Category: Books

The Collected Regrets of Clover, by Mikki Brammer (St. Martin’s Press, 314 pages)

Clover Brooks is 36, single and surrounded by death — not the thing you’d want to put on a Tinder profile. The lifetime New Yorker lives alone in a rent-controlled apartment she shared with her grandfather growing up and she works as a death doula — the opposite of a birth doula. She sits with dying people, ensuring that they don’t die alone and helping them to process their pain and other complicated emotions they are experiencing. She keeps three notebooks in which she records notes; they are labeled “Regrets,” “Advice” and “Confessions.”

That’s what you need to know to understand the title of The Collected Regrets of Clover, a debut novel from Mikki Brammer, an Australian transplant who has a remarkable level of knowledge of New York City, where she lives now. It is a surprisingly upbeat novel, given the subject matter. The protagonist is a lonely young woman who has been hobbled by grief, having lost both parents as a child and, later, more traumatically, the grandfather who raised her. You might call her death-haunted; the first line of the novel is, “The first time I watched someone die, I was five.” (It was her kindergarten teacher.)

Clover does not have much of a life outside her work, caring for her two cats and a low-maintenance dog and keeping up with her neighbors. The only thing she does with any regularity is attend an occasional death cafe — a group where people gather to talk about death and enjoy refreshments (yes, this is a thing) — and every weekend have breakfast out and visit the bookstore she used to frequent with her grandfather before he passed more than a decade ago.

The few friends she has are old, and they include the 70-something bookstore owner and an elderly man who lives in her building and has known her since childhood. An only child who never learned to be social, she sees no reason to make friends and finds all the companionship and solace she needs in her structured life and in her books. Or so she thinks.

You probably see where this is going. Which is the only problem with this generally engaging book.

From the moment Brammer introduces a character named Sebastian, an overly enthusiastic visitor to a death cafe who tries to befriend Clover, there is a likely trajectory of this story. Our heroine will resist Sebastion’s overtures for only so long, and eventually he will bring her the companionship and love that she has long resisted. (She has never, she reveals, uttered the words “I love you” nor had them said to her — although her grandfather, a biology professor at Columbia University, clearly loved Clover deeply, he wasn’t one to say it, and her parents, whom she only vaguely remembers, had been more interested in each other than their child before they died in an accident while visiting China.)

To her credit, Brammer doesn’t follow that well-trampled plot, at least not completely. Instead, the story takes a sharp detour when Clover takes on a new client who, at 91, is dying of pancreatic cancer and has two months to live. Although she had a good marriage and a fulfilling life, she has long wondered if her life would have been better if she had married another man, someone she fell in love with when she was young and living in France. Clover does some research and finds the man seems to be living in Maine, so she sets off on a New England road trip to find him to fulfill the dying woman’s last wish.

In many ways The Collected Regrets of Clover is a literary death cafe — it is populated with millennials who grew up in families uncomfortable with talking about life’s end and who therefore are eager to explore the subject — everything from the legality of burial at sea to burial suits made out of compostable mushrooms. From Clover’s work to her memories to the visits to death cafes, the novel is one long conversation about grief and death. It’s a subject that the author seems to know something about.

One character says, “Someone told me once that [grief is like] a bag that you always carry — it starts out as a large suitcase, and as the years go by, it might reduce to the size of a purse, but you carry it forever.”

Clover has been carrying her own grief for reasons that unfold throughout the novel, and while it’s not an especially complicated story, it’s competently told and has enough light twists to keep readers engaged. The squeamish need not worry; death is largely a concept here; there are no unsettling depictions of the stages of decomposition or other things that happen to the body after we die. Nor does Brammer take up any discussion about the existence (or not) of an afterlife.

