The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P.

( 16 )

Overview

The national bestseller, named a best book of the year by The New Yorker, NPR, Slate, The Economist, The New Republic, Bookforum, Baltimore City Paper, The Daily Beast, National Journal, San Francisco Chronicle, Chicago Reader, Cosmopolitan, Elle, Buzzfeed and many others. A New York Times Editors’ Choice and a Washington Post Notable book.

“Adelle Waldman’s debut novel, The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P., scrutinizes Nate and the subculture that he thrives in with a patient, ...

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Overview

The national bestseller, named a best book of the year by The New Yorker, NPR, Slate, The Economist, The New Republic, Bookforum, Baltimore City Paper, The Daily Beast, National Journal, San Francisco Chronicle, Chicago Reader, Cosmopolitan, Elle, Buzzfeed and many others. A New York Times Editors’ Choice and a Washington Post Notable book.

“Adelle Waldman’s debut novel, The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P., scrutinizes Nate and the subculture that he thrives in with a patient, anthropological detachment. Ms. Waldman has sorted and cross-categorized the inhabitants of Nate’s world with a witty, often breathtaking precision...”—Maria Russo, The New York Times

“Adelle Waldman just may be this generation’s Jane Austen”The Boston Globe

A debut novel by a brilliant young woman about the romantic life of a brilliant young man.

Writer Nate Piven’s star is rising. After several lean and striving years, he has his pick of both magazine assignments and women: Juliet, the hotshot business reporter; Elisa, his gorgeous ex-girlfriend, now friend; and Hannah, “almost universally regarded as nice and smart, or smart and nice,” who holds her own in conversation with his friends. When one relationship grows more serious, Nate is forced to consider what it is he really wants.

In Nate’s 21st-century literary world, wit and conversation are not at all dead. Is romance? Novelist Adelle Waldman plunges into the psyche of a flawed, sometimes infuriating modern man—one who thinks of himself as beyond superficial judgment, yet constantly struggles with his own status anxiety, who is drawn to women, yet has a habit of letting them down in ways that may just make him an emblem of our times. With tough-minded intelligence and wry good humor The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P. is an absorbing tale of one young man’s search for happiness—and an inside look at how he really thinks about women, sex and love.

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Editorial Reviews

From Barnes & Noble

Nathaniel Piven is looking for a match. This young lion on the Brooklyn literary scene seems to have his pick of women, but can't seem to settle on one. He is no cynical Casanova; quite the contrary, he is as indecisive and self-doubting as he is stylish and hip. Adelle Waldman's The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P. portrays an oddly winning thirty-something adolescent and the women who he alternately attracts and disappoints.

The New York Times Book Review - Jess Walter
…a smart, engaging 21st-century comedy of manners in which the debut novelist Adelle Waldman crawls convincingly around inside the head of one Nathaniel (Nate) Piven…A journalist by training, Waldman may not be breaking news here, but she does show herself to be a promising novelist and a savvy observer of human nature.
The Washington Post - Ron Charles
Bright young men, do you feel that chilly wind of exposure? Somehow, Adelle Waldman has stolen your passive-aggressive playbook and published it in her first novel…Waldman offers a delectable analysis of contemporary dating among literary wannabes. You might think it'd be easier to find a parking space in Manhattan than to say anything new about that subject, but this dark comedy delivers one prickling insight after another…Neither chick lit nor lad lit…Waldman has captured a whole group of privileged people who've been seduced into believing that their choice of a spouse is just one more consumer purchase—like an expensive coffee maker, something to be considered according to its pros and cons and then constantly reevaluated for how much it satisfies the original expectations.
The New York Times - Maria Russo
Adelle Waldman's debut novel…scrutinizes Nate and the subculture that he thrives in with a patient, anthropological detachment. Ms. Waldman has sorted and cross-categorized the inhabitants of Nate's world with a witty, often breathtaking precision, one eye always on the crude sexual politics of the culture industry…there are many rewards to be had in the elegant, careful way [Waldman] makes sense of Nate's struggle to be both a good person and a sexual person. This book takes seriously the question of romantic compatibility—of why we end up with one person and not another—and foregrounds the question of whether it's a subject even worth paying attention to…There is something beguiling about the very project of teasing out the thought processes of someone like Nate, who so often cuts and runs, avoiding spelling things out when feelings get complicated.
Publishers Weekly
Brooklynite Nathaniel Piven, “a product of a postfeminist, 1980s childhood,” is the modern male—inheritor of a dating world where the enduring gender imbalance gives him the upper hand. But when it comes to relationships, he’s achingly aware of the hidden traps and unsought responsibility of this power. Nate hates feeling guilty over the many women he hurts (female tears in this novel flow with a tenacious persistence, to Nate’s irritation). His well-intentioned missteps with reporter Juliet and editorial assistant Elisa earn him tireless tsk-tsk reprimands and a rep for being “the kind of guy women call an asshole.” When he begins dating a seemingly perfect-for-him writer named Hannah, we wonder whether Nate will adapt or strike out yet again. Hannah is nice, smart, and makes him feel “at home,” but will Nate, who seems to feed off misconnecting with women, make the right relationship move—or is it yet another “dick move”? An acute study of present-day struggles with intimacy, Waldman seems to suggest that love is too constricting a tie for the 21st century, and that, perhaps, a different kind of connection might better define the contemporary couple. She navigates the male psyche and a highly entertaining hipster mindset, and sneaks in an unexpected, understated ending that brings this pulpy read a satisfying poignancy. Agent: Elyse Cheney, the Elyse Cheney Agency. (July)
From the Publisher
A Los Angeles Times Bestseller; Time Out New York Critics’ Pick; GQ’s "Best Debut Novel of the Summer"; Bookish Best Debut of the year; People Magazine Great Summer Read; Maureen Corrigan of Fresh Air’s "Debut Novel of the year"; Chicago Tribune Highlights of 2013 (Nara Schoenberg); Fiction Advocate "Books that mattered in 2013"

"I inhaled this slim novel; now, I want to go back and read it again, to savor Waldman's mordant take on work, love and cannibalism among the up-and-coming Brooklyn intelligentsia…. The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P. is a sharp and assured tale about a sharp and assured young man, who often acts like a dog." —Maureen Corrigan, NPR’s Fresh Air

"Waldman’s brilliant taxonomy of homo erectus brooklynitis. I’m making [my daughter] read The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P. in exchange for paying off her student loans. Not that she’ll need much persuading…. Neither chick lit nor lad lit, The Love Affairs... attains something like the universal truths an older female writer articulated by recording the antics of a group of genteel folk in early 19th-century Bath." —Ron Charles, The Washington Post

"[A] pitch-perfect debut… In the demure tradition of the comedy of manners, Ms. Waldman is rarely mocking or mean-spirited.... A comic performance you shouldn't miss."—The Wall Street Journal

"A smart, engaging 21st-century comedy of manners in which the debut novelist Adelle Waldman crawls convincingly around inside the head of one Nathaniel (Nate) Piven." –Jess Walter, The New York Times Book Review

