Mary Gaitskill and the Life Unseen


Gaitskill in 1988. Credit Photograph by Sophie Bassouls/Corbis

By Parul Sehgal, The New York Times Magazine, Nov. 2, 2015

WHEN THE WRITER Mary Gaitskill was a child in the 1950s, she was once taken to a roller-skating rink. She looked around and burst into tears. She didn’t understand why everybody was wearing the same thing, those poodle skirts and poodle hairdos.

‘‘It meant something, and I didn’t know what it was — it felt frightening to me,’’ she told me recently. ‘‘I thought, My God, this is too complicated.’’ It was a feeling that lasted until adulthood — a sense that people were speaking to one another in a code she couldn’t decipher. Out of this elemental confusion, Gaitskill has produced a body of work so acutely observant of human behavior that it’s frequently described in the language of violation: a vivisection, a dental drill, a flogging. There is very rough sex in her books, and characters who binge eat and rip out their hair. But the real danger is elsewhere: It’s in glances and gestures and sudden silences, in craving contact and being rebuffed. ‘‘I wanted to communicate and connect,’’ Gaitskill said when I asked why she became a writer. ‘‘I simply didn’t seem able to do it.’’

I first met Gaitskill on an August afternoon at her apartment in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. She is beautiful, startlingly so — straight-­backed and contained, her body a wick of tensile energy, her hair a silvery blond. She offered me sparkling water and hunted down a lime — ‘‘I can’t serve it to you naked,’’ she said, quietly aggrieved — and for two hours we talked across her kitchen table. She has a new novel out this month, ‘‘The Mare,’’ and she seemed jittery about its reception.

Her apartment is a jumble of tatty rugs, climbing plants and books (in one pile in the kitchen: a Brassai monograph; ‘‘The Art of Joy,’’ an Italian epic on the pleasures of perversion; and a collection of Peanuts comics). She can’t afford to live in New York on her own, she said, so she shares the place with a roommate — a writer who teaches English at a college and yoga on the side, and who, I suspect, is responsible for the knob of sage on the windowsill and the kitschy Indian decorations.

Gaitskill is friendly, if wary in the way of habitually truthful people trying to stay out of trouble, and slightly irritable. She feels misunderstood, which, of course, she is. For more than two decades, she has been the object of admiration but also titillated curiosity and fear. In 1988, at age 33, Gaitskill published a short-­story collection called ‘‘Bad Behavior’’ about speed freaks in love, missed connections between prostitutes and lovelorn johns. The book combined formal elegance, sweetness and sadomasochism, and received a remarkable amount of attention. Rights were immediately sold to a dozen foreign publishers; Michiko Kakutani praised its ‘‘radar-­perfect detail’’ in The New York Times; and this darkly funny chronicle of thwarted sexual adventure became something of a bible for college women. Four books followed, in the same vein — gritty city stories of characters trying, as Oscar Wilde put it, ‘‘to cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of the soul.’’

Gaitskill isn’t scary because she conjures monsters; monsters, she points out, are almost always in fashion. What makes her scary, and what makes her exciting, is her ability to evoke the hidden life, the life unseen, the life we don’t even know we are living. The critic Greil Marcus, a champion of her work, calls her a descendant of Nathaniel Hawthorne. Hawthorne ‘‘is aware of the hidden chambers in the heart,’’ he told me. ‘‘He is aware that there are things that people won’t talk about and there are things that people can’t talk about — and those aren’t the same things. He wants to reveal all those layers.’’ Gaitskill’s fiction unfolds in these psychological spaces; she knows that we, unlike plants, don’t always grow toward the light, that sometimes we cannot even be coaxed toward it.

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Is Cultural Appropriation Always Wrong?

By Parul Sehgal, The New York Times Magazine, Sept. 25, 2015

IT’S A TRUTH only selectively acknowledged that all cultures are mongrel. One of the first Indian words to be brought into English was the Hindi ‘‘loot’’ — ‘‘plunder.’’ Some of the Ku Klux Klan’s 19th-century costumes were, of all things, inspired in part by the festival wear of West African slaves; the traditional wax-print designs we associate with West Africa are apparently Indonesian — by way of the Netherlands. Gandhi cribbed nonviolence from the Sermon on the Mount.

