Category: Books

Now is Not the Time to Panic, by Kevin Wilson (Ecco, 243 pages)

It’s another mundane day in the suburban household of Frances Eleanor Budge when she picks up the phone and hears a writer for The New Yorker say, “The edge is a shantytown filled with gold seekers.”

Frances numbly replies, “We are fugitives and the law is skinny with hunger for us,” as her daughter bangs on drums in the background and her husband makes a household repair.

After hanging up, refusing to answer the writer’s questions, Frances reflects, “Our life, which was so boring and normal, was still happening. Right at this moment, as everything was changing, it was like my life didn’t know it yet.”

Thus begins Now is Not the Time to Panic, the new novel by Kevin Wilson, whose previous work includes The Family Fang and Nothing to See Here. From that strange phone call, it’s a wild, comic ride, as Wilson takes readers back 21 years to when Frances, or Frankie, as she was called, was a teenager with a secret.

The teenage Frankie, who lived with her mom and three triplet brothers in Tennessee, was an aspiring writer with a lot of time on her hands when she met Zeke, an aspiring artist. The two bonded over animosity toward their absent fathers, their misfit natures and their boredom.

One day, while trying to think of something to do, Frankie remembered that there was an old Xerox copier in her garage that her troublemaking brothers had stolen from a supply building at the high school. It had previously only been used to photocopy the triplets’ body parts, and now wasn’t working. But Zeke figured out that it was only a paper jam, which he fixed. “This could be fun,” he says. “We could do something weird with this.”

Zeke suggested that Frankie compose a few lines, “a mystery or riddle that no one can solve,” and that he would illustrate it. Frankie complied, and Zeke produced an illustration that was equally odd, with a hellscape of shacks with roofs caving in, wild dogs, children in beds and two “giant, disembodied hands, the fingers withered and jagged, almost glowing” reaching in the direction of the children.

That night, they distributed 63 copies of the poster around town – on telephone poles, in the windows of businesses, in random mailboxes. The next day, they made 300 more. “The whole experience felt like what drugs must have felt like,” Frankie reflects. “It was the high of doing something weird, not knowing the outcome. I imagined my wild brothers had felt this so many times that they were numb to it. But for Zeke and me, well-behaved dorks, it was amazing.” It took a while, but soon a local reporter wrote about the mysterious posters, which he deemed sophisticated, suggesting the quote came from a famous French poet. Zeke and Frankie continued to distribute them, unnoticed. Theories begin to pile up. Some people said the posters were the work of a drug cult and were an ominous threat. The newspaper ran a story under the headline “Evil comes to Coalfield.” Meanwhile, other people in the town started making copies of the poster and hanging them up, too. One person was putting them on top of a water tower when he fell off and died.

Eventually, the story goes national and makes it to 20/20 and Saturday Night Live, and reporting on it wins a Pulitzer for The New York Times, and someone opens a restaurant called “Skinny with Hunger” and so forth. The “Coalfield Panic” becomes so legendary that random people start taking credit for it, but they are shown to be hoaxes, and Frankie has lost touch with Zeke and gone on to live her ordinary life. Which is why she is so unnerved when the writer for The New Yorker, an art critic, starts calling repeatedly, threatening to expose her.

On one level, this sounds like a madcap adventure, something that Christopher Buckley (Thank You for Not Smoking, Florence of Arabia) would write. But there is a poignancy that underlies the story, which is billed as a coming-of-age novel but is much more. It’s also about the source and meaning of art, and about how events from the past forever influence our life. “You hold on to something for twenty years, the expectations and possibilities bend and twist alongside your actual life,” the adult Frankie says.

While the ending wasn’t what I had hoped for (and perhaps not what Frankie and Zeke would have wanted either), Now is Not the Time to Panic was a joy ride from start to finish and moves easily through its two-decade time span like a fast-flowing river. It’s not the great American novel but it doesn’t pretend to be. It’s something even better: a novel that makes you laugh and think and is simply a pleasure to read. B+

Our Missing Hearts, by Celeste Ng (Penguin Press, 352 pages)

Celeste Ng’s latest novel is a depressing dive into a dystopian society, but I had high hopes for it when I found a handwritten note tucked inside the copy I picked up from the library that said, “It is so, so, so good!” I have to wonder if I would have liked it more if that note hadn’t been there, messing with my expectations.

