Barnes & Noble Discover Great New Writers
Sometimes it seems impossible that the insight certain young writers display in their craft could have come without decades of life experience. Karl Iagnemma's richly compelling book of relationship tales is the work of one such writer. In his collection of eight startlingly original stories, he explores the nature of love in all its deeply flawed complexity.
The title story sets the theme of this research scientist's book: A university mathematician tries to explain love by formula, using linear equations. A victim of unrequited love, he moves to a warmer region, hoping to draw connections between love and geography or climate. In "The Confessional Approach," an artist sells out to support an errant lover. And in the disturbing and suspenseful "Children of Hunger," based on a true story, the lonely wife of a frontier doctor watches as her husband conducts live experiments on a young man who has had much of his abdomen shot away.
Common throughout each of these stories is the notion that to love is to put oneself in a solitary place, where the battle for happiness must be fought alone, often in silence. For readers who enjoyed 2002 Discover Award winner Tony Doerr's The Shell Collector, take note: In Karl Iagnemma, we have found a similarly precocious talent. (Summer 2003 Selection)
The New York Times
Each of the eight stories in On the Nature of Human Romantic Interaction touches on science in one way or another. Half of them are set in the present, half in the 19th century, and all of them in the grimmer parts of the American Midwest. Most of the time the weather is freezing. The characters, perhaps because they spend so much time in stuffy interiors, have a hyperdeveloped sense of smell (''Alexandra smells archival -- glue and musty paper and indelible ink''; ''the TechInfo office reflected what must be my own human smell: lemon and sour milk and powdered cumin''). It is a world devoid of elegant amenity: sherry is drunk from plastic foam cups, Champagne from plastic tumblers, bourbon or ''cheap Merlot'' from coffee mugs -- not a proper glass in sight. It is a world where women crackle with life force and men are sicklied over by the pale cast of scientific thought. — Jim Holt
The Los Angeles Times
With its sudden shifts from quotidian to fantastical, with its airy flirtations with life and death and with a cast of characters who spend their time in the company of circles, ellipses and conic sections, Iagnemma's fiction can make even the most ardent math-hater appreciate the parabolic nature of life's ups and downs. — Mark Rozzo
Faith, to the scientist, is a necessary evil. He or she must believe in the possibility of hope - in the provable hypothesis, the laboratory experiment, the research path toward enlightenment - and yet believe, more fully, in the supremacy of empirical data...
Karl Iagnemma, who works as a research scientist in robotics at MIT, has a striking grasp of this paradox, and his perspicacity infuses the stories in his debut collection.The Boston Globe
The meticulousness of science and mathematics is applied to the mysteries of love in Iagnemma's debut collection, which features eight complex, multilayered stories in which protagonists try to balance the demands of the heart against their need for rational, orderly thinking. The title story introduces a young academic who tries to formulate a series of mathematical equations he can use to force his willful, libidinous girlfriend to make a commitment to him. Some of the stories are period pieces. In "The Phrenologist's Dream," a 19th-century phrenologist falls in love with a former female client who seduces him and then makes off with his valuable set of skulls. In "Zilkowski's Theorem," a pair of Boston mathematicians vie for the attention of the same woman, then end up betting their professional future on the outcome of a Red Sox game. An idealistic, creative young couple find their dreams humorously compromised in "The Confessional Approach," one of the few stories that abandons the science theme; impending poverty forces the couple to sell the woman's finely crafted wooden mannequins to the owner of a shooting range, where they become targets for gun hobbyists. Elegant, witty and concise, Iagnemma's stories precisely capture the hopelessly imprecise nature of love. (May 6) Forecast: Iagnemma, a research scientist in mechanical engineering at MIT, has won the Paris Review Discovery award for best first fiction and was anthologized in The Best American Short Stories 2002. The novel appeal of a scientific approach to love is bound to attract readers, and Iagnemma's polymathic accomplishments may make him an appealing interview subject. Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
