Well, what do you know, it’s another episode of the Read Weird podcast! Join us every other week for a conversation about writing, reading, and teaching weird and experimental fiction.
For those interested in a more experimental read, this PowerPoint presentation allows readers to play 52-card pickup with this review by randomly selecting which segment they read next. (Macros must be enabled.)
- Jedediah Berry’s The Family Arcana is a gothic family drama told in playing cards, revealing the strange life of a sprawling, insular extended family one card at a time.
- In this family, siblings may be baked into pies or pickled.
- Some members arrive having been lured away from five-and-dime stores, while others disappear, never to return.
- Mother sleepwalks, father strokes his moustache.
- Uncles may be imposters, and aunts are not to be trusted, either.
- The most untrustworthy figures in this story, though, are the mysterious “bank people,” who are trying by whatever means possible to wrest the house from the family’s grip.
- The bank people seem to have limited success, however, as they’re much more likely to wind up entombed in a wall or buried in an unmarked grave out back.
- In this respect, the bank people add a curious, contradictory pressure to the story.
- Though the danger of losing the house is very real and immediate–it’s suggested the family will die if they are forced to leave–this threat is also strangely defused by the ease with which the family seem to thwart the bank people’s attempts.
- Though this is not a world without consequences, the repercussions of an action are never quite what you might expect.
- In another story, it might be easy to fault a lack of tension, or a sense of indirect cause-and-effect, but in The Family Arcana, atmosphere is paramount to plot.
- There’s so much to love about the rich world this family inhabits, from one sister’s prophetic dances to the dead whispering secrets from within the walls.
- This is a realm I’d love to explore further, though as an interloper, I have to admit I might not make it out alive.
- Berry’s vignettes are little masterpieces, as well, executing maneuvers that are by turns tender and surreal.
- In the course of a paragraph, he’ll reel from the commonplace to the fantastic, slipping in unsettling touches with the lightest of hands.
- Lists are one of Berry’s most effective tools, allowing him to slide in surprising details here and there while remaining grounded in the quotidian rhythms of daily family life.
- Though Berry is deft at building the nuance of these vignettes, this is not to suggest that The Family Arcana is at all tentative in its strangeness.
- This story does not just relish in the odd and unexpected, it takes it for granted.
- Indeed, familiarity plays a significant part in the strangeness of The Family Arcana.
- These are characters who know each other so well they don’t have to explain, and their intimacy leaves the reader, inevitably an outsider, deliciously at a loss.
- Their off-handed manner, the acceptance with which they mention their outlandish family practices, creates a pleasant confusion, unsettling the world of the story even more.
- The family’s house is a place where everything strange is accepted and allowed to thrive.
- Marvelously, the same is true of Berry’s story, which opens up and grows richer the weirder it gets.
- However, it does seem at times that the story is more successful as a set of atmospheric vignettes than it is as a conventional narrative or a formal experiment.
- When I first read The Family Arcana, I read it straight through as it’d been packed in the box.
- Though the story in this order hardly had what might be called a climax or a resolution, it had (it seemed to me) a pleasant momentum, slowly introducing this unusual family and turning up the heat on their strange predicament.
- On subsequent readings, once I’d shuffled the deck, the fragments seemed much less clearly related to one another.
- There might be little runs of meaning reading the story this way–small resonances from one card to the next–but on the whole the vignettes didn’t seem to connect in the way they had in that first reading.
- Overall, subsequent readings left me with the feeling that I was experiencing a sequential story out of order, rather than a story that could truly be read in any order at all.
- That said, I found myself fascinated by the affordances of this medium of storytelling.
- When I read the story by playing a game of solitaire, I was both delighted and frustrated to find parts of the piece remained inaccessable because I was playing an unwinnable hand.
- I’d be very curious to know what this story would be like experienced as a game of bridge, or poker, or twenty-one.
- (For those interested in the idea of playing the story, a supplementary pack is also available for purchase, which includes instructions for a trick-taking game, recipes, and other treasures from the world of the story.)
- But perhaps the most extraordinary aspect of The Family Arcana‘s formal conceit is the multiplicity of versions it presents.
- Like any deck of 52 playing cards, The Family Arcana has roughly 80 quintillion possible permutations.
- In other words, there are more ways to arrange this story than there are atoms on earth.
