The Place of Politics in Fiction
Novelists are an opinionated lot. They often say things, write essays, and sign petitions reflecting political positions that many of their biggest fans might not like. One of the best things about fiction is that it can convey higher (or at least more complicated) truths than even the author knows. A reader doesn't have to sign on to V. S. Naipaul's sometimes odious beliefs about postcolonial societies to take pleasure in his language and characters, or support a boycott of Israel, as Rachel Kushner publicly has, to find in her novel Creation Lake a nuanced but withering portrayal of both extractive capitalists and callow activists. Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie self-consciously embodies this split between the novelist and polemicist. Her new novel, Dream Count, is her first in a dozen years—a period during which she wrote and spoke frequently about feminism, grief, and political dogmas. In a conversation this week with the Atlantic staff writer Gal Beckerman, Adichie explained how her novel departs from her beliefs, and why that's a good thing. She also made clear that compartmentalizing her ideas of 'what the world should be' is not as easy as it might seem.
First, here are four new stories from The Atlantic 's Books Section:
Both Beckerman and Tyler Austin Harper, who also wrote about Dream Count this week, cite an offhand, possibly facetious statement that Adichie made in 2016: 'We women should spend about 20 percent of our time on men, because it's fun, but otherwise we should be talking about other stuff.' Why, in defiance of this feminist assertion, are men so prominent in her new book, they wonder? Because 'I don't want to write about women's lives as I wish they were,' she told Beckerman. Instead, the novel tries to imagine actual women interacting with actual men. In fact, Adichie has strong opinions on the question of politics in fiction; as she told Beckerman, she believes that many writers are prone to 'ideological conformity,' which can hobble their work. Perhaps she'd support this modest proposal: Fiction should spend about 20 percent of its time imagining the world as the author would like it to be.
But that's easier said than done. We don't live in a time when politics can be cordoned off from art; it permeates the world, and a novel without much of it would be difficult to believe. In an author's note at the end of the book, Adichie confirms that the story of her character Kadiatou bears a close resemblance to the 2011 case of Nafissatou Diallo, the Guinean immigrant who alleged that Dominique Strauss-Kahn, the former head of the International Monetary Fund, assaulted her in a New York City hotel suite. (All criminal charges against Strauss-Kahn were dismissed; he settled Diallo's civil suit against him for an undisclosed sum.) Adichie told Beckerman that she had struggled 'to write honestly' about Kadiatou, because 'I had unconscious 'noble ideas' for her.' And in the note, she admits to 'creating a fictional character as a gesture of returned dignity. Clear-eyed realism, but touched by tenderness.'
So this character's journey is undeniably political, elevating the perspective of a person whose allegations against a very powerful man were shut down in the courts. But, Adichie adds, the goal is to be 'relentlessly human,' not 'ideological': Kadiatou has lost her husband, struggles with American sexual mores, longs for home. To render her carefully, Adichie tells Beckerman, she did prodigious research and watched hours of videos of Guinean women cooking. Her portrait reflects the world as Adichie wishes it were, but also shows a deep recognition of the world as it is. For a novelist, that is more than enough.
Chimamanda Adichie Is a Hopeless Romantic
By Gal Beckerman
Discussing Dream Count, her first novel in 12 years, the Nigerian author shares her thoughts on masculinity, political chaos, and the future of fiction.
What to Read
Twilight Sleep, by Edith Wharton
'Mrs. Wharton,' reads a line in The Atlantic 's review of her 1927 novel, Twilight Sleep, 'has never really descended from that plane of excellence which since its beginning has characterized her work.' Implicit in this observation: until now. Although contemporary reviewers might not have appreciated Twilight Sleep as much as they did Wharton's previous books, her 17th novel offers an updated, Jazz Age–variation on a familiar, Wharton-esque theme: social ruin. In Roaring '20s New York, Pauline Manford, the book's heroine, inoculates herself from life's unpleasantries—including her second husband's affair with his stepson's wife, Lita—with a busy social calendar, but when disaster strikes and the affair is discovered, not even Pauline's unblinking devotion to rationality, truth, and progress can soothe her emotional reaction. Named after the drug cocktail given to women in the 20th century to ward off the pains of childbirth, which brings to mind the anesthetized attitude of some of its characters, Twilight Sleep was republished in late 2024. — Rhian Sasseen
Out Next Week
📚 The Antidote, by Karen Russell
📚 , by David Enrich
📚 Goddess Complex, by Sanjena Sathian
Your Weekend Read
By Spencer Kornhaber
It was inauguration weekend, and I'd been sitting in a restaurant where the bartender was blasting a playlist of songs by the rapper once known as Kanye West. The music sounded, frankly, awesome. Most of the songs were from when I considered myself a fan of his, long before he rebranded as the world's most famous Hitler admirer. I hadn't heard this much Ye music played in public in years; privately, I'd mostly avoided it. But as I nodded along, I thought it might be time to redownload Yeezus.