In a writing group she joined while she was working on the book, Brammer told others that she was trying to write a book about death “that’s fun and uplifting.” Strange as that sounds, she succeeded. B

Soul Boom, by Rainn Wilson (Hachette Go, 275 pages)

The shelf life of The Office and its cast seems eternal, even though it’s been 18 years since the sitcom’s debut. The actors keep turning up in other roles, in podcasts and in a surprising number of books, the latest from Rainn Wilson, who played the quirky paper salesman Dwight Schrute on the long-running NBC series.

It was the kind of iconic role that is hard to escape later in one’s career. Like Bob Odenkirk will always be Saul Goodman to fans of Better Call Saul and Breaking Bad, Rainn Wilson will always be Dwight Schrute, which is a bit of a problem for someone who is now selling spirituality. As great as that character was, he would not be my first choice for discussing the mysteries of the universe, human consciousness, God and death.

But following his passion, Wilson founded a media company that he, perplexingly, called “Soul Pancake” and currently stars in a streaming travel show called The Geography of Bliss. It’s hard to see his third book, Soul Boom, as anything but other than a marketing vehicle for the show, given its timing and its promotion of The Geography of Bliss. But maybe it would at least be funny, I thought.

Sadly, not, at least not in the smart, sly way that The Office is funny. It’s lighthearted and at times amusing, but Wilson’s folksy style of writing often deteriorates into words that really should not be on the printed page, as in this cringy sentence from the preface: “So … OK to move forward on the old booky-wook?”

Really, it was not — he lost me at booky-wook — but I soldiered on, hoping for improvement.

Wilson grew up in a family of Baha’is, members of a monotheistic faith that teaches progressive revelation — the idea that God is so far beyond our comprehension that existential truths must be revealed to humans gradually through holy teachers like Jesus, Mohammed and the Buddha. Its founder and prophet, Baha’u’llah, was, to the mind of young Wilson, “loving and reasonable” with “absolutely no fire-and-brimstone qualities.” Although he left the faith for a time in his 20s (“For a couple of years, I even tried on atheism like some jaunty, rebellious cap!”), he eventually returned to it.

But Soul Boom is not a come-to-Baha’u’llah book. Wilson does not seem particularly interested in recruiting people to his faith, but just in expanding our spiritual consciousness generally. He believes that nothing less than a spiritual revolution can solve the problems the world faces. And although he’s not hard-line preachy about it, he does want us to believe in God and the continuation of consciousness after death. You can’t have a “soul boom” without belief in a “soul,” after all.

Wilson’s own belief in an afterlife solidified at the time of his father’s death of heart disease when, after life support was removed, he recognized that “This body, this vessel was not my father. … The still, vacant body on that hospital bed in the ICU was simply a suit he once wore.”

That leads into a discussion of consciousness that is informed by Wilson’s deep reading in philosophy and disparate religious traditions. He notes that for all our scientific advances, human consciousness is largely a mystery. He then invites us to think about death, a topic that he tried to address in a reality-type TV show called My Last Days. (The studios passed.)

Again, he was failed by an editor, who left intact sentences like this one: “But what, exactly, does death put into perspective? Why, the preciousness of life, you big silly willy.”

This is the problem with celebrities writing books. Editors are so star-struck that they obsequiously leave in sentences — indeed, sometimes whole paragraphs and chapters — that should never have survived the first draft. It is this sort of silly-willyness sprinkled throughout that drags Soul Boom to a literary nether level. It’s unfortunate, because there are some moving passages in the book and Wilson, despite admitting that he hasn’t read some of the books from which he quotes, has clearly thought deeply about the material.

In one chapter, he writes about the importance of pilgrimages and describes his family’s trip to visit the Shrine of Bahji in Israel, where the founder of the Baha’i faith is buried. After sitting on the floor and praying there for over an hour, Wilson writes, he found that his world had shifted. “It’s like when you hit your windshield wipers and spritz the glass in front of you and all of a sudden you realize just how dirty it had been. Just like that, you can see everything outside your car with a renewed clarity. It was like that. Only in my heart,” he writes.

