Literary Arts

by Samantha Neugebauer

This article was originally published in DCTRENDING, here.

D.C. readers gathered inside Sidwell Friends School’s oak-paneled meeting room, last month, to hear author Zadie Smith read from her latest novel, The Fraud. In his welcome address, Brad Graham, co-owner of Politics and Prose, joked that the crowd was a “well-behaved” group – neither an officious ringtone nor a whispery side conversation punctured the moments proceeding Smith’s entrance. But the audience’s attentiveness was unsurprising, given the acclaimed novelist and essayist’s unique position in today’s literary pantheon. 

On the one hand, Smith continues to represent what’s ‘new’ in Anglosphere publishing, i.e., hers is the work of a biracial writer with working-class roots and a Cambridge education. On the other hand, Smith has staked herself in with the ‘old’ guard of novelists and readers who cling to the battered ideals of creative imagination and “interpersonal voyeurism,” best expressed in her 2019 The New York Review of Books essay “Fascinated to Presume: In Defense of Fiction.” Consequently, Smith has become somewhat of a role model for readers who are tired of being treated like children who cannot understand complexity. Fans nod their heads in affirmation when Smith insists (as she often does) that adults can hold multiple ideas simultaneously. At the same time, Smith lives within the Republic of Letters, she is not above questioning fiction’s raison d’etre. Altogether, her intelligent prose, personal/professional humility, restless curiosity,  and measured communication style make her our most trustworthy literary stateswoman today. 

Smith began that evening by reading three chapters from The Fraud, a historical novel set in Victorian England and Jamaica. Stylistically, The Fraud’s chapters are short in keeping with the serialized writing style of the Victorian era that Smith wanted to emulate. The book centers around the Tichborne case, a real, bizarre legal battle involving ‘the Claimant,’ a cockney-speaking butcher from Australia professing to be Sir Roger Tichborne, the would-be inheritor of a large fortune and title, and Andrew Bogel, a servant of the Tichbornes and formerly enslaved person from a Jamaican plantation, who supports the Claimant. The trail enthralled and divided English society in the 1860s and 1870s (think of how the O.J. trial gripped America in the 1990s). The enthralled includes Eliza Touchet, a well-read Scottish housekeeper and cousin-by-marriage of the novelist William Ainsworth, and Sarah, Ainsworth’s young, lower-class wife and Claimant supporter. 

Eliza, though a real person, is the quintessential Smith protagonist. In Smith’s rendering, Eliza is thoughtful, observant, funny, and more curious than condemnatory of bad behavior: “As much as Eliza hated awful people, she also could never resist them.” This line recalls the narrator of Smith’s 2018 story “Now More than Ever,” who confesses, “I instinctively sympathize with the guilty. That’s my guilty secret.” While sympathy and fascination aren’t exactly synonyms, it’s hard to tell the two apart with Eliza. For instance, when attending a pro-Claimant event, Eliza is fascinated by Sarah’s reception amongst other supporters, who Eliza describes as “farmers and hod-carriers and men with faces black with soot…[and] women with no respectable for whom she knew names…also clerks and schoolteachers, dissenters of all stripes…” Amongst them, Eliza admits, “It was almost touching to see the new Mrs. Ainsworth is so despised, so welcomed in her conversation and opinions, and so much a fount of knowledge.” The scene, and others like it, hold obvious echoes of the many pieces written by liberal journalists entering a Trump rally or red-state diner to talk with his supporters. Subtly, readers are asked to examine where our own fascination and sympathy meet and end. 

Yet, our Trump-esque Claimant is only one fraud among many. In her discussion with moderator Dolen Perkins-Valdez, Smith revealed the fraud of the title is, in fact, “the relationship between England and Jamaica.” Smith insisted that fraudulent people always exist: “That’s just how people behave.” She is most interested in the mass deceptions made by nation-states and by those who write history. She recalled how she was taught all about the American slave trade during her schooling in England but nothing about the English slave trade in Jamaica. In part, The Fraud was written “to rescue that history” and to find answers to the question, “How do enormous injustices end?” In her research for the novel, Smith discovered that by obscuring this history, a “double silence” or a “double loss” occurred; the first being, of course, the loss of the history of British slavery, and the second being the loss of the collective, cross-cultural opposition to it. 