"Incisive and very funny… This is an impressive book, full of sharp and amusing observations about urban life, liberal pieties and modern dating…. Though Nate has an archetypal quality… Ms. Waldman has skillfully rendered him both fascinating and sympathetic. He is a man of his age, though his strengths and weaknesses are timeless." The Economist

"Fiendishly readable… Most importantly, Waldman gets the big detail right: When it comes to women, Nate’s "clamorous conscience" comes into conflict with the exercise of his natural advantages as a single, successful, attractive heterosexual man in a sexual economy that, for him, is very much a buyer’s market…. He is misogynistic and ashamed of his misogyny." —Marc Tracy, The New Republic

"While Lena Duham's TV series Girls and Noah Baumbach's film Frances Ha have reaffirmed Brooklyn's status as the capital of hipster cool, Waldman's debut novel offers a more critical look at the district's arty milieu... This is brilliantly observed stuff." — David Evans, Financial Times (London)

"Every so often... a novel comes along that actually deserves the hype. Adelle Waldman's outstanding debut is one of these.... It fixes for all time on the page a very particular type of man— the contemporary up-and-coming literary intellectual..... Psychologically astute, subtle, funny and whip-smart, this is a novel that anyone interested in how we live now should read.... With the insinuating sharpness of a stiletto blade, Waldman opens up Nate's interior to show us the mess inside.... The level of insight is bracing... On every page of The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P there is something that gives pleasure— the prose is razor-sharp, the characters in all their pretentions are lovingly skewered. This month's hot novel it may be, but this is a book that will bear repeated readings; funny, angry, subtle and sad, it is the debut of a novelist who's already the real, achieved thing. Highly recommended." The Sunday Business Post (London)

"Although the novel is about his love affairs in Brooklyn, this is really a novel that reveals—astutely—how Nate thinks…. The book is an exacting character study and Waldman an excellent and witty prose stylist…. [Nate] is a frog in a wax tray, sliced open and pinned back, his innermost private thoughts on display for inspection by the reader…. One must read the magical ending to understand that although his thoughts on women will leave many outraged, his dissected frog's heart still beats." —Jennifer Gilmore, Los Angeles Times

"… The Brooklyn novel… achieves full maturity with The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P., Adelle Waldman’s enormously enjoyable debut." Telegraph (UK)

"Like a contemporary Jane Austen, Adelle Waldman unpacks every nuance of modern mating mores in her debut novel, The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P.... Bravo to Adelle Waldman for getting inside the psyche of Homo erectus literaticus, and for not making it as easy as it should be to hate him. The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P. is good, evil fun." —Marion Winik, Newsday

"Waldman has written a book of stately revenge, exposing all that is shallow and oblivious about Nate, and men like him. But it’s also a book of beautifully modulated sympathy—for men as well as women. . . .With her eye for social folly in the streets and restaurants of New York, Waldman resembles Edith Wharton." –Sasha Weiss, NewYorker.com

"A funny and surprisingly sympathetic examination of the romantic sociopathy of youthful litterateurs… Waldman captures smart-enough literary party patter so well… that many of her readers may find themselves squirming in hot-faced recognition… Placed throughout the novel, however, are callbacks to the social literature of the nineteenth century—to George Eliot’s work in particular...."—Harper’s Magazine

"So much truth in Nathaniel P. that I just can’t stop reading it. Oh, it’s one hot book…. We read fiction for truth. And it’s there in Nathaniel P…. This is a guy’s book. You might classify it as chick lit. You might think it’s too narrow, about the Brooklyn literary scene. But the personal is universal. And there’s a lot of personal in Nathaniel P. And the only thing that matters is the personal…. Read this book." —Bob Lefsetz, The Lefsetz Letter

"A fabulous book… It’s really great…. This is such a modern portrait. This guy will be so utterly recognizable to all of us and it’s very subtle and I just think a wonderfully written book. I recommend you all get it." —Hanna Rosin, Slate DoubleX Gabfest

"Smart and enthralling… Waldman’s achievement isn’t to glorify so much as to dissect, with an uncommonly sharp eye, a minor romantic failure in all its contemporary complexity and evanescent significance." San Francisco Chronicle

"[Written] with courage and determination and more than a little bit of moxie." – Baltimore Sun

"[T]hose who pass on "Nathaniel P." will . . . likely be dating themselves, especially if they're still using Nick Hornby or, worse, John Updike as a guide to the modern male psyche. . . ." – The Plain Dealer (Cleveland)

"Early readers of this novel have already started arguing about how unlikable Piven is, but there's no debating Waldman's success in etching such a fine portrait." —Jim Higgins, Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel

"We have lately heard ad infinitum the new sensitive literary man’s account of his life and times... what we haven’t yet heard enough of is the smart literary woman’s view of him. With Adelle Waldman’s funny, provocative satire… we have a valuable new anthropology of the type.... [An] excellent funny novel." — Katie Roiphe, Slate

"[A] provocative debut novel... A discomfitingly thrilling read." — L. V. Anderson, Slate

"Waldman is a staggeringly talented prose stylist, easy and elegant in every particular, learned, undeceived, and with a dash of sly, quiet humor in nearly every line..." – The Awl

" This is Waldman's debut, but she brings Franzen-level domestic chaos… a magnificent trick of making distant experiences feel like familiar heartaches."— Grantland

"I basically stayed on the couch for an entire day reading it; I was that riveted by Waldman’s ability to get into the brain of Nate Piven." —Mary Pols, MSN Page-Turner

"[This] lovable antihero quickly becomes irresistible to us. . . The upshot: a thoroughly, hilariously of-the-moment tale that marvelously captures what it’s really like to be young, smart, and looking for love in the big city—from a new writer to watch." – Elle Magazine

"A must-read if you’ve ever dated." Glamour (Aug 2013)

"Easily summer’s most buzzed-about debut." —Megan O’Grady, Vogue.com

"An honest look inside the head of thirtysomething Nate Piven. It'll have you screaming because you've so dated this guy."—Glamour Magazine, "The 20 Next Big Things"

"Reminiscent of classic realist novels from authors like Graham Greene or Henry James, this delightful debut jumps headfirst into the mind of one man, revealing what he really thinks about women, dating and success." —Megan Fishmann, Bookpage

"Written from a dude’s POV, this big-hearted yet brutally honest novel about finding love in a big city is a major eye-opener." – Cosmopolitan Magazine

"The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P. [is] a hilariously astute portrait of a hopelessly self-obsessed Brooklyn writer as a sad young literary man, a Peter Pan for a new, deeply ironic millennium."— Vogue

"The characters that populate Waldman’s world are artistic, creative, funny and intelligent—except when it comes to matters of the heart." Kirkus

"An acute study of present-day struggles with intimacy… [Waldman] navigates the male psyche and a highly entertaining hipster mindset, and sneaks in an unexpected, understated ending that brings…a satisfying poignancy." Publishers Weekly