Without proselytizing, Wilson rues the way in which our culture has turned away from words like “sacred,” “holy” and “reverence” and is losing touch with religious traditions of all kinds, to include those practiced by Native Americans. “In fact, my life in 2023 Los Angeles is pretty much lacking in anything remotely sacred or spiritually connected. It’s all iPhones, quickly devoured sandwiches and leaf blowers. It’s texts and podcasts and emails. It’s pressured phone calls, calendars, and a nonstop newsfeed.” But he points out that the problem is not capitalism, per se. While our society is losing touch with the sacred, even businesses created for profit can be meaningful places — he gives as an example the Seattle restaurant where he and his wife had their first date, before taking up the question “What makes something sacred?”

Ultimately Wilson proposes seven pillars of a spiritual revolution, which, while not terrible, are disappointingly platitudinal and sound more political than spiritual. (They include “Celebrate joy and fight cynicism,” “Build something new; don’t just protest” and “systematize grassroots movements.” It’s all fine, in the way that fast-casual restaurants are fine, and I’ll admit to being impressed that he’s friends with noted theologian David Bentley Hart and quotes from a wide range of poetry and scholarly books. (He also includes a list of recommended reading, which is also admirably diverse.)

As celebrity books go, it’s a pleasure to find one that takes on life’s biggest questions, but there’s nothing here that seems especially revolutionary. C

Halcyon, by Elliot Ackerman (Deckle Edge/Knopf, 256 pages)

In a recent poll, fewer than 10 percent of young Americans said they were interested in military service, according to an NBC News story. This makes Elliot Ackerman one of a disappearing breed of writers, writers in the mold of Vonnegut, Hemingway and Salinger, who bring an intimacy with military life to their work.

Ackerman, a decorated Marine who served in Iraq and Afghanistan, used his experience in his 2022 nonfiction book The Fifth Act, America’s End in Afghanistan. But in his new novel, Halcyon, Ackerman offers a more subtle slice of military history, that of the Civil War, through a protagonist who is studying postbellum attitudes at a time of dizzying biotechnological change.

The change: Scientists have just figured out how to resurrect cryonically preserved organisms — first mice, then humans. This isn’t set in the future, but in 2004, in an alternate universe in which Al Gore is president and under fire for pardoning Bill Clinton.

If this sounds mind-blowingly complex, yes, on some levels it is. But in sparse, logical prose, Ackerman has created a completely plausible universe and characters who grapple with seemingly disparate questions, such as whether it is morally right to tear down old monuments (such as the Virginia Monument at Gettysburg) and what are the unforeseen consequences of bringing dead people back to life.

The story revolves around a historian and college professor, Martin Neumann, who is recently divorced and has been granted a semester-long sabbatical to advance his research, which is inspired, in part, by the work of the late (real-life) historian Shelby Foote.

Neumann has rented a cottage on an estate in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains in Virginia. It turns out that the property is owned by one of the 134 people who have been recently resurrected — a World War II veteran turned prosecutor named Robert Abelson.

Neumann doesn’t know from the start — he simply thinks the nonagenarian is remarkably healthy: “His face was high-boned, his cheeks rosy and vital, his features distinct. … He was possessed by a vigor that he insisted was the result of his daily walks.”

Fortuitously, Abelson had long ago married a woman 20 years his junior, so they weren’t unusually matched. And as the couple grow closer to their tenant, Abelson’s wife suggests that Martin go meet with their physician, where he learns not only more about Abelson’s life (both pre- and post-resurrection) but also about Mary’s condition.

