There aren't many contemporary novels as shudderingly intimate and mordantly funny as Eisenberg's best stories.
Twilight of the Superheroesby Deborah Eisenberg
Deborah Eisenberg is nearly unmatched in her mastery of the short-story form. Now, in her newest collection, she demonstrates once again her virtuosic abilities in precisely distilled, perfectly shaped studies of human connection and disconnection. From a group of friends whose luck in acquiring a luxurious Manhattan sublet turns to disaster as their balcony… See more details below
Deborah Eisenberg is nearly unmatched in her mastery of the short-story form. Now, in her newest collection, she demonstrates once again her virtuosic abilities in precisely distilled, perfectly shaped studies of human connection and disconnection. From a group of friends whose luck in acquiring a luxurious Manhattan sublet turns to disaster as their balcony becomes a front-row seat to the catastrophe of 9/11, to the too painful love of a brother for his schizophrenic sister, Eisenberg brilliantly "illustrates the lives of people rubbed raw by what the fates have sent them" (Vanity Fair).
There aren't many contemporary novels as shudderingly intimate and mordantly funny as Eisenberg's best stories.
A masterly collection . . . Instead of forcing her characters' stories into neat, arbitrary, preordained shapes, Deborah Eisenberg allows them to grow organically into oddly shaped, asymmetrical narratives--narratives that possess all the surprising twists and dismaying turns of real life.
Eisenberg's filament-thin weavings of desire, obligation, and missed opportunities remind one strongly of Henry James. . . . Eisenberg is a master of condensation and reconstruction, making beautiful murals from broken glass.
Ambitious and resonant . . . Whether the subjects be lovely young girls grown old or waning superpowers, Eisenberg makes masterful short work out of marking their decline and fall.
The deepest pleasure in Ms. Eisenberg's stories is their vertiginous unpredictability, like obstacle courses the author jumps and rolls and shimmies through, clasping the reader to her like an infant. . . . These are fearless, fierce, light-bearing stories, offered in defense of what still matters.
Dazzling . . . Her distinctive voice and mastery of the short story elevate her to the ranks of kindred spirits like Gina Berriault, Alice Munro, and even Chekhov.
With every story in this superb new collection, Deborah Eisenberg, one of America's finest writers, offers new ways of seeing and feeling, as if something were being perfected at the core. The half dozen long stories here put her light years ahead of most story writers.
Outstanding . . . Eisenberg offers enough insight and intelligent observation to amply justify her reputation as the American Alice Munro.
Like other current masters of the short story--Joy Williams, Lycia Davis, Ben Marcus--Eisenberg works her own fertile ground so faithfully and assiduously that she brooks no comparison. She simply writes like no one else.
He stories are so skillfully crafted that they seem composed more of shapes and textures than of printed words. Reading her makes you wish, as you study the family in front of you in the grocery line, that you could see their thoughts rendered as one of Eisenberg's stunning inner monologues
"There aren't many contemporary novels as shudderingly intimate and mordantly funny as Eisenberg's best stories."--Ben Marcus, The New York Times Book Review
"A masterly collection . . . Instead of forcing her characters' stories into neat, arbitrary, preordained shapes, Deborah Eisenberg allows them to grow organically into oddly shaped, asymmetrical narratives--narratives that possess all the surprising twists and dismaying turns of real life."--Michiko Kakutani, The New York Times
"Eisenberg's filament-thin weavings of desire, obligation, and missed opportunities remind one strongly of Henry James. . . . Eisenberg is a master of condensation and reconstruction, making beautiful murals from broken glass."--O, The Oprah Magazine
"Ambitious and resonant . . . Whether the subjects be lovely young girls grown old or waning superpowers, Eisenberg makes masterful short work out of marking their decline and fall."--NPR's Fresh Air
"The deepest pleasure in Ms. Eisenberg's stories is their vertiginous unpredictability, like obstacle courses the author jumps and rolls and shimmies through, clasping the reader to her like an infant. . . . These are fearless, fierce, light-bearing stories, offered in defense of what still matters."--The New York Observer
"Dazzling . . . Her distinctive voice and mastery of the short story elevate her to the ranks of kindred spirits like Gina Berriault, Alice Munro, and even Chekhov."--Time Out New York
"With every story in this superb new collection, Deborah Eisenberg, one of America's finest writers, offers new ways of seeing and feeling, as if something were being perfected at the core. The half dozen long stories here put her light years ahead of most story writers."--Alan Cheuse, San Francisco Chronicle
"Outstanding . . . Eisenberg offers enough insight and intelligent observation to amply justify her reputation as the American Alice Munro."--Yvonne Zipp, Christian Science Monitor.
