With dystopian novels being so in vogue of late, here’s one that really hits the mark. Chain-Gang All-Stars (Vintage, 432 pp., $18), the debut novel from American writer Nana Kwame Adjei-Brenyah, was a finalist for the most recent National Book Award. It depicts a future where certain inmates of a highly industrialized private prison are given an option to join CAPE, the Criminal Action Penal Entertainment program, in which they become warriors fighting to the death with other enrollees for a chance at ultimately winning their freedom. The ensuing pay-for-view “content” is hugely popular with the masses and the most successful gladiators become renowned celebrities. Much of the story revolves around Loretta Thurwar aka Blood Mama and her chain-mate Hamara “Hurricane Staxxx” Stacker. Worshipped by their respective fans, the women are lovers, chain leaders, and ultimately rivals who team with an assorted array of colorful side characters. Adjei-Brenyah tackles thorny issues around race, incarceration, privatization of public services, rehabilitation vs. punishment, and what constitutes public entertainment. Some of his best writing is in his depictions of the gladiatorial scenes that put the reader all-too-close to the action, perhaps rendering us as inadvertent voyeurs.
At the start of Spanish writer Juan Gómez Bárcena’s ultimately rewarding Not Even the Dead, as translated by Katie Whittemore (Open Letter, 420 pp., $18.95), we find former conquistador Juan de Toñanes scratching out a living as an innkeeper in 16th-century Mexico when he is visited by emissaries of the Spanish crown. He is asked to track down a recalcitrant Indian, and while the journey is not quite Marlow’s search for Kurtz, what ensues is a centuries-long trek through a Mesoamerican heart of darkness every bit as harrowing as Joseph Conrad might have conjured. It’s a ceaseless journey farther and farther north with an elusive, ever-changing target across 500 years of Mexican history, right up to the present and across its northern border. And when, early on, our protagonist comes upon a human head in a birdcage, you know the spirit of Cormac McCarthy is ever-present.
Several long days of driving to and from the Upper Midwest to escape the late summer’s heat provided time to listen to the audiobook of National Book Award-winning author James McBride’s wonderful ode to his family’s roots, The Heaven & Earth Grocery Store (Riverhead Books, 400 pp., $28). The story takes place in 1930s Chicken Hill, a run-down section of Pottstown, Penn., inhabited primarily by Black, Jewish, and European immigrants who have lived side by side for decades. What starts out as a mystery when the remains of a body are found in a well turns into a heartfelt history of the community centered around the title’s namesake shop. Heaven & Earth is run by the immensely generous Chona Ludlow, modeled after McBride’s own grandmother who was also a shopkeeper in a similarly impoverished environment, and her immigrant, dance-hall-owning husband, Moshe. As the author had a Jewish mother and an African American father, his depiction of events and the large cast of vibrant, memorable characters rings true. Despite having to endure the racism, antisemitism, classism, and other prevalent day-to-day prejudices of the predominantly white Protestant community, McBride imbues Chicken Hill with the unspoken adage that living and working together respectfully and cooperatively is the best medicine to deal with life’s tribulations.
In the wake of shocking policy decisions targeting the LGBTQ+ community here in Texas, I was listening to a fascinating interview on NPR’s Fresh Air with a woman describing their experiences as an intersex person, having been born with both male and female sex characteristics. This prompted me to pick up Jeffrey Eugenides’ 2002 Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, Middlesex (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 544 pp., $21), which I had intended to read during the pandemic. Calliope (Callie) Stephanides has lived her entire life as a girl, if decidedly an outsider, only to discover in early adolescence that she also possesses male sexual traits, which will only become more pronounced as she ages. Rejecting sex reassignment surgery, Callie runs away from home, becoming Cal in the process, and ends up in San Francisco for a spell before returning home to deal with family tragedy. Her situation is the present tense of a three-generational family saga. Roughly the first half of the book traces Callie/Cal’s paternal grandparents’ escape from war-torn Greece to 1920s America, where they settle in the impending boomtown of Detroit and eventually raise a family. We come to understand that Callie/Cal’s condition results from a mutated, recessive genetic trait usually the result of incest. In addition to addressing gender identity issues head-on, Eugenides also incorporates significant touchstones of our country’s 20th-century sociopolitical milieu into the ensuing 20 years of this family’s history, perhaps to give context to their striving to attain a slice of the American dream. Twenty years after its publication, Middlesex remains a powerful, highly relevant, and riveting read.
Now, two highly enjoyable books from this past year set in Austin. Pulitzer Prize-winning writer Lawrence Wright serves up a hilarious and brilliantly satirical look at the Texas Legislature in Mr. Texas (Alfred A. Knopf, 336 pp., $29). When a naive West Texas rancher gets elected to the Lege with the help of a slimy lobbyist, we all get to view the workings that go on behind the curtain of our “pay-to-play” government. And, yes, it’s as corrupt as you would imagine. Chock-full of truly memorable Texas characters, this is a highly entertaining examination of ourselves.
Austin Noir, edited by Hopeton Hay, Scott Montgomery, and Molly Odintz (Akashic Books, 296 pp., $16.95), is a wide-ranging collection of crime fiction set in our fair city and written almost exclusively by locally based writers. Most memorable for me is Lee Thomas’ “Charles Bronson,” a chilling tale of revenge set in a deserted nook of the Rainey Street District. As a denizen of South Austin my sole and minor gripe is that this baker’s dozen of stories yields only one locale centered south of the river, a missed opportunity if ever there was one. Hopefully a Vol. 2 will rectify that oversight.
This article appears in December 29 • 2023.