THE TEARS AND PRAYERS OF FOOLS, Russian translation of Pale-of-Settlement historical novel

THE TEARS AND PRAYERS OF FOOLS
GRIGORY KANOVICH (tr. Mary Ann Szporluk)
Syracuse University Press (non-affiliate Bookshop.org link)
$39.95 all editions, available now

40% off purchases of translations direct from the publisher until 15 September 2025

Rating: 4* of five

The Publisher Says: This extraordinary novel is part of Grigory Kanovich’s “Litvak saga,” his tribute to Jewish life before the Holocaust. Set in a small Lithuanian town in the late nineteenth century, the story begins with the arrival of a stranger who sets everyone on edge and seems to know their secrets. Is he a messenger from God, a long-lost son, a saint, or a madman?


As the stranger in the velvet yarmulke makes his rounds, we meet an unforgettable cast of characters—Rabbi Uri, the aged rabbi; Itsik Magid, the strapping young woodcutter; Golda, the resourceful widow; Markus Fradkin, the wealthy timber merchant, and his beautiful daughter Zelda; Yeshua Mandel, the tavern keeper, his troubled son Simeon, and Morta, their devoted servant girl. A work of realism as well as a parable, Kanovich’s novel illuminates the most intimate fears, dreams, and longings of the shtetl’s inhabitants.

I RECEIVED A DRC FROM THE PUBLISHER VIA EDELWEISS+. THANK YOU.

My Review: I feel utterly inadequate to the task of reviewing this book, after reading this on Edelweiss+: "‘Shtetl noir’ meets Hasidic legend in this deeply philosophical work. In a word, this novel is the work of an exceptional writer with a unique voice.—Barbara Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, Professor Emerita, New York University". That is it, she's said it all, go get you one.

"Shtetl noir" is a term I've never heard before, but the instant I read it crystallized the affect of this story. I'm not all the way sure about the realism angle the publisher trumpets in the synopsis because I was never there in 1880s Imperial Russia, and after reading the story do not feel as though I've been there. It's the usual problem with historical fiction. It's enough removed from my life that I'm not adept at putting myself into the place; 1880s Pale-of-Settlement Russian Empire life is not in my 1960s-Sunbelt American worldview.

I'm astonished that the author lived to know, though I don't think see, this favorite of his ten novels appear at long last in English. He died at 93 in 2023, a life lived during the waning days of the Yiddish culture of Eastern European Jewry, through to Soviet times before he emigrated to Israel.

This novel feels much like I'd expect it to, knowing all that. There are bits and snatches of memory, scenes I was sure were utterly clear before his eyes as he wrote them. Maybe it's telling, though I can't know on whom, that the most clearly limned scenes and characters in my reading were Simeon Mandel the...troubled...son of the innkeeper and that man himself.

I loved the way I felt included in the read as we moved from scene to scene and place to place. In part that's because the book has a map in the front. I so appreciate that when the story takes place in several locations. I'm also grateful for the glossary (and please note the transliterations are not the usual ones, but reflect Lithuanian pronunciation) and dramatis personae, though that last is in the back of the book which strikes me as odd.

The author's grandson made art for the chapter opens that I found pitch-perfect. The images are human and yet caught in moments of almost Mannerist...distortion, contortion, well incongruity with the geometry of consensus reality. In many ways that is the "noir" I noted above as crystalizing the read for me. I found all the multivarious problems the characters face almost absurd, they bend and twist the sense of right and reason, all applied from the outside in. As in all noir tales, it's the unseen and faceless threats that unsettle and unnerve.

A story I don't know how to summarize because it is so deep but so deft with it; so dense with meanings we're not in daily contact with; so rife with assumptions we don't make in the twenty-first century, that I'm overwhelmed with the need to explain. It's not clear to me why you'll read this story. I wish you would. It's a world-view opener.

PROFESSOR SCHIFF'S GUILT, humor is hard, but better when hard-edged

PROFESSOR SCHIFF'S GUILT
AGUR SCHIFF (tr. Jessica Cohen)
New Vessel Press (non-affiliate Bookshop.org link)
$17.95 all editions, available now

Rating: 4* of five

The Publisher Says: A stellar novel rendered into a darkly comic, unforgettable narrative by Booker International Prize winning translator Jessica Cohen.

