Response: "Radioactive"

(Source.)

It took me three nights to realize that the cover and spine of Lauren Redniss’ Radioactive glow in the dark. For the first two nights, I lacked the ambition to climb out of bed and figure out what the heck was lighting up my desk. (I figured that the lights from my router were reflecting on something.) Finally, on night three, I got up to investigate.

And the book was glowing. And I was really impressed.

Radioactive is the sort of book I would love to write, mostly because it takes a concept and just owns it. Radium glows? Make the book glow. Radium-205 is the most stable isotope? Make the book 205 pages. (Note: That's speculation on my part. But it would be cool if that was her intent.) Need an interesting font? So make one, and base it on the font of manuscripts you used for your research. Much of the enjoyment that I got out of Radioactive came from these Easter egg-like surprises. The text and design interact in a number of interesting ways:

- At the beginning of the book, Pierre’s story occupies the left-hand pages, while Marie’s occupies the right. Then, when they meet on p. 26, this pattern starts to dissolve; their quotes are placed on the same pages, and they begin appearing in color illustrations together. I thought this was a really clever visual gesture to how their early lives ran parallel to one another before finally converging in a romantic relationship.

- Redniss also makes great use of empty space and font size/color to draw attention to certain phrases. On the otherwise black-and-white p. 26, the word “colorific” jumps out in a rainbow. And on p. 27, we have a quote from Marie about the beginning of her friendship with Pierre: “We began a conversation which soon became friendly.” This phrase appears in red and is larger than the preceding text. More importantly, though, it is set apart—a line in the background illustration separates it out, and the huge empty space below the quote draws the eye right in.

- The placement of the text creates certain effects, as well. Check out the way that the text moves between Marie’s arms on p. 19, slowing down the reader’s pace. I thought that the sequence on pp. 125-127 was also really cool, as Redniss asks: “Who wouldn’t rejoice in the union of Paul and Marie—a coupling of giants?” Two pages later, we get this isolated phrase: “His wife.” (Being the very serious literary critic that I am, I’d call that an “OMG” moment.)

That’s not to say that the text placement was perfect, though. For example, see p. 53, where white text over a light background makes for tricky reading. It goes to show how mindful a writer/designer has to be of every little detail for a book like this.

- Finally, text shape and spacing. Note the wavy shape of the text on p. 64, when Redniss is telling the dancer’s story, and how the lines radiate like light from the figures' bodies on p. 123. I also appreciated the way that the paragraph spacing increased and decreased, either slowing down or speeding up the reading experience. Line breaks also contributed to these effects.

As for the drawings themselves... I’m really torn about them. Though their style is not to my taste, I thought the majority of them were effective—this is “a tale of love and fallout,” after all, so the twisted, semi-grotesque figures are fitting. I loved the use of negatives to create a glowing effect (the couple on page 40-41 and the carrying away of Pierre’s body on pp. 100-101 were particularly nice). On the other hand, some of the art just distracted me from the story. Who is the man on p. 26, and why does he have three eyes, two noses, and two mouths? Why do people randomly switch from clothed to naked from page to page? And what am I looking at on pp. 98-99, given that the coachman wouldn’t be riding the horse?

Frankly, I found myself really wanting fewer drawings and more photographs in Radioactive, such as those on pp. 110-111 and pp. 156-157. They worked nicely to ground this fantastical book in reality. I mean, we didn’t even get a photo of Pierre!

Pierre Curie, seen here channeling the Dos Equis guy. (Source.)

Now, since I’ve spent so much time talking design, I’ll say a word about the story itself:

I connected best with Radioactive when it focused on Marie and Pierre. (The latter of whom got the short end of the storytelling stick here, I think. Marie seems more well-developed as a character, and not just because she lives longer.) Some of the non-chronological cutaways from their tale, like the story of Irving S. Lowen, felt very abrupt and broke the mood of the book for me. It’s not that I didn’t want the extra context of the Curies' radioactive legacy. The structure just didn’t feel quite right. Maybe if the book had opened with a hint toward the future of radium and then jumped back to the Curies, the back-and-forth structure would have felt more established and natural.