In Our Missing Hearts, the government has passed PACT, the Preserving American Culture and Traditions Act, which has resulted in the banning of anything that might promote anti-Americanism and forces children of parents who don’t fully support the act to live with state-approved foster families. PACT targets Asians, particularly the Chinese; the American government blames the decade-old “Crisis” — an economic downturn marked by unemployment and poverty — on Chinese manipulation.

The story follows 12-year-old Bird, whose mother, Chinese-American poet Margaret Miu, left him and his father three years prior, after the line from her poem “Our Missing Hearts” was adopted as a slogan for anti-PACT activists. Worried that the government would take Bird away because she was perceived as a traitor, Margaret left first.

While the idea is good, its execution drags the story down. Ng (author of the adapted-for-Hulu novel Little Fires Everywhere) made some interesting writing choices in Our Missing Hearts. My biggest pet peeve is that she doesn’t use quotation marks at all, anywhere, even though the characters have dialogues. The decision struck me as somewhat arrogant, serving no purpose other than showing that Ng has become well-known enough as an author to take such liberties. But I realized I wasn’t being fair and should find out if there was a good reason for it, so, naturally, I asked Google. An article on BuzzFeed gave me the answer; Ng was asked about her style choices, specifically the lack of quotation marks. Her response:

“When I started writing the novel, I found that I was instinctively writing without quotation marks … but I had to think about why. (I’ll be honest, I usually hate when there are no quotation marks.) … I wanted the novel to feel slightly folkloric, almost dreamlike; for Bird, the events feel a little bit like stepping into a fairytale, one of the stories his mother told him when he was young. When you think of a story being told out loud, the way folktales often are … there’s a blurring between the person narrating, and the words of the story, and the things the characters say. So, removing the quotation marks helped create that effect for the reader.”

Maybe someone who is less of a stickler about grammatical rules would appreciate that artistic perspective, but strong dialogue can really move a plot along and give the characters personality, and this didn’t have any of that. In fact, my main issue with the novel is that I didn’t really care about the characters; they were flat, dull and one-dimensional. Ng switches perspective about halfway through the novel, from Bird’s point of view to Margaret’s, and while it helps explain her reasons for leaving more clearly, that emotion still isn’t there. A mother who has to leave her child should be devastated; what we see is her focusing instead on her anti-PACT mission. It’s noble, of course, but she seems almost robotic.

The character I actually liked the most was Sadie, who was removed from her home because her parents were working against PACT. At first we get to know from Bird’s memories of her; later he meets up with her on his journey to find his mother — which he seems to do only because she sent him a cryptic letter that he thinks is a request for him to find her, and not because he has a strong emotional desire to see her. He might, but the story focuses more on how he works through the clues his mother gave him to find her.

Dystopian novels are often bleak, but Our Missing Hearts was both bleak and boring. At times I didn’t even want to finish it, but it’s pretty short, and I promised to write a book review about it, so here we are.

While the concept was good, it might have been better as a short story, where the lack of character development would be less noticeable. As a novel, Our Missing Hearts is missing, well, heart. Maybe that’s the point. But the story would have been more powerful if there were more feeling behind it. C+

Novelist as a Vocation, Haruki Murakami; translated by Philip Gabriel and Ted Goossen (Knopf, 224 pages)

The career of Haruki Murakami is one of the more mystifying legends in the literary world. He’s told the story many times: how, sitting in the stands at a baseball game, he suddenly had the thought that he could write a novel, despite not having written anything much more substantive than college papers. It was, as he calls it, an epiphany. The next day, he bought a fountain pen and paper and started writing a novel at his kitchen table after he got home from work in the evening. It took six months.

That was 35 years and 25 books ago.

Everyone now trying to do the same thing (or something similar) during November for NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) should know, however, that even Murakami didn’t think much of that first book, Hear the Wind Sing, of which he now writes, “What I had written seemed to fulfill the formal requirements of a novel” yet “was rather boring, and as a whole, left me cold.”

