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      A Queer Mountain Lion Leaps From the Page to the Little Island Stage

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      Henry Hoke’s 2023 novel, “Open Throat,” narrated by an animal in peril in the Hollywood Hills, is adapted for a staged reading.The concept behind Henry Hoke’s 2023 novel, “Open Throat,” is an eyebrow-raising one: It’s a story about overdevelopment and climate change narrated by a mountain lion who muses on the lives of hikers and loved ones.Hoke was loosely inspired by the mountain lion known as P-22 whose regular sightings in the hills surrounding Los Angeles’s Hollywood sign, successful crossing of two freeways and eventual death captured the public’s attention in 2022. In “Open Throat,” according to the book’s publisher, the animal identifies as queer, and uses they and them pronouns.The book is “what fiction should be,” the novelist Marie-Helene Bertino wrote in her review for The New York Times, and it made several end-of-year best-of lists and awards shortlists.With an internal monologue that has poetically broken stanzas and a fluid sense of time and reality, “Open Throat” does not immediately call for theatrical adaptation. Yet a staged version of the work is premiering Wednesday as part of Little Island’s ambitious summer series of live performances at its outdoor amphitheater.The narration is divided among three performers, including Chris Perfetti, who is holding the book, and Calvin Leon Smith. “I think the beauty of it, and the reason we’re intentionally having three different voices, is making it universal,” Perfetti said.Jeenah Moon for The New York Times“It reads beautifully,” Zack Winokur, Little Island’s producing artistic director, said of the book. “The way it’s placed on the page is visually interesting. The way the voice exists is not like anything else. I kept thinking that it being so voice-driven would make an amazing show, and I didn’t know how to do it, which is the greatest thing in the world.”We are having trouble retrieving the article content.Please enable JavaScript in your browser settings.Thank you for your patience while we verify access. If you are in Reader mode please exit and log into your Times account, or subscribe for all of The Times.Thank you for your patience while we verify access.Already a subscriber? Log in.Want all of The Times? Subscribe. More

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      Try to Find the 12 Books Hidden in This Text

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      The famished road warriors drove down the cold mountain highway and across the bridge into the town. The September sun was setting and it was time to stop, as Benny’s increasing night blindness made him leery about driving late and his eyes still stung from a thousand acres of grass pollen. The ancient rental car was also wheezing like a mean spirit was trapped inside the engine.Aleksandar pulled out the notebook with his mother’s list of local tips. “Let’s try the Blue Flower Hotel — there’s a basement jazz lounge called Underworld there and maybe we can pick up a gig and dinner.”Benny parked the car and grabbed his saxophone. “I know this is your homeland, but at least I’m a native speaker in the universal language of music.”The famished road warriors drove down the cold mountain highway and across the bridge into the town. The September sun was setting and it was time to stop, as Benny’s increasing night blindness made him leery about driving late and his eyes still stung from a thousand acres of grass pollen. The ancient rental car was also wheezing like a mean spirit was trapped inside the engine.Aleksandar pulled out the notebook with his mother’s list of local tips. “Let’s try the Blue Flower Hotel — there’s a basement jazz lounge called Underworld there and maybe we can pick up a gig and dinner.”Benny parked the car and grabbed his saxophone. “I know this is your homeland, but at least I’m a native speaker in the universal language of music.”The famished road warriors drove down the cold mountain highway and across the bridge into the town. The September sun was setting and it was time to stop, as Benny’s increasing night blindness made him leery about driving late and his eyes still stung from a thousand acres of grass pollen. The ancient rental car was also wheezing like a mean spirit was trapped inside the engine.Aleksandar pulled out the notebook with his mother’s list of local tips. “Let’s try the Blue Flower Hotel — there’s a basement jazz lounge called Underworld there and maybe we can pick up a gig and dinner.”Benny parked the car and grabbed his saxophone. “I know this is your homeland, but at least I’m a native speaker in the universal language of music.” More

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      Book Review: ‘Long Island Compromise,’ by Taffy Brodesser-Akner