- This means that if you read a version of this story dealt from a well-shuffled deck, you’re likely reading a version that no one has ever read before, and even if everyone on earth continued to reread it for millions of years, there’s a good chance that no one would ever encounter that exact permutation again.
- In this respect, The Family Arcana recalls Raymond Quenau’s Cent Mille Milliards de Poèms, a book of ten sonnets published in strips so that each line can be recombined with every other line, producing 1014 possible poems.
- This is a truly staggering number of versions of this story.
- As wonderful as the piece is in its own right, the stunning mathematical complexity of this conceit almost eclipses anything else that could possibly be said.
- I couldn’t help feeling, however, that the form of The Family Arcana, though exceptional, felt a bit removed from the subject matter of the story itself.
- Unlike Mary Morris’s “The Cross Word,” which integrates the form of the crossword puzzle self-consciously into the telling of the story, or Jennifer Egan’s “Black Box,” which leverages its medium in the narration of the piece, the form of The Family Arcana seems to hover just slightly above its content.
- Though there are little glimmers of resonance (a magician neighbor, a wonderful deck of cards produced by an uncle), overall I wasn’t sure I understood what the story’s form had to do with its content, beyond its novelty.
- Ultimately, though I thoroughly enjoyed The Family Arcana, I don’t think I was perfectly satisfied by it.
- If found myself longing for a story written in this medium that truly capitalized on its form.
- How could a story-in-playing-cards enrich and complicate the incredible potential contained in a humble deck of 52 cards?
- How could this form be leveraged to explore the knowledge that any text is different every time we pick it up?
- What might that story look like?
- I don’t know, but I’m delighted by the possibility.
- I admire Jedediah Berry’s ambition, too.
- Even though I felt that The Family Arcana didn’t fully realize its promise, it’s a thoroughly delightful piece.
- I look forward to revisiting the world of The Family Arcana again and again, and finding something subtly different every time.
Hi everyone! Don’t forget our April Weird Book Club discussion of Helen Oyeyemi’s What Is Not Yours Is Not Yours begins in a little over half an hour, at 1 PM EDT over on Goodreads.
Come prepared to discuss with your thoughts, questions, and critiques. We can’t wait to hear what you think!
See you there!
To get you in the mood for this weekend’s Weird Book Club discussion about Helen Oyeyemi’s What Is Not Yours Is Not Yours, here are some relevant odds and ends for your enjoyment.
In her review of What Is Not Yours Is Not Yours in the New York Times, Laura Van Den Berg calls the collection “a cabinet of wonders,” and says, “Oyeyemi so expertly melds the everyday, the fantastic, and the eternal, we have to ask if the line between ‘real’ and ‘unreal’ is murkier than we imagined — or to what extent a line exists at all.”
Nor is it just the world on the page that seems to be half-enchanted. In this interview in Vice, Oyeyemi’s comments suggest that the small strangenesses of ordinary life make the barrier between the real and the unreal seem just as permeable as it is in fairy tales. Lines remembered from novels can disappear on rereading and objects like keys (which crop up again and again as symbols in What Is Not Yours . . .) are only “supposedly inanimate.”
In the same interview, Oyeyemi also talks about the politics of representation, as well as her writing process, admitting, “I think slowly, but I write fast.” If you’d like to get more of a sense of Oyeyemi’s sensibilities as a writer and reviser, this writing playlist she put together for Granta is well worth checking out.
Hopefully this has got you excited about talking about What Is Not Yours Is Not Yours. Be sure to join us on goodreads this Saturday at 1 PM EDT for our inaugural Weird Book Club discussion!
To finish out our weekend at AWP, we make our way to the museum, which is in Culver City around the corner from a surprisingly unassuming, corporate-looking Sony Studios lot. We leave the sun and heat and enter the eye-straining gloom of the museum. In the dark I find myself bowing down to read the peeling placards—pale text on black backgrounds—leaning so close my eyes hurt. The first exhibit I see is a glass box bearing a sign that reads, “Exhibit out of order.”
In the display case box are five glass dishes, each filled with a powder and labeled with numbers 1 through 5. Beneath the box is a legend: each number, it seems, correlates to a word.
One of the five glass dishes is smashed, glass dish number 5.
Lean closer, and you’ll see that number 5 is labeled “Reason.”
