Pretty damn wonderful.
I've now read this three times. I confess: I know Edan, but I don't like anyone that much to make me rave (rather than issue a polite 4-star "Huzzah!" with exactly that kind of formal stiffness which ought to give readers of such reviews pause), let alone re-read. (Who's got time? There are incoherent action thrillers to stream on Netflix, and facebook profiles to stalk.) It's a significant fact, as you take stock of this rave, that I re-read three times, against all precedent and prevailing wisdom.
Let's be honest: I read it three times because its brevity invited return.
But let's be clear: each return was a renewal of joy, my pleasures progressing from voice (swaggering and sweet and self-loathing in equal measures; stage one) to purpose (a brilliant comic embrace of human failing, keyed like the best comic writing to forgiveness and hope, even as the narrative turns with a sneer at pathos--more on this in a moment; stage two) to prose (ohhhhhhhhhh wooooooooooow; stage three).
Stage three just completed. And, e.g.,
On long car rides, I saw myself running along the freeway shoulder, or in the brush, barefoot but in full armor.Read that aloud. There's a song in the riffs of the repeated r's and f's and percussive buh's (buhrush, buharefoot, buhut). I hear Joellyn so precisely, and I almost don't care what she's saying, I just want to close my eyes and hear her sing more.
The next two sentences:
I assumed the woman I'd become would be vicious and beautiful, the roar of some exotic animal made physical. It's not so strange, to have high expectations.I think it's hard to write comedy, to be a comic writer. Far harder than wringing easy tears out of identification-happy modern readers, seeking out the next big Painful Event to cathartically endure and fret about. But, instead, the comic writer rebuffs easy embraces: Joellyn's self-deprecation doesn't simply supersede her narcissism, and her clear-eyed assessments of her own pain are tempered by the incisive way Lepucki reveals how J causes pain, and the precise way she uses a comma, an aside, a finely-crafted sentence to tease out a laugh. This isn't merely softening blows, the sugar of a comic line sweetening the painful medicine of Real Writing, or throwing in a pah-dum-pum rimshot and shtick to turn the work, like treacly soft-spined taffy, into another Hollywood-ready Dramedy. No. This is the revelatory precision of a great writer whose style is perfectly attuned to her clarity about--her harsh judgment of and her generous refusal to punish--human behavior. This is Atwood-good, people.
This is one of the best works published last year -- a great novella coupled, in the mainstream edition, with an even better short story. It's the first of what will surely be a stream of amazing works. Edan is an astounding writer.