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Woke Up Lonely: A Novel

Woke Up Lonely: A Novel

3.0 2
by Fiona Maazel

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The dizzying new novel by Fiona Maazel, a National Book Foundation "5 Under 35"

* A New York Times Book Review Notable Book of the Year * A New York Times Book Review Editors' Choice * A Kansas City Star, VICE, and Largehearted Boy Best Book of the Year * One of Book Riot's "Seven Funniest Novels of 2013" *



The dizzying new novel by Fiona Maazel, a National Book Foundation "5 Under 35"

* A New York Times Book Review Notable Book of the Year * A New York Times Book Review Editors' Choice * A Kansas City Star, VICE, and Largehearted Boy Best Book of the Year * One of Book Riot's "Seven Funniest Novels of 2013" *

* One of the Millions's Most Anticipated Books of 2013 * An April IndieNext Pick*

Thurlow Dan is the founder of the Helix, a cult that promises to cure loneliness in the twenty-first century. With its communes and speed-dating, mixers and confession sessions, the Helix has become a national phenomenon—and attracted the attention of governments worldwide. But Thurlow, camped out in his Cincinnati headquarters, is lonely—for his ex-wife, Esme, and their daughter, whom he hasn't seen in ten years.

Esme, for her part, is a covert agent who has spent her life spying on Thurlow, mostly to protect him from the law. Now, with her superiors demanding results, she recruits four misfits to botch a reconnaissance mission in Cincinnati. But when Thurlow takes them hostage, he ignites a siege of the Helix House that will change all their lives forever.
With fiery, exuberant prose, Fiona Maazel takes us on a wild ride through North Korea's guarded interior and a city of vice beneath Cincinnati, a ride that twists and turns as it delves into an unsettled, off-kilter America. Woke Up Lonely is an original and deeply funny novel that explores our very human impulse to seek and repel intimacy with the people who matter to us most.

Editorial Reviews

Library Journal
Set in the grim near future, this dystopian novel from the author of Last Last Chance features Thurlow Dan, who is the founder and leader of the Helix, an international Scientology-like cult with headquarters in an underground city beneath Cincinnati. His ex-wife, Esme, is a covert spy with a penchant for disguises. The intricate plot culminates in a botched kidnapping and a siege of Helix House. North Korea figures prominently, too. But at the heart of the story is something more simple: Thurlow's loneliness and longing for Esme and their young daughter, Ida. VERDICT Maazel's wildly imaginative style isn't for everyone, and her humor may be lost on many readers. But this ambitious, wide-ranging novel should appeal to those who enjoy complex, edgy, and ironic literary fiction.—Leslie Patterson, Rehoboth, MA
Publishers Weekly
Reviewed by Manuel Gonzales. Maazel’s sprawling and ambitious new novel (after Last Chance) follows the rise and fall of the Helix, a cult of the lonely who believe that true human connection can only arrive with full disclosure. Think Facebook and Twitter but without the pesky computers. Speed dates, rallies, and confession sessions abound, full of strangers accosting one another to divulge their deepest secrets and most closely held fears, all in the hope of stemming the overwhelming tide of loneliness that is modern existence. Shifting between Washington, D.C., and Cincinnati, Ohio, Maazel’s novel pivots off the controversial 2000 presidential election, creating a fictional United States full of people ripe to band together in an ambiguous fight against loneliness and powerlessness. In the center of it all is Thurlow Dan, estranged from his wife and daughter, who began the Helix to fight his own solitude, but who, despite his hundreds of thousands of followers, remains the loneliest man on Earth. To make matters worse, branches of the Helix want armed revolution, the U.S. government has deemed Dan and the Helix public enemy number one, and in a desperate effort to win back Esme, his ex-wife, who is a covert CIA operative, Thurlow creates a hostage situation that threatens to bring everything tumbling down around him. Through all of this, Maazel casts herself into the lives of her characters, and it’s through these interludes that the novel obtains most of its heart. Through characters like Ned, who loved his chair “as it did not love him,” and Anne-Janet, survivor of cancer and sexual assault but forever alone and pining for love, Maazel mines disparate and singular modes of loneliness. At turns satiric and heartfelt, Maazel’s novel brims with energy and life. Her wit is dark and acerbic, contrasting sharply against the over-indulgent, over-telling philosophy of the Helix. At times, however, the Helix itself, large and unwieldy and difficult to imagine, becomes an elaborate and somewhat unnecessary set piece that threatens to overshadow what’s best about the novel and Maazel’s skills as a storyteller, namely her exploration of the different shades of loneliness. As one character claims, “just because the energies of the lonely tended to mobilize in vigilant and constant pursuit of an end to loneliness, that did not make their aggregate any less lame,” so, too, can the aggregate energies of Maazel feel somewhat misdirected when the novel returns its focus to the Helix. Regardless, Maazel manages to pair absurd situations and backgrounds with real fear and desire. Maazel shines when she backgrounds the Helix and the satiric elements of her story and penetrates the inner lives of her characters—Dan, Esme, their daughter, Ida, and four bumbling government agents—whose stories are rich and compelling. In those moments—and there are many of them—when she brings forward the doubts and faults of her characters, she shows these to be no less than our own, and then shows us, too, that their moments of triumph—however minor and fleeting, and no matter the obstacles that still stand in the way—can also be ours. Agent: Stacia Decker, Donald Maass Literary Agency. (Apr.) Manuel Gonzales is the author of The Miniature Wife and Other Stories.
From the Publisher