Something to consider: Would this story (in its current form) have worked as plain text?... I think not!


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ETA: In advance of reading The Devil in the White City, I just noticed that there is a H.H. Holmes documentary up on Netflix. It's called "H.H. Holmes: America's First Serial Killer." I'm not sure if it's any good -- I'm waiting to watch it until after I finish the book -- but it might be worth checking out.

Response: "About That Day"

According to the Pew Research Center, 97% of Americans remember where they were on 9/11. It’s something that comes up in every conversation I’ve had “about that day”: Where were you when you found out? (My answer: Homeroom, ninth grade.) In terms of both content and style, Rhett Miller’s essay on experiencing 9/11 as a New Yorker offers lots of interesting points for discussion.

Immediacy: Tense Changes and Fragments

A major feature of this story is its sense of immediacy. In part, Miller achieves this effect by switching into the present tense, which could have felt gimmicky but worked for me in this particular story. In addition to the introduction, we have this opening paragraph in the past tense:

“Went to bed at three last night after writing a song, 'Lovebird,' and making love with Erica. About 9 a.m., heard two loud explosions. [ . . . ] It’s not unusual to hear construction in the morning, and I think I muttered a sleepy complaint about the loud noise.”

After a few lines of dialogue, we move into present tense, launching us into a play-by-play of the day’s events:

“Terrace is locked. A girl getting on the elevator says we can go stand in the stairwell. There’s an opening with a view. A half-dozen people already there.”

Aside from one brief switch back (“Six weeks ago, E’s parents came to the city . . .”), the story stays in the present tense until the last paragraph. Here, it returns to past tense, with a hint of present at the very end:

“I didn’t write a word about the engagement ring in the journal. I was afraid Erica would see it. [. . .] We got married, had two kids, and now live in a quiet spot in the Hudson Valley. We don’t discuss the events of that day much anymore.”

Those last two sentences are interesting to me because of their movement through time. They describe what happened (“We got married, had two kids . . .”), what is happening presently (“. . . and now live in a quiet spot . . .”), and suggest a trend continuing into the future (not discussing 9/11 anymore).

To achieve a sense of immediacy in this piece, Miller also uses fragments and short, choppy sentences. It makes the story feel more off-the-cuff, like a pure stream of thought. It’s useful to consider the effects that different constructions could have:

Miller’s construction: “We run. In our stupid Birks. Down to where the street dead-ends. South.”

Another option: “We run south in our stupid Birks, down to where the street dead-ends.”

Another option: “In our stupid Birks, we run south, down to where the street dead-ends.”

Repeated Themes

- Loss. Miller doesn’t mention knowing anyone who died in the attacks, so the sense of human loss in more abstract in this story than in other 9/11 pieces I’ve read. (It’s mostly represented by the recurring image of the falling man. It’s an image of hopelessness, but also an image of a person taking control of their fate.) This piece was more about Miller’s loss of “home”—not just material possessions like his guitar and notebooks, but the sense of security and personal control that “home” suggests.

- Confusion/Disorientation. The characters in this story are at a total loss as to how to handle the situation. They don’t know if to stay or leave, they fail to wear good running shoes, they’re on “autopilot.” At one point, Miller says simply: “We don’t know where to go.” Later, he reflects on how E’s mother said that younger generations wouldn’t be able “to deal with a catastrophe;” 9/11 entailed, as it’s often been said, a loss of innocence. In a particularly telling moment, the characters seek comfort in a place that feels familiar—a restaurant called Buffa’s, where they eat their typical eggs and bacon.

- The bodily experience of 9/11. This is a really “physical” story, as opposed to a reflective one. My favorite line of the bunch was: “Breathing feels like chewing and swallowing.”

