"After the Apocalypse": A Review

One of the books I bought at the Boston Book Fest was a new release from a local publisher of alternative fiction, Small Beer Press: After the Apocalypse by Maureen F. McHugh. Being a relatively short collection of stories, it was manageable with my busy schedule. Stories of the apocalypse--and the aftermath--always intrigue me, if in a morbid way, so I thought I'd enjoy it. And I must say, I've never read any science fiction like it.

The cover art's cool, too.

It's not just that it's short fiction (most of the sci-fi that I've read has been long-form). McHugh's stories focus on a very small social group of humans, whether it's fragments of a family or a group of diffident individuals, affected by a catastrophic event--an apocalypse of sorts, but more along the lines of Junot Diaz's definition in a Boston Review article published earlier this year. Not the kind of apocalypse you'd expect. In the zombie story, "The Naturalist," zombies have been confined to a small area in Ohio, where they send convicts to be punished. In another story, an avian flu epidemic in Asia decimates China's population, creating ripe conditions for capitalist greed to thrive, at the expense of survivors. In another, a dirty bomb goes off in Baltimore, killing countless civilians and triggering a teenager's dissociative personality disorder. Most of the stories take place in the aftermath of such events as a disease epidemic, economic crash, and terrorist attacks. These are only minor compared to the popular definition of apocalypse. In fact, the only story that comes close to such a definition is the title story, caused by a combo of terrorism, economic disaster, and sweeping electrical failures (all exacerbated by a corrupt and inefficient government, no doubt).

Most of the reader's knowledge of these events is confined to the characters, who are all everyday people, so they'd be hard-pressed to know the whole story behind what happened. They're mechanics, factory workers, store managers, and unemployed--the closest one gets to a career typical of the sci-fi genre is an entry-level computer programmer. In this way, McHugh's stories fit the sci-fi elements neatly into a microcosmic realism. Some stories, like the purely realistic "Honeymoon," are barely sci-fi at all, the events and time period only slightly out-of-sync with contemporary reality. The result is stories that are worthy of just about any literary tradition, challenging the conventional view of the sci-fi genre. These characters are among the most developed and diverse I've found in sci-fi, as  characterization in the genre often takes a back seat to concept. These stories are no more unrealistic than any other work of fiction--just because a deadly chicken disease or sweeping southwestern drought haven't happened, doesn't mean they won't. They certainly can happen, under certain circumstances. Needless to say, this realistic element (due in part to the character-driven nature of the stories and no need for world-building) made the stories incredibly moving and engaging, and I wished some of them were longer. "Special Economics" had nice pacing for the most part, then rushed through the plot towards the end, and I wanted to see more of what happened in "Going to France" (like, why were the flying people going to France, of all places?). Of course, not all the stories charmed me so. A couple of the stories, like "Kingdom of the Blind," got bogged down in nebulous technical jargon that strained my comprehension of the plot, and distracted me from the story. McHugh is sometimes gratuitous with exposition and character description in a way most good writers are not, baldly inserting brief character descriptions that disrupt the flow of the narrative. The averageness of the characters made them interesting, but frustrating for someone who's more interested in their world than they are. Still, I kept reading, interested in the circumstances and how it would all end. Hell, I even cared about some of the characters.

Though there probably should have been at least one other proofreader looking at it, since I found a few embarrassing errors in the text. But since the book's coming from a small indie publisher, it's an unfortunate side-effect of a small budget. Some of the stories I was hard-pressed to define as "apocalyptic"--though it's not just the end of the world. The most literary moment in the collection occurs in the last story, with a July's People-style conclusion. It also sums up all the preceding stories, too, in a way. These characters seek freedom from their suffering, like we all do; it's just that their circumstances compel them to take it up a notch. And that's how fiction makes life more interesting. The apocalypse, whatever its shape or form, is brought to us, as real as any 9/11-style disaster. And as profound.

Overall, I give it 3.5 out of 5 stars, with my favorite stories being "Special Economics," "Useless Things," "The Effect of Centrifugal Forces," and "After the Apocalypse."

Are Books For Hipsters?