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      LONG ISLAND COMPROMISE, by Taffy Brodesser-AknerWhat does it mean to come by one’s life honestly? This is the question at the heart of Taffy Brodesser-Akner’s generation-spanning sophomore novel, “Long Island Compromise,” which tells the story of a wealthy, dysfunctional suburban Jewish family.Given the unavoidable success of her debut, “Fleishman Is in Trouble,” I will spare curious readers the suspense and answer a more cynical question: Is this book as good? It’s better. Sprawling yet nimble, this is her Big American Reform Jewish Novel. In an assimilatory turn, it’s less reminiscent of Roth (Philip or Henry) than of Franzen (Jonathan), whom Brodesser-Akner profiled in her role as staff writer for The New York Times Magazine.A fictionalized account of a true story, “Long Island Compromise” begins in 1980, when the prominent businessman Carl Fletcher is ambushed in his driveway, taken to unknown parts and tortured by unknown parties. Bubble burst, the house is suddenly teeming with F.B.I. agents as Carl’s frantic wife, Ruth, finds herself taking her younger son, Bernard, on an elaborate ransom drop, a day that will scar both him and his older brother, Nathan, for life.Not to mention Carl himself, who, upon his release, is advised by his mother to compartmentalize his trauma (“Listen to me, boychick. This happened to your body. This did not happen to you. Don’t let it in”). No dice. Carl spends the next several hundred pages on an ineffective cocktail of antidepressants, alternating between jags of hysteria and vegetation, a glass ornament of a father to Nathan, Bernard and Jenny, who has the questionable luck of being born just after the family tragedy. Ruth, who was so sure she’d escaped the paranoia hurricane of her scrappy childhood, finds herself back in its eye. “It started right now, the real division of her life,” Brodesser-Akner writes: “before the kidnapping and after it.”The novel is loosely divided into three sections, told from the third-person perspectives of the three children, now in their late 30s and early 40s, laying out the cornucopia of ways in which they are screwed up by latent generational trauma, their father’s repression and the affluence that insulates them. “They spent their money like third-generation American children do: quickly, and without thinking too hard about it.”Bernard, or Beamer, has become a handsome, BDSM-loving, shiksa-marrying, drug-addled screenwriter who cannot think of a single plot without a kidnapping at its core and is constantly pretending to take phone calls, sometimes for the sake of avoidance, sometimes for the illusion of importance. (Each character has a conversational tic; I’m partial to the way Ruth mumbles some iteration of “Leonard Bernstein over here” or “Julius Rosenberg over here” whenever she’s displeased with her seditious spawn.) Then there’s Nathan, a neurotic and servile land-use lawyer who has put all his eggs in a friend’s S.E.C.-violating basket and is married to a moral Orthodox woman who just wants to redo the kitchen. Finally, Jenny is a drifting intellectual snob who eschews attachment to friends, men, money or careers until the day she becomes aware of the concept of union organizing.We are having trouble retrieving the article content.Please enable JavaScript in your browser settings.Thank you for your patience while we verify access. If you are in Reader mode please exit and log into your Times account, or subscribe for all of The Times.Thank you for your patience while we verify access.Already a subscriber? Log in.Want all of The Times? Subscribe. More

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      A Romance Bookstore Boom

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      The arrival — and success — of brick-and-mortar romance stores.There’s a boom in romance bookstores. More than 20 of them have sprung up around the United States in the past few years — up from just two in 2020 — and more are on the way.They have quirky names like the Ripped Bodice, Tropes & Trifles, Love’s Sweet Arrow, and Kiss & Tale. They’re sprinkled across the country, from Alaska to Maine. They’re largely owned and operated by women, and have become vibrant community hubs for romance fans.As a reporter who covers publishing, I’ve been following the soaring sales for romance, which is by far the top-selling fiction genre. But the arrival of brick-and-mortar romance stores struck me as something new, and surprising.For a story in The Times, I visited romance stores in South Florida and Brooklyn, and talked to booksellers, publishers and fans of the genre, to find out why romance bookstores are suddenly thriving.How readers fell for romanceRomance writers and their fans point out that, about a decade ago, there wasn’t much enthusiasm for the genre in independent bookstores. Even though romance has long been a major moneymaker for publishers, the literary world tended to look down on it as frothy and unserious, or worse, as smut.Rebecca Zanetti told me that after she started publishing paranormal romance in 2011, it was hard for her to book a signing at a store, even though her novels were best sellers.We are having trouble retrieving the article content.Please enable JavaScript in your browser settings.Thank you for your patience while we verify access. If you are in Reader mode please exit and log into your Times account, or subscribe for all of The Times.Thank you for your patience while we verify access.Already a subscriber? Log in.Want all of The Times? Subscribe. More

