye .
( Luke Halls did the video design . )
Linney , in tapered slacks and a long , loose cardigan , strides out , to inevitable applause—the audience sits onstage as well as in the house—and , as Lucy @ @ @ @ @ @ @ years ago , she says , she came to the hospital with a ruptured appendix and developed a mysterious and undiagnosed illness that kept her there for nine weeks .
( This was in the mid-eighties , during the height of the aids epidemic ; later , she will tell us of seeing a hospital door marked with a yellow sticker , a sign of plague within . )
Her husband rarely came to see her , and , when her two young daughters visited , they were brought by a family friend @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was with a kind doctor , who seemed to feel fatherly toward her , visiting her daily , beyond the normal call of duty .
Then , one day , she woke to find her mother sitting in the chair by her bed .
It had been years since Lucy had seen her ; she had never before come to New York .
Lucy ’ s mother—we don ’ t learn her name—is an ambiguous presence , part comfort , part threat .
She calls Lucy by her childhood pet name , Wizzle @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , smoky voice , whose flattened “ a ” s and sanded “ r ” s supposedly signal northern Illinois .
( This New Yorker ’ s limited ear would have pegged her as a Bostonian . )
She ’ s withholding and Midwestern proud , but , when Lucy asks for stories of home , her mother obliges , telling tales of Amgash and its people , which she seasons with bitter humor and a dash of Schadenfreude .
There ’ s Kathie Nicely , for instance , a wealthy woman whose @ @ @ @ @ @ @ who ends up divorced by her husband , abandoned by her lover , and despised by her children , and Mississippi Mary , whose fate , on discovering her husband ’ s infidelity , is just as bleak .
What Lucy ’ s mother doesn ’ t like to talk about is the Bartons .
How Lucy ’ s father , who returned from the Second World War with post-traumatic stress disorder , flew into unstoppable panics and brutally humiliated Lucy ’ s brother .
How Lucy ’ s mother herself beat the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was very young , was locked in the family truck while her parents went to work , an ordeal that Lucy can ’ t address with her mother , and instead describes to us :

On the subject of his vocation, Philip Roth liked to quote Czeslaw Milosz: “When a writer is born into a family, that family is finished.” It’s a great aphorism, pithy and cavalier, as emphatic as a gunshot. To write is to declare a loyalty that runs deeper than blood, to make a pledge to the self and its expression; to write well is to tell the truth about what you have seen, starting with where—and who—you come from. That, anyway, is what Milosz, and Roth, felt, and they make the selfishness at the heart of a writer’s life sound like the glorious liberation it is. But there’s also a riskier exposure at stake. The writer who bares others’ secrets must also bare her own, standing vulnerable before the people who purport to know her best. When a writer is born into a family, the family is finished, not just because the child is bound to tell the truth about her parents but because she must tell the truth about herself.
Elizabeth Strout’s novel “My Name Is Lucy Barton” is the story of a writer reckoning with the legacy of a scarred family life and slowly coming to terms with the costs and the rewards of her art. When Lucy is in her early twenties and newly married, she moves with her husband to New York, where they live in the West Village. Lucy is from Amgash, Illinois, more of a pinprick on the map than a town proper, and she grew up poor, sharing a single room with her brother, her sister, and her parents, a seamstress and a repairman of farm machinery; there was no heat, no toilet, and never enough to eat. Lucy got good grades, though, and escaped to Chicago on a scholarship. And she began writing stories. Two have been published, but she is shy about saying so. A neighbor takes an interest in her and, when he learns what she does, advises her to be ruthless. Lucy is caught short. “I did not think I was or could be ruthless,” she tells us. How she learns to become so is the subject of this quiet yet surprisingly fierce book.
“My Name Is Lucy Barton” was published in 2016 and quickly landed at the top of the Times best-seller list, bumping down “The Girl on the Train,” a thriller about a scorned, alcoholic woman, and “All the Light We Cannot See,” a historical heart-tugger about a blind one. Evidently, people also wanted to read about a more familiar sort of woman, a type almost too recognizable to warrant sustained attention—that is, one who suffers doubt but holds out hope for clarity, who applies herself imperfectly but insistently to the task of living.
