Simone White’s Of Being Dispersed: A Review


I maintain dominion over the crevices of myself, deep into the layers
of my skin, which must never be questioned. Never doubt that these
crevices extend toward an infinitely receding boundary. Come close
to me to feel it.

The last time I encountered Simone White was in the summer 2016 issue of BOMB magazine, in an interview with Vince Staples. In it, White notes a “family feeling” to Staples’s music that evokes a sense of knowing him. I had this same feeling while reading White’s latest text, Of Being Dispersed. It’s work that makes room for empathy between artist and reader, a reminder that we walk the same ground, take the same trains, roll our eyes at the same ads on them.

Of Being Dispersed begins with a portrait of Los Angeles as a place “where dead negroes can’t get in your house.” Followed by a break, then alone on the next line: “Yeah.” White shows without telling, making the reader reexamine their own positionality and assumptions.

This approach returns in “Lotion,” the volume’s closing essay, which explores the social context of White’s beauty regimen with equal parts exhaustion and dignified ownership. It’s the sheer power of her voice that holds this disparate formal universe together. One still hears the poet who reminds herself that it “looks bad to yell at a white man in public, even if he pushed you out of the way” in the preceding poems. In “Lotion,” that same poet who assures the woman who mistook her ironed hair for something burning that nothing was on fire. These are scenes of subtle confrontation embedded in flippant reassurance, evidence of White’s negotiation of complex affects.

While the book is set in an intellectual and embodied universe that is decidedly White’s own, we as outsiders feel ineluctably drawn into its orbit. A layered consciousness shines in a consistent and textured tone engaging the different parts of her mind: sometimes as entire poems, but often within the same poem, even the same line.

White’s words reflect worlds she has seen. They extend access to her mind, her analysis of herself and her surroundings, so that the reader gets as close to her as they can while remaining self-reflexive. I experienced Of Being Dispersed as a mirror that made me consider the consequences of my own body as a container—what it means to exist in the world, in America, as my physical self, but also as a spirit within it.

Still Thrumming in My Brain: A Review of Anthony Madrid’s Try Never


Try Never

By Anthony Madrid

Canarium Books – 2017

I first saw Anthony Madrid read alongside Michael Robbins and Paige Ackerson-Kiely in Brooklyn one summer afternoon, in a bookstore by a church undergoing repairs, scaffolding wreathing the brown steeple. I only knew of Robbins, whose book, Alien Vs. Predator (Penguin, 2012), I had come across and liked while doing research for my undergraduate thesis on John Berryman. At the time, I hadn’t read much poetry—a few books for workshops and some of Berryman’s Dream Songs—though I cautiously thought of myself as a poet. I sat in a gray fold-out chair in the packed, un-air-conditioned bookstore, stealing some of the breeze from Paige’s hand fan. When his turn came to read, Madrid, as he orated his ghazals, swayed, snapped his fingers, stamped, and grinned. It was unlike anything I’d seen before. I was hooked.

Madrid was born in Bethesda, Maryland in 1968 and raised in the suburb of Rockville by working class parents: Dixie, a coal miner’s daughter from the Virginia/West Virginia border who dropped out of 10th grade to marry her first husband, and Nestor, her second husband, a “Mexican schemer, charming and irresponsible” (Madrid’s words). Madrid began writing poetry to “impress people,” he says, to get “his portion under the sun.” As a boy, he’d wanted to be a lawyer, like the ones on TV whose speeches hypnotize the jury, but when, in 11th grade, he realized what being a lawyer is actually like, he decided to keep the appealing parts and throw out the rest. “Poetry,” he says, “was what was left over”—and it shows, particularly in the bewitching quality of his readings.

But Madrid isn’t merely a compelling performer. He is an exemplary poet, too. In the wake of Victorian excess, Modernist poets called for brevity with maximum voltage, producing masters of linguistic compression like Basil Bunting, George Oppen, and HD. Try Never can be placed in this lineage, as it embodies Ezra Pound’s dictum, “dichten = condensare,” that is, writing poems is condensing language. To that end, very few words or pages in Try Never go to waste. The book is only 50 pages long, and the lines are no less economical; the first one reads, “Brake light out. Kid with a stick” (1), and the rest follow suit. Occasionally, this leads to moments in which syntax produces an elegantly compacted phrase, and grammar becomes poetry: “All my life I’ve been a fool for women: / Got off on so being” (19). The grace of the phrase, “Got off on so being,” teaches us that Pound was right: poetry may quite simply be the act of compressing language.