Meanwhile, the public, which had not known that the processes that had resurrected a brood of “Lazarus mice” had already been practiced on humans, is just now learning that human beings had also been “reborn.” In a press conference that is surreal on multiple levels, President Gore has announced that “Before death, a family would soon be able to apply to the Department of Health and Human Services for a ‘rebirth grant.’ Based on suitability — a vague criterion he did not fully define — the government would defray a portion, if not all, of the medical costs, making rebirth a possibility for ‘most any American’ …”

The resurrection storyline is fascinating enough on its own, as Ackerman’s characters work through the complexities of what this development would mean in a practical sense. At one point, for example, Ableson has to go to a Richmond courthouse to have his own death annulled, much like a marriage. His stepsons (who did not know that their stepfather was alive again until about the time the press got the story) have to mull what the news means for what they’d thought was their inheritance. And as the novel slowly reveals, there can be a troubling tension about what’s acceptable for people born, say, in 1915, and those born in 1995, when one lives in “a present that was not his own.”

But Halcyon also has a complex understory about alternative timelines — both in the past and in the present. The existence of a President Gore is one; the narrator suggests that the resurrection of the dead would not have been funded under a Republican president, and in one conversation with his daughter Ableman debates whether he owes Gore his vote by virtue of benefiting from government-funded science.

But there is also a running thread about what would have happened to America if certain aspects of the Civil War had gone differently — if, for example, Confederate General Stonewall Jackson had not died of pneumonia eight days after he was shot by his own troops, who’d mistaken him for a Union soldier. And Ackerman touches on current debates over what history is and how it should be represented. In touring a Civil War site with a fellow historian, Martin is disturbed by something his friend said: “The study of history shouldn’t be backward looking. To matter, it has to take us forward.”

In this, the novel is remarkably complex and intelligent, while retaining the aura of a science-fiction thriller.

The historian who argued that history shouldn’t be “backward looking,” also said, “Every ethicist knows that death isn’t such a bad thing. For mice. For people. Or for certain ideas.”

That is ultimately what Halcyon (the name comes from the Abelson estate) wants us to consider. While Ackerman’s no-frills prose won’t make anyone swoon, he has constructed a page-turner that doesn’t feel slickly commercial or dumbed-down, with a conclusion that is surprisingly satisfying. B+

All the Beauty in the World, by Patrick Bringley (Simon & Schuster, 226 pages)

When Patrick Bringley’s older brother died after a lingering illness, his life was upended at age 25 and so he did the only thing that made sense at the time: He applied to be a guard at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, that hallowed institution most people simply call “The Met.”

Like a lot of us, Bringley had visited the museum as a child and had memories of being gobsmacked by a couple of exhibitions even at age 11. Looking at a Pieter Bruegel painting from 1565, he writes, “I experienced the great beauty of the picture even as I had no idea what to do with that beauty. … As such, my response to the picture was trapped inside me, a bird fluttering in my chest.”
The opportunity to be a guard was both employment and healing, though he didn’t realize it at the time. Bringley’s brother, Tom, was two years older and a math genius who was, at the time he was stricken with cancer, studying for a Ph.D. in biomathematics (which I’d never heard of, but which is exactly what it sounds like: the use of mathematical models to understand biology). Newly wed, he’d been philosophical about his fate and rapid deterioration. (“Everybody suffers, my time. Everybody dies, my time.”) But the loss of such an extraordinary person, and the time caring for Tom for before he died, hit the family especially hard. Art of all kinds was one way they coped — reading Dickens, tacking a Raphael print above Tom’s hospital bed.

After Tom’s death, Bringley and his mother took their grief to the Philadelphia Museum of Art, where his mother lost herself in a painting of Mary supporting the dead body of Jesus, a cathartic experience. “She cupped her face and her shoulders shook, and when I met her eyes, I saw she wept because her heart was full as well as breaking, because the picture inspired love in her, bringing both solace and pain. When we adore, we apprehend beauty. When we lament, we see the wisdom of the ancient adage ‘Life is suffering.’”

