Nomatter how many times it happens, I’m still excited every time I get my hands on an advance reading copy of a book that has yet to be published. How thrilling to turn to page one with almost no idea what I’m in for, before review coverage has begun, before any overly enthusiastic friend gives too much away.
When I received a galley of Gone Girl in 2011, I had no preconceived notions other than the fact that I knew that author Gillian Flynn had written two prior thrillers, and I’d been a fan of her work when she was on staff at Entertainment Weekly. I was certainly not primed to expect a perfectly paced and perfectly nuanced he said/she said story, especially not one with an audacious plot twist that strikes right smack in the middle of the book and absolutely blows up every word that has come before. I had never read anything quite like it. I still have never read anything like it. Although now, ten years after the official publication of Gone Girl, many others have tried to emulate its style and edge.
I’m deep in the stacks of the London Library, trying not to get dizzy as I look down into a multistory drop from the iron-grille floor, when an older man approaches me, looking lost. He’s trying to find the music section, located… somewhere in the darkened rows of books. As a visitor to the historic members-only institution, it takes me a beat to realize that not only do I have zero clue where the section might be, it seems unlikely that I’ll be able to navigate my way out of the building’s origami-like interior without help. (Spoiler: I don’t.)
But therein lies the beauty of the London Library. From an idiosyncratic filing system, to a building that encourages exploration, it’s an institution where serendipity and tactile history meet. Which is why it’s the latest selection for Beast Travel’s once a month series on the World’s Most Beautiful Libraries.
According to my paternal grandmother, I’ve always been receptive to spirits. She likes to remind me how I would wake her up in the middle of the night, hyperventilating as I tried to explain that my spirit had left my body, that I had found my nose pressed against the ceiling as I hovered above my bed; that I had lost my eyes and couldn’t see. Back in my body, I rubbed my arms and wrapped them around my legs, not sure if I had actually returned. For many nights, I continued to jolt awake, crashing back into my body as if dropped from a great height.
From the polyamorous cigarette cult of “Nicotine” to the naive addict of “Doxology,” or the white girl raised as Black by a lesbian mother in “Mislaid,” Zink has taken high-concept premises to transgressive extremes with clever self-assurance. Whether your first Zink novel is your last depends on your taste and also on which novel you happen to pick up. And while “Avalon’s” scope might feel smaller than the purview of her previous books, it turns out to be incredibly pleasing — if sometimes also baffling — to see a writer this intelligent keep the focus of her gaze this tight.
“Either/Or” is a sequel that amplifies the meaning of its predecessor while expanding its philosophical ambit — in short, the best kind. Elif Batuman picks up the story of Selin Karadağ, the wry heroine of “The Idiot ” (2017), in her sophomore year at Harvard. As she observes the absurdities of college life circa 1996 and the rules and beliefs that seem to govern contemporary behavior, she asks herself vital questions about love, life, literature and what Alanis Morissette is really for.
Test tubes adorn the cover of “The Latecomer,” glassware signifying the in vitro origins of Jean Hanff Korelitz’s protagonists, the Oppenheimer triplets, Harrison, Lewyn and Sally. Our gifted narrator, who shall remain nameless so as not to spoil a wonderful twist, introduces us to these three, starting before conception — and explores their family tree (roots to branches). The result is a sparkling novel that is in essence satirical and wise, in style old and new.
I like to stroll the graveyard in the middle of town
With my friend Anne, though we seldom agree
On what an epitaph we happen to read implies.