And so begins the immersive experience that is the Museum of Jurassic Technology, a world filled with the inescapable allure of the illogical and haunting sounds that pull you from room to room.
In a way, the Museum draws our attention to the experience of living in fiction. Is the exhibit with glass dishes truly out of order, or am I meant to interpret it as a symbol, a warning, that this is a place where reason is to be left at the door?
The magic of the Museum of Jurassic Technology is that its exhibits function like good fiction, perhaps even especially like good fairytales or well-done flash fiction. The placards present self-contained worlds; at the same time, we are invited to follow the narrative as it spirals beyond the displays in front of us, to consider implications and the logic of what remains unsaid.
Take, for instance, another display: in this glass case, there is a model bed, tiny and disheveled.
The caption reads: “A woman after childbirth is the most dangerous thing on earth. All sorts of uncanny things are around the mother and infant, and if she goes to a river to wash, the fish will go away.”
I found myself agreeing with this caption: yes, this conveys a certain truth. A woman after childbirth is a strange and dangerous thing; in giving birth, she has, as Maggie Nelson says, “touched death along the way.” It is no wonder that a person who has experienced such an uncanny thing could be said to drive the fish away.
The caption’s turn to the river is an unexpected turn, but one that feels natural. It’s an example of Kate Bernheimer’s “just-so stories”: because of the way the description is written, we as readers believe (we want to believe) that the events of the caption happened exactly as we’ve been told. That is, a woman has a child; a woman after childbirth is an uncanny thing; the uncanny woman thing drives the fish away.
Beyond telling a fiction (or is it?) in which we might recognize an aspect of human experience, this caption calls beyond itself and invites the visitor to contemplate the exhibit’s implications. For instance, for how long will a new mother keep the fish away? Is our uncanny woman supernatural in nature, able to pollute the river and banish the fish forever? Is it possible that the woman is simply a particularly aggressive bather, and her splashing scared the fish away?
Put aside the caption; consider again the stark display of the empty, unmade bed. Now we’re left wondering: for how long has our uncanny mother been gone?
Read Weird’s inaugural Weird Book Club will take place Saturday, May 7, at 1 PM EDT. We’ll be discussing Helen Oyeyemi’s short story collection What Is Not Yours Is Not Yours over on our newly minted Goodreads book club.
Join Weird Book Club on Goodreads to join the discussion, find out what else we’re reading right now, and weigh in on future book club picks!
We’re looking forward to reading weird with you on May 7th! Come prepared to discuss with your thoughts, questions, and critiques. Have a topic you’d like to see covered in our discussion? Tweet it to us @readingweird using the hashtag #weirdbookclub.
Unreality was the name of our game last weekend at AWP in LA. On the last full day of the conference, Carlea and I attended two panels concerned with the “unreal,” what some might call “weird.”
The first panel, “In the Realms of the Real and the Unreal,” featured panelists Sofia Samatar, Kelly Link, Carmen Machado, and Alice Sola Kim, moderated by Katharine Beutner. This panel addressed a question we as readers and writers of weird fiction likely often encounter: what exactly is weird fiction? Readers and writers of any genre are likely familiar with this question and the difficulty of establishing what, exactly, weird fiction is. What is this thing? Can we even pin it down? How does it work? What are its rules?
In response to this impulse to define and name, moderator Katharine Beutner asked Sofia Samatar about her belief that her “favorite sub-genre is both over-named and nameless, but it still believes in the power of names.” When we talk about weird fiction, what do we mean? The weird? Slipstream? Literary fantasy? Interstitial? Sci-fi, speculative, absurd? The list is endless, and this is what Samatar is getting at when she points to the abundance of names for this particular genre. The impulse to categorize fiction is indisputable, but as Sofia Samatar said on Saturday, “defining stories piece by piece might be making us dumber.”
The question of definition will likely be one that we at Read Weird will take up sooner or later, but putting aside the question of definition allowed the aforementioned panelists to productively discuss how to make speculative/unreal fiction successful. For Kelly Link, weird fiction works through the language, in the way its pattern, repetition, and code resemble music, and the way in which the “musicality or stasis of a story moves a reader through a series of emotional responses.” Samatar, too, focused on language, saying that the “strangeness of fiction returns language to itself.”
