David Lynn, Editor
To my mind, Michael Chabon has for years purveyed tales full of wit and astonishment. Yet they have ultimately seemed gossamer, lacking a satisfying or illuminating substance. His latest, however, Moonglow, is a magnificent blend of memoir and fiction about his grandfather. I came away feeling nourished as well as deeply moved.
Mothering Sunday by Graham Swift. Swift made his international reputation early on with Waterland and followed that dazzling performance with other notable fictions, including Last Orders. And yet it seems he’s rarely mentioned in the same breath as other contemporary British or Irish writers of the first rank such as Ian McEwan or Zadie Smith or Colm Tóibín. That should change with Mothering Sunday, a brief, crystalline, potent tour de force. Here is a master of the form playing a contemporary riff on Mrs. Dalloway. I loved it.
David Baker, Poetry Editor
Out of the many new volumes of poetry released this spring, I’ve been especially engaged by Camille Dungy’s Trophic Cascade, David St. John’s The Last Troubadour: New and Selected Poems, Martha Rhodes’s The Thin Wall, and Jorie Graham’s Fast. Graham’s book shows her restless stylistic search—long lines, short lines, right-side justifications, double-spacings, arrows, indentations—alongside her powerful voicings and idiom, brilliance mixed with a radical interiority. The poems pursue glimpses of afterlives, cryogenics, a “cyber life,” as well as richnesses of this life and its passing.
For prose, I have only just discovered the novels of the Japanese writer Junichiro Tanizaki. OK, I’m late to the party but a real fan. Tanizaki was roughly contemporaneous with Hemingway, living from 1886 to 1965. New Directions has released a new edition of his short but remarkable novel, Devils in Daylight—part murder mystery, part literary and filmic palimpsest.
Caitlin Horrocks, Fiction Editor
Geeta Kothari, Nonfiction Editor
Part travelogue, part meditation, Abeer Hoque’s exploration of home and identity, Olive Witch, is beautifully written. It covers Hoque’s childhood in Nigeria and her adolescence in Pennsylvania and ends with the adult Hoque in Bangladesh, the place her parents call home but where she’s never lived. Hoque, a talented photographer, has a terrific sense of place and pacing. She is candid about her struggle to fit in and a stint in a psychiatric ward, yet never gives in to sentimentality or self-pity.
Writers who dream of perfect solitude will appreciate the hilarious and insightful Bleaker House: Chasing My Novel to the End of the World by Nell Stevens. With a copy of Bleak House for inspiration, Stevens spends several weeks in the Falkland Islands researching and writing a novel. Wintertime on Bleaker Island is cold, gray and lonely, and Stevens struggles with hunger and boredom. The book includes excerpts from her novel, illustrating the lessons Stevens learns about herself as a writer.
Kirsten Reach, Associate Editor
Keep an eye on Katie Kitamura’s A Separation around award season. For a novel about displacement, it is surprisingly well-grounded in its setting: a Greek peninsula recently ransacked by fire. Kitamura writes brilliantly about complicated love and searching for someone you’re not sure you want to find.
The titles I’ve been foisting on friends lately are Woman No. 17 by Edan Lepucki and Marlena by Julie Buntin. Both center on relationships between strong, fascinating women—one between a mother and a live-in nanny, and the other a friendship between two teenage girls (one ends up dead). Look for a new essay by Edan Lepucki in our pages early next year.
What was the most memorable summer of your teenage years? Camp, right? This June will herald the debut of Nick White’s How to Survive a Summer about a gay conversion camp in Mississippi. It’s by turns funny, frightening, and heartfelt.
Katharine Weber, Editor at Large
If you are an aficionado of Jazz Age literature, the exquisite art deco designs and objects in The Jazz Age: American Style in the 1920s by Sarah D. Coffin and Stephen Harrison will be your (Donald Deskey, perhaps) cup of tea. This massive volume has been published by Yale University Press in conjunction with the exhibition in New York at the Cooper Hewitt, Smithsonian Design Museum in New York (now–August 20th) and the Cleveland Museum of Art (September 30th–January 14th). Whatever aspect of art deco delights you, it’s here: furniture, fashion, art, household objects, architecture, jewelry, graphic design. Prepare to covet and swoon.
Sebastian Barry’s Days Without End is told in the marvelously odd voice of an Irishman who flees the horrors of the Famine to find his fortune in America. Thomas McNulty is swept up in a series of adventures and misadventures during the gold rush and the American Civil War. Though at times in his life he wears women’s dresses, Thomas is not exactly a “prairie fairy.” It’s complicated. Barry’s novel, as much for its language as for its exploration of gender fluidity and definitions of family, is a spectacular read.