By employing a disused form, Try Never continues in the same vein as Madrid’s first book, I Am Your Slave Now Do What I Say (Canarium, 2012). Whereas Slave was all ghazals, Try Never is mostly in a Medieval Welsh form, aside from two “Maxims.” This, too, places Madrid in the Modernist lineage. Ezra Pound borrowed from China, and T.S. Eliot from India, both looking to other cultures and historical eras for novel ideas. In this case, the Welsh form provides Madrid with a structure well-suited to his strengths: juxtaposition, repetition, and acerbic wisdom. Natural imagery, however, is crucial to the form as well, which has induced  Madrid to demonstrate his mastery of the pictorial phrase. “Cold Spring,” for example, stands out because it is packed with lovely, photographic lines (all on page 4): “Flowering pear full of tiny white blossoms”; “Redbud puts out a violet petal”; “A gull’s cry like a screen door in motion”; “Green ash still clustered in last year’s pods.” The detail, the color, the names of flowers and plants, and the aptness of the simile all create a space in which the imagination can bloom.

Sound, however, may be more important than image in Try Never. As the 5 train came to a halt one morning on my way to work, I closed the book after an hour of reading, put it in my backpack, and got off at 42nd Street with the rhythm of the poems still thrumming in my brain. For example:

     Quinceañera. It’s not up to me.

     Digeridoo if it’s sadder and wiser.

     Seventeen saturnine stanzas neither

     About nor intended for teenagers. (18)

A succession of stanzas like that inevitably results in the rhythm lodging itself in one’s head, a pleasure compounded by Madrid’s use of rhyme. Though probably not the first example of this, Try Never’s rhymes are not just end-line rhymes or internal rhymes but also rhymes in different parts of lines: an end-word rhyming with a beginning word in the following line, for example:

     Books stacked up, and nowhere to store ‘em.

     Decorum is spontaneous order. (7)

This isn’t mere ingenuity for ingenuity’s sake. There is pleasure in hearing a precise rhyme where one wasn’t expecting it, and Madrid is nothing if not attuned to the pleasures of sound. Indeed, some lines in the book have little purpose aside from sound, but it is sufficient purpose for me:

     Kiskindhakanda. I’ll never not know.

     I’ll never not need you to teach me to read.

     This poem’s for daffadowndilly and weed,

     Either other sweetly gracing. (21)

The final line here, made solely of trochees, (“Either other sweetly gracing”) is a sonic delight.

Try Never, too, has a refreshing dose of unsentimental, clear-eyed pessimism. Take, for example, “Cold Spring.” Successively, the final lines of three stanzas are, “Rare is regret. More usual, bitterness,” “Inconvenient, the needs of the soul,” and, “Both are degenerate: felon and cop.” No one is special in Madrid’s cosmology—not even himself: “And why / Must I sit through my own performance? // …I shall forever be lapped by the orange flames / Of my self inflicted glory” (49), he writes in the concluding poem, “Try Never.” It comes as no surprise: Madrid is well-read in Buddhism, Taoism, and 18th Century British literature—all of which hold contempt for delusion. It is particularly restorative if one reads contemporary writing, much of which is buoyed by an optimism that merely satisfies our collective vanity. Or, as Madrid puts it, “Three quarters of modern memoir is just / Saying things in the wrong tone of voice” (35). Try Never has many tones of voice—direct, witty, opinionated—but almost none of them is the wrong one.

An Interview with Mary Gaitskill


Mary Gaitskill is the writer of three story collections, three novels and, most recently, a book of essays called Somebody with a Little Hammer. She was my teacher last summer at the New York State Writers’ Institute, where my classmates and I hiked, ate several kinds of fruit pie right out of the tin, and, most importantly, workshopped each other’s manuscripts. In class, Gaitskill shared her favorite stories by Dickens and Nabokov and listened closely as we discussed each other’s work, occasionally disagreeing, or pointing us in a different direction. We spoke again over Skype last fall, while she was teaching in Pittsburgh and I was back at Brooklyn College.

Monika Zaleska: I’m interested in how you write these minute changes in behavior between people, especially in romantic or sexual relationships. For example, in “The Blanket,” Valerie and a younger man, Michael, are innocently playing out their fantasies with each other, but then there’s this shift. After she tells him she was raped, he stops the car on a dark street, thinking that they’re still joking around or that it’s still part of the fantasy. To her, it’s not. I wonder how you approach writing these shifts in relationship dynamics.

Mary Gaitskill: The relationship in “The Blanket” is a particularly dramatic situation because they’re in a realm that can be treated playfully, or can suddenly become serious, so the small changes matter in a way that they might not, say, in a student-teacher relationship. A student may disagree with something I say, but we’re not in a dark car together talking about rape. What I’m more interested in is the relationship between fear and excitement, how something scary in one context can be exciting or playful or funny in another. In his mind, he’s still in a place where they’re fooling around. To me it’s interesting how dark and light can be interchangeable sometimes. Feelings blend into each other in unpredictable ways, especially feelings like aggression and excitement and love and hostility. It’s very mysterious, and can be scary.