When Perkins-Valdez asked Smith about the difference between “British amnesia and American amnesia” regarding history, Smith claimed –and in doing so, seemed to ruffle some feathers in the room – that “American amnesia” was not nearly as bad as that of the British. The comment brought to mind a similar exchange between Smith and Keli Goff at the NYU Washington, DC Salon Series in 2016. Groff had asked Smith why “serious writing in America” was still perceived as predominantly white and male, and Smith responded by saying that “in America, she didn’t actually see it that way…on the book side (not within publishing housing), it is pretty diverse…while in England, it is a different matter. In England, Black writing is struggling still.” There are, Smith continues, Black, upper-class diaspora writers in England, but there aren’t many Black British working-class writers. 

The Fraud is also a book about the fraudulence and indulgences of novelists. Charles Dickens, George Eliot, and William Thackeray, among others, make appearances. Also, Eliza (“a woman always partly phantasmagoric”) yearns to be a novelist. These ghosts of novelists-past provide some of the most humorous and hypocritical moments in the book: “I do not mean to dampen this jolly occasion, said Thackeray, immediately doing so…” They also provide criticisms that cut through their time into today: “What we foolishly call ‘the literary scene’  – a vulgar, ludicrous phrase to begin with – is really just ‘butter me and I’ll butter you,’ in the name of friendship’” (also Thackeray). 

The literary scene, or rather how to enter it, came up during the evening’s Q&A as well. In a voice churning with hope and self-deprecation, a young writer mentioned that she was now older than Smith was when she’d published her first novel at 25, and essentially, what could she do about that? Could she still make it? Is there still time? Smith, for her part, seemed to know where the question was headed as soon as the woman started, and she answered by saying that she “hates to think she was a depressing fact in young people’s lives.” There are, she insisted, many examples of great writers who started publishing later. Toni Morrison and Tessa Hadley come to mind. 

The Fraud, too, features novelists rising, falling, and getting started at different points in their lifetimes and posthumously. During the 1800s, for instance, William Ainsworth’s Jack Sheppard outsold Oliver Twist, but who (except Smith) has Jack Sheppard on their shelf today? Or any of Ainsworth’s other forty novels, all successful at their time? None of this is very reassuring, perhaps, for those who seek posterity. Present time itself might be the greatest fraud of all, The Fraud tells us. Some of us ask too much of it, and others not enough. We’re obsessed with the present, we’re dismayed by the present, and yet, we feel superior over the past’s people without really knowing them. By extending her signature compassion backward to some of the past’s people, Smith and The Fraud may very well live into the future and compel readers to think beyond this present moment, too. 

by Haley Huchler

This article was originally published in Washington Independent Review of Books, here.

“Mary Lasker had never looked through a microscope, performed surgery, or spoken from the floor of the Capitol,” writes Judith L. Pearson. “She simply had an unbridled belief in possibility.” Crusade to Heal America: The Remarkable Life of Mary Lasker Pearson illuminates the accomplishments of her subject, a woman who arguably did more than any other individual to improve the health of Americans throughout the 20th century. The main source material for the book is an oral history Lasker gave to Columbia University in 1962, recording it on the condition that it not be made public until after her death. Pearson uses Lasker’s words to great effect in this artfully crafted biography.

The daughter of an Irish immigrant and a Midwestern banker, Mary Woodard grew up in Watertown, Wisconsin. While a student at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, she fell ill with the Spanish flu, one in a long line of childhood illnesses she endured. These early experiences with sickness fueled her lifelong interest in medical research.

After recovering, Mary headed east to pursue her passion for art at Radcliffe College, the only school then offering a major in art history. She soon wound up working at a gallery in New York City. It was there she met her first husband, and together they enjoyed a lavish life of art collecting and international travel until the stock-market crash of 1929 destroyed everything, including their relationship. It was her second marriage, to Albert Lasker, that would spark her crusade into public health. (Although Mary is the heroine of this story, Albert was a devoted and passionate partner in her efforts. His death from colon cancer in 1952 only heightened her dedication to the cause.)

