Review: Preparation for the Next Life by Atticus Lish (2014)

Zou Lei, a pilgrim from the Uighur people of Northwestern China, finds her way to Flushing, Queens in search of a better life. She has no papers, no personal connections in the U.S., and a poor grasp of English, but her military spirit sets her apart in her own mind from the many immigrants who run afoul of law enforcement or fall prey to the many injurious vices that this bright land offers. By chance, she encounters a recently discharged veteran named Skinner, and the two strike up a hesitant romance. His physical toughness appeals to her, but she gradually discovers that his mind did not return home intact. Together, the two navigate the most desperate kind of love: one that is not allowed to dream of a bright future, one that is amazed to wake up in the morning having survived another day.

Tonally and stylistically, this novel echoes authors like J. D. Salinger and William Vollman in its attention to grubby details and its meandering through the darker corners of the human psyche and experience. As though even the pages are cheap and ill-used, we rarely get a clear, measured description of any scene; characters are introduced as "he" or "she" rather than their names, and there are no quotation marks to distinguish dialogue from narration. Crucial actions are glossed over, leaving the reader to piece them together post mortem. It is as if Zou Lei's language barrier and Skinner's fractured sanity extend to us as well, and the feeling is accordingly depressing.

This depression, which permeates the whole novel, is punctuated alternately by beauty and horror on the occasions that Lish's descriptions are clear, focused, and sequential. The first of three critical such sequences is a workout routine the couple share:

The last exercise they did was flutter kicks. He and Zou Lei lay down on the floor and moved their legs like goose stepping soldiers. They got to fifty and her feet fell on the ground. One hundred, he said. No, she said. But she pulled her feet up again. They continued kicking and counting together, chanting the way everyone does in group calisthenics. At one hundred, both of their sets of feet fell on the ground. She groaned and held her stomach. When they stood, they left behind sweat patterns in the shapes of themselves. She stared down at their spirit-patterns on the ground. The intensity of the exercise made her think strange things. (pp. 217)

In a world where legal, mental, and communicative agency is withheld from them by ideologies too systematic to be tangible, the couple is joined by their common physicality. Another passage illustrates the immaterial barriers that nevertheless keep Zou Lei from attaining legitimacy, and therefore security (no quotation marks in text):

How did you come here? You...

Snuck in.

Snuck in from Mexico? In a truck?

When they arrested you and let you go, they would have given you a piece of paper. Do you have it?

I think so.

Let me see it.

No, on my body I don't have it. I have it at home.

Bring it next time, because that will make a difference when filing a petition. You want to file a petition?

Okay. Yes. I think, whatever is possible. I don't know what is possible right now. I want to stay in this country if it's possible. An American says he can marry me. That's the real thing I want to know. Can I get married with him even if I have no identity? ...

As she was leaving, the lawyer came out and spoke to her while he put another folder in the wire basket. I overheard you. If you're getting married, it better be a real marriage or you'll be in big trouble. That I'll tell you for free. Free advice.

She didn't understand what he meant. What do you mean? Maybe we're ordinary people, but the feeling between us is real. (pp. 292, 294)

The question of reality in their relationship takes a sharp turn when, in one of their darkest fights, Zou Lei runs away and Skinner gives chase. This exhilarating sequence both highlights the physical impulses to which the main characters' choices are limited and packs all the bleak material structures into one short space. A later, more drawn-out sequence features Zou Lei alone and without any of the belongings (money, keys, or phone) to plug her into the urban environment. She simply walks on as a part of the ever-changing multitude of the city. Both these dynamic passages are concluded only when the characters meet their physical limits; I will quote neither because of their length and the fact that they give away details of later events in the plot. Yet Lish's prose is at its strongest here, and in fact either passage could be an excellent standalone vignette. Ultimately, although the story has weight, the descriptive lens through which we are shown it is the major strength of the book.