It was on his way back home to New York that he conceived of quitting a dream entry-level job he held at The New Yorker, where he hobnobbed with people like Stephen King and Michael Chabon, in order to stand as a sentry at the Met, which in many ways was not a dream job. (It’s so hard on the feet that the guards are given extra compensation to buy socks, and you have to work there more than a year to get a week’s vacation, the timing of which is assigned by seniority.) But working at the museum expanded his horizons in ways working penny-ante tasks for the magazine for four years had not. It connected him with the ages, and with beauty, and gave him an education as fine as — or finer than — any Ivy League school.

Bringley becomes an authority on the various pieces of art in the corridors he patrols, as well as the minutiae of what the museum contains. (He takes to counting, for example, the number of inhabitants in the paintings in any particular hall — “I will count 210 Jesuses in Section B” — and says, “If you’re wondering how I could possibly count all that, you underestimate the kind of time I have.”

In conversations with visitors to the museum, and with his coworkers, he brings us fully into the job with him, letting us see through the eyes of first-time and regular visitors the effect that the ancient art has on them. All the while, he himself is healing, not only from his brother’s death but from the stifling job and career trajectory that he had escaped. A remark from a co-worker one day is telling: “You know, it really isn’t such a bad job,” Brimley’s colleague says. “Your feet hurt, but nothing else does.”

One of the gifts of All the Beauty in the World is that you don’t need to know anything about the Met, or even about art, to enjoy the book. The best memoirs don’t just chronicle the author’s experiences; they also bring value to ours. Bringley provides an easily digestible education of some of the Met’s greatest pieces, and the museum itself, and rough illustrations show the outlines of the art. As such, this is a great book for anyone planning a visit to the museum.

But it also opens a window into why art matters, and Bringley’s account can kindle, or rekindle, an interest gone dormant. His reflections on grief will be especially poignant to anyone who has recently experienced a loss, as will his slow path to recovery.

The book spans roughly a decade, during which time Bringley marries and becomes a father, an experience he compares to the “Virgin and Child” paintings of the masters. (“How composed the Child always looks! How serene the holy parent! By contrast, the animal squirming in my arms is lusty, rude, ridiculous.”) His experience of fatherhood is a hopeful one, analogous to life: “goodness subsuming the struggles.”

He ends with some advice for the Met goer: “Come in the morning, if you can, when the museum is quietest, and at first say nothing to anyone, not even a guard. … Find out what you love in the Met, what you learn from, and what you can use as fuel, and venture back into the world carrying something with you, something that doesn’t quite easily fit in your mind, that weighs on you as you go forward and changes you a little bit.” Wise counsel from a short but memorable book. A

Monsters: A Fan’s Dilemma, by Claire Dederer (Knopf, 273 pages)

In 2017, the year that the world learned about the sexual predation of Hollywood producer Harvey Weinstein, Claire Dederer published an essay in The Paris Review in which she tried to work out her feelings about bad men and good art.

Dederer came to the topic not through Weinstein, but through another filmmaker, Roman Polanski, who repulsed her because he had been accused of raping a 13-year-old girl. Polanski’s monstrousness, Dederer wrote then, was “monumental, like the Grand Canyon. And yet. When I watched his movies, their beauty was another kind of monument, impervious to my knowledge of his iniquities.”

Dederer is not the first to squirm uncomfortably in this particular space. The question of what we should do with the art of problematic people has come up regularly in recent years, and nobody seems to have a good answer. Dederer didn’t in her Paris Review essay, but she attempts to craft one in Monsters, A Fan’s Dilemma, an elaboration of the ideas put forth in that essay.

You could read just the essay and have a good grasp of the book, but then you’d miss out on the delightful interior wrestling match in which Dederer engages as she tries to reconcile her desire to be “a virtuous consumer” and “a demonstrably good feminist” while consuming the work of troublesome artists. These are mostly men — Polanski, and Woody Allen, and Bill Cosby, and Michael Jackson, and numerous others, dead and alive, who either have been exposed for beastly behavior in recent years, or who have had old behavior newly scrutinized in the light of new standards of conduct. (Polarization alert: She also paints former President Donald Trump and Supreme Court Justice Brett Kavanaugh with the broad brush of monsters.)