The Laskers were a well-connected pair. Albert, from his sickbed, received hand-painted get-well cards from Henri Matisse and Salvador Dali; Mary attended balls with Britain’s royal family and Winston Churchill on the eve of the Second World War. With their money and connections, they held the world in the palm of their hands. But what they most wanted to do with their considerable resources was improve the health and longevity of fellow Americans.

The couple’s interest in campaigning for a cause formed early in their marriage. The Laskers spent their honeymoon at the Democratic and Republican national conventions, and they later became involved in supporting the Birth Control Federation of America (it was Albert who suggested it be renamed Planned Parenthood). In December 1942, the pair founded the Albert and Mary Lasker Foundation to promote better health through education and research. A decade later, after Albert’s death, Mary persisted in the effort, rallying for more dollars to be spent on heart disease and cancer research each year.

Pearson’s clear and concise writing serves the narrative well. Her attention to detail is stunning, with reconstructed conversations so intimate, you might wonder if she was a fly on the wall at Mary’s meetings with President Eisenhower or lunches with Lady Bird Johnson. While the second half of the book gets mildly bogged down with the minutiae surrounding various bills and partisan debates, it does offer important insight into the difficulties of making large, meaningful changes via public policy. Despite working toward a goal almost everyone supported — fewer deaths from disease — Mary faced immense challenges as she proceeded through the ungreased gears of Congress.

There’s no single resounding moment in the story when she finally achieves all she ever dreamed of. Rather, there’s an accumulation of tiny shifts — which she helped create — that spurred real change. Today, Americans are much more likely to recover from major illnesses like cancer and heart disease than they were 70 years ago. After reading this eye-opening account of Mary Lasker’s life, you’ll know whom they should thank.

By Thais Carrion

This article was originally published in Washington Independent Review of Books here.

Sandra Worth’s most recent novel, Tomorrow We Will Know, is an epic situated during the fall of Imperial Constantinople and told through the romance between Emperor Constantine and Zoe, the daughter of his grand duke. Navigating this tumultuous period and the personal stories of three main characters, Worth weaves a riveting tapestry of the love that drove the actions at the heart of Constantinople’s fall. The familiar tale of the cowardice at the root of the city’s end is turned here into one of intense bravery and emotion that considers the humanity behind the events that took place. 

Tomorrow We Will Know unfolds in a rapidly changing Constantinople. What inspired you to turn your attention to this time and place?

I first became intrigued by Constantinople when I read mention of the mysterious light phenomena that had plagued the city in the last days of its existence — phenomena that still baffle modern scientists. All I knew then about the ancient city was that it had been the seat of the Roman Empire for 1,100 years and was all that remained of that great civilization when it fell. Years later, I came across another mention of Constantinople, and an image of fire, death, and crumbling walls flashed into my mind. I began to read about the period, and the more I read, the more engaged I became. 

The novel explores these events through the lens of a love triangle between Zoe, Constantine, and Justiniani. How did you develop their stories? And were there any characters that you found especially intriguing to write about?

All my novels are set in wartime and driven by the love story, because war is dark, and love is the only light. Sometimes, the love story is writ large in the historical record, but sometimes it’s buried, as it was with Constantinople. The picture that emerged — the love triangle — surprised even me. 

Emperor Constantine’s story is a matter of record. When he wept for his people, his ministers witnessed his tears. We know his character and his hopes and dreams. We know he was a man of great courage who refused to flee his country, though his ministers begged him to leave. Into this dangerous world hovering on the edge of extinction came brave, dashing, princely Justiniani for the noblest of reasons. He was closer to Zoe’s age than Emperor Constantine. It was a time of crisis. Did he fall in love with her? How did Zoe feel about him? 

I modeled Zoe’s character on what was known of her in Venice. She had a good heart, was generous, resourceful, and of high intellect, with a literary bent. I found nothing to indicate a relationship of any kind between her and Justiniani, but that is not surprising. Affairs of the heart were more likely to fuel gossip than record-keeping. 