My final praise is that although Preparation for the Next Life undoubtedly swims in the most politically-charged of waters, it in itself is not a political book. Although this single text leaves little doubt of Lish's perspective of certain American policies, it stays true to form as a novel attempting to present a realistic fiction. The protagonists are deeply flawed themselves, and the antagonistic background (for it truly does seem to be "the world" that has it in for Zou Lei and Skinner) is not written as inexplicably evil. If anything, one message of this novel is that one evil begets another, and as long as this lineage continues, all individuals can do is survive and care for each other. If I had any criticism of this novel, I would decry its entrenched pessimism, but ideologies aside, I simply can't deny the physical straits of those who haven't been as fortunate as I have.

REVIEW: THE ADVENTURES OF AUGIE MARCH BY SAUL BELLOW (1949)

Augie March is a typical boy becoming a man in Depression-era Chicago: so typical, in fact, that he is destined to fill most of the possible types that could be found in America. A “born recruit,” he finds himself launched from career to improbable career across all of his society’s nuanced social castes. But his quest, though one of self-discovery, is not intentionally so; it is merely his easy acceptance of fantastic opportunities and the malaise that closely follows commitment that lead him under the wings of rich socialites, to crime, to fights for social justice, across deserts full of wild animals, into the arms of glamorous and particular lovers, and always away again from the same pursuits.

This novel is a fine example of classic fiction that can be just as imaginative as fantasy itself. Although all of Augie’s jobs are possible, their combination and the personalities behind them stretch the definition of possibility. Those personalities are what shape the heart of the novel as they burgeon into a Dickensian cast which is colorful enough not to lose any of its members to repetition or the reader’s boredom. Though the novel is about Augie, many major characters experience dynamic journeys as well, which weave in and out of the main narrative. The other, more static characters, who serve as mileposts on Augie’s journey, are no less memorable.

Taken together, the varied characters and experiences combine to weave a unified tapestry of Chicago in the 1930’s. From the fantastically rich to the unemployed poor, everyone was inventing ways to get a little more for themselves, whether that “more” was money or meaning. Augie stands out in that he isn’t seeking anything, which counters the traditionally American symbolism his climb out of poverty implies. Every time he finds himself in dire need, he can be sure to have his problems soon solved, and every time he finds his dreams have come true, events conspire to knock him off his pedestal again. Chance, not hard work, wins his fights for him. If Augie is America, he is a new America that has been thrust into a complicated, cosmopolitan world before he has had a chance to mature.

I read this book at exactly the right time in my life, as random and interesting jobs have changed my direction enough times to awaken me to the vast scope of life’s possibilities. If it were merely that kind of inspiration, it would have my recommendation. But it is more: a rollicking adventure whose every stop is a story worth reading for its improbability rooted in realism and heartwarming laugh at bleakness. 

Review: The Eternal Husband by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Alexey Ivanovich Velchaninov is a man who has everything he wants: land, money, prestige, and, most importantly, a way with women. All this is thrown in jeopardy when he becomes shadowed by a mysterious man who eventually reveals himself as Pavel Pavlovich Trusotsky, a man whose house Velchaninov used to visit frequently in another city. With a good deal of his land and money at stake in a lawsuit, Velchaninov faces added psychological turmoil at the memory of an affair he had with Pavel Pavlovich’s late wife. He begins to wonder anxiously whether his new “friend” is aware of the affair and whether he has sought him out to execute revenge. In the middle of this silent feud is Pavel Pavlovich’s young daughter Liza, a tormented girl whom Velchaninov begins to treat like his own daughter, and after all, she might well be.

After being underwhelmed by The Double and Notes From theUnderground, I was delighted to rediscover what I love about Dostoyevsky in this little novella. It has all the psychological roller coaster of his other works, but loses no coherence even when Velchaninov is at his least sane. Its ethical focus is what ties it together; Velchaninov, though justly persecuted by a man he has wronged, has matured since his affair and become a kinder man than Pavel Pavlovich. His efforts to give Pavel Pavlovich the benefit of doubt are an even greater struggle than his fear of retribution. In many ways, the suspense of this story has less to do with fear and more to do with redemption, which, as always, is a great theme of Dostoyevsky.

