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In her third short-story collection Lydia Millet, the author of more than a dozen works of fiction, considers “the splitting seams of American culture”. Fourteen linked stories, gently spoofing liberals living in LA, highlight characters identified as “-ists”: an artist, fetishist, mixologist, et cetera. There’s a thrill of recognition — à la Elizabeth Strout — when the characters’ worlds intersect and the reader realises how they are connected.
The stories in Atavists predominantly concern two families: Buzz, an ex-marathoner at loose ends for a new hobby, his wife Amy and their children Liza and Nick; and Helen, a widow who paints celebrity portraits and her daughters Shelley and Mia. Mia, Liza’s “best friend since kindergarten”, ends up dating Nick. Having graduated with honours from Stanford, Nick — unsure what all the striving is for — works at a big-box store and then a gay bar while pretending to write a screenplay.
The kids may seem lacking in ambition by the standards of their parents’ generation, but they exhibit a keen sense of humanity. Liza marries her boyfriend Luis, a “Dreamer”, as a high-school senior so he can get citizenship. Nick is deeply frustrated by complacency about climate and mass extinction. Mia, searching for her bliss on a gap year, volunteers at a retirement home, breaking rules to help the residents maintain their dignity. Shelley, an agent’s assistant, is the most mercenary of the bunch. “Shelley could still use her talents for good,” Helen reflects. “She was only twenty-three. But would she?”
Taken on their own, the slice-of-life stories don’t end neatly, by design: Millet finds traditional story structures “trite”, steering clear of the classic narrative arc as a matter of principle. Rather than stories “that hinge on the struggles and ultimate triumph of the self”, she prefers “a different form of narrative that reaches beyond the self to tell stories of the collective,” she has said. But even this noble aim isn’t beyond self-deprecation: “What if major talent agencies like yours tried to transform the collective?” Helen asks Shelley, earnestly. “The collective doesn’t have an agent, Mom,” she shoots back.
With a masters degree in environmental policy, Millet has been a staff writer for the non-profit Center for Biological Diversity since 1999 — “practical work that lets [her] feel useful”. Much of her fiction has featured climate change and conservation, but Atavists considers more social issues in addition to modern malaise. One of Amy’s friends, Trudy, obsesses about an old friend’s performative posting on social media; a bodybuilder uses dating apps to demean women; a gay couple in the neighbourhood targeted with homophobic letters hope the perpetrators aren’t of colour; a cosmetologist mourns her nine-year-old cousin who died of Covid. Trudy, a professor, accuses a colleague of plagiarism for not citing a quote in a paper; he tries to retaliate by combing through her socials for racism, finding only a post deemed worthy of a content warning.
The word “atavist” refers to the resurfacing of a primitive trait or urge, but the stories make us wonder where progress has landed us. The book ends with an “optimist” — Buzz, facing an empty nest, goes overboard preparing a tiny house in his backyard to host refugees who never arrive. Although optimism is understandably in short supply, Millet delivers her doom with a generous dose of subversive humour, a blend much acclaimed in her 2020 novel A Children’s Bible, a National Book Award finalist. With its combination of wit and social awareness, Millet’s work brings to mind that of Joy Williams and Jenny Offill, both of whom she considers friends.
The biggest risk of the collection — and one of which Millet is aware — is that their referentiality may make them age quickly: culture wars, for example, feel slightly dated already. But shelf life notwithstanding, Millet has an excellent ear for dialogue, and her characters are endearing. “Stories seemed more and more useless,” Nick despairs about his screenplay. “The sound of fiddling while Rome burned.” By reflecting the absurdities of how we live now, Millet’s fiddling doesn’t feel useless at all.
Atavists by Lydia Millet WW Norton £19.99/$27.99, 256 pages
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