An Israeli professor travels to a fictitious West African nation to trace a slave-trading ancestor, only to be imprisoned under a new law barring successive generations from profiting off the proceeds of slavery. But before departing from Tel Aviv, the protagonist falls in love with Lucile, a mysterious African migrant worker who cleans his house.

Entertaining and thought-provoking, this satire of contemporary attitudes toward racism and the legacy of colonialism examines economic inequality and the global refugee crisis, as well as the memory of transatlantic chattel slavery and the Holocaust. Is the professor’s passion for Africa merely a fashionable pose and the book he's secretly writing about his experience there nothing but a modern version of the slave trade?

I RECEIVED A DRC FROM THE PUBLISHER VIA EDELWEISS+. THANK YOU.

My Review: I'm willing to bet that most people squirm just reading the synopsis. It's a reckoning with the long shadow of chattel slavery and its ties to Jewish merchants.

I think the best choice Author Schiff made was to tell the story in a comedic register, relying on farcical coincidences of crime and punishment to acknowledge past harms while lampooning present ones caused by some clumsy, bureaucratic attempt at balancing cosmic scales.

The far more interesting point Author Schiff makes, to me at least, is the sheer ubiquity of the mental construct of Africa as lesser, as broken and needing "us" to fix it. The way Professor Schiff approaches his putative project in the narrative begs the question "why are you doing this?"

As a meditation on white guilt versus White Guilt, I think it's a great contribution to necessary conversations about Jewish complicity in the crimes of chattel slavery. As a novel about an individual man's coming to self-awareness, it felt...off.

The parallels drawn between Ancestor Schiff and his appropriation of the slavegirl, and Storyteller Schiff and his relationship to his cleaner, weren't that successful in my reading eyes. They felt as performative as the arrest and legal proceedings of Storyteller Schiff did, without the sharp edge of satire to make them cut my tough hide of willful ignorance. As a result, I was more squicked out than I was challenged to contemplate the real meaning of these sexual crimes. In fact I felt less sympathy for Ancestor Schiff before Storyteller Schiff's peccadillo was brought in. I think the opposite was intended.

I know that could really be a "me" thing, but I bring it up to alert readers who find sexual exploitation deeply unpleasant that this could decrease their reading pleasure.

I'm not as delighted by the read as others were but I am happy to have read a reckoning with an underrepresented crime of historical complicity.

THE BLUE BUTTERFLY OF COCHIN, sweet story with gorgeous Siona Benjamin artwork

THE BLUE BUTTERFLY OF COCHIN
ARIANA MIZRAHI (illus. Siona Benjamin)
Kalaniot Books
$19.99 hardcover, available tomorrow

Rating: 5* of five

The Publisher Says: The Blue Butterfly of Cochin is the story of the ancient Jewish Indian community’s mass immigration to Israel in the 1950s. We follow Leah as she struggles to come to terms with leaving her beloved India and moving to the newly-formed country of Israel. Accompanied by a magical butterfly and through dream-like illustrations, both Leah and the reader, are transported from the lush Indian coastline to the awesome beauty of the Israeli desert.

I RECEIVED A DRC FROM THE PUBLISHER VIA EDELWEISS+. THANK YOU.

My Review: Decades ago, I saw a documentary at the American Museum of Natural History about the Cochin Jewish community, of whose existence I had been utterly unaware until then. It was a typical documentary of its era, the 1990s, with the expected non-commercial production values; what came bursting through the auditorium screen was the gorgeous, lush architecture, evocative of great wealth; now, however, empty and becoming shabby with neglect. The community that had been so rooted in the tropical coastal state of Cochin for over a millennium and a half had just...vanished.

The beauty they left behind was haunting. The documentary set out to make a visual record of it before entropy carted its magnificence away entirely. This made a deep and lasting impression on me. (Clearly.) I saw this book on Edelweiss+, and of course had to have it for that reason first. Then I noticed the illustrator’s name: Siona Benjamin!

I had discovered how much I loved her Indian-miniature style images in the early Aughties, when I ran across her New York gallery’s website. Although these illustrations are not in that same style, they are just as beautiful, just as intricate, just as emotionally impactful.

