There is something so precious about a book where nothing happens - not necessarily just vibes, but in experiencing the mundanity of life as a character’s life is profoundly changed.
A few months ago I finished Seinfeld - all of it. A project that had been ticking along in the background for a year was finally over, going out on a finale most shows don’t have the balls to pull off. I think Seinfeld ages as well as it does (as compared to its contemporaries and many sitcoms that came after) because it never positions itself as aspirational. It is great to see the DNA of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia forming just a state away. Just a bunch of horrible people, hanging out and making every situation needlessly terrible for themselves and others through little white lies they must then enhance and stick to, no matter the consequences. It is a foolproof formula for hours (and years) of entertainment.
Now, what’s the deal with…
I’m joking, but I’ve read two books in a row that seem to wish to be movies, and I hope it is not a trend. Where characters should breathe, another character and action set piece is instead introduced. These are two relatively new releases (at least loosely) billed as romances: They Both Die at the End (Adam Silvera) and Honey and Spice (Bolu Babalola). The latter is far better in terms of atmosphere and genuine chemistry in its central love story. The sparks are real and threaten combustion every time the central couple’s eyes meet. Babalola’s self-designation as a rom-connoisseur is the whole truth. I’m already dying to see the rom-com cinema adaptation - it would be the hit of any summer. I’d eagerly recommend it, even with the caveat I’m about to launch into.
What struck me about both books - more than the stories themselves - is how busy they are. Both are between 300-400 pages, both centring on relationships between young people (either just before university, or having just entered). They both have different destinations in mind, but the essential rapport needed between its two central figures drives the heart of each. That said, it is hard to get to the bottom of this rapport with external complications in the form of never-again-seen characters and a whirlwind tour of places which the central couple must pass through or interact with. It is quite egregious in They Both Die at the End, only mildly distracting in Honey and Spice. In both, I wondered why these words and narrative beats were being delivered to me on the page.
Is there a worry in the industry the book will not compete with film, television, or video games without this constant business? Is there a changed way in which storytellers expect all stories to work, when so many vastly different mediums exist? The result is irritation, not memorability. There is something so precious about a book where nothing happens - not necessarily just vibes, but in experiencing the mundanity of life as a character’s life is profoundly changed. Life happens in the little moments; it is a tired aphorism, but in books, it is the ultimate pleasure.
What literature does better than any medium is the interiority, observation, yearning, and reflection. It is Thomas Mann - possibly my favourite author by virtue of having read more books by him than any other - describing the sirocco of Venice in a way that both captures Aschenbach’s own observations and reveals his fracturing psyche. Only a few years later, he describes the reliably changing seasons at the sanitarium to capture and contrast against Hans Castorp’s stagnation. Mann is far from alone, of course, and I realise I generalise broadly by only citing two books here - regardless of how recently they were published. I hope for and encourage any comments with recommendations of recent books that prove this possible trend wrong. In the meantime, I’m two episodes into Curb Your Enthusiasm and mean to continue.
What I’m watching
John Wick Chapter Four - so happy to have another gloriously violent, beautifully shot entry into this bonkers canon, but in my mind this is the weakest. The new characters are loads of fun, but its newest villain feels strangely disconnected from The High Table as an entity, turning John’s quest for survival and revenge against an entire system into something more like a personal vendetta. Also, there seems to not be as much reloading or improvised weapons in this one as there was in 2-3, the series’ other two large-scale entries. But what can I say - it’s gaudy and gutsy fun, anchored by Reeves’ poignantly laconic weariness, and a Warriors homage leading to the final showdown (by way of a Chapter Two homage) will likely remain the best action sequence of the decade.
Succession and Yellowjackets are back! I wouldn’t recommend double-billing them as I will be doing for the next several weeks; I think I walked away from both with an upset stomach but cannot wait for the next instalments.
What I recommend
If you’re watching Succession, Rory Doherty’s recap at Paste is astute and
This is a bit mean, but really, really good
This is less mean, but also very very good (I still love The Goldfinch and Donna Tartt in general, though I acknowledge these criticisms through the lens of James’ extraordinary human portraits)
If you love Tartt, Brett Easton Ellis, and/or Jonathan Lethem, and/or sex, drugs, books, insufferable students, rich kids’ gossip, and lots and lots of drama, Once Upon a Time at Bennington College is the podcast for you. I am a terrible podcast listener, losing interest with impunity, and I blitzed through its perfectly shaped season in a matter of weeks.