MZ: You delve so deeply into the emotional lives of your characters. How do you balance developing that emotional landscape with the larger action of a story or novel? Which comes first for you when writing?

MG: I don’t know. I do spend a lot of time on characters’ internal thoughts. I feel like that’s where my strength is, and it’s hard for me to translate it outward into action. That’s a challenge for me as a writer.

MZ: You also seem interested in characters that have trouble communicating, or that have frustrated or conflicting emotions that are hard to pin down.

MG: The people in my stories, in Veronica or in The Mare, don’t have a strong social grounding. Like in Veronica, for Alison to be friends with another model, that would make sense in the world. But for her to be friends with this older, socially unattractive woman, Veronica, doesn’t make social sense. I think she feels a deep affinity for Veronica because they’ve both been wounded, and they have both occupied worlds where their external appearance is very important. For Alison it’s the fashion world, and for Veronica it’s styling herself in these weird sweaters she wears and her intense make-up and hair. It’s an affinity that isn’t obvious, but it’s there.

In The Mare, people are always telling Ginger that she has nothing in common with Velvet or her mother. Here’s a middle class white woman who has a relationship with an impoverished Dominican girl and she keeps being told you can’t understand her, your life is too different. In a way it is, but in another way, it’s not. Ginger feels out of touch with the world around her. She can’t understand the people around her or be understood by them. She’s looked down upon by them, and that’s similar to the experience that Velvet’s mother is having in her neighborhood. She literally can’t understand. She can’t speak English. It’s a more serious situation because she feels physically threatened, perhaps even more than she really is. Velvet is also having a lot of trouble socially connecting with the people around her. All of them are people that don’t really fit in. They have a deeper connection, but the social, external connection doesn’t make sense to people. I write about that a lot, people who have instincts to connect that aren’t supported by the outside world, and that’s hard. Harder than people realize sometimes.

MZ: In a novel like The Mare, why do you think it’s crucial for the story to be told from many different perspectives? There’s the voices of Ginger and her husband Paul, who take Velvet in from the Fresh Air Fund for inner-city kids, and take her horseback riding for the first time. Just Velvet spends summers with them upstate, yet you also include her mother Silvia’s voice and her little brother Dante’s.

MG: Well, partially because I didn’t feel like I could tell the whole story in the voice of a Dominican girl. I know enough that I could tell part of it, but I didn’t feel like I could tell the whole thing from her point of view. Just of the sake of reality, I felt I had to tell half of it from the middle-aged white person’s point of view. But also, part of the story is about how the different people see each other, and try to understand each other, and do so very imperfectly.

MZ: Did you always know you were going to include the younger brother Dante’s voice in the book, or did you think writing in the voice of an eleven year old girl was challenging enough?

MG: I didn’t initially think of doing anyone but Ginger and Velvet, and then Paul crept in in a natural way, and I thought he was a good counterpoint to Ginger. He could say the things that Ginger wouldn’t say to herself or think about. Much more reluctantly did I include Velvet’s mother and I was really uncertain about that. I didn’t think I could do her. Yet I felt that you were hearing so much about her that if I were the reader I would want to know what she thought. And then Dante came in from the side. I don’t remember how I made that decision but I’m glad I did. He’s one of my favorite voices.

MZ: I think it’s really interesting to see how a child sees the developing drama of the novel in both a simpler and more complicated way.

MG: Yeah, he’s definitely a wise-ass and I like that about him.

MZ: So why the reservations about writing Velvet’s mother?

MG: Because she’s so different from me. She’s close to my ageshe’s younger than me, but she’s not significantly younger and her life is totally different than mine. Velvet’s life is different too, but at least Velvet grew up in this country. She’s Dominican-American, but also she’s American, basically. She listens to pop music and watches the same TV shows I do. She comes from a different cultural place than me, but it’s not radically different. She’s impoverished, but she reads and writes, whereas her mother is someone who has grown up in a different country. She’s in a poor neighborhood and she’s responsible for the care of two young children. I can only imagine the sense of stress and fear you would feel not only for yourself but your kids. You are in a dangerous neighborhood, and because you can’t understand what people are saying, you don’t know the rules of that neighborhood. She doesn’t like black people and so she is possibly more afraid than she has to be. That’s a level of stress that’s hard for me to understand.

MZ: Do you worry about being criticized for trying to portray someone so different from yourself?

MG: Somewhat. I’m afraid it could be seen as insulting, or just simply unaware. I was concerned with it.

MZ: I wonder how you negotiate those feelings as a writer. I often have them myself and wonder what my own limits of understanding are when it comes writing other people’s experiences.

MG: I ultimately decided that if I do a poor job, people can say so. It will be clear. I’m not going to do any terrible harm to anyone, though there might be people who disagree. But it could be seen as just stupid. If it is, I don’t think it’s going to harm anyone except me and my credibility.