“[A] sprawling, intimate novel, which is a perfectly poised screen-capture of hyper-modernity.” —The Believer Book Award, Editors' Shortlist

“Hilarious and heartbreaking.” —NPR

“Brilliantly imagined.” —Vanity Fair

“Maazel's insights are as sound as her imagination is wild.” —Oprah.com, Book of the Week

“The talented Maazel has plenty of imagination.” —USA Today

“[A] whip-smart comic novel.” —Reader's Digest

“Uniformly entertaining . . . It's thrilling to imagine what Fiona Maazel might do next.” —The Boston Globe

“Maazel possesses a formidable imagination and considerable linguistic virtuosity.” —The Chicago Tribune

“[A] fun farce.” —Cosmopolitan

Woke Up Lonely is another wunderkammer, a deeply felt and wildly original novel that repays the attention it demands, and once read won't soon be forgotten.” —Bookforum

“One of the best pieces of fiction and social satire of the year.” —The Millions

“Maazel takes a cue from Kurt Vonnegut by creating a novel that blends the plot of a dramatic thriller with wacky humor and bits of science fiction.” —BUST

Kirkus Reviews
In this rollicking ride of a novel, Maazel explores a world of family, fame and forgiveness. One of the cures for "waking up lonely" is the Helix, sponsor of a number of services geared to help the legion of people experiencing loneliness in the 21st century. The founder of the Helix is Thurlow "Lo" Dan, whose mission has been to help those who feel companionless, though ironically, he's been feeling forsaken and isolated himself since the breakup of his marriage to Esme and his separation from his daughter, Ida. In one hilarious scene we learn of the Helix's strategy of "speed dating," in which potential partners come together for a few minutes to share a brief piece of who they are (responding to contrived prompts such as "My worst high school moment") in hopes of establishing a more lasting relationship. Despite such artificiality, the Helix has become something of a cult and is now drawing worldwide attention. Esme has been spying on Thurlow and comes up with a recon mission that, to say the least, devolves into a fiasco. In fact, he turns the tables on the motley group of operatives Esme has put together. In a number of touching flashbacks, we learn of the development of Lo and Esme's relationship. The narrative moves readers seamlessly from such unlikely places as the Helix's corporate headquarters in Cincinnati to the bleakness of North Korea. Maazel manages to strike a number of tones here--from poignant (all Lo wants is to get back with wife and daughter) to paranoid--and she's successful at every level.

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Woke Up Lonely

A Novel

By Fiona Maazel

Graywolf Press

Copyright © 2013 Fiona Maazel
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-55597-068-0


THEY WERE TOGETHER. In their way. Dad on a bus, gaping out the window at a little girl and her mom. The pair not five feet away. He swiped the glass with his palm. Stop the bus, he said, though no one heard him. Stop the bus. His wife and daughter tromped through the snow. His wife? His ex-wife, bundled in down, soldiering on. His daughter, whom he had not seen in nine of her ten years. She jumped a puddle of slush. Wore a hat with braided tassels. He told himself to get up. Get up, Thurlow. But he couldn't. He was stuck being someone else. A man to whom life had become a matter of seconds, to whom a bus was the universe, and the instinct to watch, all that there was to being in love.

Ida yanked her tassels like she was tolling the bells. Esme kept eyes on her footing. The bus stalled in traffic. Thurlow willed his wife — his ex-wife — to turn his way. If she could just see his face. He squinted and winced as if to enlist those muscles in the recruitment of her attention. She said something to their daughter and then, poof — she looked right at him. At her ex-husband. Thurlow had many epithets of notoriety, but this was his least known. Ex-husband. How about: Cult leader. Fanatic. Terrorist. On a bus in D.C., staring her down with those eyes. Not the pellucid blue of men who compel for being unreachable, but the crepuscular blue of day into night, a transition as reliable as it is fleeting and, for these twin qualities, emblematic of the thing you'd love all your life. She was rooted to the ice like he'd staked her there. Her heart was like corn in the popper.