We sometimes describe this mingling as ‘‘cross-pollination’’ or ‘‘cross-fertilization’’ — benign, bucolic metaphors that obscure the force of these encounters. When we wish to speak more plainly, we talk of ‘‘appropriation’’ — a word now associated with the white Western world’s co-opting of minority cultures. And this year — these past several months alone — there has been plenty of talk. In film, there was the outcry over the casting of the blonde Emma Stone as the part-Chinese Hawaiian heroine of Cameron Crowe’s ‘‘Aloha.’’ In music, Miley Cyrus wore dreadlock extensions while hosting the V.M.A.s and drew accusations of essentially performing in blackface — and not for the first time. In literature, there was the discovery that Michael Derrick Hudson, a white poet, had been published in this year’s Best American Poetry anthology under a Chinese pseudonym. In fashion, there was the odd attempt to rebrand cornrows as a Caucasian style — a ‘‘favorite resort hair look,’’ according to Elle. And floating above it all has been Rachel Dolezal, the presiding spirit of the phenomenon, the white former N.A.A.C.P. chapter president who remains serenely and implacably convinced of her blackness.

Questions about the right to your creation and labor, the right to your identity, emerge out of old wounds in America, and they provoke familiar battle stances. The same arguments are trotted out (It’s just hair! Stop being so sensitive! It’s not always about race!) to be met by the same quotes from Bell Hooks, whose essays from the early ’90s on pop culture, and specifically on Madonna, have been a template for discussions of how white people ‘‘colonize’’ black identity to feel transgressive: ‘‘Ethnicity becomes spice, seasoning that can liven up the dull dish that is mainstream white culture.’’ It’s a seasonal contro­versy that attends awards shows, music festivals, Halloween: In a country whose beginnings are so bound up in theft, conversations about appropriation are like a ceremonial staging of the nation’s original sins.

It can feel like such a poignantly stalled conversation that we’re occasionally tempted to believe we’ve moved past it. A 2013 NPR story on America’s changing demographics and the evolution of hip-hop made a case that the genre has lost its identification with race, and that young people aren’t burdened by anxieties about authenticity. ‘‘The melding of cultures we’re seeing now may have Generation X and Generation Y shaking in their boots with claims of racial ‘appropriation,’ ’’ the rapper and performance artist Mykki Blanco said in an online discussion about fashion’s debt to ‘‘urban culture.’’ ‘‘To Generation Z, I would clearly think it all seems ‘normal.’ ’’ Hip-hop culture is global culture, according to this wisdom: People of Korean descent have dominated the largest international b-boy championships; twerking is a full-blown obsession in Russia. ‘‘We as black people have to come to grips that hip-hop is a contagious culture,’’ Questlove, the drummer and co-founder of the Roots, said last year in an interview with Time magazine in which he defended Iggy Azalea, the white Australian rapper derided for (among other things) affecting a ‘‘Southern’’ accent. ‘‘If you love something, you gotta set it free.’’

But many of the most dogged critics of cultural appropriation are turning out to be the very people who were supposed to be indifferent to it. Continue reading

How ‘Privilege’ Became a Provocation

By Parul Sehgal, The New York Times Magazine, July 14, 2015

THIS SPRING, THE novelist Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie put a new spin on the commencement speech, that most staid of genres. Speaking at Wellesley College, she didn’t emphasize how the graduates had been helped by their education, but how they had been hindered by it. She invoked their privilege — and her own — to describe how ‘‘privilege blinds.’’ As a highly educated woman, she told them, she hadn’t always been alert to the ‘‘nuances’’ of people who were different from her. ‘‘Privilege blinds, because it’s in its nature to blind,’’ she said. ‘‘Don’t let it blind you too often. Sometimes you will need to push it aside in order to see clearly.’’

Adichie was speaking to her audience in their own language. The word ‘‘privilege’’ has become ubiquitous on college campuses — but in her coolness, in her ability to claim her own privilege without anxiety or abjection, she restored some dignity to an overstuffed, overheated word.

‘‘Privilege’’ is as old as society itself and initially referred to wealth: ‘‘We have got to fight against privilege,’’ George Orwell wrote. ‘‘And if the rich squeal audibly, so much the better.’’ But when social scientists began using the word to refer to the unearned benefits afforded a group of people, the term experienced a resurgence. It has prompted flamboyant disputes on cable news, memorably between Jon Stewart and Bill O’Reilly, who debated whether privilege really exists at all. It inspires college students to fire off indignant editorials about how identity politics on campus and a culture of ‘‘checking your privilege’’ — examining how your perspective is shaped by your advantages — is going too far or not far enough. President Obama has been asked if he is doing enough to address white privilege in America. On the Internet, it makes for trusty kindling, and in the popular imagination, a cudgel: When people think of ‘‘privilege’’ being used, it’s almost always as an epithet, to shame.

