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256 pages, Paperback
Published July 15, 2025
You know you’re reading a good book when you’re only a few pages in and already you’re thinking about who you should recommend it to. And, maybe, who you should give your own copy to.
Frankly, Shot is not the kind of book I usually read. If I’m not struggling to keep up with books in my own fields (tourism development, Himalayas, pashmina, for example), there are other areas of reality in desperate need of remedial attention – Newtonian physics, CRISPR technology, macroeconomics, to name a few. I can’t afford the luxury of fiction.
Particularly when it comes to social commentary, it seems counterintuitive to choose imagination over documentation. But in this case I was wrong.
Jude Berman’s task is to give you an appreciation of the loss of real lives, of people who wanted to live, who should have had a chance to continue being and loving, whom you must care about even if you never met them. And she wanted you to feel the weight of numbers without resorting to statistics.
If you think about it, fiction (like poetry) is capable of conveying universal truth precisely because it is not burdened with particular truth. A character can emerge from the page swiftly and clearly, without the ambiguity and uncertainty that are inevitable features of biography, history, and documentary. That means the reader is free to engage with the character without distraction.
In Berman's handling, the result is the farthest thing from a Gumpian “box of chocolates,” where you may not know which filling you're going to encounter next, but you pretty much know the range of options at the outset. In Shot, the characters speak for themselves, recounting the inner lives and circumstances that lead – inevitably or by crazy happenstance or both – to a foregone conclusion (foregone, given the nature of the collection). And because of the author's breadth of interests and experiences, these are all characters you want to know, lives you want to see play out. Each loss is ours.
Unlike the authors of medieval bestiaries, Berman was free to name each character as she would. She set the artistic and philosophical agenda by front-loading characters whose inner lives stake out the intellectual and emotional dimensions of human existence. Through orthographic choice, Berman juxtaposes stories that resonate with each other and define a trajectory for the collection as a whole. And that is where the author’s own point becomes palpable, despite the choice of entrusting the entire opus to a bunch of random voices who have nothing to say about gun violence.
In fact, Berman’s message should be central to Second Amendment polemics. Like the proverbial frog in the slowly warming pot, we have allowed ourselves to become numb to gun violence. Every mass shooting is reduced to a scorecard of casualties, and we simply don’t have the attention span to focus on the lives that are maimed or destroyed. Shootings become spectacles, like the blood sports of the Romans, instead of aberrant symptoms of the worst kind of social disease.
Berman herself never addresses our disordered set of values and priorities, but she sets the table. It may be hard to see how policy makers will be influenced by this book, but if change does come it will be because we reached a tipping point. And Berman’s book will have played a part.
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