"Like other current masters of the short story--Joy Williams, Lycia Davis, Ben Marcus--Eisenberg works her own fertile ground so faithfully and assiduously that she brooks no comparison. She simply writes like no one else."--Lisa Shea, Elle
"He stories are so skillfully crafted that they seem composed more of shapes and textures than of printed words. Reading her makes you wish, as you study the family in front of you in the grocery line, that you could see their thoughts rendered as one of Eisenberg's stunning inner monologues"
--Judith Lewis, Los Angles Times
The Washington Post
The New York Times
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Read an Excerpt
NATHANIEL RECALLS THE MIRACLE
The grandchildren approach.
Nathaniel can make them out dimly in the shadows. When it’s time, he’ll tell them about the miracle.
It was the dawn of the new millennium, he’ll say. I was living in the Midwest back then, but my friends from college persuaded me to come to New York.
I arrived a few days ahead of the amazing occasion, and all over the city there was an atmosphere of feverish anticipation. The year two thousand! The new millennium! Some people thought it was sure to be the end of the world. Others thought we were at the threshold of something completely new and better. The tabloids carried wild predictions from celebrity clairvoyants, and even people who scoffed and said that the date was an arbitrary and meaningless one were secretly agitated. In short, we were suddenly aware of ourselves standing there, staring at the future blindfolded.
I suppose, looking back on it, that all the commotion seems comical and ridiculous. And perhaps you’re thinking that we churned it up to entertain ourselves because we were bored or because our lives felt too easy—trivial and mundane. But consider: ceremonial occasions, even purely personal ones like birthdays or anniversaries, remind us that the world is full of terrifying surprises and no one knows what even the very next second will bring!
Well, shortly before the momentous day, a strange news item appeared: experts were saying that a little mistake had been made—just one tiny mistake, a little detail in the way computers everywhere had been programmed. But the consequences of this detail, the experts said, were potentially disastrous; tiny as itwas, the detail might affect everybody, and in a very big way!
You see, if history has anything to teach us, it’s that—despite all our efforts, despite our best (or worst) intentions, despite our touchingly indestructible faith in our own foresight—we poor humans cannot actually think ahead; there are just too many variables. And so, when it comes down to it, it always turns out that no one is in charge of the things that really matter.
It must be hard for you to imagine—it’s even hard for me to remember—but people hadn’t been using computers for very long. As far as I know, my mother (your great-grandmother) never even touched one! And no one had thought to inform the computers that one day the universe would pass from the years of the one thousands into the years of the two thousands. So the machines, as these experts suddenly realized, were not equipped to understand that at the conclusion of 1999 time would not start over from 1900, time would keep going.
People all over America—all over the world!—began to speak of "a crisis of major proportions" (which was a phrase we used to use back then). Because, all the routine operations that we’d so blithely delegated to computers, the operations we all took for granted and depended on—how would they proceed?
Might one be fatally trapped in an elevator? Would we have to huddle together for warmth and scrabble frantically through our pockets for a pack of fancy restaurant matches so we could set our stacks of old New York Reviews ablaze? Would all the food rot in heaps out there on the highways, leaving us to pounce on fat old street rats and grill them over the fames? What was going to happen to our bank accounts—would they vaporize? And what about air traffic control? On December 31 when the second hand moved from 11:59:59 to midnight, would all the airplanes in the sky collide?