Digital Components

The Atlantic augmented this story with video and links to Miller’s related writings. The latter offers images of his notebook—but only of the pages where he had written lyrics. I wish they had included a snapshot of his actual journal writings. For one thing, I’m curious about how much of this piece is straight transcription (from his diary) and how much has been added to assist in the flow of the story.

A few parts feel reflective, as if they were added in once Miller had more time to process how he was feeling. (Like when he senses that he’s beginning to distance himself, an instinct of self-defense that he acquired in childhood.) But in the end, this essay's power seems to lie in its rawness.

Response: "Death of a Pig"

Among our classic readings this week, E.B. White’s “Death of a Pig” was the piece that resonated most deeply with me. I know this is partly due to my rural . . . er, country . . . upbringing. The subject matter is familiar, and with very few modifications—the removal of the telephone, for instance—“Death of a Pig” could have been written in 1848 rather than 1948. (And with an update of the tech, this experience would fit into a contemporary issue of Lancaster Farmer.) But for a number of reasons, I also think that this story could have timeless appeal for readers who haven’t lived the “antique pattern,” kept vigil in a barn, or dug a grave.

Sympathetic Characters

The liveliest characters in “Death of a Pig” are non-human—but this is not to say that they aren’t humanized. Though the pig is never named, White presents him as something like a sickly child: it is worrisome when he fails to show up for dinner, he reacts hatefully to taking nasty-tasting medicine, and White checks him for a fever with his hand (touching his ears, rather than his forehead). White makes eating noises to encourage the pig to eat, calls him a “patient,” and checks on him regularly through the night. He is now connected to this creature, as soul to body, by “the silver cord.”

These details not only make us sympathetic to the pig, but also act to better define White’s own character. Fred the dachshund also contributes here; he is personified as a “happy quack” and acts as comic relief, his joyful, troublemaking nature rubbing up against the narrator’s despair. (White writes about him with such affection and exasperation, like: “I love you . . . but you’re sort of awful.”)

For me, the stories that stay with me are those that make me feel something for the characters—and in this case, I definitely sympathized with White and his four-legged protagonists.

Universal Themes

In our classes, we often talk about the big themes that make our stories relatable to our readers. Largely, “Death of a Pig” is concerned with the relationship between humans and animals and how certain circumstances, such as illness, affect that connection.

This story also explores the human fear of sickness, as White deals with the fact that he might have gotten erysipelas from the pig. (Brilliantly, he describes his worry about the illness as “fastening its hooks in [his] head.”) Likewise, White struggles with feelings of uselessness as the pig’s health continues to decline. The reader is prepped from the beginning for a tale of death and loss, and “Death of a Pig” delivers.

The most resonant theme in this story, however, is the painful disruption of expectations.

While White is deeply affected by the pig’s illness, he was raising the pig for food. The pig was destined to die—just not in this way. It’s the deviation from the “script” that disturbs White, and I think that this feeling is universally familiar in some form or another—it’s the pain of the sudden twist, or an “awakening,” as White terms it. Essentially, the pig’s unexpected death makes White question his personal autonomy and power over his own life. Regardless of the subject matter, it's a greater theme like this that makes a story accessible to readers across time and circumstance.

Survival in the Digital Age?

The Atlantic lists this story under the simple heading of “Animals” and has not updated it with any of the features we’ve examined in more recent stories: no hyperlinks, embedded videos, etc. The sparseness suits this story, though. (And in fact—aside from some illustrations—all of the classic stories we read were left in their original, text-only forms. It just seemed right for them to be that way, and it might be interesting to talk about why this is so.)

With or without contemporary updates, digital forms offer stories like these an extended afterlife  that they wouldn't have enjoyed otherwise. This includes the greater possibility of readers "stumbling" across the work—something that would happen far less frequently if the story was confined to print—and sharing it with many others. Though I'm still partial to print, I have to appreciate digital forms for allowing access to stories like these. 