MZ: At the New York State Writers’ Institute, you read from your story, “The Agonized Face,” about a woman at a literary conference attending the talk of a feminist author. The feminist author criticizes her bio in the conference program, which focuses on the more salacious aspects of her life, such as her brief time working as a prostitute. Our narrator is confused by this feminist author, by how she is both vulnerable and outspoken, both victim and champion of womankind. I’ll admit that I also wasn’t sure what to take away from the story.

MG: People still have so much trouble with women’s vulnerability and strength. Really the trouble the narrator is having with the feminist writer is that she’s someone who appears to be a know-it-all, but is also very vulnerable. Look what happened to Marilyn Monroe. People adored her, but she died early. She was treated badly and not respected in her time. The feminist writer is no Marilyn Monroe, but she’s a woman who is presenting as vulnerable while trying to be very much in control. And if there’s something that story is about, it’s about even other women’s difficulty in coping with that. The sexuality of women still throws people because it’s so fluid and open.

There’s a story by David Bezmozgis that I teach often called “Natasha.” It’s a really good story, but it always gets my students riled up, the undergrads especially. Some of them hate her and think she’s a psychopath or monster. Other people think she’s really an unfortunate girl, and that the he’s really horrible and takes advantage of her. I don’t think either one is true, though I’m more on the side of her being a very unfortunate girl. I don’t think the narrator is taking advantage of her, though I think he doesn’t know how else to be. Natasha seems to be in control. That’s how she presents. In some ways she is, and in other ways, she’s not.

MZ: That story sparked a heated debate in our craft class at Brooklyn College as well.

MG: It always does. It’s partly because people are still mystified or don’t know how to respond to a woman who is both very powerful, which Natasha is, even at the age of fourteen, and very, very vulnerable and clearly has been badly hurt.

MZ: In our class this summer, we started talking about a philosophy of writing. I remember you came in with some notes, but then you became hesitant to present anything to us as a philosophy of sorts, and we ended up talking about how style shapes writing. Do you think having a philosophy of writing is helpful?

MG: As a writer, I don’t think you have to have an articulated philosophy, though I think most writers do, whether they know it or not. I think I was hesitating because I’m not sure how current my philosophy is or if my students need to hear what I have to say. I don’t know that it’s going to help them get published or move forward in their writing. Nonetheless, I have these opinions and feelings that are important to me. But if I wasn’t a teacher I would have never tried to find a way to express them verbally.

This interview has been edited and condensed.

Monika Zaleska is the Fiction Editor of The Brooklyn Review. Her work has appeared in Lenny Letter, Literary Hub, Electric Literature, and Rookie Magazine. She is currently working on her first novel. 


“Myrtle-Wyckoff” and others






“New Haven Amtrak Station”



Derek Saffe is an Argentine photographer. Raised in Miami, he moved to NYC as punishment for growing up in a tropical paradise. He takes his sartorial cues from his grandmother and his eye for images from his mother. 

“The Takes”


Heather Keaton Painting

2016, 48″ x 48″, oil on canvas.

Heather Keton has been painting since childhood, when she was gifted a class in landscape oil painting and realized that combining birch trees and fireworks makes people uncomfortable. She attended the School of the Art Institute of Chicago where she focused on writing, bookmaking and lithography. Her return to painting began as a break from her typewriter 15 years ago. She has since exhibited in Chicago, Portland OR, Philadelphia, and Brooklyn.

Lean Away


Review: ‘After Birth’ by Elisa Albert.

In 2013, there were murmurs of a new feminist manifesto emboldening women across the nation, reviving a stalled second-wave feminism. You might have heard it whispered by the women leaving book club meetings, heard it from the lips of Sheryl Sandberg herself, heard it from its weeks atop the New York Times bestseller list. Lean in, they said. Forget maternity-leave policies, forget the income gap, forget the corporeal necessities of your children or yourself, and lean in.

Ari, the narrator of Elisa Albert’s “After Birth,” has, effectively, leaned out: sequestered in a dreary upstate New York town with her ineffectual professor husband and year-old baby, she has all but abandoned her PhD dissertation on “Algorithms of Girl.” It’s been a year since she gave birth to her son via emergency C-section, but she is still plagued by the trauma of “effective disembodiment,” the forced experience of being “severed from hip to hip, iced, brutalized, catheterized, tethered to a bed.” Profoundly alone in her “shitbox town,” deep in the throes of postpartum depression and possibly PTSD, relief comes in the form of Mina Morris, legendary ex-Riot-Grrrl rocker turned poet, first nine-months pregnant then a newly minted single mother. United by their isolation and confusion, Ari and Mina form an alliance that exceeds friendship: a partnership, a radical union of shared breastfeeding and generous intimacy, the “raft of women” Ari imagines might have shared in the rearing of each other’s children a hundred years ago.

