"In another life, I would have really liked just doing laundry and taxes with you." — Everything Everywhere All at Once, The Daniels
I've been an on-and-off subscriber to the New Yorker since 2017. Sometime between January of that year and the summer of 2018, I read one of Camille Bordas' stories — either Most Die Young or The State of Nature. Whichever it was, I bought her novel How to Behave in a Crowd and read it at an ex's house that summer. I've been recommending it ever since. Seven years later, in August 2023, I emailed Bordas asking when her next novel was going to be released. She replied the same day. I read the Material in a week.
The Material takes place over the course of a single day, following a pretty broad cast of characters at a master's course in stand-up comedy. Writing characters who self-identify as comedians is an utterly enormous gamble, as it necessitates the author show the reader their hand. Suddenly we aren't wondering if the characters are funny, but if the author is funny enough to make them funny. Thankfully, as mentioned, I've read Bordas' stories — her funniness is the reason I kept reading them.
This is one of those incredibly rare books that I didn't want to end. One of those books that I found myself wishing I could make some sort of pact to extend; the characters are so deftly composed both intellectually and emotionally, so elegantly balanced against one-another that I could have stayed with them for a syndicated nine-series sitcom. They are conceited, caring, bumbling, self-centred, funny — in a word, they are human.
However, Bordas gets around the need to have them be funny all the time by situating them all in varying states of becoming. Looking at the students specifically, they don't have to be hilarious — in fact, they aren't really meant to be. Bordas tells us they aren't in the opening two pages, as big-name comedian Kruger -new to teaching-, wonders whether his colleagues Dorothy and Ashbee (veteran comics themselves) even know how to judge the quality of the applicants' self-tapes. We meet the students at what seems to be the nadir of their comedic journeys, where they have more or less lost faith in their stand-up abilities.
The teachers, too, are in stages of transgression. Dorothy is going back on tour, Kruger is starting an acting career, Manny is being cancelled. Just as the students have begun to doubt themselves as to whether they have what it takes, the teachers are in varying states of wondering whether they can still do what they do, and why they even do it at all — faced with ageing and the ever-accelerating samsara of [internet] culture, the grown-ups of the novel seem to be filled with just as much self-doubt and self-pity as the characters in their mid-20s. "He did all this so THESE guys would laugh?" Manny wonders, of the audience whom he so desperately craves and yet so virulently despises. "What was the point of all this? ... Wasn't it to make time disappear?"
Very little of Bordas' work in this novel is concerned with description. And very little is concerned with exposition. In fact, very little is concerned with an overt story. And yet I was racing through each page, sprinting through prose that is expressed largely in internal monologue as Bordas focusses on one of her cast at a time. In turn they are sent from the happenstance of their day into internal monologue, where we learn about them through how they process whatever it is that's going on in front of them. This amounts to a general sense of detachment — what is identified as the comedian's unending task of gathering material ultimately contributes to a dissociation from their moment-to-moment lives: why live in the moment when you can live in your mind? Why process what's in front of you when, in real-time, you can imagine turning it all into a bit?
When Kruger, visiting his father at a nursing home, is reflecting on the fact that he has just bought the angry, doddery old man a gun, his method of internally reckoning with the situation is to wonder which elements of the story he would leave in when re-telling it all as a routine. "He also knew that the shooting lesson would become a bit. He knew it in his heart. It had made him too sad not to rewrite and try laughing about it." How would he tweak the story for stand-up? What would he ham-up for laughs? This coping mechanism even bleeds out into Kruger's decision making: when his father asks him whether he would like to stay for soup, Kruger wonders to himself: "would he stick around for soup? Would soup be a part of the bit?"
That comedians are perhaps the saddest of entertainers is an irony well-known and well-explored. Everybody has seen those Facebook memes, the ones of Robin Williams smiling that say something to the tune of 'the ones who laugh the hardest cry the most'. And yet Bordas firmly avoids an overt sense of tragedy in this book. Time and time again the characters find themselves in a sudden moment of possible upheaval, wherein the proverbial anvil appears to teeter over their head. Will Mickey turn up dead? Who will be killed by the school shooter? Will Sword cheat on his wife with Dorothy? Surely Artie will be furious with Olivia over the stolen bit. If not him, then August at Manny for telling his embarrassing origin story? Won't Manny even be torn up after bombing at the Empty Bottle? No. No, no, no. At each possible juncture, crises are avoided — everything pretty much works out fine. Time and time again in this novel Bordas sets the stage for melodrama and each time, just you start to bite your nails, just when you think you can see how this book is going to gut-punch you with catastrophe... your expectations are subverted. Everybody's fine. August isn't offended. Life continues as normal.
I realised when I finished The Material how I could best sum it up, with regards to what I just talked about in that paragraph above. The day of The Material is ostensibly mundane. When looking at it as both a series of isolated incidents, and as a gestalt, there isn't a lot to be obviously excited about. And yet, if I put myself in the shoes of any of the characters who I mentioned in the paragraph above, I can see why it's so special. Should catastrophe have happened, should, say Artie find out that Mickey had died of a heroin overdose, wouldn't he have given anything to have had a day like he's had in The Material? Wouldn't he have given anything to have had a sleepy conversation about Galileo with his brother over the phone? We all want our lives to be in some way exciting; we all in some way wish, waking up up on a Tuesday, that something unexpected would happen to us, something life-changing, but rarely do we stop and appreciate the days that feature nothing of the sort. I think that's why Artie gets so hooked on the cobbler — there is a beauty in the mundanity of this day: as if, for many of the characters, this book takes place in the universe where everything winded up okay. Where that awful thing didn't happen. The one, in the wake of tragedy, that we drive ourselves crazy thinking about how we would trade anything to be in instead. See Esther's name pop up on his phone, Artie "felt propelled down to a secret hole in the ground... his stomach and brain drop[ped] many feet below to a secret underground that had been there all along, a secret underground in which Mickey was dead." Had Mickey been dead, and Artie had stayed down in that hole, then The Material is what he would have tried in vain to claw his way back up to.
This is a novel with pathos and poignance in equal measure — it made me laugh and it made me cry. Bordas' prose is so much fun to read, and her characters such a joy to watch interact with one-another; they wonder the things that I wonder, they say the stupid shit that we all say sometimes, and they worry about themselves and others in ways that everybody on earth worries about everyone. It's hilarious, it's self-pitying, it's encouraging, it's melancholic (the happiness of being sad — Victor Hugo), it's irreverent, it's sardonic. It's a book by an author whom I will be reading for the rest of my life. Basically, it's just really, really fucking good.