This past weekend, I attended the Boston Book Festival, where writers, readers, and thinkers of all most stripes could convene and share thoughts and ideas; learn more about local bookstores, publishers, and nonprofits; and get free stuff. I left the festival with enough reading material to last me at least a month, plenty of free shit, and a lighter wallet. It was a great day, and I had a pretty good time.

But, I noticed something I had noticed at a different event last month (that being a Primus concert). But for some reason I'd never really noticed before.

Man, are these people white.

Courtesy of Hot Guys Reading Books

At the BBF, there were some Asians (both east and south), and maybe a couple black people. All of the presenters at the panels I attended were white (though some people of color presented at other events). And it wasn't just the whiteness that took my notice. It was the similarities between these people that you could identify what type of reader they were. Nonfictioners dressed conservatively, passing for mainstream professionals dressed casual, but not too casual. Most were probably older than 30, and made good money. Younger nonfiction readers (whom I saw plenty of in the line to Chuck Klosterman's book signing) were textbook hipsters, though many could pass for normal on a liberal-arts college campus. Klosterman himself looks kinda like that. I didn't really notice a significant male-female ratio disparity, but plenty of the younger guys had beards. Hipsters cross over into fiction, their favored genre being literary fiction. I'm kinda glad I didn't go to the Jennifer Egan panel (though I do want to read her book), because that was probably overrun with hipsters. There are also nerdy readers, who dress unconsciously and often sport facial imperfections; you find them more often in science-fiction and fantasy circles. There's also the artsy nerds, who pierce their bodies and dye their hair and wear black, and maybe cosplay (if they're more nerdy). These folks were at the graphic novel panel, and maybe at the Steampunk one, too. As for the other people over 30, they basically looked like regular people or professors (or regular professors). Maybe a smattering of artsy or nerdy--I imagine that most people tone down their look as they get older. One thing was for sure: a person wearing Abercrombie and Fitch or (Science forbid) Ecko would look out of place in this crowd.

The predictable makeup of this book-buying demogrphic speaks to the current limits of the written word--or at least, the marketing of it. Plenty of people of color write thought-provoking books, so why weren't more of them featured? Did the organizers of BBF realize they were inviting a whole lot more white people--or maybe other nonwhites theyasked were busy that weekend. Is it really just a symptom of a greater issue in publishing, where whites get all the attention?

I think it speaks to an even greater issue: education. The BBF is a showcase for writers and intellectuals, most of whom have at least a Master's Degree, and have little to no recognition among mainstream readers. Romance, thrillers, horror, and other trashy genres are not represented here. However, these genres (as well as YA, which actually has a place in "higher" literature) are the books most people read, and pay for the more intellectual and artistic ventures. In this way, higher literature is more of a subculture, with a small, concentrated demographic. Just like any other subculture, they adopt a certain way of dressing and talking to identify themselves. These people graduated from liberal arts colleges (or that part of the university), work in academia or publishing, vote Democrat, and hold corresponding liberal views. Obviously, there's a lot of overlap with the hipster population. Though I think the lack of radicals was because they're all at Occupy Boston.

So why are books largely considered to be the realm of the educated? Well, it takes education to read, and more to make sense out of what you read. It takes even more to talk about it in a reasonable, rational manner with others. And the thing is, most people don't get that education, whether it's because they're poor, received little encouragement at home, or are otherwise dissuaded from reading (eg. favoring the instant gratification of TV and video games over books). Most of the BBF attendees were of European or Asian descent, races that are often better-educated than blacks, (and so goes the earning potential) and liberal because, well, we're all smart, and truth has a "well-known liberal bias". Whites, moreso than other races, are encouraged to "follow their dreams," and therefore are more likely to pursue unlucrative artistic careers like writing. (disclosure: this is from personal experience only) Whites also make up the majority of faculty members at many univerisities.

This, of course, all boils down to economics: whites make up the majority of rich people in the US, and therefore are more educated, because they go to better schools and can afford a good college, and therefore are more likely to read for fun. The unfortunate effect is that reading is becoming an elitist activity, especially as the gap between the rich and poor widens, after-school programs get cut, and public libraries closed down. As they say, knowledge is power, and if knowledge becomes less accessible, the possessors of said knowledge grow more powerful. While I doubt that this avid book-reading demographic's going to take over America (money is more powerful), we have to get people interested in reading and writing again, if only to harness untapped critical thinking skills and open people's eyes to the injustices committed towards them and their community every day. Then we can make a change.