Redemption is presented even to the readers who do not identify with Velchaninov as a great, sucessful man; Pavel Pavlovich, too, has many opportunities to regain his honor without harming his old friend. His portrayal as a far less likable character invites us to assume the worst of him, but gradually there emerges the possibility of a second life for this man who lost everything at once. What looms in the background is the great seed of human vice: that wrong will never stop growing, here if Velchaninov’s wrong toward Pavel Pavlovich will cause the latter to destroy himself in wronging the former. We can learn from this most effectively on a microcosmic scale, by examining where we “pay forward” grievances and where we allow them to die.

I recommend this novel to anybody looking for an entrance to this era of Russian literature. While not as grand or genius as Dostoyevsky’s more famous books, it is more accessible and contains most of his essential themes. The characters are masterfully woven and relatable, complete with hopes and pains we all feel at some point.

Where the Sun Sails and the Moon Walks: About Tolkien's Eagles

There comes a time in the life of every reader when he's re-reading his favorite book for the twenty-seventh time and he comes across a plot hole. This is the final test of a book: whether it can withstand the self-doubt of a reader's dedication. It forces you to be introspective, to decide whether you can still see yourself in the story you love, or loved.

A famous hole has been pointed out in Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings since almost immediately after its publication. Don't worry: I won't spoil the ending here. The argument concerns the giant eagles who live upon the peaks of Middle Earth. They're smart, they can talk, and they sometimes help the protagonists out of sticky situations by carrying them away on their backs.

The plot of The Lord of the Rings is this, in oversimplified terms: Frodo, our protagonist, has possession of the Ring of Power, the greatest weapon of the tyrant Sauron. Sauron is ready to take over the world unless Frodo destroys the Ring, which can only be unmade where it was forged: in Mount Doom, a volcano in the heart of Sauron's territory. So Frodo and eight companions must travel by foot to Mount Doom, while every step brings them closer to danger and every day sees more people killed by Sauron and more allies become his devoted slaves.

The million dollar question is this: why did the journey have to be on foot? Gandalf, the wizard even non-Tolkien fans know and love, is a friend to the Eagles, and even calls them to rescue him at one point. Couldn't he ask the Eagles to fly them to Mount Doom? Shouldn't the Eagles want to help out, since Elrond and Gandalf make it clear that Sauron is trying to conquer absolutely everybody, which includes the Eagles on their lofty peaks?

I wouldn't give this criticism time and energy if it weren't a reasonable one. Now, perhaps you've read or heard my theories about the division between high fantasy and sword and sorcery. Read carefully: this question encompasses the entire divide between the two, as well as many other ideologies. I'll have to divide my reply into two parts: what the question misunderstands about Middle Earth, and what the question misunderstands about the Earth we all inhabit.

There are several reasons for the Eagles to withhold their services. The first and grittiest is that it's not their job. Elrond makes sure to say that only those who freely decide to take the quest must accompany Frodo, and the Eagles don't show up. I don't think that this is because, in Dungeons and Dragons mentality, Gandalf forgot they were in his inventory. Rather, the Eagles prove themselves quite capable of knowing what's going on and responding to it when they choose to do so.

Equally importantly, we're specifically kept from seeing exactly what Sauron can do on his own. My generation's audience, which has forgotten that a hidden monster in a book is scarier than the gory reveal provided in IMAX special effects, is also prone to forget that a character may have been able to do more things than they showed in the movie. Sauron's un-Ringed form may look like just a big, red eye, but Tolkien and even Jackson indirectly let you know that he's still the most fearsome person in Middle Earth. It's more impressive, not to mention less anal-retentive, not to tell you exactly how. As far as the Eagles are concerned, those key critics fail to notice that the Eagles only enter Mordor airspace after the Dark Tower has fallen (well, I guess there have to be some spoilers). To do so beforehand could have meant anything, because unlike the modern know-it-all, the Eagles weren't going to underestimate the man whom everyone fears will conquer the world. Flying over his wall would have been the quickest way to tip him off, especially since, because he is an eye rather than anything else, the only thing we have to know about Sauron is his ability to see threats coming. And since, if he had gotten his Ring back, he would have been unstoppable, our favorite Dark Lord could have considered this surprise air mail.