He put up his hand to wave and then to knock on the glass and then to pound on the glass, when she grabbed their daughter's arm and began to run away.

No, no, don't do that. Don't run. Why are you running? He'd seen what he had seen. Esme's face registering its thoughts up front, as if she'd forgotten all her training, forgotten how to lie and conceal. Forgotten, even, how to vanish successfully. A few years ago, he'd gotten word they were living in the U.S., but with no way to track them — God knew which government agency was protecting Esme now — he'd accepted the news like a guy at the peep show, minus the part where you get to look. After that, he heard they were in Tucson. Portland. Detroit. Every year a new city. But now: a sighting. And not just a sighting but a reason to live. Because what he'd seen in her face? It wasn't all dread and loathing, which were vestigial, anyway, but rather a vacancy where some other feeling could bed down.

At last, the bus came to its stop. Thurlow pushed his way out and climbed a bench. It was just past eight in the morning. The sidewalk was packed; Esme must have been taking Ida to school. Think, think. How many elementary schools could there be around here? He was about to ask someone for directions when he remembered himself. He'd left his hotel on foot. Broken about four other rules that were especially paramount now: never take public transportation, never carry ID, always use the driver, never be alone. He bought a baseball cap and sunglasses from a gift store. Stopped the first person he saw, who said, "Sorry, not today, pal," because the cap was pink and sequined and the glasses were opaque, as for a blind man. Someone else said there wasn't any school within twenty blocks.

Thurlow spun around. The good news was, he had narrowed the terrain of his loss to one city, when before it had encompassed them all. The bad news? Just because you know where your arm is broken doesn't mean you know how to fix it. Even if he found them, what would he say? Character is fate, my name is Legion, but love me, anyway? He'd been running his organization for ten years, and it was huge. The Helix, a therapeutic community he'd banked to stardom. Scientology in America claimed eighty thousand; the Helix would double that by year's end. But who actually appreciated his work? He tossed his sunglasses in the trash and headed for a Laundromat across the street. A good place to think and summon faith in the possibility of a better future for himself.

In the Laundromat, where the redolence of spring — of flowers and grass, in essence, of renewal — was central, he felt his pulse slow down. D.C. wasn't that big, was it? He walked the colonnade of washers and dryers and settled in at a table piled with rainbow gunnysacks.

Suds tided up the glass of a machine nearby. The Laundromat owner asked him twice if he needed anything. Perhaps just to wash the clothes he was in? Thurlow's hair was up and out like thistle. He'd slept in his sweater, which felt like a blanket because he had gotten so thin. He sat there for an hour. He was just looking at a sock discarded in a basket and thinking, moodily, about its better half — Where are you, better half? — when he saw a parting of dress shirts hung on the line and Esme coming at him like a guest on tonight's show.

He sprang from his chair. Over the years, he'd spent hours fashioning sentences and gestures to launch if ever they met again, but no matter: his gear malfunctioned. The words wouldn't come. But Esme — the world rested lightly on her skin. Under a tube light that glowed in spurts, her eyes were green droplets flecked with gold. Still, her look was the kind that made you take cover. They had lived together once; he knew the signs. She was about to yell at him.

She said, "Lo, just what in the hell are you doing?"

"What do you think?" he said. "Of course I'm going to come after you."

"That's not what I mean."

He looked around the room and saw it with new eyes. "How did you even know I was here?" — though the question wasn't half out before he wanted to take it back. Esme didn't work for the feds, or not just the feds. She worked for them all and always seemed to know things no one else could. "Okay, forget that," he said. "Thank you for coming. Ida's gotten so big. That was her, right? Were you bringing her to school? You look beautiful, you know. Same as always."

She was wearing a wool cloche with its brim upturned, and a lemon scarf that dangled from her neck. "I'm going to start over," she said, and she twined the ends of the scarf around each wrist like shackles.

He waited. Looked down at his pants, which were pleated at the waist. He'd actually left the hotel looking like this, in a squash-colored jersey and pants that creased at the waist.

"Let me ask you a question," she said. "Have you really become a fanatic, or do you just think there's something to be gained in pretending?"

"I'm on a mission," he said.