But possessed of the idea that writing a novel was his destiny, Murakami did not stay discouraged even though he wasn’t satisfied with the first draft. As he tells in his new memoir Novelist as a Vocation, he swapped the pen and paper for a typewriter and started again in English instead of his native Japanese. That limited the vocabulary available to him and forced him to write more precisely — to create, as he says, “a creative rhythm distinctly my own.”

Ultimately he rewrote the entire novel in this style and found that writing “filled the spiritual void that had loomed with the approach of my thirtieth birthday.” A year later, the book was short-listed for a prize for new writers, which he won. And Murakami Inc. was off and running, despite the disdain of some of Japan’s literary elites, one of whom has called him a “con man.”

Novelist as a Vocation recounts many of the stories that Murakami has already told, including how he got started and why he became a long-distance runner who runs every day (and a marathon every year). It also explains, in some ways, the Murakami phenomenon — why he has enjoyed enduring popular success despite a writing style that is often plain-spoken. Along the way, he offers advice to aspiring novelists, although he doesn’t seem to have a high opinion of them as a species, writing, “The way I see it, people with brilliant minds are not particularly well suited to writing novels.”

He also says, “There are exceptions, of course, but from what I have seen, most novelists aren’t what one would call amiable and fair-minded. Neither are they what would normally be considered good role models: their dispositions tend to be idiosyncratic and their lifestyles and general behavior frankly odd.” He tells the story of the 1912 meeting of Marcel Proust and James Joyce, who barely spoke to each other at a dinner party in Paris. “Writers are basically an egoistic breed, proud and highly competitive. Put two of them in the same room and the results, more likely than not, will be a disappointment.” A certain arrogance also helps novelists who succeed, he suggests.

What novelists are, besides dogged, is accommodating. They are tolerant of other novelists because, as Murakami puts it, there’s always more room in the ring. Many people write one or two novels; few do what he does: churn them out consistently. Not that even Murakami makes his sole living from writing novels — he also has done English-to-Japanese translations for 30 years.

I have always been something of a Murakami skeptic. Even his celebrated memoir What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, which I’ve read twice, seems flat to me, its sentences as matter-of-fact as a grocery list. So it was interesting to read that the author himself does not pay heed to too much of his press. “… I am, when all is said and done, a very ordinary person,” he writes. “ … Not the type to stand out when I stroll around town, the type who’s always shown to the worst table at restaurants. I doubt that if I didn’t write novels anyone would ever have noticed me.”

Also, he writes of being removed from the literary elites, having failed to win a couple of other prizes that he was shortlisted for early in his career. This has made him question the value of any prize, “from the Oscars to the Nobel.” The most important thing to have is good readers, not the acclaim of one’s peers, he says. (It’s worth noting, though, that Murakami also acknowledges that his career as a novelist might have fizzled if he hadn’t won the Gunzo Prize for his first effort.)

In short essays about his life and the craft, he goes on to muse about the importance of originality (and the difficulty of having an original style be accepted, whether in writing, painting or music); the mechanics of writing (he doesn’t work on novels unless “the desire to write is overwhelming” and instead does more mundane tasks, like translation, until that occurs); and why a scene from the movie E.T. is an apt metaphor for novelists who don’t have a lot of life experience. (Short version, you have to assemble a transmitter with an odd assortment of junk stored in the garage.)

Murakami estimates that 5 percent “of all people are active readers of literature” but those 5 percent are ardent, he says. “As long as one in twenty is like us, I refuse to get overly worried about the future of the novel and the written word.”

Perhaps the most fascinating line in Novelist as a Vocation is this: “I don’t make promises, so I don’t have deadlines. As a result, writer’s block and I are strangers to each other.” So many writers convince themselves that they need deadlines to motivate them to work, but Murakami suggests that creativity flows best without this pressure. He also doesn’t seem to put a lot of pressure on himself as far as output goes, writing only about 1,600 words a day when he’s working on a novel, with a hard stop after 10 pages, even if he wants to write more.