In the 1930s, W.E.B. Du Bois had an insight that privilege isn’t only about having money — it’s a state of being. He noted a ‘‘psychological wage’’ of whiteness: Poor whites felt that they outranked poor blacks; they could at least vote and access public schools and parks. In 1988, Peggy McIntosh, a women’s studies scholar at Wellesley, expanded on the idea, publishing a list of 46 benefits of being white (for example: ‘‘I can if I wish arrange to be in the company of people of my race most of the time’’; ‘‘I do not have to educate my children to be aware of systemic racism for their own daily physical protection’’). ‘‘I had been taught about racism as something which puts others at a disadvantage,’’ she wrote, ‘‘but had been taught not to see one of its corollary aspects, white privilege, which puts me at an advantage.’’ For many, this idea of privilege was their introduction to thinking about racism not as ‘‘individual acts of meanness,’’ in McIntosh’s words, but as ‘‘invisible systems conferring unsought racial dominance.’’ And for people of color, it was yet another powerful confirmation of their perceptions, their feeling that there were different sets of rules in place. It also made the case that failing to reckon with your privilege meant settling for a partial view of reality — Adichie’s very point.

But the shine has come off this hardy, once-­helpful word. It looks a little worn, a bit blunted, as if it has been taken to too many fights. Instead of clarity, it has sown confusion: ‘‘I’m white, my husband is Latino,’’ one woman commented on a blog post about confronting your privilege. ‘‘We have a Latino last name. Does that mean I lose some of my white privilege?’’ Even those who find it useful in certain contexts say the word swallows too many subtleties and individual variations. ‘‘You need to know that I was privileged,’’ Ta-­Nehisi Coates wrote on his blog for The Atlantic. ‘‘I can run you all kinds of stats on the racial wealth gap and will gladly discuss its origins. But you can’t really buy two parents like I had.’’ My own allegiance to the word is atavistic — growing up, it was one of the few words I had to understand the racism I felt so surrounded and mystified by. But now I find myself wielding the word warily, like the devalued currency it has become — dismissed as jargon or used to hector. The only reliable effect it seems to produce is panic.

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On ‘Marilyn Minter: Pretty/Dirty’


Cheshire (Wangechi Mutu) – Marilyn Minter

By Parul Sehgal, The New York Times Book Review, June 25, 2015

MARILYN MINTER IS partial to spit, ­spatter and redheads. Hers is a “Black Mass brand of femininity,” in the words of the poet Eileen Myles, and she’s become best known for candy-colored shots of dirty feet in designer heels, puffy pubic hair, navels ringed with beads of sweat; paintings and photographs that blur high art and high fashion, photorealism and abstraction. It’s a body of work that’s playful and nasty and full of surprise.

“Marilyn Minter: Pretty/Dirty” has been published in conjunction with her first major retrospective, now at the Contemporary Arts Museum Houston. It contains her work from 1969 on, and encomiums from the likes of Richard Hell (“She is a filthy sensualist, just like God”); and it marks a career pocked by notoriety and periods of paralysis — elevated, now, in her 60s, by sudden fame. Excommunicated from the art world in the early ’90s for her cheerful paintings of hard-core pornography — Minter said feminists accused her of sexism — today she shows her work at the Venice Biennale; she’s collected by the Guggenheim and Jay Z and is a godmother to a new generation of artists experimenting with what she calls “the feminine grotesque.”

Like her images, “Marilyn Minter: Pretty/Dirty” is seductive and glittery, an ­object of desire. It highlights what appears to be almost innate talent (Diane Arbus was a fan of her student work) and an equally preternatural ability to attract censure — as well as some faithful obsessions.

Minter taught herself to draw by tracing princesses and the comic-strip heroine Brenda Starr, a well-upholstered “lady reporter” modeled on Rita Hayworth. She’s always been moved and amused by the trappings of gender, its rites and representations in pop culture. In her 20s, she began to tap the seam central to her work, what she calls “the pathology of glamour.” As a student at the University of Florida, she took the photographs that would become the “Coral Ridge Towers” series (1969), featuring her mother, a Southern belle gone to seed, posing stoned and imperious as she freshens her lipstick and dyes her eyebrows. Minter took just 12 shots, six of which are included in this book. It’s astonishing to see her themes emerge so fully formed: the eroticism of the beauty ritual, the armature of glamour, the pathos and delicious anarchy that ensue when the mask begins to slip.