Now they can see her, too, in the form of Laura Linney, who stars in a one-woman adaptation of Strout’s novel (directed by Richard Eyre, at the Manhattan Theatre Club’s Samuel J. Friedman). The set, designed by Bob Crowley, is minimal. A single hospital bed and a utilitarian, nondescript armchair occupy the stage. Behind the furniture are three nested screens, onto which are alternately projected the Chrysler Building—faintly shimmering by day, a bright beacon in the murky city sky by night—and the corn and soy fields of Lucy’s childhood, explosively green, as if touched up with Hulk-colored food dye. (Luke Halls did the video design.) Linney, in tapered slacks and a long, loose cardigan, strides out, to inevitable applause—the audience sits onstage as well as in the house—and, as Lucy, speaks directly to us. Some years ago, she says, she came to the hospital with a ruptured appendix and developed a mysterious and undiagnosed illness that kept her there for nine weeks. (This was in the mid-eighties, during the height of the aids epidemic; later, she will tell us of seeing a hospital door marked with a yellow sticker, a sign of plague within.) Her husband rarely came to see her, and, when her two young daughters visited, they were brought by a family friend. Lucy’s only regular contact was with a kind doctor, who seemed to feel fatherly toward her, visiting her daily, beyond the normal call of duty.
Then, one day, she woke to find her mother sitting in the chair by her bed. It had been years since Lucy had seen her; she had never before come to New York. Lucy’s mother—we don’t learn her name—is an ambiguous presence, part comfort, part threat. She calls Lucy by her childhood pet name, Wizzle; Linney distinguishes her with a cragged, smoky voice, whose flattened “a”s and sanded “r”s supposedly signal northern Illinois. (This New Yorker’s limited ear would have pegged her as a Bostonian.) She’s withholding and Midwestern proud, but, when Lucy asks for stories of home, her mother obliges, telling tales of Amgash and its people, which she seasons with bitter humor and a dash of Schadenfreude. There’s Kathie Nicely, for instance, a wealthy woman whose dresses Lucy’s mother sewed, who ends up divorced by her husband, abandoned by her lover, and despised by her children, and Mississippi Mary, whose fate, on discovering her husband’s infidelity, is just as bleak. What Lucy’s mother doesn’t like to talk about is the Bartons. How Lucy’s father, who returned from the Second World War with post-traumatic stress disorder, flew into unstoppable panics and brutally humiliated Lucy’s brother. How Lucy’s mother herself beat the children. How Lucy, when she was very young, was locked in the family truck while her parents went to work, an ordeal that Lucy can’t address with her mother, and instead describes to us:
I cried until I could hardly breathe. Once in a while I see a child crying with the deepest of desperation, and I think it is one of the truest sounds a child can make. I have left the subway car I was riding in so I did not have to hear a child crying that way.
Strout’s language, deftly adapted for the stage by Rona Munro, is simple in the way of a coiled pot or a Shaker chair, a solid, unfussy construction whose elegance lies in its polished unity, and Linney, radiating warmth and lucidity, is just the right actor to bring it to life. Winding through dense tracts of script, her ninety-minute performance is a feat of subtle bravura. It’s no easy thing to play a mother in one breath and her child in another. (Ask Norman Bates.) As in Strout’s novel, there is a possibility here that Lucy has fantasized her mother’s visit, whether in the haze of her sickness or in the more productive intentional imaginings of a fiction writer; whatever the case, as Lucy goes deeper into her story, the older woman starts to fade, and Linney lets us see through Lucy’s shyness to her open heart, which has sustained her through a life of loneliness and a staid and estranging marriage. Linney’s skin seems nearly to shine, and tears roll down her cheeks, which she wipes with practical, smiling self-assurance.
Penguin Random House Audio, a producer of the play, is releasing an audiobook of the production, and that, in fact, may be the better way to experience it, because, despite Linney’s sensitivity and finesse, something is missing onstage. There is a lulling quality to the play’s narrative form, which, in the cozy darkness, can feel like a bedtime story (I couldn’t help but notice some heads drooping), and there are too many of those Amgash anecdotes, with their parade of bit characters, which at first provide an opening into the drama of the Bartons but eventually distract us from it. The problem is partly structural: Eyre and Munro have leaned heavily on Lucy’s childhood, all but erasing the novel’s thread involving literary mentorship, and certain details, such as Lucy’s enduring preoccupation with the Nazis (her father, stationed in Germany, killed two local boys at point-blank range; her husband’s German father was a prisoner of war; and, with almost apologetic gratuitousness, Lucy notes that her angelic doctor is Jewish), fail to cohere. But there is a textural mundaneness, too. On Crowley’s restricted stage, the physical action consists mainly of Linney pacing from chair to bed and back again, and Strout’s canny elisions register too often as blanks. “All life amazes me,” Lucy says, and Linney’s face lights up beautifully as she says it. That is what this production could use: more life—an escape from the antiseptic cloister of the hospital room to the rousing world outside. ♦