Interestingly, this memoir was released in Japan in 2015 and took seven years and two translators to make it to the U.S., just in time to help NaNoWriMo participants who need a jolt of adrenaline to power through. It serves that purpose well, and is also a surprisingly pleasurable read for anyone trying to understand the magic of Murakami more broadly. B+

Mad Honey, by Jodi Picoult and Jennifer Finney Boylan, Ballantine, 450 pages

The new novel by Jodi Picoult, co-written with Jennifer Finney Boylan, is too much about bees. Its protagonist, a divorced New Hampshire mother whose profession is apiarist — beekeeper — describes her work this way: “Like firefighters, we willingly put ourselves in situations that are the stuff of others’ nightmares.”

That includes schlepping out to rescue bees in the cold and dark after a bear has broken into their hive, a first-world problem for sure, but also an old-world problem; beekeeping is the second-oldest profession. And also: informing the bees when their beekeeper has died and formally requesting that they accept the replacement. “In New Hampshire, the custom is to sing, and the news has to rhyme.”

And you thought your job was tough.

This custom is so fanciful that it seems made up, especially being told by two master storytellers. But a quick search of Google confirms that “telling the bees” is actually a thing — not just of deaths, but births, marriages and other momentous events. Mad Honey indeed.

The novel could have been subtitled “more than you ever wanted to know about bees,” and the constant presentation of bee facts at times makes Mad Honey seem like it has a third co-author named Wikipedia. But there is, in fact, a good story here to justify the bee trivia.

Olivia McAfee lives in Adams, New Hampshire, with her son Asher, having moved there from Boston after her marriage to an abusive surgeon blew up. Their lives intersect explosively with a young woman named Lily, who takes turns narrating the novel with Olivia. The narrative conceit is that Olivia tells her side of the story going forward, while Lily tells her side looking back.

Lily moved to Adams seven years ago after her forest-ranger mother found a job that would enable them to escape a bad situation in Seattle. (In one funny moment, when Lily’s mother is telling her about the move, she says she has one question: Where are the White Mountains?)

Asher and Lily are dating and are finding in each other kindred souls, as both are being raised by single mothers and have fraught relationships with their fathers. (Asher meets his dad surreptitiously once a month at a Chili’s in Massachusetts.) They reach the point in their volatile but passionate relationship where they are confiding their deepest secrets and on the verge of becoming intimate.

Soon after, Lily is found dead, and when police arrive, Asher is standing by her body. Despite his insistence that he wasn’t responsible, Asher is charged with first-degree murder. As we work our way to the apex of the trial, we learn more and more about both families’ backgrounds — the difficulties of both the mothers and their children.

Aside from the occasional stilted recitation of bee facts, Mad Honey is skillfully plotted, and Picoult and Boylan have created deeply sympathetic characters who are intelligent and interesting; it’s impossible not to care about them. They authors are, however, a bit slow getting to the point; it’s as if when divvying up the writing tasks, they dispensed with the pesky business of editing and decided they would both write the equivalent of a full book, readers be damned.

But Mad Honey also has an underlying purpose, which is to pull back the curtain on a certain divisive social issue and give readers a glimpse into the humanity at the center of it. I can’t say any more without spoilers. Of course, the biggest spoiler of all is that we know Lily dies at the start, and so there’s no happy ending to be had. But it is not an unhopeful novel, nor depressing; it is saturated more with love than with cruelty. And the ending is as perfect as it can get under the circumstances.

How this book came to be is a story in itself. As Boylan tells in the authors’ notes, she dreamed the basic plot of this book, and that she had co-written it with Picoult. Then she tweeted about her dream, and Picoult reached out, asked what the book was about, then said, “Let’s do it.” (The two had read each other’s work, but never communicated before.) So it’s hard to be too critical of a book that seems to have sprung fully formed from the universe; it was clearly a book meant to be. Picoult says she expects to get hate mail about it, but it won’t be from beekeepers clearly. And for those who just can’t get enough of the sweetness, there are a handful of character-connected recipes at the end of the book. For those of you who like this sort of thing, you’ll love it. For those who don’t, wait for the movie. B+

Survival of the Richest, by Douglas Rushkoff (W.W. Norton, 212 pages)

Five years ago, Douglas Rushkoff was offered a large sum of money (half of what he makes each year as a professor) to give a speech at a secluded resort somewhere in the West. He arrived expecting his audience to be “a hundred or so investment bankers” who wanted to hear his thoughts on the future of technology. Instead, he had an audience of five hedge-fund billionaires, and they were only peripherally interested in technology. What they really wanted to talk about was how they can better survive the coming apocalypse.

