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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.
Jan 22, 2024
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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
recommending this book to people is largely impossible so I'm grateful to have this platform lol
Vulture called it "the first great incel novel" but it's more than that. It's about shame and avoidance in the internet age and the extremes we reach when we suppress our desires.
I was thinking about this book for weeks afterwards and it really fucked me up
(in a good way)
May 30, 2025
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
Top Recs from @condor
Jan 24, 2024
There is something ugly and small about winter that I like. Perhaps because I was born into it. And thereās a stillness too. I feel it most when Iām back home in Nebraska leaving the bar at 2 a.m., warmed by old friends and tiny drinks. I walk to the car, snow crunching underfoot and, as soon as Iām alone, I stop. I stop and listen. I love that moment of quiet, blue desolation.Ā
I do not handle the cold well. I am quick to shiver and my long johns donāt come off once they go on. So these moments of serenity are strange and precious. Something deep inside me quietly overpowers the elements and I feel some kind of inner peace. For this reason, I once made an igloo in our backyard and then laid inside for hours trying to fall asleep inside that feeling.Ā
Winter birthdays are a challenge. What is there to do? This year I decided to lean in and seek snow since thatās become something of a novelty in New York. $500 and 120 miles later I had my squall. When I returned to the city for my actual birthday, it finally snowed, marking New York's first significant snowfall in 701 days. It was the perfect gift.
Jan 24, 2024
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trust me. if you don't, see profile pic.
Jan 24, 2024