These images all evoke in me the same energy that Marc Chagall’s 1960s paintings evoke:

The Circus Horse, 1969; via Wikimedia Commons
I don’t know about you, but I feel there is a creative DNA connection between these artists’ œuvres. Much joy, then, for me on the visual level; the story, with which I was familiar from that long-ago introduction, was here made personal through telling it from a displaced child’s viewpoint. That worked as a means to particularize the community’s collective decision’s personal cost.

The global rise in antisemitism is something I deplore. I think, quite apart from the State of Israel’s appalling actions in Gaza in 2023-2024, the threat of antisemitism is in its turn appalling; we have, in the last century, seen where that has led. Better by far in my view to oppose ethnic hatred wherever we find it. How better to start than with teaching children that Humanity is one race, made up of all kinds of people, and they all have very interesting stories to read, tell, and learn about.

Starting here, with this beautiful book, would be a great introduction.

POLLAK'S ARM, beautiful, maddening, horrifying, so very desperately sad

POLLAK'S ARM
HANS von TROTHA (tr. Elisabeth Lauffer)
New Vessel Press
$16.95 trade paper, available now

Rating: 4.75* of five

The Publisher Says: October 16, 1943, inside the Vatican as darkness descends upon Rome. Having been alerted to the Nazi plan to round up the city’s Jewish population the next day, Monsignor F. dispatches an envoy to a nearby palazzo to bring Ludwig Pollak and his family to safety within the papal premises. But Pollak shows himself in no hurry to leave his home and accept the eleventh-hour offer of refuge. Pollak’s visitor is obliged to take a seat and listen as he recounts his life story: how he studied archaeology in Prague, his passion for Italy and Goethe, how he became a renowned antiquities dealer and advisor to great collectors like J. P. Morgan and the Austro-Hungarian emperor after his own Jewishness barred him from an academic career, and finally his spectacular discovery of the missing arm from the majestic ancient sculpture of Laocoön and his sons. Torn between hearing Pollak’s spellbinding tale and the urgent mission to save the archaeologist from certain annihilation, the Vatican’s anxious messenger presses him to make haste and depart. This stunning novel illuminates the chasm between civilization and barbarism by spotlighting a little-known figure devoted to knowledge and the power of artistic creation.

I RECEIVED A DRC FROM THE PUBLISHER VIA EDELWEISS+. THANK YOU.

My Review: First, read this:

Rome is so eerie these days. The city seems caught in the chokehold of some immense, capricious beast, especially at night. Pollak said the same thing, worded a little differently, but similar. A monster lying in wait, outwardly quiet, but ready to strike at any moment. Every monster strikes eventually. It's in its nature. Those of us harbored here in the Vatican feel a wave of gratitude and relief whenever we reach a building that the German embassy has marked as Vatican property. It's like a magic spell keeping the monster at bay. One may feel safe here.

In a nutshell, that's the book's burden of meaning. In this tightly paced read, you'll be subjected to a high level of frustration because it's just not possible not to be. These are Jews fleeing Nazis by hiding behind the Vatican's skirts. ... Talk about emotional whiplash.

The man narrating the book, K., to Monsignor F., is the one sent on the delicate, but very important for the Vatican, mission to see that Ludwig Pollak is brought to safety in the Vatican's boundaries. Pollak, a Jew, is about to be deported and, as we reading the book know from before we so much as blink, that means death for an elderly man, his diabetic wife, and his disabled progeny. K. is busily trying to instill in an elderly man who's been exiled from his Roman home before (for being an Austrian subject during World War I), who's lost his first wife during exile and been forced to serve an Emperor he had no slightest regard for, but who's been fêted and celebrated by that Emperor before and who now wants nothing to do with the Jew...there are simply too many miles on the clock, K. Pollak winds his hours down by emulating Sheherezade and using K.'s ears to pour his meaning into. After all, K. will survive and Pollak, well...the past means more to him:

One tends to think the weather was nicer and people were friendlier when remembering the past, and although it's not true, there is some truth to it. Every memory has its own truth; otherwise it wouldn't exist.

So we're going down the garden path with a man who's been mistreated many times, in many ways, for being a Jew. For being an Austrian in Italy, for being Czech in Austria, and a Jew to boot. This is a man whose life is Art. He's been ushered in ahead of Barons to the presence of J. Pierpont Morgan because he has, knows, can connect the dots...