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The One Book Everyone Should Read
What should I read next? If only making that decision were simple: Recommendations abound online and off, but when you're casting about for a new book, especially if you're coming off the heels of something you adored, the paradox of choice can feel intense. You might turn to loved ones to ask which book would be just right for you. Avid readers frequently face a parallel dilemma; they find themselves bombarded by friends and family members who expect a perfectly tailored recommendation. Staffers at The Atlantic get these inquiries a lot—often enough to recognize that for many of us, a pattern emerges. We end up suggesting the same book, again and again, no matter who's asking. Yet each recommender cites a different set of criteria for the work that rises to the top of their list. Some of us pick a read that feels so timeless, and so widely appealing, that it truly does have something for everyone. Others among us evangelize about something so singular that it must be experienced. The 12 books below have nothing in common except for the fact that their advocates have shared them time after time, and believe in their power to delight or captivate readers who have a variety of tastes and proclivities. One of them will, we hope, be the title you pick up next. The Seven Moons of Maali Almeida, by Shehan Karunatilaka Some people turn to books for history, others for lessons on human nature. They might hope to better understand longing, despair, joy, or love—or simply chase the high of genre fiction (ghost stories, political thrillers, tales of redemption). To all of these readers, I invariably advocate for Karunatilaka's journey into underworlds: both a supernatural realm beyond death and the demimonde of violence and corruption that fueled the Sri Lankan civil war. Seven Moons was the dark-horse winner of the 2022 Booker Prize, beating books by Percival Everett and Elizabeth Strout and rightly claiming its place in the magical-realism canon. The title character is a gay photojournalist with a conscience—which turns out to be a very dangerous combination in 1980s Colombo. In fact, when the novel opens, he's already dead. Before moving on from Earth, he gets seven days of purgatory—during which he must try to influence his living friends to publicize a trove of damning photographs while fending off literal demons and the dark truths he'd rather avoid. My closing pitch to friends: I've rarely read a better ending. — Boris Kachka Made for Love, by Alissa Nutting I love to suggest Nutting's work to people, even though it's been called 'deviant'—if folks avoid me afterward, then I know they're not my kind of weirdo. She has a talent for developing outrageous concepts that also reveal earnest truths about what people expect from one another and why. One of the best examples is her novel Made for Love, perhaps better known as an HBO show starring the excellent Cristin Milioti. The book, too, is about a woman whose tech-magnate husband has implanted a chip in her head, but it grows far more absurd. (A subplot, for instance, features a con artist who becomes attracted to dolphins.) Nutting's scenarios sometimes remind me of the comedian Nathan Fielder's work: You will probably cringe, but you'll be laughing—and sometimes even nodding along. — Serena Dai These Precious Days, by Ann Patchett Here's how I start my recommendation: 'Did you know that Tom Hanks's assistant and Ann Patchett went from total strangers to best friends?' And then, when my target inevitably shows interest in the out-there pairing of a beloved novelist and a Hollywood insider, I put These Precious Days in their hands. The titular essay is about this friendship, but the broader subject of Patchett's book is death: She contemplates the passing of the men who served as fathers in her life; she thinks about the potential demise of her husband, a small-plane pilot; and she considers the mortality of that assistant, a woman named Sooki. After Sooki, who starts her relationship with the author as a long-distance pen pal, is diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, she moves into Patchett's Nashville house during the coronavirus pandemic. 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Set in New York City's late-19th-century financial world, the book is composed of four fictional texts, each focused on the same people but written from a different vantage point. The question is: Which narrator does the reader believe? Trust 's storytelling is impeccable, full of twists and surprises. The book is also a remarkable criticism of unbridled capitalism—but the story does not exist in service of a doctrine. It remains unlike anything else I've read. — Clint Smith An American Sunrise, by Joy Harjo Harjo's poetry collection begins by recounting a horrific event: In 1830, the United States government forced some 100,000 Indigenous people to walk hundreds of miles, at gunpoint, from the southeastern U.S. to lands west of the Mississippi River. 