Conference, full of smart, unfulfilled people such as me.” Elsewhere described as “footnotes having a get-together,” this is the Café of Minor Authors, aka Oblivion, where poor________ has landed after a massive heart attack at 62. Minutes after receiving word from his agent that the auction for his new book was “in the stratosphere,” he got a second notification: “_______, I’M SO SO SORRY. That was meant for another client.” Oof. So much for that mortal coil. But who does ________ find is his guide in the beyond but a “jovial boor” named Jozef whom he knew in his 20s in Chicago when both worked at a literary magazine. Jozef shows him how to order a cappuccino, where the library is, and how the dead can haunt history, returning to scenes in the lives of their heroes. Off they go to Prague to visit ________’s beloved Kafka, who, it turns out, was briefly acquainted with his great-grandmother Hanna, an actress in the Yiddish theater. Hemley has lots of fun with the details of these ghostly visits: “I was too shy to sit in Kafka’s lap, as it were (a sentence I never imagined myself writing before this), so I sat on the chair beside him where Brod had placed his hat.” A mostly hilarious mashup of real incidents and characters from
24
|
1 april 2022
|
fiction
|
kirkus.com
|
Hemley’s career, historical fact, and giddy fantasy, the novel also has moments of real sorrow and poignancy. For example, _________ can’t encounter figures of the early 20th century without recalling which were to perish at which concentration camp—all three of Kafka’s sisters, for example. And in the end, it’s about how to live—and die—with frustrated ambitions and still have a pretty good time. The best kind of shaggy dog story, delightful in every particular.
THE KINGDOM OF SAND
Holleran, Andrew Farrar, Straus and Giroux (272 pp.) $27.00 | June 7, 2022 978-0-3746-0096-9 Gay men are the life of the party, we’re told, but what happens when it’s time to die? The unnamed narrator of this mordant, unflinching novel is mired in what he calls a “predicament” quite different from that experienced by the hip young gay men at the heart of Holleran’s most admired novel, Dancer From the Dance (1978), that crucial narrative set in 1970s Manhattan. This novel is about gay men dying alone in a small, conservative, Christian town in North Florida. “Halloween, alas, was the only time there was anything even slightly campy about our town,” the narrator complains. In his 60s, he’s friends, or at least experiences a “shared loneliness,” with Earl, another gay man, who’s 20 years older; Earl’s illnesses provide a grim education in being old and, worse, getting even older. Earl and the narrator talk about the “UPS deliveryman, or a sale on ice cream at the grocery store, or a new person who’d moved into the rental cottages down the street.” And yet Holleran makes these everyday topics, and the seemingly uneventful days of the narrator and his friends, into thrilling fiction. That is partly because this novel feels confessional, with the narrator divulging thoughts and behavior that most of us would be afraid to share. Holleran is fiercely a pointillist. His observations about the minute details of his narrator’s life feel revelatory—and not always specific to the lives of gay men. “Love and kindness have a lineage their recipients know nothing about,” the narrator declares, including the sometimes unrequited kindness of helping someone else die. Ostensibly about gay men getting older and being alone, this novel is really about everyone getting older and being alone.