Minter’s classmates, however, were less entranced; they found the photographs cruel and unfeeling. She dropped the project in favor of more conventional feminist images in the vein of Laurie Simmons and Cindy Sherman — critiques of domesticity and consumerism, pointillist paintings of housework, a series of photographs of “female traces”: lipstick on cigarettes or napkins. To publicize an art show, she bought 30-second advertising spots during late-night television talk shows and produced a commercial called “100 Food Porn,” featuring her images of a woman’s hands suggestively fondling vegetables and cutting into meat.

In 1989, Minter began her infamous pornography series, included in this book. The work seems surprisingly tame today, noteworthy only for the furor it once caused — and, oddly enough, for its humor. “Just people having a good time,” she would later wistfully recall.

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On The Diver’s Clothes Lie Empty

PrintBy Parul Sehgal, The New York Times, June 16, 2015

VENDELA VIDA’S HEROINES have a particular talent for suffering. When their marriages cool or ancient family secrets worm into the light, these women take their troubles on holiday. They prefer to do their grieving somewhere picturesque: the Philippines (“And Now You Can Go,” 2003), Finland (“Let the Northern Lights Erase Your Name,” 2007), Turkey (“The Lovers,” 2010). Ms. Vida has become known for these travel/trauma narratives, wry, amiable novels prone to some clunkiness; the gears always grind a bit loudly. Nothing in them anticipates the smooth engineering of “The Diver’s Clothes Lie Empty,” her fourth and finest book, a taut, suspenseful story that ticks along with marvelous efficiency, like a little bomb.

There’s a catch, though. Ms. Vida has opted for the second person, hoping, it seems, that its intimacy might invite the reader to plunge more deeply into the story, that it might complement her investigations into identity. As is often the case, however, it produces the opposite effect, so naked are its designs on the reader, so unguent its overfamiliarity. There’s a temptation to set the book aside immediately, preferably with tongs. Resist the urge. With its echoes of Hitchcock and Highsmith, this novel is full of darting pleasures.

Chief of which is our nameless narrator: a shifty American, whose terrible decisions keep the story moving at a clip. She arrives in Casablanca and is promptly robbed. The police notify her that her bag has been recovered — only to present her with another woman’s possessions. She claims them as her own. And it begins: Fearing she will be found out, she takes another name. And then another. She will become Sabine, Megan, Reeves, Jane and Aretha. She will chop off her hair one minute, and wear a wig the next. She will shuck selves as soon as she can assume them.

The real woman beneath this frantic dissembling remains agreeably hazy. When we first meet her, we know only that she has suffered and that she is a liar. We learn later that she is getting a divorce, and that, on the plane to Casablanca, she saw someone she feared.

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Mothers of Invention

Alice Neel, Ginny and Elizabeth, 1975, oil on canvas, 42 × 30

Alice Neel, Ginny and Elizabeth, 1975, oil on canvas, 42 × 30″.
© Estate of Alice Neel, courtesy David Zwirner, New York

By Parul Sehgal, Bookforum JUNE/JULY/AUG 2015

AS AN INSTITUTION, the family is in the curious position of being regarded as both crucial to human survival and inimical to human freedom. It bears a note of bondage down to its root; family, that wonderfully warm, nourishing-sounding word (it’s the echo of mammal, mammary, mama, I suspect), derives from the Latin familia, a group of servants, the human property of a given household, from famulus, slave. Since its beginnings, family has carried this strain of being bonded—and not just in body but in imagination. “In landlessness alone resides the highest truth, shoreless, indefinite as God,” says Ishmael, setting sail in Moby-Dick. On shore, we are to understand, our minds remain manacled, too absorbed with the hearth to look up at the stars. The first thing the Buddha did in pursuit of enlightenment was to leave home (after naming his newborn son Rahula—fetter”). For writers, the family has been posited as an especially hazardous pastime; as Cyril Connolly’s lugubrious forecast goes: “There is no more somber enemy of good art than the pram in the hall.”

