I had the hardest time coming up with a solid opening paragraph for this review of Kara Melissaâs non-fiction piece âThey Only Come Out at Night.â I like to think that Iâm good at introductions, but not this time. The issue I am having is how I canât wrap my arms around this essay to find one single starting point to explain how this honest, interwoven, melancholic story affected me.
From the first paragraph, Melissa pulled me in with an intense honesty; confidant in its story telling. Not for shock value, nor did this feel like oversharing, or a performative confession. This was a clear declaration of deep emotions, fully self-aware that maybe some people wouldnât understand this situation, but it was true.
What follows are three tangents, platted together with connecting themes of MRIâs, hospitals, logic, brain function, and most importantly love; the compassion, empathy and longings which form in situations Melissa finds herself in. Through all of it, I felt this wrap of a happy melancholy resignation to it all. I wish I could explain that better, but itâs what I feel someone who has loved deeply, and lost greatly would feel towards the world.
I relished how the essay is presented straight forward and logical – The descriptions of medical treatments, aliments, and the causes. The setting is during the Covid lockdowns, and with the clinical narrative, Melissa creates a feeling of isolation and detachment. This makes her desire for connection, understanding, and compassion all the more pertinent.
I donât want to belabor this review, as I am purposefully not going into all the details of the essay, because you should go read it. But I will say that the last section left me with a wonderful feeling of hopefulness. That even in the darkness, when we feel lost, that the love we have for each other can carry us through. With everything going on, I needed to be reminded of that fact.
(The short story âUnreasonableâ by Rivka Galchen appeared in the September 29th, 2025 issue of The New Yorker.)
Photo illustration by Stephen Doyle
A couple of years ago, my daughter got invited to a classmate’s birthday party, and as good parents, we attended with her. As the wife and I mingled with the other parents hiding on the periphery of the party, we struck up a conversation with a father who was a scientific researcher on fruit flies. It took a few minutes to convince him that we were actually interested in what he did, because as he put it, âNo one thinks fruit flies are interesting.â But once he started talking about his research, he got excited and animated about the topic. It was a great conversation, and it reminded me that if someone is passionate about what they do, when they talk about it, it can be very interesting.
It was this conversation that I kept thinking about as I read Rivka Galchenâs âUnreasonable.â The narrator/protagonist of this story is a bee researcher at a university, and in essence, sheâs telling us about her life and about bees. These two tangents work exceedingly well at complementing each other as the narratorâs tone is measured, funny, scientific, and relatable. I was struck at how seamless the story went from one area to the other, exemplifying how much the research and her life were intertwined, and impossible to separate from each other. But what truly reminded me about the conversation at the birthday party was how excited and passionate the narrator was about bees. Maybe it wasnât a volcano of exuberance, but it was an intense interest and knowledgebase, just like that fruit fly researcher. Their excitement, made you excited. I donât know if Galchen is a bee enthusiast or not, but if she isnât, then lots of respect to her for creating this character.
The other aspect of âUnreasonableâ that I enjoyed was how the narrator, perhaps a bit subconsciously, viewed her life through the lens of bee behavior, and the study of bees. Itâs pointed out in the story that male bees only have one function in the hive, fertilization, and that they donât do anything else. I couldnât help noticing that this fact of male bees is used almost like a prism towards the other male characters, exemplifying how some of them shirk responsibility, are adolescent, or are oblivious to the world around them. Then there is the use of tracking bees in the narratorâs research, and also how tracking is used in her personal life; how she tracks one of her daughterâs movements on an iPad, and how the other daughter used a bee tracking device to follow an ex-boyfriend. There are other examples in the story, but I think you get the point. It almost felt like a fun parlor game connecting the two worlds together.
I liked âUnreasonableâ and enjoyed how this was the type of story that kept rolling and moving, and left me wondering where it was going, but was happy to have that feeling of unexpected surprise. This was a fun place to inhabit with the narrator, and experience her world, because itâs exciting to be around a person who is excited about what excites them, and let’s it swarm into their life.
(The short story âThe Poolâ by T. Coraghessan Boyle appeared in the September 22nd, 2025 issue of The New Yorker.)
Illustration by Leanne Shapton
Hereâs an old saying that will live forever; Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. And when I hear this line, I contemplate if other words can also show sincere flattery, like â Impression, Takeoff, Parody, Sendup, Reproduction, Inspiration, or Synthesis. While reading T. Coraghessan Boyleâs âThe Poolâ I began to wonder how much of a debt this story owes to John Cheeverâs âThe Swimmer,â and should that be interpreted as a form of flattery?
Now, Iâm not the one who originally brought up Cheever. The story did it in the seventh paragraph. Also, âThe Poolâ is a story that is being published in The New Yorker, and that story references one of Cheeverâs most famous stories, âThe Swimmerâ which was also published in The New Yorker. As such, the preponderance of the evidence leads me to believe that âThe Swimmerâ is, if nothing else, an influence on this story.