Ari’s relationship with Mina, and her relationships with all women, is complex. She forms intense, consuming friendships with women she idealizes, only to be betrayed by their humanness. Her feelings towards women are angry, traumatized, shrouded in loss. The same could, in fact, be said of her feelings towards almost everything. Albert roots her narrative deeply in Ari’s consciousness, so her alienation, her anger, her confusion and her pain are profoundly felt. Albert’s prose is carnal, severe, a well of interiority and witty, excruciating truth. It is fiercely human. Her cadences are stilted, disjointed, alive despite Ari’s feelings that she “had died, was dead, only a ghost, not fully gone.” Her sentences breathe Ari’s postpartum trauma: birth is “a nightmare blur of newborn stitches antibiotics awake constipation tears wound tears awake awake awake limping tears screaming tears screaming shit piss puke tears.”

But Ari’s trauma does not exist in isolation: it is descended through the maternal line, from her depressed, “bitch from hell” mother, long dead from DES-induced cancer, and by her grandmother, tormenter of her tormentor, a survivor of brutal Nazi rape in Auschwitz. Ari’s mother and grandmother are omnipresent apparitions, her mother’s voice chiming in to admonish Ari for her failures as a parent or wife, and her grandmother’s repeated rape cleverly conflated with Ari’s—and her own—forced, involuntary C-section. (“You were raped,” Mina tells Ari outright.) Ari imagines her grandmother “strapped down, drugged and thrashing, crying out” in an alien American hospital, “tied to a bed in a different country, begging someone to help her in a language no one could understand.”

Implicit here is the trans-generational PTSD so many Holocaust survivors bequeath on their children. Ari’s third-generation PTSD is borne not only of her grandmother’s savage treatment by the Nazis, but also of the savagery of systematic medical intervention. Ari views the industrialization of childbirth as systematic abuse as opposed to necessary medical intervention, responsible for her postpartum dysphoria, as well as her grandmother’s suicide.

It is evident that Albert, a doula and an outspoken critic of the medical industrialization of childbearing, is writing from a particular theoretical perspective: Ari criticizes second-wave feminism’s “bullshit” calls to “defeat the body and be liberated from it,” and makes reference to both Barbara Ehrenreich’s work on medical intervention in childbirth, and Adrienne Rich’s influential Of Women Born: Motherhood as Experience and Institution. It is easy to see how, in a lesser writer’s hands, this novel could have become a preachy, sanctimonious polemic. But Ari’s close, honest, rage-and-grief-filled interiority saves the novel from becoming a dissertation, replete with academic sources and statements like, “Feminism without focus on the body, the soul, the relationship between the two—biologically female bodies with distinctly female struggles—is of no interest to me.” In Ari’s point of view, these sorts of declarations feel characterizing: Ari is writing her dissertation in Women’s Studies, she’s a feminist, she’s angry and unwavering and as sharp in her insights about everything from menstruation to Jewish summer camps as she is about industrialized childbirth. There is no room for dissent in Ari’s psyche. Either you are with her or against her and, ultimately, all women.

Those who are against her include the women in her family, her husband’s colleagues, the members of women-only groups who inevitably “rip each other to shreds,” and the second-wave feminists, with their refusal to admit that “living in these female bodies is different. More terrible and more wonderful.” These are the women for whom childbearing is a vanity project, or the women pulling their pantyhose over their still-distended bellies, shoving their kids into daycare at three months and rushing back to work, the women determined to “make it to the Oval Office, win, win, win.” These are the women who are leaning in. One might imagine that if Ari met Sheryl Sandberg, she would swiftly flip her off.

Marianne, Ari’s thesis advisor, dismisses novels as “a rehearsal, an avoidance of politics and activism and rage and grief. A way for the writer to remove herself from the real problem.” Albert doesn’t avoid anything: she has created, in Ari, a character who will shout her politics, her activism, her rage, her grief—scream it, spit on it, burn it at the stake. Ari refuses to adhere to the rules of a culture that insists women shut up about their traumatic births and their sadness and isolation. She refuses to present birth as sanitized, mysterious, some sort of gratifying miracle. She is not the woman sending out mild-mannered birth announcements pronouncing that baby and mother are doing fine, resting well, feeling okay. If Ari were to have a birth announcement, it would read: “Why so numb, so enraged, so broken?” She is incapable of glossing over the gory corporeal details—or the gory psychological details—of new motherhood, and, consequently, what erupts from her psyche is refreshing, fierce, piercing truth. “We’re as fearful of childbirth as we are of death,” she says. “Why else do we do everything to try and numb and control it? Why else does no one talk about it?” Elisa Albert is talking about it, and everyone should be listening. ✧


Lisa Metrikin is the Editor in Chief of The Brooklyn Review. She is a second-year fiction MFA student at Brooklyn College, where she also teaches. Her fiction has appeared in the Monarch Review, Independent Ink Magazine, and elsewhere. She is a native of Toronto, Canada. Previously, she worked in editorial and marketing at several early-stage tech startups. Follow her on Twitter @LisaSkapinker.