What could possibly surpass the exhilaration a collector experiences after making a significant find or finally acquiring a piece he has long coveted and lost sleep over? This realm of terrific, silent joys has revealed itself to me as well, Pollak said; it may be the only joy that truly exists. Collectors, he continued, are the most passionate people on earth. People prepared to venture into the foulest corners of the criminal code to take possession of a teacup, a painting, or some other objet d'art.

And Morgan is not the first powerful man who has used Pollak's art-sense to make something extraordinary his own, or explain why what he has is extraordinary from Pollak's vast stores of knowledge. It is this quality of Pollak's mind that K. is called upon by the gods, via the peculiar institution of the Vatican, to witness. It is this extraordinary votary of Art who is, at long last, saying out loud why his life mattered and what he has done cannot be undervalued because of his Jewishness. It is there, in all its glory, the objet d'art and the sculptures and...and...and...it's physical. While Pollak as a name might vanish (not really, though not for lack of the world trying) his work remains:

Pleasant memories cannot exist, Pollak stated for no reason I could figure, if the experience itself wasn't pleasant. Or, he asked, can they? He didn't think so; he had written down everything important, or at least, everything that seemed important to him, because who knew what would prove important in the long run?

False modesty, or real, we the readers know that Pollak always knew what was always going to be important in the long run: Art. He was correct. This récit gets its title from a discovery Pollak made in the early 1900s, a piece of a sculpture made in Greece in times most ancient, and spoliated by the Empire's vast greed for Art and what were, even to them, antiquities.

from the Musei Vaticani

They {their arms} are not, however, extended in pride but in a fight against death, to fend off the snakes. Their death is certain. Whether one is fighting death or fighting certain death makes all the difference. Is it noble? Pollak asked. Naïve? Quiet? Grand? Or is it just terrible, plain and simple?

This is the sculpture in question. The right arm, the one bent at the elbow ever so slightly, is the one recovered by Pollak, and then donated to the Vatican Museum...he explains why in the text, but that is something you'll need to read for yourself, there's no way to excerpt it without typing many paragraphs. For this splendid act of generosity, he is awarded all sorts of attention and perks in the archeological community, and his (barely post-Dreyfus Affair) Jewishness is grandly overlooked as the crowned heads pin medals of merit all over him. The arm completes the emotional arc of the story of Laocoön as the gods mete out punishment for his unforgivable act of hubris. Read the story, I am not discussing it here.

When Pollak returned from his Austrian exile, he resumed his life-long career in service to the culture industry. His life spent as an art dealer, now spent being the director of a museum dedicated to sculpture, a collection assembled by an old friend of Pollak's. I don't imagine it will surprise you to know that there were vicissitudes...and betrayals...and that Pollak, in the end, cared less for any of that than he cared for the art, and for the stories inherent in caring for Art. The Vatican (for better or worse) has a very long memory. They sent K., a car, and their urgent invitation to Pollak and his family to accept rescue from certain death.

It's different in the Vatican, I quietly offered, and you know it. ... You will be safe there. And they're expecting you. I sleep very little, he said, barely at all now. It must be nice. How could I possibly wake them when the world they'd wake up to is the world they'd wake up to? I didn't know how to respond. We sat there in silence until he, rather than getting up and rousing his family, resumed his tale.

Despite the urgency, the despairing urgings of K., the certainty of death...is not troubling Pollak. He knows, from his connection to Laocoön, that the gods send what they will and it's not up to puny mortals to complain. He saw what was coming. He was, at sixty-plus years of age and in frail health, not going to argue with the gods again. Men, as he has bitter cause to know, are not creatures of reason. They are snakes, they are beings without character but with brute, brutal strength, when they serve their passions:

Not one of them wrote about what they saw; instead, they wrote about what they thought. And when a man thinks long enough about what he wants, it eventually becomes what he sees.

It is nothing but the truth, put in the mouth of Ludwig Pollak, guilty of the crime of Jewishness in a world where the powerful hate you for that unforgivable breach.

It is no accident that New Vessel Press chose this title to come out hard on the heels of The Vanished Collection. Fiction and non-fiction about spoliation. The parallels between Pollak and Jules Strauss, the parallels in our own times' spoliation crisis and restitution failings. There is so much to be said about the concept of "Museums" in today's world, the one where facing up to the past is at last becoming effective...and the immensity of the hate-stoking that is working against the deepening of the many, many overdue reckonings with the Imperial Past (not to mention present). The world is, sadly for some and confusingly for all, changing. The problem with resisting that change is it does not work. It merely stores energy to be released in the eventual great change. 1789 ring any bells?