She tilted her head back and released a dry and protracted groan.

"I was doing this when we met. You didn't seem to mind back then. I'd say you even liked it."

"You do realize that people are rallying across the country in your name? That there's talk of real violence and uprising in your name? Have you lost it completely? Whatever 'back then' was, it didn't involve this."

He shrugged. He didn't know what to say and knew if he said something incriminating it'd be all the worse when she listened again later, because probably every washer in this place was bugged, not to mention her earrings and brooch, which were, unbelievably, of a set he'd bought her so many years ago. He put one fist atop the other. She looked so pretty. He asked if she was well. He hoped she was well because he loved her, but because he loved her, he also hoped she was miserable.

She parted her lips, though she wasn't smiling. Her front teeth were buckled. A capillary small as thread tacked across her forehead.

"Lo, I am just trying to protect you. If you carry on like this, it's not going to end well."

He nodded.

"Am I getting through to you?" she said. "If you don't stop, they will throw you in jail. Or worse. You're trying to make friends with the wrong people."

He said he understood but that he knew what he was doing.

"You are crazy making," she said. "Can't you just listen to me? People Iknow are all over this cult of yours. I want you to stop." By now, she was leaning so far over the table, the edge looked to be severing her in two. Her fingers were braced like a runner at the line. "I'm worried about you," she said. "Happy now?"

He was. He told her he worried about her, too, her and Ida, which gave him huge pleasure and relief. It was the best thing, really, to be able to speak your heart where it landed.

"Ida is not your concern," she said. "But thank you just the same."

"I can't believe you're here," he said. "That you live here. You do, right?"

"Oh, Lo," she said. "It doesn't mean anything, us talking like this. I came out of a decent regard for you and our past together, but that's all." She folded her arms across her chest and then muttered something about him not bothering to find out more, never mind that he'd been trying since the moment she left him nine years ago. Back then, she had given him a PO box address, which he'd been using to communicate with her ever since. Forget tracing the box or putting eyes on the box — it was in Minnesota, and seemed to forward nowhere — but he hoped she got his letters. Four hundred and eighty-two, so far.

He stood up and reached for her. "How is she, Ez — is she okay? Does she know about me? Does she even ask?"

And he thought: Please. Just bring me traces of my daughter. News of her heartbeat. And with it a small blooming inside, all colors and stars, so I can know something more of fatherhood before my time is up.

She stepped back. "Amazing. For you, it's like these last few years never happened. It's like we're still in our twenties."

"You were closer to thirty."

"And should have known better. But, Lo, it's been forever. Don't you think you need to move on?"

"I don't see a ring on your finger, either."

"There are other ways to move on. You don't know anything about me."

He shook his head. He had no tolerance for this kind of talk. He got to the point. "Doesn't it mean anything to you that I've loved you all this time? That you and Ida are my family?"

She looked away. "Sure, me and all the people you slept with while loving me. So much love, Thurlow. So much. You really are perfect for the job you have."

It was his turn to look away, but only to conceal the joy overrunning his face. Esme was bitter! And this bitterness was sourced in anger, and anger at someone you once loved can only mean you still love.

"Just so you know," he said, "the Helix is not a cult. We are a therapeutic movement. We just meet and talk. And it's not me people are getting behind but the group."

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, I know. Share and confess. Want to share something now? Tell me why your therapeutic movement is armed and talking to North Korea. Because that doesn't sound so harmless to me."

Ugh, North Korea. He nearly threw up his arms in disgust. For all of their time together, it had always been about North Korea. At least for Esme. At least until Thurlow had decided to go there himself. A month ago on a visa extended to a group of Japanese tourists, which was supposed to indemnify the North Koreans against charges he'd been coerced and to conceal from the Americans news of his trip. One ambition had panned out; the other obviously had not. He had felt the scrutiny of his life and doings intensify the minute he got home. The feds had been on him for years, but this was worse. North Korea had made everything worse. And it had accomplished nothing.

"There are extremists in every movement," he said. "Doesn't mean they represent that movement."

"You're really going to pretend you're not responsible for those people? Because last I checked, you're the one who went to North Korea."

"We're not armed. We are a peaceful, therapeutic community."

"For now. But what do you think North Korea expects you to do with their investment? Host a social in Pyongyang?"


"Oh, Lo. Not even you can believe that. Unless you really have gone mad."

"Has it even occurred to you," he said, "that maybe I had a good reason to go there? That maybe I was trying to do something good?"