"[A] sharply written first novel." —Joanne Wilkinson, Booklist

"Waldman takes a cliché and turns it on its ear." —Julie Elliott, Library Journal

From the Publisher

"[This] lovable antihero quickly becomes irresistible to us. . . The upshot: a thoroughly, hilariously of-the-moment tale that marvelously captures what it’s really like to be young, smart, and looking for love in the big city—from a new writer to watch." – Elle Magazine

"The best debut novel of the summer… It’s hard to know whether Adelle Waldman’s portrait of Brooklyn’s sad young literary men in The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P. is meant to be scathing satire or plain realism, but frankly, you won’t give a damn…. Waldman’s gift is to give voice to the minute calculations and fickle desires of modern manhood as we cringe and read just one more chapter, and then another, and then another." —Kira Henehan, GQ

"An honest look inside the head of thirtysomething Nate Piven. It'll have you screaming because you've so dated this guy."—Glamour Magazine, "The 20 Next Big Things"

"Reminiscent of classic realist novels from authors like Graham Greene or Henry James, this delightful debut jumps headfirst into the mind of one man, revealing what he really thinks about women, dating and success." —Megan Fishmann, Bookpage

"Written from a dude’s POV, this big-hearted yet brutally honest novel about finding love in a big city is a major eye-opener." – Cosmopolitan Magazine

"Sometimes it’s more complicated than ‘He’s just not that into you.’ A delightful comedy of manners told from the point of view of one bookish Brooklyn hipster." People Magazine "Great Summer Reads"

"If you ever wondered what that guy could have possibly been thinking (or been that guy and still found yourself without a clue), you’ll probably laugh, scowl, and hide your eyes in equal measure as you page through this hilarious, smart-as-hell debut. An elegant, half-satirical, half-sweet novel about modern love, New York, gender roles, and muddling through." —Emily Temple, Flavorpill "20 Highbrow Books to Read on the Beach This Summer"

"The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P. [is] a hilariously astute portrait of a hopelessly self-obsessed Brooklyn writer as a sad young literary man, a Peter Pan for a new, deeply ironic millennium."-- Vogue

"The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P. is one of the most nuanced and precise portraits of the muddled male mind since Nick Hornby's High Fidelity. But Adelle Waldman doesn't stop there; the novel also presents from-the-trenches insights into the status anxiety swirling around these young and ambitious literary New Yorkers. Shot through with wit and carried along by graceful prose, Waldman's debut is a joy to read."—Teddy Wayne, author of The Love Song of Jonny Valentine: A Novel

"Adelle Waldman writes about very twenty-first century manners and sexual mores with a deep fluency of psychological intelligence reminiscent of a nineteenth century classic. The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P. is a novel to admire, even--or especially--when you are wincing at its insights." – Benjamin Kunkel, author of Indecision

"Wow. What a psychologically astute, and very, very witty novelabout a young male you would think you might hate (but you don't; or, at least, I didn’t), by a young female writer you can't help but love." —Rivka Galchen, author of Atmospheric Disturbances

"I can't remember the last novel this good about being young and smart and looking for love in the big city. The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P. reads as if one of the top tier 19th-century novelists zeroed her social x-ray eyes onto present-moment Brooklyn. Up-and-coming writers and artists everywhere will be squirming with uncomfortable recognition of themselves, their friends, and their psyches; far more readers will be thanking Adelle Waldman for this hilarious, big-hearted, ruthlessly intelligent, and ridiculously well-written novel." —Charles Bock, author of the best-selling novel Beautiful Children

"Novelist Adelle Waldman does a very tricky thing: she succeeds in crossing the gender line, imagining the world from behind the eyes of a male character both sympathetically and unsentimentally. This former young-literary-man-in-Brooklyn found himself cringing in recognition." —William Deresiewicz, author of A Jane Austen Education: How Six Novels Taught Me About Love, Friendship, and the Things That Really Matter

"A hysterically honest ethnographic study of the male hipster in his natural habitat (Brooklyn), The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P. is the sympathetic portrait of a terminally-adolescent, over-educated, indecisive and slightly scruffy thirty-something. Nate is so convincingly drawn you’ll want to hug him, lecture him and shake some sense into him simultaneously. Waldman has deftly written a laugh-out-loud treatise on why he didn’t call." – Allison Amend, author of A Nearly Perfect Copy

"This sharp, unsentimental debut novel is as fiercely intelligent as it is deliciously cheeky and well-observed. Literary Brooklyn and its striving inhabitants may never again be so unsparingly--and so winningly-- portrayed. I can't wait to read more from Adelle Waldman." --Joanna Hershon, author of The German Bride and A Dual Inheritance 

"Bracing and astute. Waldman writes these crisp, smart sentences that are every bit as thoughtful as her characters—people whose relationships founder and flourish in ways that will captivate readers from page one." —Fiona Maazel, author of Last Last Chance and Woke Up Lonely

"Deliciously funny, sharply observed, elegantly told, The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P. is the best debut I’ve encountered in years, the best novel about New York, and the best novel about contemporary manhood and the crazy state of gender roles and just "contemporary" life. With a pitch perfect balance of satire and sympathy, reminiscent of Mary McCarthy’s The Group, Joshua Ferris’ Then We Came to the End, and Jay McInerney’s Brightness Falls, Adelle Waldman’s voice is nevertheless entirely—and unabashedly—her own." --Joanna Smith Rakoff, author of the novel A Fortunate Age

Library Journal
Nathaniel P. is a type-A guy readers have previously encountered in many a chick lit novel. The sensitive, artistic sort who secretly turns out to be passive-aggressive and adverse to long-term commitment, this archetype is usually the stumbling block to true romance, appearing in early chapters but quickly dispatched to make room for the hero. Waldman's debut differs in that she makes this character the protagonist, and she builds such a solid point of view for her creation that the reader is drawn in despite the somewhat depressing subject matter (commitment-adverse Brooklyn writer finds perfect girl and proceeds to play mind games with her before ultimately learning important life lessons that he may then forget). The plot is the book's weakness. Tales of relationship struggles are common, and for readers' who enjoy that kind of narrative, this story provides plenty of angst. For those who are not fans of couple drama, the strong characterization will appeal. Waldman takes a cliché and turns it on its ear, and while the book may not be a breezy summer read, Nathaniel P. certainly makes an impression. VERDICT For fans of relationship literature and those who prefer their summer reading sour instead of sweet. [Library marketing.]—Julie Elliott, Indiana Univ. Lib., South Bend
Kirkus Reviews
Nate Piven's affairs are convoluted, to say the least, and some of his relationships seem to come right out of Seinfeld episodes. Where to begin...well, there's Juliet, who meets Nate after a hiatus and castigates him for his insensitivity, for he'd gotten her pregnant, paid for an abortion and then effectively dumped her. We also meet Elisa, a former girlfriend who renews her interest in Nate now that he's about to have a book published. At a dinner party, Nate briefly meets Hannah, whom he finds attractive and who later becomes his "serious" girlfriend. They get along great, and Hannah even goes toe-to-toe with Jason, Nate's overly intellectual best friend. Nate and Hannah settle into a comfortable relationship, both sexual and social, but then (inevitably?) become moody and begin to drift apart. Nate knows the relationship's over when Hannah sends him a long email detailing the depth and complexity of her feelings, and he fails to respond with a similar email, so he then receives a much shorter and angrier one dismissing him as a jerk. On the rebound, Nate hooks up with Greer, another friend of Hannah's, and the novel ends with Nate and Greer moving in together. While on the surface things are fine, the relationship is fraught with the usual vulnerabilities and anxieties that characterize all of Nate's relationships. Throughout the narrative, Waldman also flashes us back to Nate's earlier girlfriends, pals and hookups. The characters that populate Waldman's world are artistic, creative, funny and intelligent--except when it comes to matters of the heart, for they are constitutionally incapable of making long-term commitments. It would be refreshing to find one mature adult.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780805097450
  • Publisher: Holt, Henry & Company, Inc.
  • Publication date: 7/16/2013
  • Pages: 256
  • Sales rank: 628,010
  • Product dimensions: 5.94 (w) x 8.34 (h) x 0.98 (d)

