If You Haven't Already, Trying Reading a Joe Meno Novel...Or Two...Or Maybe These Three

To celebrate its 10th anniversary, the Chicago Review of Books is running a series titled The New Chicago Renaissance. Here's how editor-in-chief Michael Welch describes the series: "The New Chicago Renaissance series revisits exemplary works of literature about Chicago from the last 10 years and explores their continued relevance. Join us all year long as 12 leading writers and artists explore books that they love and why they’re meaningful to our understanding of modern Chicago.

So far, the series has included essays by writers like Rebecca Makkai (on Toya Wolfe's Last Summer on State Street) and Nathan Hill (on Halle Butler's The New Me), just to name a few. 

This week, I got to add my own entry. I wrote about Joe Meno's trilogy of coming-of-age Chicago novels -- Hairstyles of the Damned, Office Girl, and Book of Extraordinary Tragedies.

If you've never read Joe Meno, please, stop what you're doing, and fix that. My recommendation is to start with Office Girl -- it's such a beautiful (and subtly funny) novel about art and love and figuring out how to fit into the world. It's a novel that literally changed my life; a book I deeply love. 

If you're so inclined, swing over to the Chicago Review of Books and check out the piece. Honestly, it's my favorite thing I've written this year, and it was such a privilege to get to contribute to this amazing series. 

Here's a brief excerpt:

Jack and Odile in Office Girl. Brian Oswald in Hairstyles. Aleks in Extraordinary Tragedies. All of these characters are searching for what’s real through art, just as Joe Meno himself is doing with these novels, just as I did as a new Chicagoan. These novels explore the fictional authentic—and if you’ll buy the idea that nothing is more real than fiction, then what these novels are really doing is mining the truth of what it’s like to be young and creating and being part of a grand Chicago tradition.

On "Performative" Reading and The Brothers Karamazov

Apparently, it's the Summer of Dostoyevsky! So, happy Hot Fyodor Summer, to all who celebrate. I don't claim to understand weird book trends, and because I'm not on TikTok (gasp! I know, I know.), when something like this happens, I just assume the kids are TikkyTokking about it and that's the explanation. (See the bizarre chicken caesar wrap trend from a few years ago. Except in this case, Dostoyevsky would be a VERY weird TikTok trend. So I'm flummoxed. But I digress...) 

Anyway, apparently everybody is reading The Brothers Karamazov. And so I did too. And I loved it! It's soapy and dramatic, and up until about the last 100 pages when we get a little bogged down with Dmitri's trial, there isn't a whole lot of drag.

Even the philosophical/theological bits -- most notably The Grand Inquisitor chapter, perhaps the most famous part of the novel -- are really interesting if you are caffeinated enough and give yourself the time to think through the arguments. 

If you're not familiar, The Grand Inquisitor chapter is basically a story one of the brothers (Ivan) concocts and tells another (Alyosha) about a bishop mansplaining to Jesus that he actually really fucked everything up, everything he did was wrong, and here are all the reason why. And to me that's hilarious! It reminds me of one of my favorite jokes (which I'm pretty sure I've relayed here before, so just bear with me if you've already heard it): It's 2021 and two MAGA dudes die and go to heaven (for some reason). St. Peter asks them if there is anything they'd like to know the truth about right away. One guy asks, "Yeah, who ACTUALLY won the 2020 election?" St. Peter says, "Joe Biden." The MAGA guy turns to his buddy says, "Oof, this conspiracy goes even higher than I thought."  

(Pause for laughter😎 )

Anyway, I'm glad I read this novel at a time when a lot of other people were too. It was fun to discuss online, and in one memorable case, in person.

Which brings me to what I really want to write about here. About a month into reading this book, I brought it with me to a coffee shop on a Sunday afternoon. This resulted in this Note on Substack that would end up going slightly-mini-viral.

I don't understand why this pithy snippet struck such a nerve (or how Substack's algorithm works), but it's still getting views and likes more than a month later. What's crazy about this, though, is not how many people saw it, but rather the several comments accusing me of "performative reading." Wait, what?!

Let me back up: What I assume they mean is that I either wasn't ACTUALY reading this novel, or if I was, I was just reading it to show off. (Neither of which are remotely true, of course.) Now, I know trolls gonna troll and when a lot of people see something on the internet, it just increases the odds more jerkass people are going to see it, too.

But, "performative" reading? What the hell, man?

I've heard mention of this so-called "performative reader," but I assume this is just internet people making noise -- conjuring a thing that doesn't actually exist in the real world. 

Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm dwelling in a little bubble here and not fully understanding what's happening in the larger world. But my tiny GenX brain can't really grasp the notion of a performative reader in the first place. What's the fucking point? 

Two of my favorite pieces debunking the notion of the performative reader are by writer John Paul Bremmer here and Jason Diamond here. Both are essay-length eyerolls basically arguing that this whole idea is a made-up nonissue. (Quick note: Apparently there is a difference between a performative reader and a performative male, of which being a performative reader is just a small part. What a world.)

And now here's the rub: Accusing someone of performative reading says more about the accuser than it does about the reader. Like that person can't fathom that someone would actually enjoy reading a book they don't think they would. And therefore, it must be performative, not authentic. It must be an affectation, a show-off. This is dumb, or to quote David Foster Wallace (apparently the patron saint of the performative reader), "so stupid it practically drools." Indeed, accusing someone else of performative reading is itself performative!

Anyway, I'm not letting it bother me. I just think it's odd. Like I said, trolls gonna troll. But this whole thing was quite the eye-opening experience. 

The main point, as always, is this: Read what you want, when you want, and where you want. Read and let read. And when in doubt, don't be a jerk. It's really not that tough to not be a jerk. 