No, careful reading of the book tells us that the quest had to be in secret, carried out by the lowliest people in the most unlikely way, in order to avoid Sauron's all-seeing Eye. But even this wasn't the issue Tolkien took with the question of flying the Eagles.*

Tolkien called the Eagles a 'dangerous machine,' and why not? It would have been so easy to end his story about seven hundred pages earlier by flying the Ring to Mount Doom, and the book would not have been worth reading. "'Nine Walkers' and they immediately go up into the air!" he says to this suggestion. To him, the essence of the story was not the fact that good wins in the end, but the struggle that good must undertake to get there. Hence he needs "a long and arduous journey, in secrecy, on foot, with the three ominous mountains getting nearer." It is, quite literally, a journey toward the thing most feared, requiring the utmost courage because of its slow, dangerous way. If the matter of the story lay exclusively in its resolution, then the action would do nothing but appeal to voyeuristic thrill-seekers and narcissists. Instead, it speaks to people interested in actual courage to see the Ring in the hands of Frodo, a small, peaceful person who has no place in war.

I must stress again that the whole difference between high fantasy and cheap action lies in this question, and that it's a distinction that plays into every day of your life. You don't have to change what you read. Just understand that the world isn't quantified into what we can see; money, science, power, and all other numbers don't dictate another person's usefulness to you. Without these barriers you may discover what ominous mountains are on your horizon, and whether you, too would fly toward them without the slightest idea what awaits you there.

'I will take the Ring,' he said, 'though I do not know the way.'

Elrond raised his eyes and looked at him, and Frodo felt his heart pierced by the sudden keenness of the glance. 'If I understand aright all that I have heard,' he said, 'I think that this task is appointed for you, Frodo; and that if you do not find a way, no one will... Who of all the Wise could have foreseen it? Or, if they are wise, why should they expect to know it, until the hour has struck? 

-The Fellowship of the Ring

*Quotes here are taken from #210 of the collection of Tolkien's letters.

Long Story Short

[Hi everybody! I've been lost in the unfamiliar territory of JOBS, so I haven't updated in a while. Sorry! I'll be back on track soon. Here's a short story I wrote roughly a year ago. Enjoy!] 

           Not much inspires quite the same flavor of crystalline terror as watching a dazzling winter sunset and knowing there’s no going back inside tonight. Bittersweet, it snags onto your tongue like an icicle and drags it down, down over the horizon until your brain is pulled straight out through your mouth and everything dissolves into blackness.

            My eyes are already stuck in that direction, so I look on. Our Sun, Helios, the ultimate provider of warmth, light, and life (until Prometheus, the great-granddaddy of all us couch potatoes, taught his buddies how to drag it inside, away from God) is throwing a nuclear fit as big as a million Earths and as small as two atoms of hydrogen. From my refracted perspective within the troposphere, all I can see is a dazzling display of photons that leap down from heaven and splatter themselves across the whole sky, catching cotton cloudy canvases with tufts of saffron, nacarat, rose-pink and indigo. Normally I’m a sentimental guy, but this evening I can’t forget that when the light show ends, my worldly existence is soon to follow.

            The display is made many times more breathtaking by the billions of ice crystals that reflect colors back and forth at each other like a light-speed game of Pong. High above, stars begin to stare down with a cold constancy normally found in the eyes of job interviewers. I shift my aching, frostbitten feet slightly, careful not to disturb the gentle equilibrium my floe keeps above the lapping waves. I’m the only dull-colored object in sight. As if the scenario weren’t humiliating enough, now I feel like a blot on a glittering, pristine, snowball Earth.