After Weinstein, the floodgates opened, Dederer writes: “A rock had been turned over and revealed a bunch of sex pests, scuttling around in the newly bright light.” The men “did or said something awful, and made something great. The awful thing disrupts the great work; we can’t watch or listen to the great work without remembering the awful thing.”

Dederer turns over a few rocks of her own; unless you’ve paid close attention to the personal lives of some of these men, you may know their names and their contributions to art but nothing of their personal behavior. Be prepared for the pedestals of Pablo Picasso, the Italian painter Caravaggio, composer Richard Wagner, jazz trumpeter Miles Davis and many others to crash down, as Dederer, who lives on a houseboat in Seattle, muses about her existential dilemma.

In the hands of a less capable writer this could get sort of tiresome after a few chapters. But Dederer is like a dinner guest you don’t want to stop talking because she’s so well-read and interesting (you will likely, like me, come away with a list of other books you want to read) and her writing is delightful and fresh. (She describes one person as looking like “a character from a children’s book about plucky pioneers caught in a blizzard.”)

Dederer’s challenge in Monsters was not in the prose or the thinking, but in stretching an essay to book length, and she does this in part by means of a dubious analogy — whether we are all monsters in our own way. This was how she ended the Paris Review piece: “What is to be done about monsters? Can and should we love their work? Are all ambitious artists monsters? Tiny voice: [Am I a monster?]”

Her principal analogy to the everyday monster is that of the female artist who abandons her children to pursue her calling … not necessarily literally, although that has certainly been done.

“The idea of what constitutes abandonment exists on a continuum,” she writes. That continuum includes shutting the studio door to a child, letting another parent do all the child care, putting a child in day care, going out of town for work for days, weeks or months at a time, and so forth. “Please note that none of these behaviors count as abandonment if practiced by men,” she says. “This is extra-true if the men in question are artists.”

Society excused men-monsters for a long time if they were artists and even more so if they were geniuses, Dederer says. In particular, we’ve given a pass to abusive geniuses like Hemingway or Picasso by giving them the ultimate creative license: license to have demons.

Big monsters have equally big demons; the consumers of art have their own, smaller devils that emerge when we sit in judgment on others. For instance, “When you’re having a moral feeling, self-congratulation is never far behind. You are setting your emotion in a bed of ethical language, and you are admiring yourself doing it. … The transmission of our virtue feels extremely important and strangely exciting.”

The difference between Roman Polanski’s sins and Dederer’s (she confesses to worrying whether she’d made the right decisions about child care even now that her children are grown) is vast, and to tenuously connect them Dederer follows a chaotic path. Her conclusions are likewise unkempt, but still ultimately satisfying.

“The heart wants what it wants,” Woody Allen famously said in excusing his relationship with Soon-Yi Previn. Put another way, the heart loves what it loves, and this also applies to art, Dederer says.

“Critical thought must bow its knee to love of the work — if something moves us, whoever we are, we must give that something at least a small degree of fealty.” That is, after all, what we do with our families, which are the “unchosen monsters” that we love. A

Saving Time, by Jenny Odell (Random House, 364 pages)

The quote that opens Jenny Odell’s Saving Time is from the late painter Agnes Martin: “I wish the idea of time would drain out of my cells and leave me quiet even on this shore.”

For anyone who feels that way (and doesn’t everyone feel that way?) Odell proposes to teach us how to discover a life “beyond the clock” — to imagine “a life of identity and source of meaning outside the world of work and profit.” To do so will take up a rather large chunk of your time, which is exquisitely ironic, but Odell showed in her first book, 2019’s How to Do Nothing, that she has a penchant for pithy titles that have little to do with the actual books.