Everyone was thinking of more and more alarming possibilities. Some people committed their last night on this earth to partying, and others rushed around buying freeze-dried provisions and cases of water and flashlights and radios and heavy blankets in the event that the disastrous problem might somehow eventually be solved.
And then, as the clock ticked its way through the enormous gatherings in celebration of the era that was due to begin in a matter of hours, then minutes, then seconds, we waited to learn the terrible consequences of the tiny oversight. Khartoum, Budapest, Paris—we watched on television, our hearts fluttering, as midnight, first just a tiny speck in the east, unfurled gently, darkening the sky and moving toward us over the globe.
But the amazing thing, Nathaniel will tell his grandchildren, was that nothing happened! We held our breath . . . And there was nothing! It was a miracle. Over the face of the earth, from east to west and back again, nothing catastrophic happened at all.
Oh, well. Frankly, by the time he or any of his friends get around to producing a grandchild (or even a child, come to think of it) they might well have to explain what computers had been. And freeze-dried food. And celebrity clairvoyants and airplanes and New York and America and even cities, and heaven only knows what.
Lucien watches absently as his assistant, Sharmila, prepares to close up the gallery for the evening; something keeps tugging at his attention . . .
Oh, yes. It’s the phrase Yoshi Matsumoto used this morning when he called from Tokyo. Back to normal . . . Back to normal . . .
What’s that famous, revolting, sadistic experiment? Something like, you drop the frog into a pot of boiling water and it jumps out. But if you drop it into a pot of cold water and slowly bring the water to a boil, the frog stays put and gets boiled.
Itami Systems is reopening its New York branch, was what Matsumoto called to tell Lucien; he’ll be returning to the city soon. Lucien pictured his old friend’s mournful, ironic expression as he added, "They tell me they’re ‘exploring additional avenues of development now that New York is back to normal.’
Lucien had made an inadvertent squawklike sound. He shook his head, then he shook his head again.
"Hello?" Matsumoto said.
"I’m here," Lucien said. "Well, it’ll be good to see you again. But steel yourself for a wait at customs; they’re fingerprinting."
Mr. Matsumoto’s loft is a jungle of big rubbery trees, under which crouch sleek items of chrome and leather. Spindly electronic devices blink or warble amid the foliage, and here and there one comes upon an immense flat-screen TV—the first of their kind that Nathaniel ever handled.
Nathaniel and his friends have been subletting—thanks, obviously, to Uncle Lucien—for a ridiculously minimal rent and on Mr. Matsumoto’s highly tolerable conditions of cat-sitting and general upkeep. Nathaniel and Lyle and Amity and Madison each have something like an actual bedroom, and there are three whole bathrooms, one equipped with a Jacuzzi. The kitchen, stone and steel, has cupboards bigger than most of their friends’ apartments. Art—important, soon to be important, or very recently important, most of which was acquired from Uncle Lucien—hangs on the walls.
And the terrace! One has only to open the magic sliding panel to find oneself halfway to heaven. On the evening, over three years ago, when Uncle Lucien completed the arrangements for Nathaniel to sublet and showed him the place, Nathaniel stepped out onto the terrace and tears shot right up into his eyes.
There was that unearthly palace, the Chrysler Building! There was the Empire State Building, like a brilliant violet hologram! There were the vast, twinkling prairies of Brooklyn and New Jersey! And best of all, Nathaniel could make out the Statue of Liberty holding her torch aloft, as she had held it for each of his parents when they arrived as children from across the ocean—terrified, filthy and hungry—to safety.