“All Colors Change”


All Colors Change


72nd Try


Apple Picking




That’s where I’ve been


Brian Russ is a photographer, musician, writer and teacher who has been living in Brooklyn for the past 11 years. He has played music in over 80 different venues in New York City, exhibited photos in several galleries over the years here and continues to teach middle children how to discover and pursue their inner passions.  He’s always chasing a song, novel, poem, or perfectly framed shot.  He lives in Sunset Park with his wife, Lauren, and their 2 year old son, Simon.





Thomas Gillaspy is a northern California photographer with an interest in urban minimalism. His photography has been featured in numerous magazines including the literary journals: Compose, DMQ Review and Citron Review.

Letter From the Editor


Since Allen Ginsberg, John Ashberry, Jonathan Baumbach and the students of the Brooklyn College MFA program founded The Brooklyn Review, we have been a place of continual evolution, growth and experimentation. While we originally focused on the poetry, prose and performance pieces of our own students, we soon expanded to include exceptional new writing from beyond our small corner of Brooklyn. For almost thirty years, we published new work by writers including Wayne Koestenbaum, Mac Wellman, Young Jean Lee, David Levinson, Sapphire, and many others.

But as we endeavored to evolve further and plunge into the online sphere, we entered a period of silence. We wanted to honor our storied history while continuing to publish in the spirit of experimentation with which we were founded. It took us a few years to reemerge, but now we are back. We’ll be publishing in a new format—online—in addition to our annual print issue. We look forward to introducing you to audacious and exciting new poetry, prose, and performance art, and to celebrating all forms of telling and creating, experimental and traditional, by curating them in this new space.

We are proud to present the first online issue of The Brooklyn Review.


—Lisa Metrikin, Editor in Chief





Kenneth Faith is currently pursuing a MFA in Painting from Brooklyn College after graduating from the College of Charleston with a degree in Studio Art in 2013.




Brian Michael Barbeito, a resident of Ontario, Canada, is a writer and landscape photographer. Recent work appears at Fiction International and The Tishman Review.

Memoirs of a Post-Analyzed Self

 Review: ‘Adult Onset’ by Ann-Marie MacDonald.


A small crowd assembled at the back of Brooklyn’s BookCourt store to hear acclaimed Canadian author Ann-Marie MacDonald read from her third novel, “Adult Onset.” It was a small enough group—mostly long-time devotees of MacDonald’s first two novels, the 1996 Oprah’s Book Club pick “Fall on Your Knees” and its 2003 follow-up, “The Way The Crow Flies”—that MacDonald forewent the podium and conducted the question-and-answer portion from one of the chairs, speaking intimately with the audience, as if it were her own living room. When one audience member asked if the novel’s frenzied, turbulent style could be attributed to writing a novel while raising children full time, MacDonald agreed that yes, that was absolutely the reason. She realized from the early stages of writing “Adult Onset” that her process would be erratic: she would be lucky to cram an hour of writing in between chores and children and running the household. Her prose was similarly chaotic, but she went with it, because it emulated the real experience of motherhood.

The chaos of rearing children is one of many ways in which the novel, which MacDonald described as a “memoir of a parallel self,” mirrors MacDonald’s real life: the book’s protagonist, Mary Rose MacKinnon, is, like MacDonald, the daughter of a Lebanese mother and a Canadian army officer father, both originally from Nova Scotia’s Cape Breton Island. Also like MacDonald, Mary-Rose lives in downtown Toronto, she is married to a woman who’s a theater director, and she’s taking a break from her career writing bestselling novels (in Mary Rose’s case, young adult novels) to raise their two children. The book takes place over the course of one hectic week in Mary Rose’s life, a week in which her wife, Hilary, is away in Winnipeg directing a play, and Mary Rose, known colloquially as “Mister,” is home alone with the children. Much of the book recounts the minutiae of Mary Rose’s mundane daily life as an “everyday housewife,” a world in which “it-got-better enough for her to be here now at her own kitchen table with her own child, legally married to the woman she loves, feeling like a trapped 1950s housewife.”

The novel follows Mary Rose as she collapses her Christmas tree stand, picks her kids up from school, does laundry, visits the gynecologist, and walks her dog. The pages abound with italicized technology: Mary Rose’s Facebook and her email bing! repeatedly, and Mary Rose deletes a drafted email to her father so many times that it feels like keystrokes begin to replace plot points. There are also long swaths of incoherent dialogue, pages of back-and-forth conversations that often read more like a stage script than a novel. The dialogue is often nearly impossible to follow, especially the conversations between Mary Rose and her elderly, possibly dementia-ridden mother.

