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There are a few good books I’d happily reread until the spine splits. Autobiography of Red, by Anne Carson, is one: I can flip to any page and immediately sink back into the odd, lush world of her red-faced monster, Geryon. The first time I read it, I was gobsmacked.
In Hernan Diaz’s short story “The Generation,” published last fall in The Atlantic, a crew of semi-amnesiac humans are on a years-long journey to another planet. They are the residue of Earth, which has become a relic in every sense of the word: fragile, faded, mythical. In the cramped space shuttle, the narrator fantasizes about mundane wonders such as dirt, fire, birds, fish, and fresh air.
In Corinne Hoex’s Gentlemen Callers, sex is a dream. The book’s protagonist floats between abstract, ethereal trysts. When she visits a gas-station attendant in her sleep, she is a soapy sponge in his hands. Caressed by a pet groomer, she purrs; she’s his cat. Her liaisons are absurd and illicit—yet, crucially, never dangerous. Gentlemen Callers is not a classic romance novel or a straightforward bodice ripper, Zoë Hu points out.
In Corinne Hoex’s Gentlemen Callers, sex is a dream. The book’s protagonist floats between abstract, ethereal trysts. When she visits a gas-station attendant in her sleep, she is a soapy sponge in his hands. Caressed by a pet groomer, she purrs; she’s his cat. Her liaisons are absurd and illicit—yet, crucially, never dangerous. Gentlemen Callers is not a classic romance novel or a straightforward bodice ripper, Zoë Hu points out.
Not very long ago, eagles were rats in America’s public imagination. Despite the bald eagle’s position as a national symbol, the actual bird was widely despised until about the mid-20th century. Before that point, many people treated them like rodents and killed them without discretion—while also unselfconsciously admiring the bird’s likeness on government seals, coins, and memorabilia. In The Bald Eagle, Jack E.
Anyone can be white. So proclaims a drawling, drunk white man to his Black fishing buddy in the opening scene of Atlanta’s long-awaited third season. They sit in a small skiff floating on a lake at night. The vibes are eerie. The pair, dressed almost identically, are unfamiliar to viewers and are left unnamed. The show’s central cast, led by the cash-strapped and fumbling Earn (played by creator Donald Glover), is nowhere in sight.
In 1999, Gayl Jones published a book that reads the way jazz sounds. Her fourth novel, Mosquito, is an ambitious, experimental riff that blends historical and philosophical beats and finds connections between U.S.-Mexico border tensions and the Underground Railroad. Mosquito displayed the wide-ranging talents of a writer heralded by Toni Morrison and fresh off a National Book Award nomination. It was also the last novel Jones would publish for more than two decades.