Stars glimmered nearby; towers and spires, glowing emerald, topaz, ruby, sapphire, soared below. The avenues and bridges slung a trembling net of light across the rivers, over the buildings. Everything was spangled and dancing; the little boats glittered. The lights floated up and up like bubbles.
Back when Nathaniel moved into Mr. Matsumoto’s loft, shortly after his millennial arrival in New York, sitting out on the terrace had been like looking down over the rim into a gigantic glass of champagne.
UNCLE LUCIEN’S WORDS OF REASSURANCE
So, Matsumoto is returning. And Lucien has called Nathaniel, the nephew of his adored late wife, Charlie, to break the news.
Well, of course it’s hardly a catastrophe for the boy. Mat-sumoto’s place was only a sublet in any case, and Nathaniel and his friends will all find other apartments.
But it’s such an ordeal in this city. And all four of the young people, however different they might be, strike Lucien as being in some kind of holding pattern—as if they’re temporizing, or muffled by unspoken reservations. Of course, he doesn’t really know them. Maybe it’s just the eternal, poignant weariness of youth.
The strangest thing about getting old (or one of the many strangest things) is that young people sometimes appear to Lucien—as, in fact, Sharmila does at this very moment—in a nimbus of tender light. It’s as if her unrealized future were projecting outward like ectoplasm.
"Doing anything entertaining this evening?" he asks her.
She sighs. "Time will tell," she says.
She’s a nice young woman; he’d like to give her a few words of advice, or reassurance.
But what could they possibly be? "Don’t—" he begins.
Don’t worry? HAHAHAHAHA! Don’t feel sad? "Don’t bother about the phones," is what he settles down on. A new show goes up tomorrow, and it’s become Lucien’s custom on such evenings to linger in the stripped gallery and have a glass of wine. "I’ll take care of them."
But how has he gotten so old?
So, there was the famous, strangely blank New Year’s Eve, the nothing at all that happened, neither the apocalypse nor the failure of the planet’s computers, nor, evidently, the dawning of a better age. Nathaniel had gone to parties with his old friends from school and was asleep before dawn; the next afternoon he awoke with only a mild hangover and an uneasy impression of something left undone.
Next thing you knew, along came that slump, as it was called—the general economic blight that withered the New York branch of Mr. Matsumoto’s firm and clusters of jobs all over the city. There appeared to be no jobs at all, in fact, but then—somehow—Uncle Lucien unearthed one for Nathaniel in the architectural division of the subway system. It was virtually impossible to afford an apartment, but Uncle Lucien arranged for Nathaniel to sublet Mr. Matsumoto’s loft.
Then Madison and his girlfriend broke up, so Madison moved into Mr. Matsumoto’s, too. Not long afterward, the brokerage house where Amity was working collapsed resoundingly, and she’d joined them. Then Lyle’s landlord jacked up his rent, so Lyle started living at Mr. Matsumoto’s as well.
As the return of Mr. Matsumoto to New York was contingent upon the return of a reasonable business climate, one way or another it had sort of slipped their minds that Mr. Matsumoto was real. And for over three years there they’ve been, hanging in temporary splendor thirty-one floors above the pavement.
They’re all out on the terrace this evening. Madison has brought in champagne so that they can salute with an adequate flourish the end of their tenure in Mr. Matsumoto’s place. And except for Amity, who takes a principled stand against thoughtful moods, and Amity’s new friend or possibly suitor, Russell, who has no history here, they’re kind of quiet.
Now that Sharmila has gone, Lucien’s stunning, cutting-edge gallery space blurs a bit and recedes. The room, in fact, seems almost like an old snapshot from that bizarre, quaintly futuristic century, the twentieth. Lucien takes a bottle of white wine from the little fridge in the office, pours himself a glass, and from behind a door in that century, emerges Charlie.
Charlie—Oh, how long it’s been, how unbearably long! Lucien luxuriates in the little pulse of warmth just under his skin that indicates her presence. He strains for traces of her voice, but her words degrade like the words in a dream, as if they’re being rubbed through a sieve.