We live in interesting times. Read this slender, one-sitting meditation on just how interesting, just how much there is still to be accounted for and dealt with. You will be glad you did.

BLACK IRISH BLUES, a follow-up to OUTERBOROUGH BLUES & WARSAW FURY, a WWII story we need Right NOW

BLACK IRISH BLUES: A Caesar Stiles Mystery
ANDREW COTTO
Black Rose Writing
$3.99 Kindle edition, available now

Rating: 4* of five

The Publisher Says: Black Irish Blues is the return-to-origin story of Caesar Stiles, an erstwhile runaway who returns to his hometown with plans to buy the town's only tavern and end his family's Sicilian curse.

Caesar's attempt for redemption is complicated by the spectral presence of his estranged father, reparation seekers related to his corrupt older brother, a charming crime boss and his enigmatic crew, and—most significantly—a stranger named Dinny Tuite whose disappearance under dubious circumstances immerses Caesar in a mystery that leads into the criminal underbelly of industrial New Jersey, the flawed myth of the American Dream, and his hometown's shameful secrets.

Black Irish Blues is a poetic, gritty noir full of dynamic characters, a page-turning plot, and the further development of a unique American character.

I RECEIVED A DRC FROM THE PUBLISHER AT THE AUTHOR'S REQUEST. THANK YOU.

My Review: The first Caesar Stiles mystery, Outerborough Blues, was a big hit with me. I liked the atmospheric evocation of places I knew, at the times I knew them. I really enjoyed the writing Author Cotto clearly enjoyed writing...I hope that makes sense, I can't figure out how to fix it. Let me try this: When a writer can evoke a specific and precise feeling in me, attached to a specific and precise location in space and time, it comes across to me as that writer is sharing their own pleasure in that image, that moment.

It was too much to hope I'd get it again. I steeled myself as I opened the Kindle file. "It's not going to be the same, don't load that onto this book, it won't be as fresh as the first time," I gently self-talked myself off the ledge of inflated expectations.

"You know what my mother used to say about martinis?" I asked him.
...
We locked eyes until a small smile creased his face and he spoke in a bemused tone.

"No, no. Tell me. Wha'd your mother used to say about martinis?"

I put the knife down, wiped my hands and leaned into the bar, toward the man who needed to know the two Martinis rule.

"They're like boobs," I said. "One's not enough, but three are too many."

And just like *that* I'm right back in Caesar Stiles' world.

What happens next is the kind of thing that happens in the world of people like Caesar: running from, finding out they ran to instead; people don't know you, until they show you how well they got you pegged; a world that doesn't care about you until you find out how much they care what you do, and to whom. (And Foghat on the jukebox! Gawd...it was the 90s, all right.) But what makes this feel so familiar is also what makes the plot work. Get the tropes? Got the course.

Is that a good thing? It is in Author Cotto's hands. I like what he does with the way you're expecting something to happen, to come from a specific direction and involve some pretty familiar events...and that's what happens, only not the way you thought it would. The reason a trope (eg, the Irresistible Outsider Hero bagging all the sex) is an evergreen is that it works. It's not like one needs to challenge the evergreens to prove one's Talent. It's more like, "give 'em what they want but make it 60° off the straight lines."

This is what Author Cotto does with Caesar's story.

Helping out fellow-returnee Mike the local cop (home from LA) in solving the vanishing act pulled by Dinny, the unloved rich-guy Martini-story recipient; learning how Sallie, the dead brother from Outerborough Blues, continues to screw with his life; discovering good dirt on the long-vanished father he really didn't miss...all the noirness any committed reader of 'em could want. And delivered in the same compact form! Today's book-bloat has downsides, like heft and prolixity; it has upsides, like room to explore characters' motivations and present the world of the book; but best of all, in my opinion, is finding someone who can make Fat Elvis work in a few sentences without the bloat.

And here we are. Come for the atmosphere, stay for the story. And pray like hell that we get more Caesar in our lives.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

WARSAW FURY: A WW2 Polish Resistance Novel Based on True Events
MICHAEL REIT
Kindle Original
$4.99 ebook editions, available now

Rating: 4* of five

The Publisher Says: Warsaw, 1939
We mustn't let darkness win.

