It’s not difficult to imagine why novelists might want to escape the confines of the present day in their fictional universes – especially in the current political climate. I wonder also whether the pandemic and resulting lockdowns contributed to the sense of time as elastic or illusory; a concept that snapped in March 2020 (how often did you say the phrase, “It’s like Groundhog Day” during the lockdowns?). Fiction usually fulfils the desire to escape, and a time travel book ratchets that up a notch. Do we delve more into the speculative realm the worse life gets?
In his writing, Bohjalian is anything but a kitten. Lesser writers could not tackle 10 narrators, the complexities of racism in America, African politics, violence both foreign and domestic (as in inside a New York apartment) and make the pieces fit seamlessly together. But Bohjalian — whose books include “Hour of the Witch” and “The Flight Attendant” — has shown time and again that with him, you don’t know what you’re going to get, but you know that the getting is good.
One of the more promising treatments for dementia has been “reminiscence therapy,” which employs artifacts and photos to improve mood and awareness. Some have even built “dementia villages,” which recreate settings from patients’ younger days: movie theaters, diners, bus stops. While proponents claim such environments bolster patients’ humanity, others have criticized them as “Truman Show”-style stagecraft.
Underlying these more immersive interventions, of course, is some degree of deception, and not all the memories wrested free are happy ones. The morality of artificially returning people to the past, and the broader question of whether this truly brings solace — whether indulgence in nostalgia is curative or pernicious — is the central question of Georgi Gospodinov’s newly translated novel, “Time Shelter.”
“The Love Songs of W.E.B. Du Bois” is a book that grabs the reader, holds them tight, and doesn’t let go even when it ends. It’s equal parts haunting and uplifting, ugly and beautiful, quiet and powerful. The book is a work of historical fiction, but so painstakingly informed by research and elegantly written that the reader is left desperately wanting to spend more time with the fictional characters.
Alice Hattrick’s new book, Ill Feelings, out in the US today and the UK last year, shines a light on the differences between illness, sickness, and disease. Hattrick, who was diagnosed at an early age with Myalgic Encephalomyelitis or chronic fatigue syndrome (ME/CFS) and later with Fibromyalgia, is no stranger to the pain associated with being unwell. Still, their illnesses, which are both characterized as having “symptoms of illness without any known cause,” are often written off by medical professionals, who deem the pain psychological rather than physical. Through a deep dive into the history of ME/CFS, as well as an exploration of their relationship to their mother, who shares the same ME/CFS diagnosis, Hattrick unpeels the layers of their “ill feelings” to redefine how we think about the body’s relationship to pain, in the process providing us with a new way to understand what it means to be chronically ill.
The chastening of America, with civil unrest, expatriates looking on in humiliation, and citizens of other countries savoring the once mighty country’s downfall, is the grim scenario Ken Kalfus envisions in his latest novel, “2 A.M. in Little America.” Whichever side one takes on the issues bedeviling America, readers familiar with his work will probably agree on this point: Kalfus is a perceptive guy. Whether he’s writing about Russia and radiation poisoning in “Pu-239 and Other Russian Fantasies,” 9/11 in “A Disorder Peculiar to the Country,” or the 2011 Dominique Strauss-Kahn saga in “Coup de Foudre,” Kalfus has a gift for penetrating to the core of current events and presenting issues in a provocative way.