            As ridiculous situations go, I think, tugging the legs of my jeans to stop the snow from soaking them, This one should win an award. I’ll remember it for the rest of my life… that is, for the next few hours.

            The earlier dawn broke upon a promising scene; the weather had dropped down to thirty degrees Fahrenheit again, and a few tantalizing wisps traced the edge of the sky. I woke and wistfully gazed out at them, now and again looking back at the brown grass all around and imagining it painted white. A walk was the order of the afternoon.

            I don’t know what made me wear jeans instead of shorts. I rarely do. They hardly heat me; the chilly denim rubbing against my skin often counteracts the warmth trapped by the twin shag carpets of hair I cultivate on my legs. For me, long pants serve only a social function. In New York, if not also other parts of the world, the knees are considered among the private parts when the temperature drops below fifty-five. Thus, one can be fully clothed and still experience the accusation, “Why aren’t you wearing pants?” It takes some accustoming, and I’m a slow learner.

            Normally I disregard all of it. Even without an elevated pulse, my legs are usually cozy until the temperature falls into the single digits or below. Besides, baggy shorts are nearly a universal fit. Blue jeans, the everyman’s standard pick, are too restrictive in all the wrong places. Even the ones I’ve had measured for me are short if they’re narrow enough and wide if they’re long enough. I don’t blame the clothing industry or anyone else for my peculiar proportions. But until today, I’d never been thankful for canvas on my shins.

            The freeze arrived suddenly, softly, like a glacier sped up to take moments instead of centuries. The gulls noticed it first. One by one, they stilled their squawking and turned northward, keen eyes inspecting the Long Island Sound as if they had never seen it before. Then, not in fear, but as if all at once notified of a great inconvenience, they surged into the air and began an unplanned, southbound migration. I watched in detached awe from the trailhead high above the Kings Park Bluff. It was like sitting outside and observing a fire drill. Neither of the two old men down by the parking lot looked up from his cigarette, but the orange stray cat by the dock followed the flock with wide, impassive eyes. Then she turned and slipped up the road.

            Cell phone service is poor in the park, especially as I made my way down to the beach. My phone had been off for most of the walk. It rested comfortably in my back pocket, leaving room in the front for only the most essential knickknacks: wallet and keys. Blue jeans are meant to be sleek and subtle, to blend in. The instruction manual does not recommend the cramming of curios. Standing only feet from the lapping, briny shoreline, I buried my hands in the sweatshirt pockets, which are reserved exclusively for my numb hands. Then it happened.

            It took a moment before I realized that feeling had fled not only from my fingers, but also from the rest of my body. Slowly I gazed around, from the sand to the drowsy waves to glittering Connecticut far across the Sound. Although nothing was happening, each moment took longer than the last, draining me of motivation even to question what was occurring. The swishing whispers of the waves began to fade as if receding into the distance. It was as if my brain and my surroundings are decelerating, preparing to shut down. I tried to sigh but was unable. I tried again. I was stuck. Nothing hurt. Nothing moved. It was still for the longest moment and eon of my life. Everything melted into white light.

            I often wonder about Heaven, on the off chance that I earn a posthumous ticket of absolution. Doubtless the temperature is perfect for everybody, but I hope they don’t mind my wearing shorts anyway. I’ll wear them beneath my robes if I must. After all, the pockets would be bottomless: perfect for packing my spare wings for that overnight trip to the Aurora Borealis.

            I’ll know I’m in Hell if after I die, I find myself in a 100000 ˚C room, wearing itchy jeans I can’t remove.

            But neither of these seemed to be taking place today. Gradually I became conscious of a searing pain in my head, as though a hibachi chef had sliced it into bits waiting to fall apart. This agony extended down to my hands and navel, but everything below my waist had become tingly and warm. Stale carbon dioxide steamed in my burning lungs. Even as I stood suffocating the scream, the tingling warmth spread, colonizing my organs one by one. It was the scorching heat and eventual relief of stepping inside from a blizzard.