Natan Borkowski has it all. In line to take over the successful family business, his future is set.

Julia Horowitz lives in poverty. The daughter of a shoemaker, she dreams of a different life—a different world.

Everything changes when Hitler’s armies invade Poland. Natan’s future is ripped away by the flick of a switch of a Luftwaffe pilot. When the smoke clears, Julia and her family find themselves locked within the walls of the newly-formed Jewish ghetto.

On opposite sides of the wall, Natan and Julia’s lives are not so different anymore. As the Nazis unleash a reign of hunger, terror, and death across the city, they must now decide what’s more terrifying:
To die on their knees, or go down fighting?

Based on true events, Warsaw Fury is a story of love, courage, and resilience in the face of unimaginable evil.

I RECEIVED A DRC FROM THE AUTHOR, THE BOOK WHISPERER, AND NETGALLEY. THANK YOU.

My Review: World War II and the Final Solution and German/Polish antisemitism. All the things I claim repel me like kryptonite does Superman, garlic does Dracula, and Old Spice does a metrosexual. What transreversal of my brain was enacted by which Doctor Who aliens, what cabal of soap-opera writers flipped my script, whose malign curse on me altered my tastes? None. All these tropes are in this thriller, and I still read it.

They all still do repel me, though.

So how did that rating appear up there, the one that doesn't have a minus sign in front of it, the one that's above three but below five? Perspective. Not just mine, the story's as well. I'm down for a story whose *background* is WWII, but whose events while factual and tied to WWII, are not using WWII as the reason for the story.

Natan is a rich kid, a guy with social skills and connections; Julia is not possessed of either of those things; what brings the two of them together in this story is how they each hate and fear the Germans who have invaded their country and are murdering their people. Both lost their parents, each has a wise (if young) head and a fierce heart to avenge those who are unjustly dead. The whole story isn't about the brutal regime trying to exterminate all the Poles, every Jew, anyone who isn't Just Like Them.

We are instead told the two interlinked tales of resourceful young people motivated by a catastrophe they never asked for and weren't consulted about doing every single dangerous, difficult, and deeply necessary thing to stop, reverse, and fix their world. The planet needs them, or their great-grandchildren, now. These two characters, people on either side of a literal and metaphorical wall, are united in their purpose to resist, to expel, the invaders wreaking graphically told havoc on their home. They unite despite their "differences" because the goal they serve is more important than the surface dissimilarities that actually make each well-suited to their respective roles. And, because of course they did, these two crazy kids fell in luuuv. Despite their wildly different backgrounds, though, at least this couple could never possibly lack for something to talk about....

The story doesn't belabor the points I'm calling out here. I am doing so. I am explaining how, despite being a story told in a setting I'm ever so sick of, I got involved in and inspired by Warsaw Fury. Author Reit clearly knows his subject inside out, which adds to the pace of action he achieves and sustains. There is never a lack of action, and it's all grounded in real events.

So that's the story. What about the writing? Well, what indeed. It is unexceptional but unexceptionable. It isn't stellar and it isn't execrable. It is the high end of serviceable, the lower edge of inspired. Occasional phrases made me cringe...a Varsovian, a Pole, and you'd fight to the bitter end, oh now really...but it got the job done.

You're looking at that rating right now, aren't you. Thinking about the times I've said much harsher things about much milder stylistic infractions. You know, you're correct, but you're also looking at this from the ordinary perspective. This is an extraordinary case. I gave a book whose writing I reluctantly allowed to happen to me four full stars...doesn't that say something a lot bigger than "read these pretty sentences" would?

We need this story of coming together to resist an overwhelming, unstoppable crisis. We need to read things that stress our only hope being to find the good intentions and best practices in those we'd normally never so much as fire a neuron for. This story, a fact-based one, tells us that when we're pulling in the same direction, we can move the damn Nazis and their weapons on down the road.

Uncurl your lip, Sunshine. Get the memo here: Fight now, fight hard and with all your power...but aim it where it will help not where you think you want to.