Writing about this experience in 2018 on Medium, Rushkoff said that the billionaire preppers didn’t have a particular apocalypse in mind, just a general collapse of the world as we know it, which they called “the event.” “That was their euphemism for the environmental collapse, social unrest, nuclear explosion, unstoppable virus, or Mr. Robot hack that takes everything down.”

The men were already building their apocalypse-proof compounds, but needed guidance on how to protect themselves from people: not only the mobs who would want to get in, but the security forces they’ve already hired and have on standby at this very moment. How do they keep their post-apocalypse employees from turning on them? How will they deal with the uncomfortable moral dilemma of shutting doomed people out?

It’s a safe bet that Rushkoff hasn’t been invited back for a follow-up session, as he takes a dim view of the billionaires’ worldview and suggests that some of their business practices are what make an apocalypse possible in the first place. He expounds on that criticism in Survival of the Richest, the book-length expansion of that initial Medium essay. It’s a relatively short but compelling look inside the apocalypse industrial complex, even if it does make your bug-out bag look woefully insufficient and the billionaires look morally bankrupt. (For the record, he’s not talking Musk and Bezos billionaires, but “low-level” billionaires, meaning they’re probably guys we wouldn’t have heard of even if Rushkoff had named them.)

There are, living among us, people whose everyday lives are all about imminent annihilation — not for them maybe, but for the rest of us. In New York, for example, there’s a venture called American Heritage Farms that is designed as communities where people can thrive after a grid collapse. In Texas, a company called Rising S is selling luxury underground bunkers in which people who can afford the $8.3 million can ride out a nuclear strike with their own underground pool and bowling setup. And perhaps weirdest of all, there’s an entire “aquapreneur” subset of billionaire preppers who are planning a Waterworld-type escape by living on their own seagoing city-states. “Why fear rising oceans if you’re already living on the ocean?” Rushkoff asks.

Rushkoff, who is a professor of media theory and digital economics at Queens/City College of New York, explains his theory of how the billionaire prepper mindset evolved contrary to the promise of the internet, which was supposed to unite humanity. Instead, he argues, it created the techno-bubble that drove us further apart, not only in terms of income inequality but also in how we see the world and our place in it. The billionaires, he says, see themselves as uniquely valuable, which forms the moral basis for their plans for self-preservation. “The would-be architects of the human future treat the civic sector as antagonistic to their grand designs. They believe they can do it better,” Rushkoff writes. As an example, he devotes one chapter to the “Great Reset” promoted by World Economic Forum founder Klaus Schwab, who promotes sweeping technological changes such as biometrics, mass surveillance and geoengineering in order to repair the sins of capitalism. Some of our political and technological overlords, he argues, are not only preparing for doomsday but actively trying to bring it on.

Despite the grand talk of building a better world with or without a life-as-we-know-it-altering event, Rushkoff says the billionaires see the rest of us as “little more than iron filings flying back and forth between the magnetic poles set up by the rich and powerful.”

But he doesn’t let the rest of us off the hook. All of us suffer to some degree from the apocalypse-now mindset. “We either mirror the mindset or rebel in a way that reaffirms it,” Rushkoff writes.

It’s only in the last pages that he offers hope: “We are not yet over the cliff. We still have choices,” he writes, then throws out a few pages of suggestions, many of which seem to have nothing to do with the various doomsday scenarios at the fore of the conversation today. (It’s hard to see how “buy local” and “promote the rights of gig workers” relate to Vladimir Putin launching nukes at Ukraine.) But he has a powerful message in his indictment of the billionaires whose strategy for armageddon is leaving the rest of us behind. “Our nervous systems do not operate independently but in concert with other nervous systems around us. It’s as if we share one collective nervous system. Our physical and mental health is contingent on nurturing those connections. Leaving others behind is futile and stupid.”