So, back to the original question: are books for hipsters? Yes. And everyone else, too.(There's way more non-hipster books out there, trust me) Literature has something for everyone, if you look hard enough.

The Peculiar Whimsy of Bender's Lemon Cake

Aimee Bender is another author that caught my interest back in college, when I was first exposed to her work. Her particular style of magic realism, blending in otherworldly concepts with an otherwise straight-up vanilla (literally) realist narrative, stood out amongst a sea of orthodox, straight realism that is acclaimed by the literary elite. As someone who is fond of the strange and fantastical portrayed as everyday life, I snapped up her first story collection, The Girl in the Flammable Skirt, and quite liked it. When I heard last year that she had a new book out, on my reading list it went. Finally, this weekend I got to read it, and though I'm not a fan of the title (I get its significance, but the wording's just awkward), I enjoyed the novel like any other piece of magical prose.

SPOILERS AHEAD

The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake follows Rose, the narrator, as she grows up, from when she first tastes her mother's feelings in her ninth-birthday cake to young adulthood, where she ends up as a chef trainee. This talent for tasting feelings in food is more of a curse than a blessing, however, prompting her to avoid not just home-cooked meals, but a sense of intimacy with anyone. This turns out to be somewhat hereditary, as Rose learns later: her father and brother are already presented as avoidant in nature--she has few meaningful interactions with either of them until towards the end--her father never sets foot in hospitals, and her brother eventually succeeds in avoiding all human interaction by disappearing, intermittently at first, then later for good. But there's no judgement on Rose's part whether each person's way of dealing with this curse (of sensing others' thoughts and feelings, somehow) is the "right" way. In fact, she seems just content at last to have a special connection to them. Her relationship with her mother, meanwhile, also gets stronger with time after her brother disappears, though there will never be true understanding: her mother, after all, is still hollow inside, and she, too, would rather hide it than have to confront that feeling.

Like in many of her stories, the magic of the world--the existence of a sort of emotional telepathy that can be sensed through any part of the body--fits into the narrative, a key facet of the whimsical and haunting prose. The moment when Rose catches her brother half-disappeared gave me goosebumps, and though it wasn't scary per se, it was reminiscent of the quietly scary moments one may remember from a dream--or from reading Goosebumps. Perspective gets a little muddled at times, with a younger voice permeating the point-of-view of an older Rose.

Though Lemon Cake is sprinkled with several common nuclear-family tropes--the depressed homemaker mother, prodigies, workaholic dad, to name a few--they grow organically into their own characters, suiting better to this somewhat unusual story. I also kind of felt that the characters should just get over it, or at least go to therapy--it amazed me that the subject of therapy never came up. It seemed like a logical step, like, maybe something's wrong with their head? The affair storyline never really goes anywhere, and I wonder how Rose's mother kept it under wraps for over five years.

Sentences are often short and blunt, characteristic of someone who's not wordy and tends to conceal emotions. It also makes it easier reading--reading over 50 percent of the book on a bus and 5 hours of sleep, I could not slog through dense paragraphs of ornate prose. The story was often sad in a way, too, with self-imposed isolationism and her family's insularity preventing them from finding a way out of their unhappiness, and closing them off from getting to know new people. Rose's brother, for example, only made one friend in school, and seemed content to just stick with the one. He didn't disappear until after they were separated after high school. The psychological drama that unfolds as a result of this curse is subtle, interpreted by the reader through Rose's sparse narration. The nonexistence of quote marks echoed the deliberately self-reflective tone of the novel. These feelings are pretty exemplary of the American psyche: focus on yourself, or the bubble that you live inside of. Rose adapts to her own curse by turning it into a talent, letting go of the secret and letting others in. She may never be truly happy, but no one ever is, right?

Once you read through the first chapter, Rose's story will have you disappearing into her world. This is a story I will remember for a while. I give it 4 out of 5 stars.