Ultimately, the panel turned to a discussion of the underpinning ideas of unreal fiction, and these underpinnings align remarkably across genres: writing is play, there’s beauty in precision and pattern and rhythm, but also in having our expectations upended. I’d be surprised if we couldn’t all agree that these are the reasons we keep reading and writing, regardless of our respective pet genres.
So then, as moderator Rob Spillman asked at the final panel of the day (“Speculative Fiction: Defining the Rules of a Rule-Breaking Genre,” featuring Ramona Ausubel, Marie-Helene Bertino, Manuel Gonzales, and Aimee Bender): what is at the emotional core of why not hyperreal? Why pursue genres that make any use of the unreal?
This question, though it contains interesting theoretical implications, seemed to elicit emotional responses. The panelists each offered their own beautiful and telling insights: responses included the ideas that the “magical feels so much cleaner than the real world,” and that it’s “boring for writers to tackle the realist stuff”; Bertino also told of needing to defend the weirdness in her stories, that “that’s just what it’s like inside [her] head.”
It seems like certain types of readers and writers have an affinity for weird genres, that for one reason or another, weird fiction can do something, scratch some itch, in a way that realistic fiction cannot. Weird stories, the “Speculative Fiction” panelists decided, can make simultaneous use of literal and metaphorical readings; speculative fiction is not weird simply for the sake of being weird, but rather that weirdness allows readers and writers to access a fragile, emotional core at the heart of an experience.
Read Weird was at AWP in Los Angeles this past weekend, and it should surprise no one that we sought out panels and readings that focused on speculative, interstitial, and experimental writing. This week, we’re reflecting on some of our experiences at the conference.
On Friday evening, the Penguin Random House Speakers Bureau hosted a reading by Kelly Link, Emily St. John Mandel, and Ruth Ozeki, followed by a conversation moderated by L.A. Times book editor Carolyn Kellog. There was a lot to like in the readings–Ozeki and St. John Mandel both read excerpts from their latest books, and Link took requests for readings from a series of zodiac-inspired flash stories.
During the Q&A, one of the topics that came up was fiction that crosses genre boundaries. In particular, it was suggested that works that blur the lines between genres are having something of a moment right now. St. John Mandel observed that her first novel, Last Night in Montreal, struggled somewhat to find an audience because it was difficult to categorize, while her most recent novel, Station Eleven, didn’t face the same fate , despite being equally (if not even more) genre-bending.
This feeling that it’s a good time for genre fiction is one St. John Mandel has expressed before–for instance, in a conversation with Laura Van Den Berg over at FSG’s Work in Progress. Nor is she the only one making this argument. Earlier this year, David Mitchell called disregarding works based on genre “a bizarre act of self-harm” in an interview in Salon, and at the end of last year, Lincoln Michel declared in VICE that “2015 Was The Year the Literary Versus Genre War Ended.”
So, is it really an especially good time for hybrid and interstitial fiction? Are genres over? Can we all go home now?
I’m not quite sure our evolving attitudes toward genre exactly follow the narrative of progress many commentators seem keen to ascribe to them. It’s certainly fair to say there’s been no dearth of excellent, difficult-to-categorize fiction coming out in recent years–and, perhaps significantly, coming out from major publishers and receiving mainstream recognition. But arguing that the distinctions between genres are no longer valid seems to miss one crucial point–they were never really valid in the first place.
That membrane people like to believe exists between “genre” and “literary” fiction has always been more permeable than anyone likes to admit. As Lev Grossman put it in the Wall Street Journal several years ago,
“There was a time when adults read fantasy with impunity. The classical literature of Greece and Rome is so fantastical that you can’t swing a cat without hitting a god or a witch or a centaur, and chances are the cat will turn out to be somebody’s long-lost son-in-law in transfigured form.”
In other words, it’s not that publishing is more receptive to weird, unclassifiable fiction these days. There’s always been a place for writers interested in the bizarre and difficult-to-pin-down, even in the mainstream. If readers and big-name publishers are paying more attention than usual to those voices, all the better, but they’ve always been part of the conversation.
Now introducing Read Weird’s Weird Book Club! At the beginning of each month, we’ll announce our book club pick. At the end of the month, we’ll check in with discussions, reviews, and the like.
We’re pleased to announce that April’s Weird Book Club book will be What Is Not Yours Is Not Yours by Helen Oyeyemi! Join us towards the end of the month for our discussion of this work!