Yes, yes, Lucien assures her. He’ll put his mind to finding another apartment for her nephew. And when her poor, exasperating sister and brother-in-law call frantically about Nathaniel, as they’re bound to do, he’ll do his best to calm them down.
But what a nuisance it all is! The boy is as opaque to his parents as a turnip. He was the child of their old age and he’s also, obviously, the repository of all of their baroque hopes and fears. By their own account, they throw up their hands and wring them, lecture Nathaniel about frugality, then press spending money upon him and fret when he doesn’t use it.
Between Charlie’s death and Nathaniel’s arrival in New York, Lucien heard from Rose and Isaac only at what they considered moments of emergency: Nathaniel’s grades were erratic! His friends were bizarre! Nathaniel had expressed an interest in architecture, an unreliable future! He drew, and Lucien had better sit down, comics!
The lamentations would pour through the phone, and then, the instant Lucien hung up, evaporate. But if he had given the matter one moment’s thought, he realizes, he would have understood from very early on that it was only a matter of time until the boy found his way to the city.
It was about four years ago now that Rose and Isaac put in an especially urgent call. Lucien held the receiver at arm’s length and gritted his teeth. "You’re an important man," Rose was shouting. "We understand that, we understand how busy you are, you know we’d never do this, but it’s an emergency. The boy’s in New York, and he sounds terrible. He doesn’t have a job, lord only knows what he eats—I don’t know what to think, Lucien, he drifts, he’s just drifting. Call him, promise me, that’s all I’m asking."
"Fine, certainly, good," Lucien said, already gabbling; he would have agreed to anything if Rose would only hang up.
"But whatever you do," she added, "please, please, under no circumstances should you let him know that we asked you to call."
Lucien looked at the receiver incredulously. "But how else would I have known he was in New York?" he said. "How else would I have gotten his number?"
There was a silence, and then a brief, amazed laugh from Isaac on another extension. "Well, I don’t know what you’ll tell him," Isaac said admiringly. "But you’re the brains of the family, you’ll think of something."
And actually, Russell (who seems to be not only Amity’s friend and possible suitor but also her agent) has obtained for Amity a whopping big advance from some outfit that Madison refers to as Cheeseball Editions, so whatever else they might all be drinking to (or drinking about) naturally Amity’s celebrating a bit. And Russell, recently arrived from L.A., cannot suppress his ecstasy about how ur New York, as he puts it, Mr. Matsumoto’s loft is, tactless as he apparently recognizes this untimely ecstasy to be.
"It’s fantastic," he says. "Who did it, do you know?"
Nathaniel nods. "Matthias Lehmann."
"That’s what I thought, I thought so," Russell says. "It looks like Lehmann. Oh, wow, I can’t believe you guys have to move out—I mean, it’s just so totally amazing!"
Nathaniel and Madison nod and Lyle sniffs peevishly. Lyle is stretched out on a yoga mat that Nathaniel once bought in preparation for a romance (as yet manqué) with a prettily tattoed yoga teacher he runs into in the bodega on the corner. Lyle’s skin has a waxy, bluish cast; there are dark patches beneath his eyes. He looks like a child too precociously worried to sleep. His boyfriend, Jahan, has more or less relocated to London, and Lyle has been missing him frantically. Lying there so still on the yoga mat with his eyes closed, he appears to be a tomb sculpture from an as yet nonexistent civilization.
"And the view!" Russell says. "This is probably the most incredible view on the planet."
The others consider the sight of Russell’s eager face. And then Amity says, "More champagne, anyone?"
Excerpted from Twilight of the superheroes by Deborah Eisenberg.
Copyright 2006 by Deborah Eisenberg.
Published in First edition, 2006 by Farrar, Straus and Giroux.
All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright laws and reproduction is strictly prohibited. Permission to reproduce the material in any manner or medium must be secured from the Publisher.
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