Katherine Hedeen, Translations Editor
Shelly Taylor and Abraham Smith, eds. Hick Poetics: An Anthology of Contemporary Rural American Poetry. Here are two collections that break down the monolithic idea of “Contemporary American Poetry.” Hick Poetics questions the where of it and roars: some of the US’s best writing (forty poets here) happens at the margins, in the peripheries within the metropolis. The literary magazine Sulfur (1981-2000) grabbed hold of the margins as true poetic center. The anthology collects experimentation, innovation, translation from there and here, culled from forty-six issues and over 11,000 pages. If your vision “lies within the wilds,” these anthologies are for you.
Elizabeth Lowe, Translations Editor
Long considered one of the most important works of twentieth-century Brazilian literature, Chronicle of the Murdered House by Lúcio Cardoso is finally available in English.
Set in the southeastern state of Minas Gerais, the novel relates the dissolution of a once proud patriarchal family that blames its ruin on the youngest son Valdo’s marriage to Nina—a vibrant, unpredictable, and incendiary young woman whose very existence seems to depend on the destruction of the household. This family’s downfall, peppered by stories of decadence, adultery, incest, and madness, is related through a variety of narrative devices, including letters, diaries, memoirs, statements, confessions, and accounts penned by the various characters.
The Lamentations of Zeno by Ilinja Trojanow is an extraordinary evocation of the fragile and majestic wonders to be found at a far corner of the globe, written by a novelist who is a renowned travel writer. It is a portrait of a man in extremis, a haunting and at times irreverent tale that approaches the greatest challenge of our age, perhaps of our entire history as a species, from an impassioned human angle.
Jaquira Díaz, Kenyon Review Fellow
Margaree Little, Kenyon Review Fellow
Corey Van Landingham, Book Review Editor
I have a hard time deciding on what books of poetry to bring along with me for summer travel—too slim and they go by too quickly. A collected can take up too much space. Albert Goldbarth’s books seem just the right length—long, winding poems showing off a fantastic, generous intellect and wit. Selfish, his most recent collection, will last a trip and beyond.
A more recent book of poems I would recommend is Nathan McClain’s Scale. Here is a skilled elegist who also displays a refreshing sense of wonder. The many questions in these pages—“Because who hasn’t done that— // loved something so intently even after everything / has gone?”—will stay with you.
Finally, I keep returning, this fraught year, to The Letters of Robert Duncan and Denise Levertov. Their discussions and arguments about what poetry can, and should, do reinforce the art’s vitality and necessity.
Abigail Wadsworth Serfass, Managing Editor
Anna Duke Reach, Director of Programs
Evicted: Poverty and Profit in the American City by Matthew Desmond. Home seems central to the American dream, but Desmond’s research proves that evictions have become common for families living on the edge. He follows eight Milwaukee families living on the edge, spending most of their income on rent yet still falling behind. This book reveals the human cost of inequality in our nation’s housing system.
The Story of My Teeth by Valeria Luiselli. This literary puzzle is told by a charming, unreliable narrator named Highway who invents stories about his teeth to auction them off. While Highway is a successful auctioneer due to his name-dropping hyperbole, his disaffected son doesn’t fall for his stories and leaves his father in more pain than any dentist could create. Weird, scary clowns suddenly appear—figments of imagination? Actually, these clowns are part of an art installation by Ugo Rondinone at a gallery connected to the Jumex juice factory in Mexico. Photographs at the end of the book suggest the craziest parts of the story are real, and the book is even dedicated to the factory workers at Jumex juice. Fake news has never been more fun!
David Bergman, Advisory Board
Roger Rosenblatt, Advisory Board
Two new books of poems and an older one: The first is Little Kisses by Lloyd Schwartz, who showed in an earlier collection, Goodnight, Gracie what happens when a mind steeped in the past listens to the hidden voices of pop culture. In this new work, he looks inward. Yet he’s always funny and original. Of “The Conductor” he says, “He threw himself into the music—and very nearly into / the first violin section.” A major poet with a gentle, comic soul.
Standing Water by Eleanor Chai is as beautiful for its silences as for its words. One may “lose by accumulation,” she says. Yet she gains through loss and absence. She deliberately conceals herself in her own poems, which seems to invite the reader to pry. Something is ghostly about this book (Chai’s first)—as disturbing and troubled as standing water.
Fire to Fire, Mark Doty’s ever-stunning collection of ten years ago, gives us the poet of observable things as well as the poet of invisibilities—and the poet of our heartbreak (“Peter died in a paper tiara / cut from a book of princess paper dolls; he loved royalty . . . ”). There are few poets who can do everything. Doty is one.
