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A review by evanaviary
The Morningside by Téa Obreht
4.0
The past is immense. But it means less and less. So we go on without.
My god, does Téa Obreht knows how to structure a book. Her previous novel, Inland is one of my favorite novels—lyrical, atmospheric, haunting, and built with a deft command of language, so this follow-up had an impossible legacy to live up to. The Morningside is a very different story which follows Silvia (Sil) and her unnamed mother, displaced refugees who take residence in a high-rise apartment complex. Sil's aunt tells her a folktale that twists into an obsession for Sil, as she tries to prove a dark secret about the elusive tenant who lives in the penthouse. This is a novel about displacement, memories of home, who gets to tell certain stories, and about rebuilding cities—who benefits and who is used to "hold the edges while it finishes falling."
As is tradition in Obreht's novels, the territory is invented. The story is set in Island City, which I pictured as a half-flooded Manhattan, but there is plenty of reference to other states and countries, none of which actually exist. The Morningside has the most world building of any of Obreht's novels, and while it's a fascinating critique on climate, rising water levels, and government efforts to revitalize cities in the wake of ruin, the lore feels a little uneven and underdeveloped. It never feels dense, but it could have benefitted from more.
Obreht's language in this novel also felt uneven, especially after Inland which had such a precise command on language. Maybe it's that Inland being a Western required a different writing style, or that The Morningside follows a young protagonist, but Obreht's prose is different here—simpler, less nuanced. In places, it shines, but as a cohesive whole, there was less to hold onto, fewer lines that really stuck out to me.
But the story. The STORY. Every one of Obreht's novels reminds me how efficient plotting can make or break the story. The Morningside is airtight. Every thread comes back around, often in ways that later seem obvious, various "why didn't I put the pieces together sooner?" moments. The four parts to the novel grow in intensity, with the final act a rare demonstration of sticking the landing (or, in Obreht's case, a common W.) It's tense, it's beautiful, it's completely captivating.
I think the most likely comparison to this novel will be Celeste Ng's Our Missing Hearts: both share a coming-of-age story set in an alternative history (or kind of post-apocalyptic/dystopian setting?)—the government initiative of P.A.C.T. in Ng's is in conversation with that of the Repopulation Program in Obreht's. Obviously different in scope, but both with world-building aspects that ask powerful questions about identity, sustainability, and the explicit and implicit ways in ways these initiatives operate.
The Morningside is a rare novel where I could feel an internal debate bourgeoning as I was reading it. At times being pulled forward, then pushed back, then forward again. I wasn't sure how I felt about the prose, about the interior monologues, but it builds upon itself, slowly taking shape and guiding you somewhere new—"the world underneath the world." It's timely without being on-the-nose. It's strange and alluring, at times impossible to look away, giving you a superstitious folktale... how much of it is real—well, that's up to you.
My god, does Téa Obreht knows how to structure a book. Her previous novel, Inland is one of my favorite novels—lyrical, atmospheric, haunting, and built with a deft command of language, so this follow-up had an impossible legacy to live up to. The Morningside is a very different story which follows Silvia (Sil) and her unnamed mother, displaced refugees who take residence in a high-rise apartment complex. Sil's aunt tells her a folktale that twists into an obsession for Sil, as she tries to prove a dark secret about the elusive tenant who lives in the penthouse. This is a novel about displacement, memories of home, who gets to tell certain stories, and about rebuilding cities—who benefits and who is used to "hold the edges while it finishes falling."
As is tradition in Obreht's novels, the territory is invented. The story is set in Island City, which I pictured as a half-flooded Manhattan, but there is plenty of reference to other states and countries, none of which actually exist. The Morningside has the most world building of any of Obreht's novels, and while it's a fascinating critique on climate, rising water levels, and government efforts to revitalize cities in the wake of ruin, the lore feels a little uneven and underdeveloped. It never feels dense, but it could have benefitted from more.
Obreht's language in this novel also felt uneven, especially after Inland which had such a precise command on language. Maybe it's that Inland being a Western required a different writing style, or that The Morningside follows a young protagonist, but Obreht's prose is different here—simpler, less nuanced. In places, it shines, but as a cohesive whole, there was less to hold onto, fewer lines that really stuck out to me.
But the story. The STORY. Every one of Obreht's novels reminds me how efficient plotting can make or break the story. The Morningside is airtight. Every thread comes back around, often in ways that later seem obvious, various "why didn't I put the pieces together sooner?" moments. The four parts to the novel grow in intensity, with the final act a rare demonstration of sticking the landing (or, in Obreht's case, a common W.) It's tense, it's beautiful, it's completely captivating.
I think the most likely comparison to this novel will be Celeste Ng's Our Missing Hearts: both share a coming-of-age story set in an alternative history (or kind of post-apocalyptic/dystopian setting?)—the government initiative of P.A.C.T. in Ng's is in conversation with that of the Repopulation Program in Obreht's. Obviously different in scope, but both with world-building aspects that ask powerful questions about identity, sustainability, and the explicit and implicit ways in ways these initiatives operate.
The Morningside is a rare novel where I could feel an internal debate bourgeoning as I was reading it. At times being pulled forward, then pushed back, then forward again. I wasn't sure how I felt about the prose, about the interior monologues, but it builds upon itself, slowly taking shape and guiding you somewhere new—"the world underneath the world." It's timely without being on-the-nose. It's strange and alluring, at times impossible to look away, giving you a superstitious folktale... how much of it is real—well, that's up to you.