But a swarm of recent books have been freshly interrogating the family as experience, institution, and site for intellectual inquiry: novels like Dept. of Speculation by Jenny Offill and 10:04 by Ben Lerner; memoirs like The Argonauts by Maggie Nelson, Ongoingness by Sarah Manguso, and Making Babies by Anne Enright; essay collections like 100 Essays I Don’t Have Time to Write by Sarah Ruhl; and cultural studies like On Immunity by Eula Biss. In each, the arrival (or the imminent arrival) of a child prompts a constellation of questions about selfhood and artmaking and the ethics of care. Many of these books adopt a copious, fragmentary form and gesture, some a bit shyly, toward radical possibilities for the domestic. On canvases big and small, they test out new answers to ancient questions: How best can we live this life and how best can we write about it, to what ends and with what compromises?

We can detect familiar DNA throughout, echoes of defining memoirs like Adrienne Rich’s Of Woman Born (1976) and Rachel Cusk’s A Life’s Work (2001), both controversial in their time for addressing the tedium and isolation of caring for small children. And if there’s a presiding spirit, it’s gentle, generous D. W. Winnicott, the child psychotherapist who reified the power of “the ordinary mother in her ordinary loving care.” (Winnicott’s ghost also hovers over Alison Bechdel’s memoir Are You My Mother?) The books couldn’t be more diverse in tone, though: Ben Lerner’s metafiction is sweeping; Jenny Offill’s is stiletto-sharp. Sarah Manguso’s memoir is elliptical, and Sarah Ruhl’s and Anne Enright’s share the cozy chaos of Shirley Jackson’s recently reissued Life Among the Savages (1953). Eula Biss approaches the tinderbox of the anti-vaccination movement with every possible safety precaution in place—the carefully neutral tone, the extensive research. And Maggie Nelson’s book is a lava pool of shifting selves—she becomes pregnant while her fluidly gendered partner, the artist Harry Dodge, takes testosterone and has top surgery.

These books are committed to a kind of candor that surpasses confessionalism; there is an ethos of radical transparency at work, an interest in revealing just how the book we’re reading was produced, to out the kinds of labor that usually remain invisible. Rachel Cusk set the tone in A Life’s Work: “The issue of children and who looks after them has become, in my view, profoundly political, and so it would be a contradiction to write a book about motherhood without explaining to some degree how I found the time to write it.” She details the arrangements she made, how she cared for her daughter for the first six months while her husband worked, after which they moved from London to the country, him quitting his job, her writing full-time, a domestic experiment with very mixed results. Anne Enright follows suit in Making Babies: “I have flexible working hours, no commuting, I have a partner who took six weeks off for the birth of his first baby and three months for the second (unpaid, unpaid, unpaid). He also does the breakfasts. And the baths.” And Ben Lerner merrily shows his whole hand. His novel 10:04, which hews close to life, and also hinges on the birth of a child, contains descriptions of everything from how the book was conceived, pitched, and sold to how the author cannibalized his other writings to create it. There is no fantasy of a book’s immaculate conception here, just the good, grubby details.

If child care is, as Cusk writes, “profoundly political,” so too is the labor of writing, so too are the questions of who writes and what about—and how can they afford to. In Dept. of Speculation, our narrator, a thwarted writer and new mother, recalls her early ambitions: “My plan was to never get married. I was going to be an art monster instead. Women almost never become art monsters because art monsters only concern themselves with art, never mundane things. Nabokov didn’t even fold his own umbrella. Vera licked his stamps for him.” These books reveal the rigging behind the art monster: Who licked the stamps on the applications for grants? Who minded the children? Who paid the bills, and how?

“The form our creativity takes is often a class issue,” wrote Audre Lorde. She was praising poetry, the most “economical” art form, the “most secret, which requires the least physical labor, the least material, and the one which can be done between shifts, in the hospital pantry, on the subway, and on scraps of surplus paper.” Toni Cade Bambara was fond of the short story for the same reason—its “portability”: “I could narrate the basic outline while driving to the farmer’s market, work out the dialogue while waiting for the airlines to answer the phone, draft a rough sketch of the central scene while overseeing my daughter’s carrot cake, write the first version in the middle of the night, edit while the laundry takes a spin, and make copies while running off some rally flyers.” (One can’t help but think of Karl Ove Knausgaard; would his avalanche of prose—those six volumes of minutely detailed domestic life—have been possible without Scandinavian social services, the day cares to which he and his poet wife were able to entrust their four children?)

Offill, Ruhl, Manguso, and Enright take to the fragment and to short bursts of prose for reasons aesthetic and epistemological, certainly, but also, one feels, out of some deeper exigencies—“I cannot hold my baby at the same time as I write,” Nelson writes. Enright says she wrote Making Babies in a frenzy while her babies slept and later assembled the book from her notes. The narrator of Offill’s Dept. of Speculation composes on grocery lists in the car, and scribbles on the backs of credit-card receipts. (Offill herself wrote her book on index cards.)