You ask about an especially intriguing character, and that has to be Justiniani. Constantinople was expected to fall within days to the Ottomans, but Justiniani changed that. Thanks to his courage, charisma, and military brilliance, 5,000 men withstood 150,000 enemies for seven weeks and nearly won an unwinnable war. Yet Justiniani abandoned his post just as the sultan was about to call the final retreat and Constantinople was about to win the war.

How did you tackle narrowing down the scope of this story? 

As significant, momentous, and far-reaching as time has proved this historical event to be, the people in this extraordinary tale are what I focused on. History offers a stunning backdrop to the story, but it is the human heart and the resilience of the human spirit that I find awe-inspiring. Turkey won. They went on to win for a very long time. It took Europe 125 years after the fall of Constantinople to win its first victory against the Ottomans. It took Europe another 125 years to finally liberate itself from the threat of annihilation. Only Justiniani and a few brave Italians answered the emperor’s call for help. My book salutes their valor.

Your novel intertwines fiction with real events. How do you navigate the line between staying true to historical events and incorporating imaginative elements to engage readers?

Historical accuracy is always paramount for me because my readers expect it. Sometimes, there are conflicts in the historical accounts, and I’m obliged to choose which to follow. But when I have to fill empty spaces, I always strive to connect the dots between the events as plausibly as I can because I’m searching for the way it really happened. In the case of Constantinople, there weren’t any blank historical spaces to fill that I can recall. Except for Justiniani’s motivation at the end, we know from the diaries and writings of the many survivors precisely what happened. Only romance left wide blank spaces free for my imagination. 

More relevant to storytelling is the need to keep the reader engaged by creating drama. I didn’t find that difficult here. Those who came before us lived with an appalling amount of drama in their lives. How they dealt with it and kept going when we ourselves might have given up is what keeps me enthralled. It all comes down to the resilience of the human spirit. They may have won the battle and lost the war, but even across the ages, their deeds blaze with light and warm the heart. They deserve to be celebrated. Even 600 years later, they have something to teach us. We can learn from their fortitude when we face our own battles in our modern life.

By Samantha Neugebauer

This article was originally published in DCTRENDING here.

Stacey Abrams spoke to a packed house at Sixth & I, last week, about her new legal thriller, Rogue Justice; the follow-up to 2021’s While Justice Sleeps. While most folks know Abrams for her time serving in the Georgia House of Representatives as a voting rights activist, and her two Georgia gubernatorial runs, others are drawn to her work as a fiction writer. Abram’s discussion with moderator, Tiffany Cross, comprised not just her writing process, the nation’s current state of division and AI, but also the intricate intertwining of her political and writing careers. 

Prior to 2021, Abrams released eight romance novels under the nom de plume, Selena Montgomery. When questioned about potential concerns regarding her political career due to publishing romance novels, Abrams elaborated on the the merits of the romance novel genre and the skillful artistry required of a writer to engage readers throughout the narrative. She takes pride in her novels, and emphasized to the audience that criticizing popular works like romance novels essentially belittles those who genuinely enjoy them. The idea of refraining from demeaning and villifying others unexpectedly became the central theme of the night.

Moreover, Abrams shared how her motivation to write, and to be politically active spring from the same desire to connect with people. In both realms, she expressed, “Be curious. Solve problems. Do Good.”  When it comes to writing, doing good doesn’t necessarily imply that the characters always end up as angels. Abrams likes to create characters who embody the intersection of circumstances and the potential for various future pathways. Abrams appreciates that her character’s are willing to make morally upright choices.

In both writing and politics, she contemplates the unasked questions considering the issues that may not be apparent like our environment and judicial system, AI, and our fellow citizens whom might disagree on a fundamental level. In a country as divided as ours, Abrams stressed that we need to remind ourselves that our villains and our heroes are complicated — just like the ones in her books. At one point, Cross asked Abrams if she thought we live in a country with a majority of good people. Abrams responded that she could be having a great conversation with an individual, only to reach a “moment of departure” when the topic shifts to politics and it’s apparent they have different worldviews. However, she assured us that such differences in perspectives doesn’t mean we can’t find common ground. We should collaborate where we can despite our differences in motivations. We need not compromise our values, only our vision, because it’s not always feasible to get all we want simultaneously.

