The likelihood that I will enjoy a writer who writes with a tangible "for some obscure reason" etched into every utterance is slim. What are we to do with all those connections in our lives that, you know, bind us all together as a people? Nothing. Avoid them. Write in short sentences like these. Characterize them as "all those things I so studiously knew nothing about," which one of Galchen's narrators actually states for the record.
I tend not to read books with sentences like "I tend not to answer calls identified as Unavailable." Or ones where anytime the author would wish to say just about anything she must add qualifiers doubting she is really saying it: "...since it is the older people, generally, who have money, and who thus support the younger people, who have youth. Or something." This kind of paralyzing self-doubt expressing even the most mundane thoughts is reflected in Galchen's flat prose so common to American fiction that if you have four thoughts to say you're going to need four sentences to say them.
Fiction-wise it is obvious the swerve she makes away from autobiography. "All of this was not long after the publication of my first novel, and I had some money, even a bit of dignity, as the novel had been somewhat successful; at least, I'd been given a decent advance and some money from foreign rights, too - it was a dream! - but I didn't have lots of dignity and I didn't have lots of money, either, just some." Hey, that sounds just like Rivka Galchen, the author of Atmospheric Disturbances! But to clarify: "The novel was a love story, between a bird and a whale." Oh well gee maybe I guessed my fictional game wrong.
It is suggested there is something metaphysical about Galchen's faction in literature, those who wonder if people aren't in fact simulacra in this technological age (manifested in literary circles as "one can never really know who another person is" and so one must console, console, console our words into a binding). In the great world of politics this is called "waffling", for those who are forever sitting on both sides of an issue for not knowing what to say about the very things you're supposed to care about. If there was a poll taken for the upcoming election that asks, "Which party will you be voting for, the human race or the forces of the cosmos?" Galchen wouldn't know what to answer. She's an "Undecided".
Every poet recognizes the limits of experience. But the great ones don't go numb by them. They write perfectly crafted poems in gorgeous language rather than jot down references to Heidegger and a slew of "Or somethings". Galchen recognizes these limitations (sort of, maybe, or who knows), and to these she adopts a rhetoric of know-nothingness spoken deadpan to address these infinite realms inspired by no sense of direction whatsoever. We may as well be a hurtling comet. And that scratching on our surface a probe from planet Earth looking for information about us. One of the young narrators even frets about being denied sugared cereal for breakfasts (in Wild Berry Blue). There are a few times Galchen's narrators say they are not into symbols. But in one story (The Lost Order) her narrator and her husband are in search of a lost wedding ring. A book of symptoms rather than observations.
Throughout reading this collection I kept asking myself, "How is it that someone with the world at her feet, a book contract, great respect among literary people, by this, her second book around eight years later, has so little to say about a culture that has embraced her?" It is obvious she is looking directly at her life, but has made the mistake of needing to address it through fiction. Galchen needs to drop the fascination with Kafka (someone whose every sentence was rooted in multiple cultures, an ability Galchen doesn't have) and go ahead and write that memoir everyone who has noticed her wishes to read, shredding that last vestige of postmodernism she is clinging onto like an obligation does to an audience. Get rid of them. This is the 21st century not the 20th. Those kinds of games are over.