Meet the Author

Adelle  Waldman

Adelle Waldman is a graduate of Brown University and Columbia University's journalism school. She worked as a reporter at the New Haven Register and the Cleveland Plain Dealer, and wrote a column for the Wall Street Journal's website. Her articles also have appeared in The New York Times Book Review, The New Republic, Slate, The Wall Street Journal, and other national publications. She lives in Brooklyn, New York.

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Read an Excerpt

1

 

 

It was too late to pretend he hadn’t seen her. Juliet was already squinting with recognition. For an instant she looked pleased to make out a familiar face on a crowded street. Then she realized who it was.

“Nate.”

“Juliet! Hi. How are you?”

At the sound of his voice, a tight little grimace passed over Juliet’s eyes and mouth. Nate smiled uneasily.

“You look terrific,” he said. “How’s the Journal?

Juliet shut her eyes briefly. “It’s fine, Nate. I’m fine, the Journal’s fine. Everything’s fine.”

She crossed her arms in front of her and began gazing meditatively at a point just above and to the left of his forehead. Her dark hair was loose, and she wore a belted blue dress and a black blazer whose sleeves were bunched up near her elbows. Nate glanced from Juliet to a cluster of passersby and back to Juliet.

“Are you headed to the train?” he asked, pointing with his chin to the subway entrance on the corner.

Really?” Juliet’s voice became throaty and animated. “Really, Nate? That’s all you have to say to me?”

“Jesus, Juliet!” Nate took a small step back. “I just thought you might be in a hurry.”

In fact, he was worried about the time. He was already late to Elisa’s dinner party. He touched a hand to his hair—it always reassured him a little, the thick abundance of his hair.

“Come on, Juliet,” he said. “It doesn’t have to be this way.”

“Oh?” Juliet’s posture grew rigid. “How should it be, Nate?”

“Juliet—” he began. She cut him off.

“You could have at least—” She shook her head. “Oh, never mind. It’s not worth it.”

Could have at least what? Nate wanted to know. But he pictured Elisa’s wounded, withering look if he showed up so late that all her guests had to wait on him to start dinner, heard her slightly nasal voice brushing off his apology with a “whatever,” as if she had long since ceased to be surprised by any new bad thing he did.

“Look, Juliet, it was great to see you. And you do look great. But I’ve really got to go.”

Juliet’s head jerked back. She seemed almost to wince. Nate could see—it was obvious—that she took his words as a rejection. Immediately, he was sorry. He saw her suddenly not as an adversary but as a vulnerable, unhappy young—youngish—woman. He wanted to do something for her, say something earnest and truthful and kind.

“You’re an asshole,” she said before he had the chance.

She looked at him for a fraction of a second and then turned away, began walking quickly toward the river and the adjacent strip of restaurants and bars. Nate nearly called after her. He wanted to try, at least, to put things on a better footing. But what would he say? And there was no time.

Juliet’s strides, as she receded into the distance, were long and determined, but she moved stiffly, like a person determined not to let on that her shoes hurt her feet. Reluctantly, Nate started walking in the opposite direction. In the deepening twilight, the packed street no longer seemed festive but seedy and carnival-like. He got stuck behind a trio of young women with sunglasses pushed up on their heads and purses flapping against their hips. As he maneuvered around them, the one closest twisted her wavy blonde hair around her neck and spoke to her companions in a Queen Bee–ish twang. Her glance flickered in his direction. Nate didn’t know if the disdain on her face was real or imagined. He felt conspicuous, as if Juliet’s insult had marked him.

After a few blocks, the sidewalks became less congested. Nate began moving faster. And he began to feel irritated with himself for being so rattled. So Juliet didn’t like him. So what? It wasn’t as if she were being fair.

Could have at least what? He had only been out with her three or four times when it happened. It was no one’s fault. As soon as he realized the condom had broken, he’d pulled out. Not quite in time, it turned out. He knew that because he was not the kind of guy who disappeared after sleeping with a woman—and certainly not after the condom broke. On the contrary: Nathaniel Piven was a product of a postfeminist, 1980s childhood and politically correct, 1990s college education. He had learned all about male privilege. Moreover he was in possession of a functional and frankly rather clamorous conscience.

Consider, though, what it had been for him. (Walking briskly now, Nate imagined he was defending himself before an audience.) The party line—he told his listeners—is that she, as the woman, had the worst of it. And she did, of course. But it wasn’t a cakewalk for him, either. There he was, thirty years old, his career finally taking off—an outcome that had not seemed at all inevitable, or even particularly likely, in his twenties—when suddenly there erupted the question of whether he would become a father, which would obviously change everything. Yet it was not in his hands. It was in the hands of a person he barely knew, a woman whom, yes, he’d slept with, but who was by no means his girlfriend. He felt like he had woken up in one of those after-school specials he watched as a kid on Thursday afternoons, whose moral was not to have sex with a girl unless you were ready to raise a child with her. This had always seemed like bullshit. What self-respecting middle-class teenage girl—soon-to-be college student, future affluent young professional, a person who could go on to do anything at all (run a multinational corporation, win a Nobel Prize, get elected first woman president)—what such young woman would decide to have a baby and thus become, in the vacuous, public service announcement jargon of the day, “a statistic”?

When Juliet broke the news, Nate realized how much had changed in the years since he’d hashed this out. An already affluent, thirty-four-year-old professional like Juliet might view her situation differently than a teenager with nothing before her but possibility. Maybe she was no longer so optimistic about what fate held in store for her (first woman president, for example, probably seemed unlikely). Maybe she had become pessimistic about men and dating. She might view this as her last chance to become a mother.