Later in the discussion, Abrams underscored the need for AI regulation — “We need rules,” she stated. She touched upon her love of biographies and urged aspiring writers to read more in this genre in order to learn how people make choices. Throughout the entire program, Abrams had the crowd in stitches. What’s more Abrams, it appears, is gifted with equal measures of grace, intelligence, and humor.

By Thais Carrion

This article was originally published in the Washington Independent Review of Books here.

In his forthcoming collection, Inquilinos Mudos/Silent Tenants, Mexican poet, multimedia artist, and professor Alberto Roblest celebrates the power of being bilingual. Divided into two sections comprising 19 poems printed in English and Spanish, the work takes readers on an exploration of the richness of language, playing with form and word choice to create vivid scenes that evoke a range of emotions. Taken as a whole, the collection is a love letter to the trials and triumphs of expressing oneself through multiple tongues.

Themes of migration, colonialism, and history are central to this collection. How did writing in both English and Spanish help you explore them more deeply?

One of the central themes of the book is language and people who learn another language. In “Silent Tenants,” language is perhaps the main protagonist of the collection; of course, it touches on themes that have to do with migration, but also with love, music, friendship, and learning. When one can carry [on] a conversation with another person for, say, 15 minutes, it’s a very big achievement. You can feel it. I can tell you from personal experience. Speaking the official language makes one feel more secure, regardless of skin color, accent, manners, clothing, etc.

“Silent Tenants” is essentially about my neighbors in Columbia Heights, from their life experiences, from their difficulties to continue working two shifts in order to pay the rent, but also from their pleasure in learning another language, having other friends, non-Latinos, talking with co-workers, etc. In general, the success of being bilingual. Some poems are based on real people, like the one titled “Clara.” This poem is about a woman I met at a language school where I worked teaching Spanish. She was learning English and worked for a cleaning company specializing in movie theaters, arenas, and other entertainment venues.

What was it like to explore these themes in two languages? And what does literature in translation mean to you?

It’s always good to have your book translated since it addresses two audiences and more readers. Maritza Rivera, the English translator, did an excellent job. She took great care to find the right words that preserve the original meaning of the poems. When a translator manages that, it is of great benefit to the book. As for the writing, sometimes I think the poems in Spanish, and other times in English. I like to go to the National Gallery of Art to have coffee, surround myself with artistic pieces, and read. Washington is a privileged place in that sense, where the museums are free and so many places exist where you can read and be inspired.

When it comes to creative expression, how does working in video or digital media compare to writing?

I started writing at a young age — I would have been about 10 years old or so — inspired by a magnificent literature teacher. My mother wanted me to be a doctor or an architect, so I wrote all my life in secret. I did not share my poetry for fear of being branded corny, cheesy, and ridiculous. Many of my early poems have been lost to time. I didn’t publish anything until I was 19, when I was about to enter university. What I want to say is that I define myself as a poet. Video semantics [are] just an additional tool. I make use of video tools. With them, I “write” poetry. I do the same with the art installations I’ve created, and many of my digital prints are conceived or designed as poetry. That is to say, I consider them poems rather than collages, digital paintings, montages, or installations.

You experiment with form throughout this collection. When writing poems, does thinking in terms of form complicate or enhance the process?

I like experimentation. It’s like playing. Particularly, I think you must have fun while performing the creative act. I experiment not only with form, but also with content. I get bored doing the same thing all the time. I [lose] interest, and after a while, I don’t like it anymore. So, I vary my approach a bit. Obviously, making a video takes more time. Sometimes, there’s a long preparation process; sometimes, it involves a team, etc. The good thing about poetry is that it remains such an intimate act that it can be written anywhere, even on the subway, on the way from home to work. While many people are immersed in their phones, I am immersed in my poems. I put them on old-fashioned paper, with an old pencil, in a small notebook that I keep in my jacket pocket. I believe that poetry itself is an act of experimentation with the word and nothing more.

Are you thinking about the visual component of a poem — and how it might impact the reader — when experimenting with form?

