Mirion Malle’s “So Long Sad Love”

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On July 14, I’m giving the closing keynote for the fifteenth HACKERS ON PLANET EARTH, in QUEENS, NY. Happy Bastille Day! On July 20, I’m appearing in CHICAGO at Exile in Bookville.

In Mirion Malle’s So Long Sad Love, a graphic novel from Drawn and Quarterly, we get an all-too-real mystery story: when do you trust the whisper network that carries the fragmentary, elliptical word of shitty men?

https://drawnandquarterly.com/books/so-long-sad-love/

Cleo is a French comics creator who’s moved to Montreal, in part to be with Charles, a Quebecois creator who helps her find a place in the city’s tight-knit artistic scene. The relationship feels like a good one, with the normal ups and downs, but then Cleo travels to a festival, where she meets Farah, a vivacious and talented fellow artist. They’re getting along great…until Farah discovers who Cleo’s boyfriend is. Though Farah doesn’t say anything, she is visibly flustered and makes her excuses before hurriedly departing.

This kicks off Cleo’s hunt for the truth about her boyfriend, a hunt that is complicated by the fact that she’s so far from home, that her friends are largely his friends, that he flies off the handle every time she raises the matter, and by her love for him.

There’s a term for men like Charles: a “missing stair.” “Missing stair” is a metaphor for someone in a social circle who presents some kind of persistent risk to the people around them, who is accommodated rather than confronted:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Missing_stair

The metaphor goes like this: you’re at a party and every time someone asks where the bathroom is, another partygoer directs them to the upper floor and warns them that one of the stairs is missing, and if they don’t avoid that tread, they will fall through and be gravely injured. In this metaphor, a whole community of people have tacitly decided to simply accept the risk that someone who is forgetful or new to the scene will fall through the stair – no one has come forward to just fix that stair.

The origins of this term are in BDSM circles, and the canonical “missing stair” is a sexual predator, but from the outset, it’s referred to all kinds of people with failings that present some source of frustration or unhappiness to those around them, from shouters to bigots to just someone who won’t help do the dishes after a dinner party:

https://pervocracy.blogspot.com/2012/06/missing-stair.html

We all know a few missing stairs, and anyone who’s got even a little self-reflexivity must wonder from time to time if they’re not also a missing stair, at least to some people in their lives. After all, friendship always entails some accommodation, and doubly so love – as Dan Savage is fond of saying, “There is no person who is ‘The One’ for you – the best you can hope for is the '0.6’ that you can round up to 'The One,’ with a lot of work.”

And at least some missing stairs aren’t born – they’re made. Everyone screws up, everyone’s got some bad habits, everyone’s got some blind spots about what others expect of them and how others perceive us. When the people around us make bad calls about whether to let us skate on our faults and when to confront us, those faults fester and multiply and calcify. This is compounded in long-tenured relationships that begin in our youth, when we are still figuring out our boundaries – the people who we give a pass to when we’re young and naive can become a fixture in our lives despite characteristics that, as adults, we wouldn’t tolerate in someone who is new to our social scene.

To make all this even more complicated, there’s the role that power plays in all this. Many missing stairs are keenly attuned to power dynamics and present a different face to people who have some authority – whether formal or tacit – to sanction them. This is why so many of the outings of #MeToo predators provoked mystified men to say, “Gosh, they never acted that way around me – I had no idea.”

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Kelly Link’s “Book of Love”

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If you’d like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here’s a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/13/the-kissing-song/#wrack-and-roll

Kelly Link is one of science fiction’s most important writers, a master of the short story to rank with the likes of Ted Chiang. For a decade, Kelly’s friends have traded whispers that she was working on a novel – a giant novel – and the rumors were true and the novel is glorious and you will love it:

https://www.bloomsbury.com/uk/book-of-love-9781804548455/

https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/239722/the-book-of-love-by-kelly-link/

It’s called The Book of Love and it’s massive – 650 pages! It is glorious. It is tricky.

If you’ve read Link’s short stories (which honestly, you must read), you know her signature move: a bone-dry witty delivery, used to spin tales of deceptive whimsy and quirkiness, disarming you with daffiness while she sets the hook and yanks. That’s the unmistakeable, inimitable texture of a Kelly Link story: deft literary brushstrokes, painting a picture so charming and silly that you don’t even notice when she cuts you without mercy.

Turns out that she can quite handily do this for hundreds of pages, and the effect only gets better when it’s given space to unfold.

Hard to tell you about this one without spoilers! But I’ll tell you this much. It’s a story about three teenaged friends who return from death and find themselves in the music room at their high school, face to face with their mild-mannered music teacher, Mr Anabin. Anabin explains what’s happened in frustratingly cryptic – and very emphatic – terms, but is interrupted when a sinister shape-shifting wolf enters the music room.

This is Bogomil, and whenever he speaks, Mr Anabin turns his back – and vice versa. Anabin and Bogomil appear to be rivals, and Bogomil may or may not have been the keeper of the land of the dead from which the three have escaped. There’s also a forth, a tattered shade who’s been dead so long they don’t remember who they are or anything about themselves. Bogomil would like to take the four back to the deadlands, but Anabin proposes a contest and Bogomil agrees – but no one explains the contest or its rules (or even its stakes) to the four dead teenagers.

That’s the wind up. The pitch that follows is flawless, a long and twisting mystery about friendship, love, queerness, rock-and-roll, stardom, parenthood, loyalty, lust and duty. There’s a terrifying elder god of Lovecraftian proportions. There are ghosts upon ghosts. There are ancient grudges. There are sudden revelations that come from unexpected angles but are, in retrospect, perfectly set up.

More than anything, there are characters. It’s impossible not to love Link’s characters, despite (because of) their self-destructive choices and their impossible dilemmas. They are so sweet, but they are also by turns mean and spiteful and resentful, like the pinch of salt that transforms a caramel from inedible spun sugar into something that bites even as it delights.

These characters, so very likable, are often dead or at death’s door, and that peril propels the story like an unstoppable locomotive. From the very start, it’s clear that some of them can’t survive to the end, and Link is merciless in making you root for all of them, even though this means rooting against them all. This, in turn, creates moments of toe-curling, sublime horror.

Link has built a complex machine with more moving parts than anyone has any business being able to keep track of. And yet, each of these parts meshes flawlessly with all the others. The book ends with such triumphant perfection that it lingers long after you put it down. I can’t wait to read this one again.

Steven Brust’s “Tsalmoth”

I’m coming to the HowTheLightGetsIn festival in HAY-ON-WYE with my novel Red Team Blues:

• Tomorrow (May 28), 1130AM: The AI Enigma
• Monday (May 29), 12PM: Danger and Desire at the Frontier

I’m at OXFORD’s Blackwell’s on Monday (May 29) at 7:30PM with Tim Harford.

Then it’s Nottingham, Manchester, London, Edinburgh, and Berlin!

They say “the Golden Age of science fiction is 12” — that is, the thing that makes “the good old stuff” so good is its suitability for preteens, and rereading that stuff as an adult (much less continuing to read it in adulthood) is a childish regression.

It’s not true.

Or at least, it’s not always true. Sometimes, the reason a novel sucks us in at 12 is that it is amazing, and, moreover, full of layers that make the book get better with re-readings, as new layers are revealed by our own maturity.

Let me tell you about one of those books. Actually, not just one of those books: sixteen of them, with three more to come.

I’m speaking, of course, of Steven Brust’s Vlad Taltos novels, which started with Jhereg, published in 1983 — the year I turned 12, and devoured this book, rereading it four or five times in that year alone.

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Love is in the air