Nate’s future hinged on Juliet’s decision, and yet not only was it not his to make, he couldn’t even seem to be unduly influencing her. Talking to Juliet, sitting on the blue-and-white-striped sofa in her living room with a cup of tea—tea!—in his hand, discussing the “situation,” it seemed he’d be branded a monster if he so much as implied that his preference was to abort the baby or fetus or whatever you wanted to call it. (Nate was all for a woman’s right to choose and all the lingo that went with it.) He’d sat there, and he’d said the right things—that it was her decision, that whatever she wanted he’d support, et cetera, et cetera. But who could blame him if he felt only relief when she said—in her “I’m a smart-ass, brook-no-bullshit newspaper reporter” tone of voice—that, obviously, abortion was the natural solution? Even then he didn’t allow himself to show any emotion. He spoke in a deliberate and measured tone. He said that she should think hard about it. Who could blame him for any of it?

Well, she could. Obviously, she did.

A livery cab idled past, its driver eying Nate to see if he was a potential fare. Nate waved the car on.

As he crossed an empty street, he began to feel certain that what Juliet actually blamed him for was that his reaction, however decent, had made abundantly clear that he didn’t want to be her boyfriend, let alone the father of her child. The whole thing was so personal. You were deciding whether you wanted to say yes to this potential person, literally a commingling of your two selves, or stamp out all trace of its existence. Of course it made you think about how different it would be if the circumstances were different—especially, he imagined, if you were a woman and on some level you wanted a baby. Sitting in Juliet’s living room, Nate had been surprised by just how awful he felt, how sad, how disgusted by the weak, wanton libidinousness (as it seemed to him then) that had brought him to this uncomfortable, dissembling place.

But did any of it make him an asshole? He had never promised her anything. He’d met her at a party, found her attractive, liked her enough to want to get to know her better. He’d been careful not to imply more than that. He’d told her that he wasn’t looking for anything serious, that he was focused on his career. She’d nodded, agreed. Yet he felt sure the whole thing would have played out differently if he could have said to her, Look, Juliet, let’s not have this baby, but maybe some other, at some future point … But while he admired Juliet’s sleek, no-nonsense demeanor, that brisk, confident air, he admired it with dispassionate fascination, as a fine example of type, rather than with warmth. In truth he found her a bit dull.

Nevertheless, he had done everything that could have been expected of him. Even though he had less money than she did, he paid for the abortion. He went with her to the clinic and waited while it was being performed, sitting on a stain-resistant, dormitory lounge–style couch with a rotating cast of teenage girls who typed frenetically on their cell phones’ tiny keyboards. When it was over, he took her home in a taxi. They spent a pleasant, strangely companionable day together, at her place, watching movies and drinking wine. He left the apartment only to pick up her prescription and bring her a few groceries. When, finally, around nine, he got up to go home, she followed him to the door.

She looked at him intently. “Today was … well, it wasn’t as bad as it could have been.”

He, too, felt particularly tender at that moment. He brushed some hair from her cheek with his thumb and let it linger for a moment. “I’m really sorry for what you had to go through,” he said.

A few days later, he called to see how she was feeling.

“A little sore, but okay,” she said.

He said he was glad to hear it. There was a long pause. Nate knew he should say something chatty and diverting. He opened his mouth to speak. But a panicky premonition came over him: this phone call would lead to an endless string of others, the day at Juliet’s apartment to a regular movie date, all tinged with a sense of obligation and an almost creepy quasi flirtation.

“I’ve got to run,” he said. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

“Oh.” Juliet drew in her breath. “Okay … Bye, then.”

He probably should have followed up after that. As he turned the corner onto Elisa’s street, Nate conceded that he should have called or e-mailed a few weeks later. But, at the time, he hadn’t known if a call from him would have been welcome. It might have been a painful reminder of something she would rather put behind her. Nor did he know what he would have said. And he’d gotten distracted, caught up in other things—in life. She could have called him.

He’d done more than many guys would have. Was it his fault if he just didn’t feel that way about her? Could have at least what?

The front door of Elisa’s building was propped open with a large rock. Light from the hallway made a yellow arc on the concrete stoop. Nate paused before entering, taking a breath and running a hand through his hair. Inside, the stairs sagged and groaned under his feet. Elisa’s landing smelled of sautéed onions. After a moment, the door swung open.

“Natty!” she cried, throwing her arms around him.

*   *   *

Though he and Elisa had broken up more than a year ago, her apartment, on the top floor of a row house in gentrifying Greenpoint, still felt almost as familiar to Nate as his own.

Before she moved in, its brick walls had been plastered over and covered with floral wallpaper. The thick, irregular beams of the wood floor were hidden under carpet. Elisa’s landlord, Joe Jr., once showed Nate and Elisa photos. After more than twenty years, its elderly Polish occupant had left to live with a daughter in New Jersey. Joe Jr. had torn up the carpet and ripped the plaster off the exterior walls. His father, who had bought the house in the 1940s and had since moved to Florida, said he was crazy. Joe Sr. thought adding a dishwasher or replacing the old bathtub would have been a better investment. “But I told him that that wasn’t the way to attract high-class tenants,” Joe Jr. explained to Nate and Elisa one afternoon, while he repaired some tiles in the bathroom. “I told him the kind of people who pay the big bucks go wild for clawfoot tubs. It’s a matter of taste, I told him.” Joe Jr. turned to face them, a jar of spackle dangling from his fleshy fingers. “And was I right or was I right?” he asked jovially, a big grin lighting up his face. Nate and Elisa, holding hands, nodded uneasily, unsure of the appropriate response to being so openly—and aptly—characterized as a certain kind of dupe.

Nate had helped Elisa paint the two nonbrick walls a beige that contrasted with the dark brick and the cream-colored rug under her couch. The dining room table they had purchased together at Ikea, but the chairs and a long cabinet by the door had belonged to her grandparents. (Or was it her great-grandparents?) Her bookcases reached nearly to the ceiling.

The apartment’s familiarity now felt to him like a reproach. Elisa had insisted on his presence tonight. “If we really are friends, why can’t I have you over for dinner with a few people?” she’d asked. What could he say?

On the couch, Nate’s friend Jason, a magazine editor who, to Nate’s alternating irritation and amusement, had long wanted to get into Elisa’s pants, leaned back regally, cradling the back of his head in his palms. Jason’s knees were stretched absurdly far apart, as if he were trying to bore the largest possible impression of himself into Elisa’s furniture. Next to Jason sat Aurit, another good friend of Nate’s, who had recently returned from a research trip to Europe. Aurit was talking to a girl named Hannah, whom Nate had met before here and there—a thin, pert-breasted writer, pleasant-looking in spite of rather angular features. She was almost universally regarded as nice and smart, or smart and nice. Seated on the loveseat was a woman Elisa knew from college. Nate couldn’t remember her name and had met her too many times to ask. He knew she was a lawyer. The weak-chinned suit with his arm draped over her shoulder was, presumably, the banker she was hot to marry.

“We’ve been wondering when you were going to grace us with your company,” Jason said as soon as Nate had both feet in the door.

Nate set his messenger bag on the floor. “I ran into some trouble on the way.”

