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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 couldāve 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.Ā
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.Ā
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.Ā
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 wifeās 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 Iād be a staff writer!) and on himself in general.Ā
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 writerās failure.Ā
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 didnāt 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.Ā
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.
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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 Clineās latest novel, The Guest. Revered as the Play It As It Lays of Gen Z sex work, Uncut Gems for chicks and the ābook of the summer,ā 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.Ā
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
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 itās the only way I know how to write half-decent fiction. My fiction writing is on pause because Iām 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. Itās about the āGilbert Goonsā a group of violent rich suburban boys in Arizona. A side of America and young masculinity that isnāt often explored at this depth.
āWhen he was on the ground, a group of guys began ākicking on him,ā āstanding right above and beating down,ā āgetting on him and going at it,ā witnesses told police. The beating was over in seconds. āHeās out,ā someone said. A neighborās surveillance-camera footage showed ten boys running away, some of them laughing.ā
Feb 28, 2025
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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 LaCavaās newish novel I Fear My Pain Interests You. Itās about the daughter of two punk rock stars who suffers from ācongenital analgesia,ā which means she feels no physical pain, and though itās definitely not a breezy beach read, it destroyed me, in a good way.
Jan 23, 2023
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Jan 24, 2024
Between New York's brutal cold front and battling the flu, I've barely left my apartment this month. So I decided to get dressed up on Saturday even though we stayed in to make chili and play Scrabble. C gifted me a nice sweater (Oscar de la Renta!) for my 31st that I wanted to sport with some fancy pants I thrifted in Omaha a couple months back (I've been into dressy slacks lately and, overall, have been trying to class it up a couple notches).
I play dress up all the time with C, trying on new fits and unexpected combos from our overflowing dressers/closets. I own more pants than I've ever owned (maybe 15) so the permutations are truly endless.
Jan 22, 2024
Every Monday, me and a bunch of other Brooklyn degenerates congregate at The Gutter in Williamsburg to destroy some pins and drain some longnecks. I've been bowling at the Gutter for eight years now and most seasons we lost miserably, but now we're sort of good. Joining the league was a great way to meet people and I always look forward to league night, especially during tough or lonely periods. Plus, just about everyone is charmed when you tell them you're in a league.
I look like I work for IBM in the 90s in this pic but here I am with my high score (181).
Jan 22, 2024