Iagnemma would seem to be a paradox: he's a notable author of short stories whose works have won a Pushcart Prize and a Paris Review Discovery Prize as well as a research scientist in the mechanical engineering department at MIT. In fact, these disparate aspects of his personality work together; he seamlessly blends the lyrical and the precise to create gemlike little portraits of individuals who seem suddenly to have caught their "reflection[s] in a cloudy mirror." A confused academic whose efforts to diagram his love life end in failure, a 19th-century phrenologist who has a well-deserved comeuppance (from a woman, no less), a miner's wife at odds with her environment, a professor still hopelessly in love with a beautiful colleague who's gone on to better things-all are captured in the clear, cool light of reason, even if they don't quite know it themselves. Iagnemma is pointed, but he isn't merciless; his empathy makes these characters live. A beautifully crafted collection; for all libraries.-Barbara Hoffert, "Library Journal" Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
Strong first collection from a robotics researcher at MIT who knows, despite it all, that heart is every bit as important as math. Iagnemma's prose is always lively, well suited to the quirky characters and odd subjects he tends toward. The fine title story, winner of prizes from Pushcart and the Paris Review, follows a Ph.D. candidate at a failing Michigan engineering institute as he ruminates on history, math, his weird girlfriend, and love in a world that is as complex as an equation, but that refuses solution: "There are elements in nature, I've noticed, that cannot be explained or reproduced, that simply are. It's enough to give a person hope." "The Phrenologist's Dream" (of a perfect woman's skull) is a good excuse for the history of an offbeat science-but shouldn't the hapless doctor suspect that the perfect skull, when she arrives, might also be a femme fatale? More love between mathematicians comes in "Zilkowski's Theorem," a Best American selection, where romantic betrayal might just bleed into the refutation of important theories. A progressive couple ("The Confessional Approach") in a fanciful world-she designs artistic mannequins, he sells them to gun owners for target practice-go through changes as their lives become more business-oriented. And in "Children of Hunger," controversial experiments on living subjects provide context for the story of a woman who spends a lifetime in the shadow of the greatness of her scientist husband-and amid the surprising possibility of family. Whether Iagnemma can step outside from these subjects may be in doubt, but he has the lonely man of science down pat: "A scientist's life, he thought miserably, was like a midnight walk across anunfamiliar field, without a lantern, without even the moon's faint glow for guidance." Meteoric, and still going up. Agent: Peter Steinberg/JCA Literary Agency
From the Publisher
“Iagnemma’s desperate, comic, and determined heroes seek, with beautiful futility, formulas for love, loss, history, religion, and odd arts. Here are crackpots and lovelorn, bewildered geniuses, sincerely seeking impossible truths. These are wonderful stories, and Karl Iagnemma is one of our very best young writers.”—Brad Watson, National Book Award finalist and author of The Heaven of Mercury
“Karl Iagnemma’s stories are carefully written and beautifully detailed in their investigations of people caught up in the webs of science and history, and they dramatize, with great precision, the traps that the mind and body can sometimes stumble into. He is affectionate and severe about his chosen territory, the Midwest: this is a fine book.” —Charles Baxter, author of The Feast of Love
Read an Excerpt
On the Nature of Human Romantic InteractionCopyright© 2003 by Karl Iagnemma
When students here can’t stand another minute, they get drunk and hurl themselves off the top floor of the Gehring building, the shortest building on campus. The windows were tamper-proofed in August, so the last student forced open the roof access door and screamed Fuck! and dove spread-eagled into the night sky. From the TechInfo office I watched his body rip a silent trace through the immense snow dunes that ring the Gehring building. A moment later he poked his head from a dune, dazed and grinning, and his four nervous frat brothers whooped and dusted him off and carried him on their shoulders to O’Dooley’s, where they bought him shots of Jaegermeister until he was so drunk he slid off his stool and cracked his teeth against the stained oak bar.