“The G?” Aurit asked sympathetically.

There followed murmurs of agreement that the G, among all the New York subway lines, was especially unreliable.

Nate took the only available seat, next to Elisa’s college friend. “It’s good to see you,” he said, with as much warmth as he could conjure. “It’s been a while.”

She looked at him levelly. “You and Elisa were still going out.”

Nate thought he detected an accusation in her voice—as in “it was before you trampled all over her self-esteem and ruined her happiness.”

He forced himself to hold his smile. “In any case, it’s been too long.”

Nate introduced himself to her banker boyfriend and tried to get the guy talking. If he’d just refer to her by name, Nate would at least be relieved of one anxiety. But the ex-frat boy mostly let her answer for him (equity research, Bank of America, former Merrill Lynch, transition stressful). His preferred means of communication appeared to be nonverbal: a fixed smile and benign, fatherly nods of his head.

Soon—though not necessarily soon enough—Elisa beckoned them to a table crowded with platters and bowls.

“Everything looks delicious,” someone said, as they circled the table, smiling beatifically at the spread and at each other. Elisa returned from the other side of the room, carrying a butter dish. Frowning, she scanned the room one last time. A self-satisfied sigh escaped her mouth as she sank gracefully into her seat, the billowy yellow fabric of her skirt fluttering on her descent.

“Go ahead and start,” she said, without making any move to start herself. “The chicken will get cold.”

While he ate his chicken cacciatore—which, as it happened, was quite good—Nate studied Elisa’s heart-shaped face: those big, limpid eyes and dramatic cheekbones, the pretty, bow-shaped lips and profusion of white teeth. Each time Nate saw her, Elisa’s beauty struck him anew, as if in the interval the memory of what she actually looked like had been distorted by the tortured emotions she elicited since they’d broken up: in his mind, she took on the dimensions of an abject creature. What a shock when she opened the door, bursting with vibrant, almost aggressive good health. The power of her beauty, Nate had once decided, came from its ability to constantly reconfigure itself. When he thought he’d accounted for it, filed it away as a dead fact—pretty girl—she turned her head or bit her lip, and like a children’s toy you shake to reset, her prettiness changed shape, its coordinates altered: now it flashed from the elegant contours of her sloping brow and flaring cheekbone, now from her shyly smiling lips. “Elisa the Beautiful,” Nate had said without thinking when she hugged him at the door. She’d beamed, breezily overlooking his lateness.

Yet only a short while later, he’d acclimated. Hannah had complimented her apartment. “I hate it,” Elisa responded. “It’s small, and it’s laid out poorly. The fixtures are incredibly cheap.” Then a quick smile: “Thank you, though.”

The familiar hint of whine in Elisa’s voice brought back to Nate an equally familiar cocktail of guilt and pity and dread. Also sheer annoyance—that spoiled, ill-tempered quality about her. Her prettiness became an irritant, a Calypso-like lure to entrap him, again.

Besides, as he poked at his chicken with his fork, Nate noticed the pores on Elisa’s nose and a bit of acne atop her forehead, near her hairline, flaws so minor that it would be ungentlemanly to notice them on most women. But on Elisa, whose prettiness seemed to demand that she be judged on some Olympian scale of perfect beauty, these imperfections seemed, irrationally, like failures of will or judgment on her part.

“What are you working on these days?” she asked him as a bowl of potatoes was passed around for the second time.

Nate dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “Just an essay.”

Elisa’s round eyes and cocked head implored him to elaborate.

“It’s about how one of the privileges of being elite is that we outsource the act of exploitation,” he said, glancing at Jason, seated diagonally from him.

The idea for this essay was a bit hazy, and Nate dreaded sounding naive, like the person he’d been in his early twenties, before he’d learned that writing ambitiously, about big or serious subjects, was a privilege magazines granted only to people who’d already made it. But he had recently written a book. He had received a significant advance for it, and even though publication was still many months away, the book had already generated quite a bit of publicity. If he hadn’t yet made it, he was getting closer.

“We get other people to do things that we’re too morally thin-skinned to do ourselves,” he said with more conviction. “Conscience is the ultimate luxury.”

“You mean that it’s almost entirely working-class people who join the army and that sort of thing?” Jason said loudly enough that all other conversation ceased. He reached for a slice of baguette from a butcher block. “Can you pass the butter?” he asked Hannah, before turning back to Nate expectantly.

Jason’s curls were tamped down with a glistening ointment. He had the aspect of a diabolical cherub.

“That’s not exactly what I had in mind,” Nate said. “I mean—”

“I think you’re absolutely right, Nate,” Aurit broke in, wielding her fork like a pointer. “I think Americans in general are too removed from all the ugliness that goes into safeguarding so-called normal life.”

“That’s the Israeli perspective, of course—” Jason began.

“That’s offensive, Jason,” Aurit said. “It’s not only reductive but racialist—”

“It is offensive,” Nate agreed. “But I’m actually not so much interested in security issues as day-to-day life, the ways we protect ourselves from feeling complicit in the economic exploitation that goes on all around us. Take Whole Foods. Half of what you pay for when you shop there is the privilege of feeling ethically pure.” He set his wine glass on the table and began gesturing with his arms. “Or consider the Mexican guy the landlord pays to put the trash in front of our buildings twice a week. We wouldn’t exploit him ourselves, but on some level we know the guy is an illegal immigrant who doesn’t even get minimum wage.”

“Joe Jr. does the trash himself,” Elisa said. “But he’s really cheap.”

“Is there a difference between being ‘racialist’ and ‘racist’?” Elisa’s college friend asked.

“Same with the guys who deliver our pizza and make our sandwiches,” Nate continued. He knew that he was violating an implicit rule of dinner party etiquette. Conversation was supposed to be ornamental, aimed to amuse. One wasn’t supposed to be invested in the content of what was said, only the tone. But for the moment he didn’t care. “We don’t exploit them ourselves,” he said. “No, we hire someone, a middleman, usually a small business owner, to do it, so we don’t have to feel bad. But we still take advantage of their cheap labor, even as we prattle on about our liberalism—how great the New Deal was, the eight-hour workday, the minimum wage. Our only complaint—in theory—is that it didn’t go far enough.”

“Excuse me, Nate.” Aurit held up an empty wine bottle. “Should we open another?”

“Joe does hire Mexicans to renovate,” Elisa said in a tipsily thoughtful voice as she walked to the cabinet by the door. Atop it stood several wine bottles whose necks poked out of colorful plastic bags. They had of course been brought by the other guests. Nate recognized the lime-green packaging of the Tangled Vine, his own neighborhood wine store. This seemed to make his failure worse. He had meant to pick up a bottle on the way over.

Elisa selected a red and returned to her seat. “Can someone open it?” she asked before turning to Nate. “Sorry, Nate. Go on.”

Nate had lost the thread of his argument.