Saving Time offers what Odell calls “conceptual tools” for thinking about time, not time-saving strategies. It is what is commonly called a deep dive into the theme, with Odell leisurely rambling through every rabbit hole to which her observations lead. This is not usually a bad thing, except for the fact that people attracted to a book called Saving Time are likely to be, well, in a hurry for its points to be made. And Odell will not be hurried; she writes with the indolence of someone sprawled in a hammock on a summer day.

Which is kind of her point. Her thesis is this: Our contemporary notion of time is closely (and somewhat bizarrely) tied to work and wages, even while much that surrounds us on the planet unfolds on geologic time. This is not good. Odell rues the state of the modern worker (of which the famously tracked Amazon employee is perhaps the most pitiable example) while tracing the origins of the clock-driven world. Capitalism is an unnamed villain here, even though she points out that until industrialization, human beings stood in for machines, per the slaves of ancient Rome and Egypt.

And for all the blame that has been heaped upon Jeff Bezos, it’s interesting to learn that even the “father of our country,” George Washington, had Bezos-like standards at Mount Vernon, writing to an overseer at one point that slaves should do “as much in 24 hours as their strength, without endangering their health, or constitution will allow of.” That and the Amazon mindset were brilliantly and presciently mocked in a 1936 Charlie Chaplin film called Modern Times, in which a company tries to get more out of its workers by using a machine to quickly feed them their lunch. “The Billows Feeding Machine, a practical device which automatically feeds your men while at work. Don’t stop for lunch! Be ahead of your competitor.”

Of course, the need to get more out of workers wasn’t limited to men. Odell writes, “It is telling, for example, that the owners of the mills in Lowell, Massachusetts, tried to argue that longer hours were actually good for the women. Without the ‘wholesome discipline of factory life,’ the women would be left to their own dangerous whims, ‘without a warrant that this time will be well employed.’”

Odell invites us to consider what our employers are buying with the wages they pay us: a specific service or good, or our time? If the latter, what are the boundaries? And in a society in which “discretionary time” is vastly different and often varies by class, what, if anything, do we owe those most deficient in time, which amounts to life itself.

Interestingly, the time problem seems, in many ways, a cruel gift of technology, which expanded the ways in which we can be tethered to a clock. Odell notes the work of German sociologist Hartmut Rosa, who writes of “a hypothetical character named Linda, an overwhelmed professor who rushes through her day, never having enough time to fulfill all her obligations to students, co-workers, family, and friends; expected to be always available, answerable to everyone; with the feeling that she’s always falling short and running behind.”

Linda, Odell writes, “does not have access to Feierabend, the feeling of leisure that peasants and farmers might have had when the cattle and children were in for the night” — the pleasant sense that work is, at least for a couple of hours, concluded. Nor does anyone with a cell phone perpetually turned on, and thus reachable by anyone all the time. (Some countries are trying to address this with legislation colloquially known as “the right to disconnect.”)

Seeing the struggles of their parents and grandparents, younger people are resisting their path, choosing to be less ambitious, more protective of their time. There are costs, not only in material goods but in the respect of their elders. For example, the young Chinese factory worker who in 2016 quit his job in order to take a lengthy bike trip — “I have been chilling,” he wrote — started a movement called “lying flat,” but those who participated were widely decried as lazy and shameful. Lie flat if you want, the message is, but don’t talk about it in public.

Time moves differently for people in different circumstances; for prisoners incarcerated for life, of course, time is a construct almost incomprehensible to those who have relative freedom. And the disabled and those who work with them have their own concept of time called “crip time,” which acknowledges, among other things, the extended amount of time it takes to do things relative to the non-disabled population.

Odell wrote this book, or at least some of it, from the privileged position of an artist’s residency in the Puget Sound, which gifted her the opportunity to muse about time in the slow-drip fashion of geologic time. As such, Saving Time often seems something like elitist navel-gazing. Additionally, there are many smart and insightful thinkers whom, for whatever reason, it is a struggle to pay attention to, and Odell is among their class. The topic is important; she makes that much clear. But Saving Time is not a book I would recommend. C