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As someone who was unmoved by Daddy but enamoured with The Iceman, I was unsure of what to expect when I cracked open Cline’s latest novel, The Guest. Revered as the Play It As It Lays of Gen Z sex work, Uncut Gems for chicks and the “book of the summer,” the novel tells the story of a twenty-two year old named Alex who is ousted by her sugar daddy in the Hamptons and determined to drift her way through the island until Labour Day. A stressful read in which an unreliable protagonist makes nothing but bad decisions, the sentences are clean and the plot grows tense with every page.
Most piercing, however, is the precision to which Cline illustrates how whiteness and its perceived docility can permeate the gates of wealth and class at ease. Chapter by chapter, constructed episodically so the rising action mirrors the high (and inevitable crash) of a drug, we read as Alex flattens herself to become fluid, to leech, to exploit. Cline's understanding of how these spaces function, and how the right (or white) wallflower can encroach on a territory that is not theirs, undetected, is acute. As a result, Alex's powers of manipulation come not from an aptitude for obscuring her identity. It's quite the opposite. Instead of a disguise, she offers herself - a blank canvas of a girl - and allows her surrounding environment to assume how she might fit in their world. Upon completion, I thought of a new comparison: Parasite amoungst the privileged.
Jan 22, 2024
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I felt like I was on trial watching Anatomy of a Fall -- for my failures as a writer and the ensuing resentments misdirected at my partner. Seeing my private torments litigated in a riveting courtroom drama, spoken in clinical French, was titillating. The writing was so sharp I could’ve just listened like the blind son Daniel and been engaged. But I loved watching Daniel practice piano, the baby blue glaze over his eyes and his surprise testimony in a redrum turtleneck.
The story wastes no time. Within five minutes, the husband is found dead, bleeding out in the snow. An autopsy cannot rule out foul play and his wife, a writer, becomes the sole suspect. What unravels in court is not only the events that precipitated the death of her husband, but an ultimate tea concoction of their strained relationship, competing literary ambitions and the blame and guilt surrounding the accident that blinded their son.
Entering a foreign court is a bit jarring. The rules, procedures and dress are notably different from America and seem silly when defamiliarized. The prosecutor, a bald little gremlin robed in red, was probably my favorite character. Arched, dry and eloquent, he bludgeoned the accused writer with an avalanche of incriminating evidence and was quick to undercut any counter/argument from the defense. Court rules in France appear to allow more cross-talk, making the arguments more conversational than U.S. court dramas, which glorify long-winded monologues.
Impressively, the writer/director thread the needle so well that one is never quite convinced one way or the other. I am easily persuaded and in this lawyerly tug of war, I felt myself suspended over a chasm with demons of jealousy, envy and pride snapping at my feet.
For all the talk of literary failure, this was a written masterpiece. I am drawn to such stories, like a moth to flame, for so many deep and cutting reasons. Like the husband, I deflect and blame others for my shortcomings: If only X, Y and Z were different, then I could write! The wife’s gaslighting voice lives within me too: Make the time and do it, coward! And I disdain my father for giving up sports journalism, and for withholding those ambitions from me (Had I known earlier, maybe then I’d be a staff writer!) and on himself in general.
Funny enough, when I was biking home after seeing Fallen Leaves last week, I had the high thought that my senior thesis anticipated my current condition with regards to writing. My argument was garbled -- something about the author subverting masculine forms/expectations of writing (adventure, heroism) using feminine forms (diary, domesticity) through an act of ventriloquy -- but the book I chose to write about was a book about a wannabe writer’s failure.
Called El Libro Vacio and written by Josefina Vicens, it was a novel about the shortcomings of a middle class man working in middle management and his literary shortcomings. He wanted to be a great writer, but he was tormented and uninspired by the banality of his day-to-day life as a family man. If only he didn’t have a kid and wife, he could hit the road and sail the high seas and finally have something to say! He studiously documents his failures and torments in a diary that amounts to the novel by Vicens.
In my early 20s, I was interested in what makes a good leader. I studied the polar explorer Ernest Shackleton, the most winningest basketball coach Gregg Popovich and read more than a dozen presidential biographies. But now I find myself fixated on failure, my own and my fathers, and I want to learn the art of letting go.
Jan 22, 2024
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I went to Miami for Art Basel and by the end of the weekend I was filled with hangxiety so I spent an extra day sitting on the beach reading Stephanie LaCava’s newish novel I Fear My Pain Interests You. It’s about the daughter of two punk rock stars who suffers from “congenital analgesia,” which means she feels no physical pain, and though it’s definitely not a breezy beach read, it destroyed me, in a good way.
Jan 23, 2023
Gripping writing. This article has stayed w me since the summer. I often think about the paths I could have taken in life, but through circumstance, genetics, and good parenting, I never did. A tiring task, but my mind just sort of does it, and it’s the only way I know how to write half-decent fiction. My fiction writing is on pause because I’m better at painting, but mental walks down roads not taken continues. These roads include: incel, chain steakhouse regular, anarcho-capitalist, and suburban thug. I was probably closest to that last one, given my distrust of authority and reverence for Gangster Rap music. So my interest was piqued when I saw this New Yorker headline. It’s about the “Gilbert Goons” a group of violent rich suburban boys in Arizona. A side of America and young masculinity that isn’t often explored at this depth.
“When he was on the ground, a group of guys began “kicking on him,” “standing right above and beating down,” “getting on him and going at it,” witnesses told police. The beating was over in seconds. “He’s out,” someone said. A neighbor’s surveillance-camera footage showed ten boys running away, some of them laughing.”
Feb 28, 2025
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The things Emma Stone is able to do... Julia Roberts of the new generation.
Jan 24, 2024
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there are no pleasantries in hunger
Jan 22, 2024
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Would you believe me if I told you that I willingly ate at a restaurant where the chef had been rumoured to murder stray cats? Well, I did and I’d do it again. A week or two ago, I found myself at a buzzy, new restaurant in Hollywood. I was in Los Angeles for work and, after grabbing drinks with a friend, I slid into the dimly lit joint to taste the fabled off-menu rigatoni. I made the reso for two but it was late on a Wednesday and my friend opted to slink off to bed rather than stay out for a bite.
When I approached the hostess and notified her of the change in the number of guests, she told me I could have my original table or sit the bar. Without hesitation, I took the bar. Dining at the bar is special because you are invisible and on display at the same time. Typically, the bartender takes your order and serves you, meaning you are usually in the presence of a skilled conversationalist should you choose to entertain. The bartender is more likely to give you an honest read of the menu than a regular waiter, more likely to slip you an off-menu treat as you keep them company. You experience the restaurant through the eyes of those who work there without clocking in. As a voyeur, you eavesdrop on the first date to your right, you pick up on the not-so-secret affair between servers. You can chat with the stranger next to you or you can disappear into your own world, earbuds in, magazine in hand. I did a bit of it all that evening.
Next to me, a man in an Aime Leon Dore hat offered his fries, allowing me to snack off his plate. Despite his generosity, I never gave him a bite of my rigatoni. That was for me alone to indulge.
Jan 22, 2024