Hannah took the bottle from Elisa. “You were saying that we benefit from exploitation but pretend our hands are clean,” she said helpfully as Elisa handed her a tarnished copper corkscrew that looked old enough to have accompanied Lewis and Clark on their westward journey. One of Elisa’s “heirlooms,” no doubt. “I think—” Hannah started to say.

“Right,” Nate said. “Right.”

His argument came back to him at once. “You know how you read a Dickens novel where these eight-year-old boys work in factories or beg on the streets? And you wonder why didn’t anyone give a fuck? Well, we aren’t so different. We’ve just gotten better at hiding it—from ourselves most of all. People back then at least justified their behavior by admitting to their contempt for the poor.”

Jason addressed the banker. “If you haven’t already noticed, young Nate here suffers from a particularly acute case of liberal guilt.”

Jason was currently working on an article about the obesity epidemic, to be called “Don’t Let Them Eat Cake.”

Before Nate could respond, Hannah turned to him. She was cradling the wine bottle in one arm and gingerly twisting the ludicrous corkscrew with the other. “When people voluntarily pay more to shop at Whole Foods, aren’t they, by your logic, trying to be responsible?” she asked. “Aren’t they paying more so as not to take advantage of cheap labor?”

“Absolutely,” Nate said appreciatively. (Someone, it seemed, was actually listening.) “But do those marked-up prices really benefit anyone other than Whole Foods shareholders? All they have to do is put some picture of an earnest lesbian couple on a cereal box and we just assume it comes from some free-love workers’ paradise. It’s in our self-interest to think so because it allows us to buy good conscience, just like we buy everything else.” He paused before concluding. “It’s basically a Marxian argument, about the inexorability of exploitation under capitalism.”

Aurit frowned. “Who’s this essay for, Nate?”

“I don’t know yet,” Nate said. “I want to write it before I start worrying about whether it will advance my career.”

Aurit scrutinized him the way a doctor studies a protuberance he suspects is malignant. “Also, don’t people shop at Whole Foods because the food is healthier?”

The wine bottle whooshed as Hannah removed the cork.

I think your idea sounds interesting,” Elisa said.

Elisa, Nate thought, was being extremely, even uncharacteristically, nice to him. Maybe they really were, as she had said, turning a corner?

“I think it sounds interesting as well,” said the guy half of the couple, whose name, Kevin or Devon, Nate had by now also forgotten but who had, Nate noticed, found his voice as the wine began flowing more freely. “I haven’t heard anyone call an idea Marxist and mean it as a good thing in a long time,” he said as Elisa “refreshed” his glass. “Not since college.”

Nate nudged his own glass into Elisa’s line of sight.

While she poured, chair legs scraped the floorboards, ice cubes cracked between molars, and silverware clattered against plates. Nate scanned the books on Elisa’s shelf. Her collection was impressive, suggestive of seriousness and good taste. The chick lit and the women’s magazines, she kept in the bedroom.

“So, what is the difference between racialism and racism?” Kevin/Devon’s girlfriend finally asked.

“Racialism,” Aurit began enthusiastically, “is not so much dislike or prejudice against a group but the—”

“Hey, guess who I heard got a four-hundred-thousand-dollar book advance?” Jason interrupted. Out of courtesy to Aurit, no one responded.

“—attribution of personal qualities or”—Aurit looked pointedly at Jason—“beliefs to a person’s membership in—”

“Greer Cohen,” Jason finished.

“—a racial group.” Aurit’s words were orphans. She grimaced when she heard Greer’s name. Even Hannah, who had indeed struck Nate this evening as nice as well as smart, raised her eyebrows.

“Good for Greer,” Elisa said, like some kind of Stepford hostess whose good manners extend even to those who aren’t present.

“Who’s Greer Cohen?”

“A writer. Of sorts,” Aurit said to Kevin/Devon and his lawyer girlfriend.

Nate’s friends then began offering up various, mostly uncharitable assessments of Greer’s talent and speculating about whom she’d slept with and whom she’d merely flirted with.

“I do think she’s a good writer,” Hannah conceded.

“It’s not so much her writing I object to,” Aurit said. “It’s her willingness to trade on her sexuality and call it feminism.”

Nate leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs under the table. He felt no inclination to join in. He, too, had recently received a sizable book advance (though nowhere near four hundred thousand dollars). He could afford to be magnanimous.

His glass was empty again. The open wine bottle was on the far side of a vast, primitive-looking wooden salad bowl. He pivoted to reach for it, and as he turned, his torso momentarily blocked out everyone but him and Elisa. She met his eye and gave him one of her sultry looks, tilting her face bashfully downward and smiling a little lopsided smile that was peculiarly suggestive, the shy but flirtatious look a woman might wear when she confessed to some slightly offbeat sexual fantasy.

Nate’s body tensed. He became panicky and hyperalert. He felt, he imagined, like a soldier who had been having a rollicking time on guard duty until he heard the crackle of approaching gunfire. Previous reports of improving conditions had proved false. Situation on the front was actually bad, very bad.

The wine made glugging sounds as it hurried out of the bottle and splashed against the fishbowl contours of his glass.

“Careful, buddy,” Jason said and laughed. Nate ignored him. He needed fortification for later, when, he was now certain, Elisa would keep him back after the others left, insisting they needed to “talk.” Ill-conceived advances would lead to a reprise of old accusations. The night would end as their nights so often had, in tears.

He exhaled loudly. An ex-girlfriend—not Elisa—once told him he was a histrionic breather.

When he looked toward the cabinet near the door to make sure there was another bottle of wine on reserve, he thought he felt something brush his leg, near his kneecap. He made the mistake of turning to investigate.

Elisa coyly withdrew her fingertips.

Nate bolted out of his chair and, as if overcome by a sudden and maniacal desire to study its contents more minutely, made for the bookcase. Borges, Boswell, Bulgakov. He ran a finger along their spines, most marked with yellow “used” stickers from the Brown bookstore.

When he dared to look up, careful to avoid the part of the room containing Elisa, he saw Hannah silhouetted in the kitchen doorway. She was wearing a blue top and narrow skirt. She really did have a nice, slim figure. She was carrying a stack of dishes and had turned partly back to respond to something someone said. She laughed, a real laugh, hearty and open-mouthed.

As it subsided, Hannah’s eyes met his. She smiled. It was a friendly smile, a sane smile, perhaps the last he’d see tonight. He wondered if she was dating anyone.

 

Copyright © 2013 by Adelle Waldman

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Interviews & Essays

A Conversation with Adelle Waldman, Author of The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P.

Why do you write?

For me, the impulse to write was, initially, less literary than personal. Growing up, I read to learn about people—including myself—and to find solutions to, or at least perspective on, the problems that I faced. When I was 20, I found the 19th century novel, and my life changed. In Middlemarch first, and then later, in Jane Austen, Charlotte Bronte, Thackeray, Elizabeth Gaskell, Stendhal, Flaubert, Trollope and Thomas Hardy, I found the sort of insight into psychology and social life that I had long craved.