*** I really wanted to link a picture of White and Fred here—but I couldn’t find one. I did find a Fred-related quote from White, though: “I've never had a dog who understood so much of what I said or held it in such deep contempt.” Ha!

Response: "What Really Happened to Phoebe Prince?"

While I’d heard about Phoebe Prince’s suicide on TV, I hadn’t followed the story (in written form) online or in newspapers/magazines. So, I come to Emily Bazelon’s “What Really Happened to Phoebe Prince?” with little knowledge of the body of work on this subject. (Or, for that matter, any idea of what angles might be played out by now.)

Ultimately, I feel like Bazelon’s story offered a broad-but-shallow look at the key issues in Phoebe’s case. A lot of fascinating threads were brought up and left unexplored. The ones that really interested me included:

- Sean, the “strong kid who had looked out for weaker ones.” When Bazelon identified him that way early in the story, I thought for sure that he’d be profiled closely, but that didn’t happen. (Guess she didn’t have the interview access . . . ) I didn’t get a sense of Sean—or few others from South Hadley High—as one who tried to protect Phoebe. And then there’s that interesting moment where a boy shows Phoebe what others are saying about her on Facebook, but instead of reprimanding them himself, he allows her to type a response in his name. It all plays into that issue of bystanders rarely standing up to bullies or reporting them.

- Culture clashes: How the kids considered themselves “true Irish,” while Phoebe was a “poser.” Clearly they thought of themselves as Irish, and yet they always called Phoebe the “Irish” slut, “Irish” bitch, etc. So, what’s the disconnect between being native Irish and American Irish? There was also that passing remark about how Phoebe was “excited that in [the U.S.] you could talk and express yourself in class.” The immigrant experience of being bullied by American peers could have served as an interesting lens for this story.

- The fact that several of the kids involved had either lost or were separated from their fathers. I don’t know if there’s really a story there, but Bazelon made a point to mention this fact when she introduced the characters, so it really stuck with me.

Response: "Lifted"

I have this habit when it comes to books: By the time I get halfway through one, I’ve usually flipped forward to see how the story ends. (Yes, I’m one of those people.) It’s the same deal with movies. I’ll get part way through, pull up Wikipedia on my phone, and read what’s going to happen next. I can't remember the last time I actually made it through a film without doing this.

It’s not that I stop reading/watching right then and there. Rather, there’s something about knowing the ending—or at least, some future plot details—that injects more tension into the story for me. I know where the characters end up… Now, what events and decisions get them there?

As I read “Lifted,” I wondered how the story might be different if it opened with a later scene. To be precise, I’m thinking of Chapter 5, where we finally get a look at the building that the thieves are going to break into. What would the story feel like if that scene was used as a hook?

First, we learn that this building is understaffed and not designed for its present use—in fact, it’s downright vulnerable. By the time the walls begin to shake, we’re pretty sure this is not going to end well. Our suspicions are confirmed as the robbers break in, and we get those interesting clues about their process—for example, their ladder has been measured to fit the building. The opening scene could end with them preparing to overcome the vault.

We don’t know how much money they’re going to get away with—if any. We don’t know if the police are standing on the other side of the door. But we do know that they made it this far, and that they seem to have insider knowledge of the building, and that they are very, very well-prepared.

So, the big question becomes: How did they do it?

Attention Twitter Newbies (Myself Included)

One of my favorite bloggers, CNET writer and former agent Nathan Bransford, has a couple of useful posts on using Twitter:

- How To Use Twitter

- How to Use Twitter @ Reply

Two Awesome Nonfiction Writers

The first CNF writer whose work I really connected with: Jo Ann Beard (see: "The Fourth State of Matter" or The Boys of My Youth)

Predates our present concept of contemporary nonfiction and is better known for his fiction: Jack London (see: People of the Abyss)