    • 100 Shares139 Views

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      Mythical Sword’s Disappearance Brings Mystery to French Village

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      Legend says the Durandal sword had been stuck in a French hillside for nearly 1,300 years. When it went missing in June, an investigation to find France’s Excalibur began.As legend has it, a sword from God given to Roland, an 8th century military leader under Charlemagne, was so powerful that Roland’s last mission was to destroy it.When the blade, called Durandal, proved indestructible, Roland threw it as far as he could, and it sailed over 100 miles before slicing through the side of a rock face in the medieval French village of Rocamadour.That sword, as the story goes, sat wedged in the stone for nearly 1,300 years, and it became a landmark and tourist attraction in Rocamadour, a very small village in southwestern France, about 110 miles east of Bordeaux. So residents and officials there were stunned to discover late last month that the blade had vanished, according to La Dépêche du Midi, a French newspaper.An officer with France’s national police force in Cahors, a town 30 miles southwest of Rocamadour, said that the sword disappeared sometime after nightfall on June 21, and that the authorities opened an investigation after a passerby reported the next morning that it was missing.The officer, who declined to give his name, emphasized that the sword is “a copy,” but acknowledged that it had symbolic significance.He referred further questions to the office of the prosecutor of the republic in Cahors, which did not immediately respond to a request for comment.We are having trouble retrieving the article content.Please enable JavaScript in your browser settings.Thank you for your patience while we verify access. If you are in Reader mode please exit and log into your Times account, or subscribe for all of The Times.Thank you for your patience while we verify access.Already a subscriber? Log in.Want all of The Times? Subscribe. More

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      The Authors Call It Fiction, but in These 2 Novels the Facts Don’t Lie

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      A philandering father; a literary affair.Tim Graham/Getty ImagesDear readers,Back before the memoir boom, when the barbarous neologism “autofiction” was not yet in vogue, a more titillating vocabulary was deployed when works of fiction flirted with personal disclosure. The facts of life were “thinly veiled.” Stories were “semi-autographical,” their gossip value suggested by the French term roman à clef. You could imagine someone, possibly the author, whispering in your ear: “But you know who that’s really supposed to be…”A degree of self-exposure — not quite baring all, but not quite staying fully clothed either — used to be part of the business of the novel. Rewriting personal experience as fiction can be a way of processing trauma, exacting revenge or asserting control over emotional chaos. Some novels work hard at transforming the material, and show the work. Others, like the two below, wear the cloak of artifice lightly, creating an intimacy with the readers that carries a hint of prurience. Are we really supposed to know about this? In the age of perpetual TMI, it’s good to be reminded that decorum can be its own kind of transgression.And who doesn’t love to be let in on somebody’s family secrets — especially if the somebody in question is witty, elegant and ruthlessly honest? Other people’s parents can be wonderful monsters, and the act of depicting them that way combines Oedipal rebellion and filial loyalty. In these books, dutiful children turn the tables on their parents, giving birth to them as terrible, pitiful, unforgettable characters.—A. O.“The Seraglio,” by James MerrillFiction, 1957We are having trouble retrieving the article content.Please enable JavaScript in your browser settings.Thank you for your patience while we verify access. If you are in Reader mode please exit and log into your Times account, or subscribe for all of The Times.Thank you for your patience while we verify access.Already a subscriber? Log in.Want all of The Times? Subscribe. More