I like visual poetry. I am not very given to esoteric, metaphysical, or symbolic poetry. I prefer the poetry that is written about the events that happen around me — the poetry that feeds on reality to become a sign or a metaphor. I do not think that the experimental form is inconvenient for reading; if the language and the meaning of the poem serve their purpose, it can be as experimental as a Dada poem.

Reviewed by Samantha Neugebauer

This article was originally published in The Washington Independent Review of Books here.

One of my earliest memories is of driving down Roosevelt Boulevard with my grandmother. This was in Northeast Philadelphia in the early ‘90s, a time when that road was an ocean of colossal oaks. It was autumn. The light was golden. My grandma steered her boat-like Chrysler New Yorker carefully with both hands, and by some trick of the light, the enormous oak-leaf shadows raced through the car, painting themselves on the dash, our arms, pants, and her honey-brown leather seats.

I can still see those shadows fleeing from us, like shooting stars, over our heads and out the back window. How was it trees could be so magisterial yet so playful?

When we’re small, people say, things seem bigger than they are. That’s normally true, but these trees really were giants. Even the adults said so. Or maybe trees just turn grownups into kids again. Young or old, we all have our tree stories. There are birches we’ve loved and lost. Poplars we look forward to seeing like they’re old friends. We walk down one street instead of another because of its weeping willows. We choose the smaller apartment with a Japanese maple out front over the larger unit without one. We survey stark city blocks or box-store stretches and think, “This would be so much nicer with some trees.”

For all these reasons, Katie Holten’s The Language of Trees (an expansion of her 2015 book, About Trees) is a joy. Holten, an Irish artist and environmental activist, has invented “a new ABC” for us, a tree alphabet, by taking each of the 26 letters of the Latin alphabet and creating a corresponding arboreal illustration. S, for example, is a sycamore, H a horse chestnut, P a pine, etc. Her tree glyphs are careful, calming little portraits; they come in uppercase and lowercase. On the page, they appear dark green, almost black. None are larger than my thumb.

The Language of Trees is a compendium of parallel texts, with English on one side and Holten’s tree language on the other. The collection features more than 50 contributors from around the world comprising various perspectives and disciplines. There are personal essays, poetry, scientific accounts, testimonials, creation myths, warnings, and even recipes. Did you know the U.S. Constitution was written with oak gall ink? Whether you did or not, Rachael Hawkwind shares how to make your own tree ink. There’s also a recipe for acorn bread, which you should eat so that “the wisdom of the oak [can] reside in your body,” explains Lucy O’Hagan.

Exceptions to the book’s parallel structure occur via scattered quotes by the likes of Ursula K. Le Guin, Jorge Luis Borges, and Zadie Smith; lyrics from Radiohead (“Fake Plastic Trees”); diary entries from Irene Kopelman; and pieces by Åse Eg Jørgensen and Jessica J. Lee incorporating Danish and Chinese, respectively.

While Holten’s tree language is the book’s essence, other connective tissues are at work, too. Many pieces explore the relationship between trees and literature. In his introduction, Ross Gay explains how the word “beech” is the Proto-Germanic antecedent for the English word “book.” He also makes the case for how “the best libraries” feel like being in a forest. In another piece, Thomas Princen shares a bittersweet story about the keyboard stand he made from an American elm that had once graced the campus where he worked. One day, he and his son came upon the tree being felled. Initially, he believed it was “another victim of Dutch elm disease.” Only later did he learn the university removed it to make way for a sidewalk.

Despite the deforestation that many of these pieces speak to, the book’s tone is rarely pedantic. More than anything, the writing is revelatory. And Holten’s tree translations are wondrous, especially when it comes to the poetry entries, such as Ada Limón’s “It’s the Season I often Mistake.”

In her afterword, Holten calls The Language of Trees “a love letter to a vanishing world.” She says by reading in her font, we’re forced to slow down and “re-read everything.” It’s true, like when you begin reading in a second language. Moreover, we can download her Trees font and write with it ourselves, which is what I did with this review after first completing it in English. It seemed only fitting to talk about those long-gone oaks of my childhood in a language celebrating their world. Try it yourself.