In May a freshwoman named Deborah Dailey heaved a chair through a plate glass window on the fifth floor of the Gray building, then followed the chair down to the snowless parking lot, shattering both ankles and fracturing her skull. Later we learned–unsurprisingly–that her act had something to do with love: false love, failed love, mistimed or misunderstood or miscarried love. For no one here, I’m convinced, is truly happy in love. This is the Institute: a windswept quadrangle edged by charm-proofed concrete buildings. The sun disappears in October and temperatures drop low enough to flash-freeze saliva; spit crackles against the pavement like hail. In January whiteouts shut down the highways, and the outside world takes on a quality very much like oxygen: we know it exists all around us, but we can’t see it. It’s a disturbingthing to be part of. My ex—Ph.D. adviser, who’s been here longer than any of us, claims that the dormitory walls are abuzz with frustration, and if you press your ear against the heating ducts at night you can hear the jangling bedsprings and desperate whimpers of masturbators. Some nights my ex-adviser wanders the subbasement hallways of the Gray building, and screams obscenities until he feels refreshed and relatively tranquil.
I used to be a Ph.D. student, but now my job is to sit all night at a government-issue desk in the TechInfo office, staring at a red TechHotline telephone. The TechHotline rings at three and four a.m., and I listen to distraught graduate students stammer about corrupted file allocation tables and SCSI controller failures. I tell them to close their eyes and take a deep breath; I tell them everything will be all right. The TechInfo office looks onto the quadrangle, and just before dawn, when the sky has mellowed to the color of a deep bruise, the Institute looks almost peaceful. At those rare moments I love my job and I love this town and I love this Institute. This is an indisputable fact: there are many, many people around here who love things that will never love them back.
A Venn diagram of my love for Alexandra looks like this:
My inventory of love is almost completely consumed by Alexandra, while hers is shared by myself and others (or, more precisely: - J - > - M - ; $x s.t. xŒ(J«M); $y s.t. yŒJ, yœM; $z s.t. zœJ, zŒM).We live in a cabin next to the Owahee River and the Institute’s research-grade nuclear power plant. Steam curls off the hyperboloidal cooling tower and settles in an icy mist on our roof, and some nights I swear I can see the reactor building glowing. Alexandra has hair the color of maple syrup, and she is sixteen years younger than me; she is twenty-five. She sips tea every morning in the front room of our cabin, and when I turn into the driveway and see her hair through the window I feel a deep, troubling urge.
Alexandra is the daughter of my ex-adviser, who has never claimed to be happy in love. On Wednesdays at noon he meets a sophomore named Larissa in the Applied Optics Laboratory and scoots her onto the vibration isolation table and bangs her until the air pistons sigh. Every morning my ex—adviser straps on snowshoes and clomps past our cabin on his way to the Institute, gliding atop the frozen crust like a Nordic vision of Jesus. I have given Alexandra an ultimatum: she has until commencement day to decide if she wants to marry me. If she does not want to marry me, I will pack my textbooks and electronic diagnostic equipment and move to Huntsville, Alabama.
When students jump off the Gehring building, they curse and scream as though their hands are on fire. I can’t say I blame them. This is the set of words I use when I talk about the Institute: hunger, numbness, fatigue, yearning, anger. Old photographs of this town show a cathedral of pines standing in place of the bare quadrangle, and a sawmill on the Owahee in place of the nuclear plant. People in the pictures stare at the camera with an unmistakable air of melancholy, and looking at them I wonder if there was ever a happy season on this peninsula.
Alexandra tells me I’m ungenerous toward the Institute; she tells me the cold has freeze-dried my kindness. Here is a fact I cannot refute: on nights when the TechHotline is quiet and snow is settling in swells around the Gehring building, the silence is pure enough to make you want to weep. Windows in the Walsh Residence Hall blink off, one by one, until the quadrangle is lit only by moonlight. Icicles the size of children work loose and disappear into snowdrifts. Bark-colored hares hop lazily toward the Owahee. In the early-morning dark, before the sun climbs over the Gray building and the Institute begins to stretch, you can wade into a drift and lie back like an angel and let snow sift down onto you, and the only sound you hear is the slow churn of your own unwilling heart.
