Cari Luna revives a long lost New York
It is said that writers read differently than your average, everyday reader. We see more craft, technique, we critique and contemplate character and plot minutely. But we also appreciate great writing as the hardship it is. We see the effort, the time, the most likely tears and moments of giving. Getting the novel written is an accomplishment enough, but to have it published and read is like touching a unicorn.
When I read Cari Luna’s debut novel The Revolution of Every Day (Tin House) I felt and thought about all of the above things. But most of all I wished for the type of debut that Luna was having. The Revolution of Every Day is a novel that will not seem like a first. It feels evolved, it feels like it has been written with the tender, yet confident, and concentrated touch of someone who has done it many times before. And I’m sure, like with most writers, Luna has many novels stashed away in her computer, some that may never see another set of eyes. But even still, The Revolution of Every Day is the kind of first novel that writers can only wish, hope, and work their asses off for.
The Revolution of Every Day is set in New York City in the mid 90’s, during an era where Manhattan still held a bit of grit and wonder, and gentrification hadn’t quite taken over the entire burrow yet. It was the Manhattan that was crossing the line of commercialism; rents were sky rocketing and it was beginning to get harder and harder to have your dreams come true walking that section of pavement. Luna’s characters are not the sort that are usually written about when it comes to the fabled New York. They are squatters, trying to make it, trying to revolutionize a way of living. Trying to hold on to the dream of freedom, of a chosen life.
But even detached simplicity comes with complications. As the characters, the squatters (Amelia, Gerrit, Steve, Anne, Cat), learn that not only do they have to continue the fight of survival, sobriety, love, they also have to now fight for their home. They have taken over two empty buildings, begun the rehab process and have considered this their permanent oasis. But the other characters, the city itself, the police, the government, big business, is forcing them to ask questions and face situations they thought they could push away: “The lie had grown into a life around her.”
The buildings are characters, the streets, the bars, the island. Luna has a way of creating essences, emotions, and actions through concrete and wood. This notion carries to the bodies of the characters themselves. Her use of language when describing actions of self is not just the simple movement, it is what the body becomes, what the body can be. “Her shoulder blades are sharp as knives, jutting out at him, fending him off.” The character is not the metaphor, neither is the emotion really, the body, the bones, and what is said through not using a word is what shines throughout the novel and creates new levels of understanding between reader, fictional being, and a new world and experience.
The entire novel is a fight. We see the struggle, both internally and externally for all parties involved. We see the large amount of loss. We see the moments of letting go and giving up. But within all of the turmoil and despair there is still a fire burning. There is still the urge to keep going, to latch onto one another, to find a way, your own way. “Even the fiercest of anarchists lose their teeth to age,” but age itself does not deplete them. Choices create changes, and new ways to appreciate and carry on what they began. Luna shows us a world that is diminishing in prospects, but not completely void of existence. It is a vivid peek into what is hopefully the unknown, into what it means to truly live “the revolution of everyday life.”