Nancy Zafris, Advisory Board
A legion of fans rejoiced when Geeta Kothari published her first collection of short stories, I Brake For Moose. A beloved teacher, writer, and editor, Geeta is known for her broad vision and insightful distillation of the chaos such a broad vision begets—perfect for the short story! Kothari proves her mastery of the form in this collection of narratives that are stunning in their reach. Such a vast array of characters in an equally vast array of locations makes the collection almost seem to be an anthology by different writers, so unique is each story, but the writer Jane McCafferty, in her enthusiastic review of I Brake For Moose, astutely noted that the stories can be seen as journeys into homesickness. This explains the way the stories linger and haunt, why small moments in the book remain so unforgettable. Geeta Kothari is the nonfiction editor of the Kenyon Review where she has helped many writers find their form, and she teaches at the Kenyon Review adult summer workshops, where several of these stories found their beginnings.
Marcia Butler’s first book, The Skin Above My Knee, is a searing memoir that also acts as a primer for understanding music at its deepest level. An oboe prodigy, Butler details a life given up to the dedication her art demands while forces around her plunge her into a despairing night. Butler renders the abuse she suffered with an amazing balancing act: she is neither indulgent in details nor coy with a lack of them. The result for the reader is an almost addictive need to hear what this wise woman has to say next. When it comes to music, she takes the reader to another level. The New York Times gushed at Butler’s ability to illuminate this mysterious, complex world where so many others have failed since “writing about music is like dancing about architecture.” Rare is the reader who won’t rush to YouTube to listen to an aria or concerto Butler describes with such luminous intelligence and passion. Marcia Butler attended the 2016 Kenyon Review summer workshop as a participant and will be a guest speaker this year.
Maggie Smith, Consulting Editor
Joanna Klink, Writers Workshop Instructor
I’ve just finished Ties (Lacci) by Domenico Starnone, translated by Jhumpa Lahiri. I loved this short novel—the way it plunges into each family member’s point of view and lets you stay long enough to understand their choices, then mercilessly pursues the consequences of those choices. It is distinctly heart-wrenching and sinister.
And I’ve been reading Khaty Xiong’s Poor Anima, feeling the reach of her voice, its clarity and commanding intensity. Xiong is a second-generation Hmong American poet who takes on exodus, war, and dislocation in her poems, holding close to visionary energies.
I’ve started, at my physicist-father’s suggestion, The Big Picture: On the Origins of Life, Meaning, and the Universe Itself by Sean Carroll, a theoretical physicist at Caltech. I’m coming to these chapters with no real understanding of cosmology and modern physics, and so far the book is deeply generous to the lay reader.
E.J. Levy, Writers Workshop Instructor
Dinty W. Moore, Writers Workshop Instructor
Carl Phillips, Writers Workshop Instructor
Signs Preceding the End of the World, Yuri Herrera (Lisa Dillman, tr.). I’ve only just discovered Herrera’s work. This very short novel follows the travels of Makina, who needs to cross the border from Mexico into the US to get a message to her brother, who seems to have disappeared. By the end, though, the book is more of a kaleidoscopic look at identity, who determines it, and what choices we ourselves have in shaping it. At what point do we betray ourselves, necessarily? And at what cost? To whom? The book already seems to me a timeless one, but it is also, of course, especially timely.
The Quiet, Anne-Marie Turza. One way to describe this at-every-turn startling book of poems might be this stanza, from a poem called “Households”:
The job of a house is to have a roof.
And the job of a life? It might be anything,
made of wood or drift or warning.
Rather than what the job of a life might be, we get what it might be made of. And the answers move from the noun we’d expect after a preposition (wood) to the more slippery drift, which could be noun or verb, to warning, a noun sprung from a verb. The grammatical instability enacts the book’s instability as a whole, short poems that work as meaningfully cracked fables, the cracks like omens, damage as a way of reckoning our lives and maybe how to save them.
Death Comes for the Archbishop, Willa Cather. This is a book I reread every few years, always in summer, for some reason. It’s not the story I return for, since there’s barely a story—ostensibly, a version of how the French Catholics influenced the American Southwest in the eighteenth century: hardly thrilling subject matter! But as told through the story of two pioneering young priests, almost entirely in third person, very little dialogue, only loosely episodic, the book becomes an example of the novel as patient meditation on nothing less than intimacy itself: intimacy of and with the landscape, intimacy between ourselves and others, between strangers and their differing ways of seeing. And ultimately, the book questions what it means to be intimate with the self—the need for and elusiveness of self-knowledge, and the constantly shifting relationship between intimacy, isolation, loneliness, and aloneness, all in the context of the many communions that add up to a life.
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