âThe Poolâ is about a pool which is a part of a house that is recently purchased by the narrator/protagonist and his wife. They have two kids, and she is pregnant with their third, and final child. From the beginning of the story, there is a concern that a child may drown in the pool, and this foreshadowing comes to fruition when the narratorâs son falls into the pool at their house warming party. Thankfully the child is saved by a family friend, Malcolm, who is helping the narrator to paint the house. This near-death moment is the first of three that happen in the story; the other being a tree branch falling on the narratorâs wife, and the ending with the narrator jumping off the roof into the pool. Nothing bad happens to them, they stay lucky and safe. The same cannot be said for others in the story. Malcolmâs marriage falls apart, a baby opossum falls into the pool, and though rescued with attempts to nurse it back to health, the animal dies. In fact, there is dangerous wildlife just beyond the backyard fence, which the narrator encounters, and chooses not to tell his wife or family about. The narrator seems most concerned about drinking and staying high around his pool as the summer wains on with an almost never-ending round of pool parties at the home.
And that brings me to my biggest rub; what to make of the narrator/protagonist? I wouldnât go full blown and call him a narcissist, but he is rather self-absorbed. His children get very few mentions, other than saying they moved to find better schools, and that his wifeâs birth control failed three times. His relationship with his pregnant wife seems to be fine, though he doesnât show or say anything affectionate toward her even in her grand expecting state. Even the birth of their third child feels more like a footnote so the narrator can return home and continue sitting around the pool drinking with Malcolm. As the story progresses, the narrator seems to devolve into a more adolescent state. Having fun at the pool seems to be his only concern. It doesnât lend itself to a satisfying character arc, because if this was a heroâs journey, then the journey never got started.
Yet, I kept finding myself being pulled back to âThe Swimmerâ reference at the start of the story. Is âThe Poolâ a comment on current life in the suburbs? Is it a comment on men and their need for leisure? Or is it talking about men who fail up in life? Or is this about the aspirational attainment of âthe American Dreamâ and how it can insulate you from the harsh realities of our modern world? I donât know⌠Iâm just not sure.
I do want to add that I enjoy T. Coraghessan Boyleâs writing. Reading this story, the prose was compelling, and even urgent in places. There are moments of unease, and tension so the story, and I would say intentionally, feels as if it is settled on uneven ground. That things could shift at any moment. There are no clear lines here, but curves that the tone and themes progress on. It doesnât follow a pattern, which is refreshing and should be acknowledged.
Iâm glad I read âThe Poolâ and for making me go look up âThe Swimmerâ as well. I canât shake the feeling that âThe Poolâ is inspired and influenced by âThe Swimmerâ but still not sure what to make of it. I do recommend that you read it. If for no other reason than to ask, âWhat do you think it was about?â
If you have a moment, please check out my review, but if you REALLY have a moment, please read Gabe Montesanti’s very unique poem, which Okay Donkey published back in April of this year.
Also, I would like to thank everyone over at Split Lip for their help and support, especially Daniel, who guided and edited my piece. It was a lotta fun, and enjoyed the experience.
(The short story âProjectâ by Rachel Cusk appeared in the September 1st & 8th, 2025 issue of The New Yorker.)
Photo illustration by Stephen Doyle
I am a big fan of Rachel Cusk; have been for some time now. There are a great number of reasons why I enjoy her work, and when I read anything by her, such as âProjectâ in this weekâs New Yorker, my fandom evolves into admiration, and even a little jealously. I am not jealous of her talent as a writer, envious might be the better word for that, but when I read her work, I wish I was the type of writer that had time. Cuskâs fictional version of herself, though narrator might be a fairer description, possess the greatest gift of all; time. Time to observe and contemplate.
In âProject,â the narrator contemplates how who we are gets created. This contemplation leads to a path that bends and turns and takes us to people in the narratorâs life. First we meet M, a movie star and model. The narrator is thinking of writing Mâs autobiography, which Mâs response is to ââŚjust make it up.â In this first section of the story, the narrator intertwines her interactions with M, while also speaking of a book she is reading by a woman who details the horrid abuse she suffered at the hands of her stepfather. It is a strange comparison, if not a juxtaposition. In Cuskâs assured hands, we see how these woman took their situations, fought back and went forth to create better versions of themselves, yet both spoke of a moment where their childhoods were lost⌠But even as I try to describe this, I am not doing this story justice. The story moves on the narratorâs partner, and his bout with an aliment and the need to a brief stay in a hospital. Then there are questions of the time we have and how we share it. Why we live the way we live and where we liveâŚ. See, not doing this justice.
This story falls into my favorite Cusk style of writing â It just flows. Maybe this type of writing is like stream-of-consciousness-lite. These thoughts and ideas have depth and weight to them, but they donât get tangled up in minutia and tangents. All of these disparate ideas roll across the page, with observations of the life the narrator lives, but also how some of these truth and universal; Or at least there is a hope that they are. This is a story seems to be celebrating the existential gift of being able to create our self, and chose how to live out that creation. And to do all of this, to have a life that can be observed, we need time for reflection.
And through all of it, the ins and outs of this story, Cusk has a wonderful melancholic final paragraph. Not so much an observation, or a contemplation, but a memory of raising her children; when trust was tangible and innocent. That taking the time, to remember and re-experience, is a continuous step in the project of self creation.