These aren’t the fragments—or the kinds of emotional fragmentation—made famous in the ’70s by Joan Didion, Elizabeth Hardwick, and Renata Adler, whose nervy, slender sentences evoked the chic ennui of women coming elegantly apart. This is a different kind of drift, a more painful unmooring. These shards are jagged—but they’re less a performance of alienation than a passionate effort at reconciliation. Continue reading

On ‘The Edge Becomes the Center: An Oral History of Gentrification in the Twenty-First Century’

Credit Brittany Hutson/

Credit Brittany Hutson/

By Parul Sehgal, The New York Times, May 14, 2015

“Thrive, cities,” Walt Whitman wrote in “Crossing the Brooklyn Ferry,” one of his great love songs to urban life. “Expand” but “Keep your places.”

This tension is at the heart of DW Gibson’s “The Edge Becomes the Center: An Oral History of Gentrification in the Twenty-First Century,” a noisy, tender tour of New York much in the mode of Studs Terkel, and a companion volume of sorts to Mr. Gibson’s “Not Working” (2012), which featured interviews with people who had recently lost their jobs. The new book is a slurry of voices. Mr. Gibson talks to the gentrifiers and the gentrified, state senators and the homeless men of the Bowery Mission, developers and community organizers, celebrated artists and the brokers who hype real estate as the art form of the moment.

“The momentum that was in the music business in the ’90s, where it was just so the place to be — that’s what’s going on in Brooklyn in the real estate market right now,” a wonderfully profane real estate agent says. “There is an energy that I can swim around in all the time.” He adds: “You either get down with it, or you gotta get out.”

“The Edge Becomes the Center” is set in a city of awe-inspiring inequities, with an affordable housing shortage that is approaching full-blown crisis. The book is primarily focused on gentrifying Brooklyn, especially Crown Heights and Bedford-Stuyvesant, largely black neighborhoods that have seen seismic changes in recent years. In 2011, the white population in Bedford-Stuyvesant grew by 633 percent — and rents have soared.

Mr. Gibson’s sympathies are plain. He refers to gentrification as “violence” and quotes the Marxist geographer Neil Smith frequently and approvingly. But he’s also keen on unseating certainties and is wary of arguments that pit an “us” against a “them.” His book strives to show how, in New York, the categories of landlord and renter, gentrifier and gentrified aren’t as discrete as one might suspect. And he’s not especially hot on the word “gentrification” to begin with. It’s a skimpy sort of word, he says, a simplistic term for complex, idiosyncratic behavior.

“Each of us defines gentrification in accordance with our own relationship to a piece of land, a neighborhood,” Mr. Gibson writes. “We have hopes for what the land may bring us — profits, security, community — and we have fears about what it can do, what it might become.”

It’s surprising, then, that the book should feature more confluence than clash. An architect who cheerfully describes herself as a gentrifier says, “How do you put the betterment of our city into the hands of the community. What are those structures that we could make happen?” That question is repeated by land rights lawyers and state senators.

Most of the people Mr. Gibson talks to also agree that development is welcome — it is displacement that is feared. “We want the coffee shops. We want the safety,” one woman says, recalling the urban activist Jane Jacobs’s maxim: “Fix the buildings. Keep the people.”

“The Edge Becomes the Center” touches on the expansion of Columbia University, the construction of the High Line and the way landlords in Crown Heights conspire to eject long-term tenants so they can hike up rents, among other examples. In the book’s most chilling chapter, a Hasidic landlord matter-of-factly describes cheating black tenants out of their apartments. “Every black person has a price,” he says. “The average price for a black person here in Bed-Stuy is $30,000 dollars. Up over there in East New York, it’s $10,000 dollars.”

Throughout, Mr. Gibson is a skilled and sensitive interlocutor with an eye for the revealing gesture — for how one fastidious subject guards his goatee while eating or how another “always — always — yields to the car trying to take the lane in front of him.”

But he can get carried away. There are some dismal “literary” flourishes and, more frustratingly, a real lack of internal logic. The first few chapters move sinuously — one character introduces us to another and so on. The structure, however, soon grows scattershot. Characters crop up randomly; we’re occasionally given diligent descriptions of age, sex and race, but often the subjects remain ciphers — or worse, are identified only as nebulously “dark-complected.”

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