For the next several years, I was so busy reading that I hardly thought of writing. (Why should I have, when so many wonderful novels had already been written—what did I have to add?) Over time, though, I began to feel that there were aspects of modern life that were unexplored in some of my favorite books. I wanted to read books with the focus on character that is central to so many of the great 19th century novels, but that dealt with modern situations and characters who have relationships and break up with one another, who fall in love with, and sleep with, with more than one person in the course of their lives (without being widows or prostitutes). Eventually I set out to write that kind of book, a psychological novel that is both old-fashioned in its ambitions and modern in its style and subject.

What were you doing before you became a writer?

I tutored high school students for just about the whole time that I worked on this book. This was a terrific way to support my novel writing, and I was very lucky to find my way to it. But it was at times a little taxing, psychologically. I worked with high school kids who went on to college and grad school—I'd return to their homes to tutor their younger siblings, and I'd be aware that my life hadn't moved forward in any obvious way. Meanwhile, in my social life, I began to dread going to parties and stopped telling people that I was working on a novel because I hated the moment when they asked if I had a publisher or an agent or whether I'd ever published short stories. (No, no and no were the answers for a very long time.) When I got married, which I did while I was about halfway through the first draft of the book, I think some people thought I'd finally give up on this whole novel thing and focus on having some kids. I'd be lying if I said that this didn't bother me.

Why did you decide to write a novel from the perspective of a male character, specifically a perpetually single thirtysomething like Nate?

I wanted to write about contemporary relationships, and about some of the experiences I, and many women I know, had in negotiating this terrain. I'm not sure why it was that, for me, the best way to do this turned out to be to tell the story from the perspective of a male character. Perhaps because this was a way I could explore what women sometimes encounter? In a sense, the reader of my novel is "dating" the main character—trying to figure out how much to trust him, whether to sympathize with him, whether he's a good guy or not. There is a slipperiness to Nate, I think, a way in which it's hard to pin down exactly what is wrong with him. It's certainly not true that he sets out maliciously to hurt anyone or that he has no scruples or compassion. And there are many aspects of his character that I, for one, like. Yet I hope in the course of the novel, readers are forced to grapple with some of Nate's very real failures. The women in the book aren't hysterical for being baffled and hurt (women are, I think, seen as hysterical in this type of context far too often). At the same time, though, I didn't want Nate to be a caricature of a "bad" guy. I wanted him to feel as complicated and have as multidimensional a mix of qualities as people we actually know—because even our worst ex-boyfriend has some good qualities—and I wanted the story itself to feel very realistic, without any sort of contrivance.

Who are your literary idols?

Apart from some of the 19th century writers I've already mentioned, I particularly admire, among contemporary writers, Jonathan Franzen, Jhumpa Lahiri, Claire Messud, Martin Amis and Jay McInerney. I am also a huge fan of Richard Yates, although I'm not sure if he counts as contemporary anymore. Among earlier writers, I'll add Samuel Richardson, Henry Fielding, Tolstoy and Fitzgerald. I'm sure I'm skipping many, though. Who have you discovered lately?

I was blown away by Maggie Shipstead's 2012 novel, Seating Arrangements. I read it twice. I was so impressed by how well Shipstead, who was in her 20s when she wrote the book, was able to get inside the head of a much older man, the long-married patriarch of a family in which the older daughter is about to be married. It's also impeccably written and very funny. Another writer I am late in discovering is Stewart O'Nan. I read Emily, Alone a few months ago and was amazed at what he could do with material that isn't overtly dramatic. O'Nan's ability to portray the small nuances of how people really think—and what they think about—makes a scene in which eighty-year-old Emily and her sister-in-law go for brunch at a mall restaurant more gripping than the most event-laden denouement of many other novels. Finally, I loved Joanna Hershon's recently published novel, A Dual Inheritance, which has the sprawling feel of some of my favorite 19th century novels and is populated with wonderfully well-drawn characters that come to life on the page.

[Maggie Shipstead's Seating Arrangements was a B&N Recommends selection and Stewart O'Nan's debut novel, Snow Angels, was a 1994 Discover Great New Writers selection. -Ed.]

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Sort by: Showing all of 16 Customer Reviews
  • Posted July 19, 2013

    This is a brilliant debut novel, written from the perspective of

    This is a brilliant debut novel, written from the perspective of a young male writer in Brooklyn. I've never read
    a novel that so realistically and movingly portrays the subtle and sometimes tragic shifts that occur in
    romantic relationships when one's ideals and what you could call the brain's internal public relations machine
    for justifying questionable actions collide with deeper emotional needs and desires. The book is full of startling
    insights as well as hilarious depictions and scenes. Part Jane Austen, part Jonathan Franzen; this book is a
    pure pleasure. 

    4 out of 5 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted July 21, 2013

    Although a Jane Austen character never had to deal with the prob

    Although a Jane Austen character never had to deal with the problem of what are the appropriate social protocols for a man-- whose prime goal is to think well of himself--when dealing with a woman following a casual hook-up/broken condom/abortion, this book brings to mind both Jane Austen's narrative style and the way in which she so richly portrays her female protagonists in their natural habitat. The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P is a thought-provoking novel that is part-anthropological study early 21st century male/female relationships among "homo intelligus Brooklycanus" and part compelling individual forensic display of the on going consequences of Nate's internal monologue/actual behavior towards the women in his life. Also--an accessible and delightful read!

    3 out of 4 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 22, 2013

    Highly recommended

    Nathaniel P. (Nate) is the creation of Adelle Waldman who brings a New York savvy woman's experience to the task of dissecting his love life. Nate is a thirty year old successful writer living in Brooklyn, involved over the course of the book with several talented and attractive young women. And while he professes to be understanding about women's issues, he has the traditional male's habit of using his considerable charm and success to gain the affection and trust of his latest love interest, only to shy away from commitment when the chips are down, leaving the young women frustrated, angry, and emotional wrought. While Nate might deny it, old attitudes keep creeping in--especially about women's looks trumping brainpower and talent. What makes the book interesting is how well Ms. Waldman understands Nate and the women involved, providing points of view fairly (it seems to me). While we might not like Nate's choices, we know him well enough by the final paragraph to understand them. Ms. Waldman has given us a nuanced reading of gender differences in the social codes of these urban, mostly successful, thirty-somethings young men and women. "The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P." is an interesting read. Ms. Waldman writes well and I shall look forward to next next book.

    2 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 3, 2013

    Written by a Woman in the Mind of a Man

    Wonderful read! Was recommended by MashReads in their new Social Book Club, and I have been raving about it!!!

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 20, 2013

    Opposites intersect in the close-knit world of the Brooklyn lite

    Opposites intersect in the close-knit world of the Brooklyn literary circles. Relationships flourish and wither among subtle and unacknowledged games for higher social status based on one's alma mater, literary interests, or political opinions. Seemingly laid-back, the characters struggle with their own self-image in the constantly shifting world of relationships in their own unique subculture. The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P. is one of those rare books that invite reflection and leave a mark with the reader.

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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