But this is a deeply internal novel, and it is Mary Rose’s witty, anxious, and, at times, delirious interiority that saves the novel from becoming merely a tedious narration of daily pandemonium, 381 pages of chores and temper tantrums and ill-fated play dates. MacDonald’s prose is limber and deft, delving into Mary Rose’s psyche with piercing intelligence and palpable, authentic realism. Toronto is a place where “the trees are tight with buds” and “the last crusts of brown ice are trickling into storm sewers,” where Mary Rose, Hilary and their children live in a “shabby chic neighborhood where…higgledy-piggledy hedges and trumpet vines proclaim the prevailing left-leaning sympathies of the residents.” Mary Rose lives a life one could plausibly imagine: she’s reading a real book (Norman Doidge’s The Brain That Changes Itself), she visits real stores in Toronto’s Annex neighborhood, listens to real CBC radio programs, and sees fellow Annex resident Margaret Atwood driving by. MacDonald cleverly edges close enough to reality that one forgets Mary Rose isn’t lurking in cafes in downtown Toronto, dodging the adoring young fans clamoring for her autograph, that she isn’t waiting for her son outside the Montessori school on Bloor Street.

An unexplained pain in Mary Rose’s arm invokes the memory of her childhood bone cysts, propelling the story into a vortex of remembered trauma, starting in her bones then spreading outward into her psyche, into the pain and possible abuse of her childhood, as she struggles with inexplicable rage against her two-year-old daughter, Maggie. In an attempt to explore whether or not Mary Rose was abused as a child, and whether that abuse may have triggered her bone issues, the novel weaves between Mary Rose’s close-third-person narration in the present and a distant, retrospective account of her childhood. The childhood sections mainly explore Mary Rose’s mother’s postpartum depression following the two stillborn babies who bookended Mary Rose’s birth. The distant narration, however, makes it difficult to discern whose point of view is recounting the past. Mary-Rose herself concedes that, although those years are “vivid in her mind, part of the family lore she imbibed from her sister and from her parents’ remiscences,” she can’t possibly recall those particular memories, many of which happened before she was born. The retrospective sections, then, feel like therapy sessions with Mary Rose’s analyst, hovering over the past distantly, fictionalizing her mother’s depression and dissociation from her children in sentimental, embellished prose. Much of what happens in the retrospective sections is a dramatization of what’s already been told in present exposition, and the connections to Mary Rose’s current mental state are heavy-handed and infuriatingly obvious.

Similarly cumbersome are the sections from Mary Rose’s two blockbuster young adult novels, both of which are jammed inexplicably into “Adult Onset.” The connections between these excerpts and Mary Rose’s psychological state are not only exceedingly obvious; they’re also called out explicitly on the page. At one point, Hilary reveals that, like Mary Rose’s stillborn sister, her YA protagonist’s doll was incinerated, though Mary Rose hadn’t understood that particular connection yet. A few pages later, the doll’s incineration is dramatized in one of the excerpted novel chapters. Mary Rose’s subconscious explodes out of the YA passages, dripping with regret and guilt towards the stillborn children. She “does not need to pay a psychologist to know that deep down she is convinced she killed [her stillborn brother] Alexander…it’s right there in the pages of her own book.”

Mary Rose, in fact, doesn’t need a psychoanalyst at all, because her entire narrative seems to have already been analyzed and processed by MacDonald. The prose is too self-aware, too conscious of the connections between Mary-Rose’s bone cysts and her parents’ later rejection of her as an out lesbian, the potential abuse she suffered at the hands of her mother and the way she later repeats that abuse with her own daughter. MacDonald, who is an award-winning playwright as well as a novelist, loads her pages with glaring dramatic irony and heavy-handed foreshadowing. It is implied numerous times by both of Mary Rose’s siblings as well as the retrospective narration that Mary Rose’s mother Dolly had postpartum depression, but Mary Rose doesn’t fully realize it until the end of the novel. In that way, the novel often feels like it’s getting ahead of itself, feeding the audience information before it’s relevant on the page, or alluding to certain topics or themes right before they unfold narratively. For example, several pages before Mary Rose ponders the dichotomy between her tender relationship with her “sensitive, sweet” five-year-old son and her daughter, who is in the depths of the classic terrible twos, Mary Rose’s own brother, Andy-Patrick, points out that he and Mary Rose had entirely different relationships with her parents, that perhaps it was he, not she, who won the “family suffering sweepstakes.”