Cool Machine, by Colson Whitehead: Yuppies and Gangsters vs. Ray Carney

Bold move by Mr. Whitehead to title this last novel in the Harlem Trilogy after HIMSELF. 😎

I kid, of course. “Cool machine” is a reference to Ray Carney, Whitehead’s protagonist through these three Harlem novels spanning three decades. 

But man, Colson Whitehead really is cool. The dedication for this novel, is “for New York Fuckin’ City” and there is no Acknowledgements section (conspicuous by its absence), as if Whitehead is saying, “You all should be thanking ME.” 😂

And thank him, I do. This third novel takes places in the 1980s in a city infested with two problems of differing weight, depending on who you ask: Yuppies and criminals.

New York is changing rapidly. At the top, money is flowing and new buildings are going up faster than a New York minute. At the bottom, drugs are everywhere, crime is rampant, and all the mayor seems worried about is a new "pooper scooper law" that requires dog owners to pick up after their pets. 

Ray Carney, furniture salesman and sometimes fence, and his associate Pepper, bodyguard and crook, get up to their usual schemes, but this time with a decidedly 1980s flavor. Shady art dealers, the mafia, a reemergent thief who once faked his own death, and even Jesse Owens's gold medal all figure prominently in Cool Machine. 

What you notice about this novel is not just the power of Whitehead’s storytelling, but also the meticulousness of his detail. From ads on the subway to headlines in the newspaper to real-life crooked politicians like Donald Manes, we slide so easily into 1980s NYC. What a time to be alive!

One note on Cool Machine: This is very much the third novel in a trilogy, and therefore, it is really helpful to have more than a fleeting memory of the first two novels. You'll be fine to understand what's happening plot-wise here, but Whitehead often references past events and characters. So the reading is richer the more you remember about the first two books. (Thank you, reading journal!) 

Cool Machine, like the first two novels, is essentially a triptych of three novellas. The first two here are breakneck pace, and then Whitehead slows down with the last one -- lingers and reminisces a little. But they're all great, and on the whole, this is my favorite of the Harlem Trilogy. Man, what'll this guy do next? 

Tenderness, by Rowan Beaird: "I’ve always been fascinated by cults"

Woohooo! One of my favorite novels of the year is out today! Rowan Beaird's sophomore effort Tenderness is a terrific summer read -- a wedding weekend novel wrapped in a cult novel with a slow-burn mystery to boot. 

It's summer 1976 and Shay is marrying her fiancé Andrew on a remote island off the coast of Virginia. Shay has recently "escaped" from the New York City chapter of the Synanon organization, and everyone on the island for the wedding (especially Andrew's rick blue-blood East Coast family) is wondering if she's really free and clear, or if the cult will try to mess up her wedding. 

Synanon was a real cult -- started as a alternate substance abuse treatment facility called Tender Loving Care, it soon grew more nefarious -- and Beaird weaves these real historical details into her novel. Just wait until you read about The Game. 😬

Back in June, I got to talk to Beaird over Zoom for a piece for the Chicago Review of Books. The interview's out today also! In addition to being a wonderful writer, Beaird is a generous literary citizen and a fantastic interviewee. Head over to CHIRB at the button below to check out the piece! 

 

Here's an excerpt:

Rowan Beaird’s sophomore novel, Tenderness, begins with an absolute banger of a first line: “Shay was no longer in the cult, but still, it made her wedding guests nervous that she was bringing them to an island.”

So right off the bat, the wedding guests aren’t the only ones who are nervous. We readers are too! Is the bride actually free of this cult? Is the cult going to interfere with the wedding? Where is this island and how does one leave, if one must? It all adds up to a biting sense of unease that engages us immediately: A master class in how to do a first line.

Should You Read Yesteryear? Here's Why I Did

In Haruki Murakami's novel Norwegian Wood, a character explains to another why he doesn't read contemporary fiction. Instead, he only reads books published at least 30 years ago, "If you only read the books that everyone else is reading, you can only think what everyone else is thinking."

That, of course, is bullshit. 

It's a nice little bromide (BRO-mide lol) to sling around (mostly by beanie-wearing dudes 😂) to emphasize what a freethinker and discerning reader you are. But it doesn't stand up to scrutiny.

And so with that as preamble, I need to tell you that, yes, I read Yesteryear. Yesteryear IS the book everyone else is reading. A  lot of people love it. Many don't. But almost everyone has a very strong opinion.

I read it because I wanted to know what everyone else is thinking, not because I wanted to think what everyone else is thinking.

Look, we read for a lot of reasons. To be entertained, mainly. But also, to learn. To distract ourselves from the persisting horrors. Etc.

At least once (and often more) a shift at the bookstore this spring and summer, someone has come in asking for Yesteryear. They also often ask if I've read it. So, another reason to read is simply for cultural literacy. I wanted to part of the conversation. I wanted a right to an opinion.

My opinion: The novel's based on an interesting premise, but it is not a great novel. Deeply cynical and more than a little sad, it's purposefully designed to provoke. And I almost never like novels like that. 

But because I didn't like it, discussing (being part of the conversation!) with readers who did has been really fun. (It's also been fun to commiserate with other readers who didn't like it.😎)

Here's one example of a conversation: At the Chicago Review of Books, my friend and colleague Sara Cutaia and I discussed the novel in the second installment of Critics in Conversation. Sara is a sharp reader and fantastic writer, and we managed to disagree with civility. Check out the conversation here:

Whether you loved or hated Yesteryear, you'd have to agree, it's gotten people talking. And people talking about books is almost never a bad thing. As long as they can think about them in their own ways.