It’s a bit of a kumbaya ending to a generally incisive book. More hopeful is a quote he includes from an interview with aboriginal scholar Tyson Yunkaporta, who said, “Apocalypses are never just complete extinction, you know. My people have been through heaps of apocalypses and they’re quite survivable, as long as you’re still following the patterns of the land and the patterns of creation. As long as you’re in touch and moving with the landscape.” So even if you can’t afford an underground bunker, there’s hope. B+

— Jennifer Graham

Shuna’s Journey, by Hayao Miyazaki (First Second, 160 pages)

At a glance, Shuna’s Journey feels like well-mapped territory for author and acclaimed director Hayao Miyazaki. Originally published in 1983, the story about a prince who leaves his home on an ungulate steed for parts unknown bears a striking resemblance to Miyazaki’s 1997 film Princess Mononoke. Assumingthe graphic novelis only a springboard for the acclaimed animator’s later film, it would only seem accessible to mega-fans of his work. Assumptions are often proved wrong and Shuna’s Journey is much stranger than anyone could hope to assume.

The book itself is not laid out like a traditional comic or manga, stereotypically filled with sliced and diced frames meant for frenetic page-turning. In fact, the layout of Shuna’s Journey shares more commonality with a children’s book of myths and legends. Pages primarily consist of large single-columned panels, the maximum being only three per page. They bleed over onto the corresponding pages in uneven hand-painted watercolor, bringing humanity to the larger-than-life renderings.

The book opens peacefully among the mountains that tower over Shuna’s village with the lines, “These things may have happened long ago, they may be still to come.” and it could almost serve as an excuse for an unrealized, undeveloped setting. Instead, the stage is set with background art portraying an environment triumphant over human civilization. Empty ruins look like dry bones against barren plains and the desert lands stretch endlessly into the horizon, marbled in red and blue hues. Even human creations feel alien in this land. As Shuna makes his way west he takes shelter under giant abandoned robots as well as a colossal battleship, grounded and wasting in a sea of sand. All serve as breadcrumbs of a mythic past where humans thrived, making the reader wonder what happened to make Shuna’s world this way.

There is also an anthropological element that helps flesh out Shuna’s world. In his home village, walls painted with cosmological designs hint at a culture with deep-rooted beliefs and customs. The fur hat Shuna wears marks him as someone of high status, and other characters who also wield power wear similar headgear. Some of the bigger antagonists in the story, those participating in the slave trade have their own menacing iconography differentiating themselves from the small village kingdoms. These details help cut down on exposition that could cramp the page. The narrative does not need to slow down with backstory exposition when Thea (a character whose perspective takes over for the final third of the book) is introduced. Her distinctive hair ornaments tell everything about how she treasures her past and fights for her individuality even as the slave trade tries to take it from her.

Storywise, the book follows the archetypal hero’s journey, making the narrative easy to follow. Shuna and his people are caught in a cycle of hunger and scarcity. There’s not enough food for the people and animals, so when there is a chance to break the cycle, the hero sets off on his quest for a crop that will sustain his people. Miyazaki makes sure to impress upon the reader the constant looming state of desolation in which the characters find themselves. While Shuna must overcome physical challenges to survive, he needs more than muscle to accomplish his goal. The trials during the story test his resolve to complete the journey, making him learn what it means to both help and hurt others.

The pacing is even; the climax hits when Shuna finally makes it to the land of the god-folk. This is where the graphic novel’s art and story both reach their peak. The environment, with its vibrant forests filled with animals and large cultivated fields, is completely different from the wastelands Shuna previously journeyed through. The land of the god-folk is more than paradise and it is here where Shuna’s Journey dips into the realm of cosmic horror. The creatures that make the land their home look like they come straight from the Cambrian explosion, while the mechanisms that cultivate grain are beyond human comprehension. When the truth is finally revealed the reader may find themselves so horrified and filled with existential dread that they wonder whether it was worth it for Shuna to have left his home after all.

The story does not end in the land of the god-folk, but comes to a satisfying, if not complete, conclusion. The final third of the book, with Thea at its center, feels slightly disjointed from the first two-thirds of the story, but it would be much more disappointing if Thea’s section were not included. Since the core of Shuna’s Journey focuses on the quest to cultivate grain it makes sense that part of the story should involve farming. After all, the problem of hunger in Shuna’s world will not solve itself with force, but instead with patience, understanding and kindness. A

— Bethany Fuss