            Ahead was nothing but an eternal landscape of freezing fog, yet even as I strained to blink, the crystals coating my eyes melted into tears which flowed forth to reveal the clear, sparkling world.

            No sooner had I the chance to take in the drastic changes in my environment than I buckled forward to an earsplitting crack! Ice water flowed into my shoes, sending an electric wave of panic from my ankles up to my screaming brain. I scrambled forward onto the upheaved sheet of ice, which flattened as I lay panting, inhaling thanks for my narrow escape and exhaling befuddled ruminations of what the hell was going on. The surface was soft and crunchy. I could feel sweat rising in wisps my neck.

            Only after a moment did the full implication of my scenario occur to me. It was probably the gentle rocking that clued me in. I looked over my shoulder and past my elbow to observe the shore granting me a gradual adieu as I bobbed out to Sound.

            The floe drifts slowly; by now, after a few hours (judging from the sun) I think I’m only a mile or so from the shore and many more east of Kings Park. Or I could be somewhere completely different. At least I know it’s sunset. Wait: that’s no more. In my rueful reminiscence, I forgot to stick my tongue to the sun again, to taste and try to anchor it above the horizon with my soggy feet stuck to the ice. If there’s only one thing that breaks down whatever it is that ordinarily shields me from the cold, it’s being wet.

            Now, with only starlight and the last receding pink glow over the remote spires of New York City to illuminate my thoughts, I realize that the jeans must have saved me. Irony, my on-again, off-again inamorata, must have wrapped them carefully around my calves in anticipation of this catastrophe. If I escape this alive, if anyone else has weathered the freeze that seems to stretch to each horizon, I’ll never attempt to deflect their denim-coated criticism of my attire again. The world sure was right about the wisdom inherent in an extra eighteen inches of fabric.

            A pinpoint of light catches my eye. Where was it? What was it?

            There it is again! There’s a boat, and it’s approaching! It cuts through the shadowy surf like an angel of mercy riding a silver bullet. I pause to imagine the Grim Reaper at the helm, ready to escort me to my awaited doom. So that’s why the United States employs a Coast Guard!

            Without warning the floe is violently jarred and jerked down in the back. Dumb reactions save me and I seize the edge of the ice to prevent myself from sliding backward to my doom. A frenzied snuffling fills the air now below me, and I dangle by my fingertips as the heavy ice sheet is tilted almost vertically.

            “Damn it!” I yell aloud in panic. “A polar bear?! It’s not really that cold!”

            The boat’s motor is audible now, and its searchlight is trained on the rocking shard of my crisis like an angler closing in on its prey, but will it reach me in time? And was there room for a gun in the captain’s pocket?

            The bear roars in similar frustration, black eyes seeming to glow red from beneath matted fur as I glance, horrified, to the yellow teeth into which I’ll plummet if my fingers relax a degree or two. It belches ravenous puffs of steam up to my face, but I can’t hold my nose. Under the beast’s weight, the ice begins to sink, and it swings a paw at my leg.

            I gasp, anticipating a grisly injury.

            But the deadly nails only hook into my jeans and tear them off at the knee. I hoist the leg up, but another swipe takes the calf off the other leg of the garment.

            In one of those moments in which I’m too blinded by fear to ascertain quite what happens, the ice flips, and I wind up on top of it. Silver wind rips at my now-exposed calves and my already-exposed face. The bear grumbles below the surface, swimming apart for another strike. But the search boat has rumbled up to my little disc of ice, drowning my senses in wild light that reveal me, coated in frozen sweat, half my jeans torn from me.

            The man below the searchlight can only stand there dumbly, a ready floatation device forgotten in his gloved hands. “What the hell, kid? What are you doing out here in shorts?”