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We are this land.' — Valerie Trapp An American Sunrise - Poems By Joy Harjo Eating Stone: Imagination and the Loss of the Wild, by Ellen Meloy When Meloy, a desert naturalist, felt estranged from nature, she sought to cure it by stalking a band of bighorn sheep for a year in Utah's Canyonlands wilderness. She begins in winter and feels cold and clumsy. She envies the bighorns' exquisite balance as she watches them spring quickly up cliff faces. She feels 'the power and purity of first wonder.' Meloy's writing is scientifically learned—beautifully so—but this book does not pretend to be a detached study. When she hikes alongside these animals at dawn, she aches to belong. She fantasizes about being a feral child they raised. At first, the band is indifferent to her project. But animal by animal, they begin to let her into their world. To follow her there is to experience one of the sublime pleasures of contemporary American nature writing. Meloy gives an account of their culture, their affections for one another, even their conflicts. All these years after my first read, I can still hear the crack of the rams' colliding horns echoing off the red rock. — Ross Andersen Will and Testament, by Vigdis Hjorth When I picked up this novel some years ago, I'd never heard of Hjorth, and I was drawn to the book simply because of the quiet mood evoked by the cover of the English-language edition—a serene picture of a lonely cabin in the woods at twilight. What I found inside was a story that reads at once as a juicy diary and as a chillingly astute psychological portrait of a dysfunctional family. The story is narrated by Bergljot, a Norwegian theater critic who is estranged from much of her family because they refused to acknowledge the abuse that her father had inflicted on her. A dispute over inheritance brings the whole distant family back into painful contact. The novel was deeply controversial in Norway after Hjorth's family claimed that its contents were too close to reality. Later, Hjorth's sister published her own novelization of their family strife. But the scandal shouldn't detract from the novel itself, which is utterly specific yet universal: The author captures the pettiness of the family's drama and the damage they do to one another with equal fidelity. — Maya Chung Alanna: The First Adventure, by Tamora Pierce The kingdom of Tortall has many of the classic features of a fantasy world: strapping lords, tender ladies, charming rogues, mysterious magical forces that can be used for good or for evil. But what makes Pierce's Song of the Lioness series so timeless and reliable is its heroine, Alanna, who poses as a boy in order to train as a knight. The First Adventure, which introduced her to readers in 1983, serves as an excellent gateway to the fantasy genre. 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I gasped a few times as Wynn-Williams recounted being commanded to sleep in bed next to Sheryl Sandberg, and being harassed by a higher-up while she was recovering from a traumatic childbirth that nearly killed her. But the real shock comes from seeing how Facebook, a site most people associate with college friends and benign memes, helped to amplify and exacerbate hate speech. This is exactly why I keep pressing it on people. The corporation, now Meta, has described some of the book's allegations as 'false'; regardless, Careless People makes a powerful case for why no single company or boss should have this kind of reckless, untrammeled power. — Sophie Gilbert A Floating Chinaman: Fantasy and Failure Across the Pacific, by Hua Hsu The first thing I like to tell people about Hsu's debut book is that he took its title from a novel that had been lost, or maybe never even existed. The second thing is that it is about America, not China. 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Hsu honors the writer's obsession and perseverance while asking a more pointed question: Were Americans unready to accept an immigrant writer who called out weaknesses in their own country? — Shan Wang The Index of Self-Destructive Acts, by Christopher Beha Beha's big-swing novel, set in the late 2000s, follows Sam, a young data-crunching blogger from the Midwest who gets hired to work at a legacy New York magazine. He arrives in the city certain that when one has the right information, the world is 'a knowable place'—but he is soon forced to reconsider his rational worldview. Sam encounters an apocalyptic preacher, falls for the daughter of a profile subject (though he's married), and cranks out a near-constant stream of articles while struggling with unexpected doubts. The novel takes on heady themes, but it never feels dull or brainy, and all the people I've shared it with over the years love it too. My New Yorker father told me how well it portrayed the city after the 2008 financial crisis; my friends in journalism affirm its perceptiveness about the industry's 'content farm' days; my church friends appreciate how it takes religious belief seriously. I push it upon pretty much everyone I know. — Eleanor Barkhorn Black Swans, by Eve Babitz Reading Babitz's early work is like being whisked from one glamorous party to another. A fixture of the 1970s Hollywood scene, Babitz transcribed dozens of her own libertine experiences with diaristic recall in autofictional works such as Eve's Hollywood. But by the time she released this 1993 short-story collection, the parties had fizzled out and the scene was over. Retreating from the zeitgeist didn't rob her of inspiration, though. As an older writer, Babitz possessed a new clarity about the meaning of all those youthful nights, and the stories in Black Swans —about former bohemians inching toward the staid life, and romantics bumping up against the limits of love—are told with tenderness that is unusual in her other work. Babitz is often contrasted with her frenemy Joan Didion —Babitz was cast in the popular imagination as the fun, ditzy sexpot, as opposed to Didion's cool, cold-blooded stenographer—but the maturity and thoughtfulness of these stories dispel any lazy stereotypes. Her early work is what made her reputation, but this later collection, in which she's looking back and making sense of it all, is simply better—a trajectory I wish for all writers. — Jeremy Gordon
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