She took a seat across from him. She looked stricken and tired. "Maybe no one cares, Lo. I shouldn't even be here, but can't you listen? You're in over your head. And I'm not sure how much longer you have. Things aren't good on the Hill, you know that. They don't like what you're doing."

And this was true. It was a dicey time: January 2005. In December, a tsunami had overrun Sumatra, which mobilized a big relief effort that forefronted just how discrepant was the government's will to aid victims abroad and those at home. The White House had just been returned to the incumbent, in large part because his opposition was a drip. It was the highest voter turnout since 1968; the electorate was engaged and angry, and finally disappointed. The two-party system was offering up leaders no one wanted to champion. The Helix filled a niche, its membership had spiked a thousand percent, and now North Korea wanted in. To fund what it presumed was a dissident movement poised on revolt.

Not that Thurlow had given them this idea. And yet they had it. Perhaps because he was attracted to the North Korean principle of juche — independence of thought and self-reliance alongside an intermingling of people united behind a common cause, which was to be together. That, or because Thurlow had actually accepted their money in the name of friendship. Sure, North Korea was broke, but only insofar as it refused to fund anything but the military, which is to say that it was not broke but discretionary, and that diverting funds into the Helix coffer from a sale of missiles to Syria was not out of the question.

But that did not make him a militant, never mind what the North Koreans thought. Never mind what half his followers thought. There were the members, steeped in apprehensions of the forlorn, who just wanted to belong. And there were the fringies, who wanted to blow up Capitol Hill.

Dissidence and despair. Should he confess this was not the miscegenation of feelings that had birthed the Helix? That this movement's origin had, instead, everything to do with her?

He'd been back in the States for three weeks, but his sleep schedule was still a wreck. That, plus regular insomnia, and he could lose track of his thoughts for whole minutes at a time.

"Stop staring at me like that," she said. "I'm serious," she said. "Stop it."

"Did you get my letters, at least?"

"Have you been listening to me? You haven't changed at all. Always in your head. Always thinking about yourself. What am I even doing here?" And she stared at her palms as if they had an answer.

His mouth opened. His heart frothed. "No, no —" he said, but she cut him off. She had to go. Fine, he said, but would she come to his hotel later? She could yell at him all she wanted at his hotel. He said he was sorry. For everything. Just please come. He had a Helix event this morning, but how about later? Any time this week? He'd cancel Seattle and Eugene and Santa Cruz.

"I'll do anything," he said. "Just ask."

And then he commanded all the readiness and solicitude in his heart to show in his eyes, so she would know he was in earnest. After all, he had gone to North Korea for her and botched it entirely. And now North Korea wanted something in return for its investment that he was not willing or even equipped to give. What was he supposed to do? The Helix was not the Confederate Army. It was single dads, divorcées and widows, lawyers and dermatologists. It was average Americans. People with migraines and high blood pressure. People who watched a lot of TV. Who tested poorly on the UCLA Loneliness Scale and, if asked, would sooner trade the invisible companionship of God for someone to share with in this life until such time as they had to meet God on the other side.

"I might come," she said, but she frowned saying it.

He felt a trembling down his legs but hid it as best he could.

"But listen," she said. "Whatever you're thinking about North Korea, it's not too late to change your mind. To think if it's worth it." And she reached over and touched his sleeve. Then she zipped up her coat in a hurry.

Thurlow didn't say a word. He was faint with hope and fear, which countenanced each other, but warily. She was up and walking out the door.

"Don't leave," he said, and he grabbed her arm.


Excerpted from Woke Up Lonely by Fiona Maazel. Copyright © 2013 Fiona Maazel. Excerpted by permission of Graywolf Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Meet the Author

Fiona Maazel is the author of Last Last Chance, called "moving, buoyant, and utterly true" by the New York Times Book Review. She is winner of the Bard Prize for Fiction, a National Book Foundation "5 Under 35" honoree, and the recipient of a Lannan Foundation Residency. Her work has appeared in BOMB, Bookforum, Conjunctions, Fence, GQ, Gulf Coast, Glamour, The Millions, Mississippi Review, n+1, The New York Times, The New York Times Book Review, Salon, This American Life, Tin House, The Village Voice, The Yale Review, and elsewhere. She teaches at Brooklyn College and New York University, and was appointed the Picador Guest Professor at the University of Leipzig, Germany, for the spring of 2012. She lives in Brooklyn, NY.
Fiona Maazel is the author of Last Last Chance and Woke Up Lonely. She is a winner of the Bard Prize for Fiction and a National Book Foundation 5 Under 35 honoree. She teaches at Brooklyn College, Columbia, New York University, and Princeton. She lives in Brooklyn.

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