Perhaps MacDonald, who has spent the past seven years in immersive, three-times-a-week psychoanalysis, has written not a memoir of a parallel self, but instead a memoir of a post-analyzed self, a protagonist who’s too hyperaware of her own psychological underpinnings. There is no room for ambiguity in the novel, nothing left for the reader to discern for him or herself. Even the novel’s humor begins to feel affected, gratingly self-aware: Mary Rose worries her tomatoes are “wrong” because they’re from Israel; she thinks she “could fist-pump for joy, but that would be too American.” The novel feels not like the cathartic journey to self-discovery MacDonald has described, the “open-heart surgery” on herself she’s compared to writing it, but instead like a calculated self-psychology.

Even Hilary, Mary Rose’s wife, who is mostly absent from the page, acts almost as a proxy for Mary Rose’s therapist, discussing her childhood trauma, listening as Mary Rose analyzes her mother’s behavior, whether her subsequent rejection stemmed from some sort of guilt about abusing her as a child. Consequently, Hilary and Mary Rose’s relationship feels clinical, more like a patient-therapist relationship than spousal love.

Where the novel opens up, where it feels surprising and alive and raw for the first time, is when Mary Rose recounts her parents’ rejection following her coming out. “I’d rather you had cancer,” her parents tell her. “I’d rather you were dead.” Mary Rose’s mother issues her rejection of Mary Rose’s “lifestyle,” her choice in partners, “like an edict—a fatwa.” In one of the novel’s most compelling moments, her mother asks, “Who touched you? Did someone touch you? Did your father touch you?” One suspects this rejection is still somewhat fresh, still not entirely processed and worked through in therapy. The writing here pierces; it punctures through newly patched-over wounds, spilling out confused, painful truth. But this breakthrough arrives two-thirds of the way through the novel, and it feels like too little, too late.

And, eventually, even the post-coming-out section is psychoanalyzed on the page, composed in an email to Mary Rose’s father years after she reconciles with her parents. “I wonder if Mum’s problems with postpartum depression,” Mary Rose writes, “informed the fury with which she responded to my coming out years later.” Was her mother still consumed with guilt? Did she believe she’d damaged Mary Rose in early childhood? These are the sorts of inferences that a writer with a subtler touch might have hoped his or readers would eventually reach. MacDonald, instead, instructs the reader on what to think, what to feel, how to properly analyze her characters. There is nothing left implicit or enigmatic; the novel acts as its own emotional instruction manual.

Towards the end, the writing becomes increasingly less lucid. The past and present begin to merge as both Mary Rose and her mother seem snagged in a mass of mystifying dementia, forgetting and confusing things and people and each other. Even language begins to break down: “the day the daytheday the day is toobright.” “This is what you get in the end,” Mary Rose thinks. “Fragments. Parts of speech.” It’s a nice idea, but it’s difficult to discern what’s actually happening in this final section. The novel even abandons its steady, unhurried pacing for a mad dash to the finishing line, whipping through sections the reader’s been waiting for the entire novel, like Hilary’s homecoming. It almost feels like, in an attempt to be more symbolically chaotic, less sterilized by the heavy-handed psychoanalysis that informs so much of MacDonald’s writing, she conflates turmoil with emotional complexity, as if the abandonment of narrative convention will trick the reader into feeling moved by his or her conflicting reactions. Instead, one has the feeling of being jerked into murky terrain by an unreliable narrator and a novel that hasn’t made up its mind about whose dementia is setting in when.

“There was something that’s very intentional about this book,” MacDonald said. “[Mary Rose’s] dark week of the soul is triggered during a time where everything is fine. And that’s a classic kind of psychoanalytical moment.” One wonders what sort of writing would have ensued if MacDonald had abandoned the Freudian polemic and written this entire book with the brutal authenticity with which she wrote the post-coming-out section. Perhaps, then, this book might have felt less like the inexplicable unraveling of an “everyday housewife” and more like the penetrating, incisive self-biopsy MacDonald intended it to be. ✧


Lisa Metrikin is the Editor in Chief of The Brooklyn Review. She is a second-year fiction MFA student at Brooklyn College, where she also teaches. Her fiction has appeared in the Monarch Review, Independent Ink Magazine, and elsewhere. She is a native of Toronto, Canada. Previously, she worked in editorial and marketing at several early-stage tech startups. Follow her on Twitter @LisaSkapinker.

Silently Gathering Force











Trinidad Escobar is a poet, cartoonist, and educator from the Bay Area, California. Her poetry and visual art have been featured in various publications such as Rust & Moth, The Walrus, Red Wheelbarrow, Solo Cafe, Mythium, Tayo, Maganda Magazine, the anthologies Walang Hiya, Over the Line, Kuwento, and more. Trinidad has been a guest artist and speaker at the San Jose Museum of Art, Pilipino Komix Expo, LitQuake, and The Cartoon Art Museum in San Francisco. Her graphic memoir Crushed will be published in 2017 by Rosarium Publishing. Trinidad teaches Comics & Race at California College of the Arts in Oakland, California.