MAGGIE BROWN & OTHERS: Stories from the height-of-his-powers observer of Jewishness, Peter Orner

MAGGIE BROWN & OTHERS: Stories
PETER ORNER
Little, Brown
$27.00 hardcover, available now

Rating: 4.5* of five

The Publisher Says: In this powerful and virtuosic collection of interlocking stories, a National Book Critics Circle Award finalist takes the form to new heights.

In his orchestral and moving new book, Peter Orner, a writer who "doesn't simply bring his characters to life, he gives them souls" (New York Times Book Review), chronicles people whose lives are at inflection points. In forty-four compressed gems, he grips us with a series of defining moments. Whether it's a first date that turns into a late-night road trip to a séance in an abandoned airplane hangar, or a family's memories of the painful mystery surrounding a forgotten uncle's demise, Orner reveals how our fleeting decisions between kindness and abandonment chase us across time. These stories are anchored by a poignant novella that delivers not only the joys and travails of a forty-year marriage, but an entire era in small-town New England. Bristling with the crackling energy of life itself, Maggie Brown & Others marks the most sustained achievement to date for "a master of his form" (New York Times).

I RECEIVED AN ARC FROM THE PUBLISHER. THANK YOU.

My Review: This collection of short takes on life is by the brother of gay comic artist/storyteller Eric Orner (The Mostly Unfabulous Social Life of Ethan Green and its 2006 movie), with whom he collaborated on Love and Shame and Love (2011). He's received Lannan and Guggenheim Fellowships; he's received the Rome Prize; both his résumé and his family tree glitter. Then it is no surprise that this mid-career offering shines...no, better to say gleams...with the soft, sterling glow of authentically and beautifully told fiction. I'll consider them via the Bryce Method, one story at a time, a few thoughts and a rating.

All the shining stars, all the bright stripes, all the band fanfares for Walt Kaplan is Broke: A Novella! It's a beautiful and precise tale of Jewishness on the unexpected margins of US urban blight. It is all of Walt's marriage, a union quite perfect; it is complete and entire and I wouldn't change a single word. The Chicago stuff, Lighted Windows, not so much; the thematic unity there was love, looking for love, running into it without meaning to, and that's pretty much why short stories get a bad rap from most folks because, in the end, who friggin' cares. Nothing stands out, no adultery is that interesting and no first love is at all interesting.

Renters: A Sequence was affecting as a group of minor stories, cohesive in their central theme of exploring the disaster and misery of a marriage foundering under the skyscraper-tall waves of mental illness; the issue for me, the reason it wasn't as rock-me-back beautiful as Walt Kaplan was, was that the characters were sketched in thin, spidery lines instead of bold, dark strokes.

The Cali stuff, Come Back to California, was okay, I guess; deft enough and well-observed but not excellent the way the Fall River, Mass, Jews in Castaways were. Startlingly rich and layered characterizations in quite compact stories, so compact as to be fleeting in some cases. The best single story in the book, and unsurprisingly it's a longer one, is in this section: "Bernard: A Character Study" was a peak read for me, a simple and direct evocation of a simple and direct person's time on this Earth.

The micro-ness of the fictions, however, works best in the Walt Kaplan novella. The tesserae forming its mosaic make a picture of perfect tapas, served to present a dozen views of the drosh; they each have a flavor impact outsized to their physical page presence, but contribute their unique qualities to a whole and satisfying conclusion to one's story hunger:

And think of the '60s, when the whole country got a little wilder and we joined in and did it twice a night? You remember, Sar? Now twice a night would be like rising from the dead, but history is history, and if not set down on paper it should at least be ruminated upon. Sarah and Walt Kaplan, one night, more than once, two entirely separate fornications.

Now, for a philosophical as well as a practical question: Why didn't we just push the beds together and leave them there? Ah, because that would be a lie, no? The nature of the reaching, the nature of the whispered entreaties, a thousand variations on the same invitation, is that both reaching of the hands and the question in question invariably lead to moments of complete incompleteness. Because the upshot of coupling is uncoupling. The essence of association is disassociation. Because you can fuck till you're blue, but at a certain point the inevitable nightly drawing apart happens for good, am I right or am I right? Spell it out again: the retreat once again to separate beds attains a cementation that precludes any further you wannas. After a certain point you wanna? is no longer an invitation for rumpus; it's a cry from oblivion.

It's to your taste, or it isn't; but it *is* beautiful.