Slaney is the name of this town: a few thousand houses and shops crushed up against the Institute like groupies. Slaney has a short but tragic history: founded in 1906 by a Swede as a company town for the Michigan Land and Lumber Company; within a year there were four hundred inhabitants, six board-inghouses, two general stores, a meat market, an icehouse, a whorehouse, seven saloons. The Swede, his heart full to bursting with pride, felled the tallest white pine in the county and propped it in the middle of Slaney’s main drag as a monument to the town’s greatness. By 1925 there was nothing left around Slaney except birch and tamarack and scrub poplar, and if tumbleweeds existed up here they’d have blown through the abandoned streets with a lonely rustle. The monumental white pine was dragged off to the sawmill in the middle of the night by timber thieves. The Swede drank himself into a stupor in Dan Gunn’s empty saloon, then passed out during the twelve-block walk to his house and nearly froze to death.
That spring the hills hiccuped with dynamite blasts from prospectors looking for iron ore, and the state legislature chose Slaney as the location for the brand-new Michigan Engineering Institute. Every year in Slaney someone loses grip and commits an unspeakably self-destructive act. Here is something my ex-adviser does not think I know: seven years ago, when his ex-wife still lived in Slaney, he followed her to her house on Huron Street for eleven straight days, and one night as he crouched outside her kitchen window he was knocked unconscious by a blow from a policeman’s nightstick. When he woke, he was shackled to a stainless-steel toilet. Ontonagon County, I’ve heard, has the toughest antistalking laws in the state.
On Friday nights the TechHotline is quiet. Dormitory windows are dark as graves, and the quadrangle echoes with shouts of horny undergraduates. I lock the TechInfo office, and Alexandra meets me on Mill Street outside the Caribou Lounge, where a six-piece band called Chicken Little plays Benny Goodman and Cab Calloway and Nat King Cole. Twenty-one-year-olds wearing circle skirts and two-tone shoes jam the dance floor and Charleston like they’re scaring off demons. Rusty, the bandleader, wears a white silk suit and by eleven is drenched in sweat. I lindy until my knees ache, but Alexandra’s just getting started: she climbs onto the stage and whispers into Rusty’s ear. He says, We’re gonna do one for the spitfire in the pretty pink blouse. I sit at the bar and watch Alexandra press up against strange men, and remind myself how miserable it was to be alone.
On Saturday nights students throng to the Newett Ice Arena to watch the hockey team lose to future NHLers from Houghton and Escanaba. Bartenders on Middle Street stockpile pint glasses and rub their hands together, waiting for the postgame crush. My ex-adviser locks his office door and drinks a half-bottle of sherry, then calls his ex-wife in Sturgeon Falls. He waits until she says Hello? Who is this? John, please–then hangs up. Afterward he dials the TechHotline, stammering, and I tell him to close his eyes and take a deep breath; I tell him everything will be all right. He says, I’m sorry, Joseph, good Christ, and begins to sniffle. Snow ambles down outside the TechInfo window. One Saturday, drunk, my ex-adviser called and managed to say, Listen, I’m not going to repeat this: my daughter can be somewhat difficult, and I frankly don’t know if you’re up to the challenge.
The Swede kept a leather-bound journal detailing the events of his life from the day he arrived in Slaney until the day he died, and I read a Xeroxed copy of it when the TechHotline is quiet. Town has grown faster than even my most incautious estimates, he wrote in 1911. Andrew Street now one-quarter mile long. Irish, Finns, Cousin Jacks have come, and for some reason a band of Sicilians. No chicken for eight months. When Slaney was booming in the 1910s, lumberjacks from as far as Bruce Crossing would descend on the town on weekends and get knee-walking drunk on Yellow Dog whiskey, then smash pub stools to splinters with their peaveys. Their steel-calked boots punched holes in Slaney’s plank sidewalks. A tenderloin sprang up along the eastern edge of town, and the Swede met a young prostitute named Lotta Scott at Hugh Grogan’s place on Thomas Street; she charged him two dollars. Disarmingly frank, he wrote. Eyes dark as bituminous coal. Slim ankles. Short patience.