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The stories in A Better Angel describe the terrain of human suffering—illness, regret, mourning, sympathy—in the most unusual of ways. In “Stab,” a bereaved twin starts a friendship with a homicidal fifth grader in the hope that she can somehow lead him back to his dead brother. In “Why Antichrist?” a boy tries to contact the spirit of his dead father and finds himself talking to the Devil instead. In the remarkable title story, a ne’er do well pediatrician returns home to take care of his dying father, all the while under the scrutiny of an easily-disappointed heavenly agent.
With Gob’s Grief and The Children’s Hospital, Chris Adrian announced himself as a writer of rare talent and originality. The stories in A Better Angel, some of which have appeared in The New Yorker, Tin House, and McSweeney’s, demonstrate more of his endless inventiveness and wit, and they confirm his growing reputation as a most exciting and unusual literary voice—of heartbreaking, magical, and darkly comic tales.
227 pages, Hardcover
First published August 5, 2008
“ ‘You have to be ready at any time to have the conversation,’ Janie Finn told me, meaning the conversation where you sorted everything out and said your goodbyes, and the dying person sorted everything out and lost all their regrets. “You talk about things and then you let go,’ she said, making an expansive gesture with her hands, as if she were setting free a bunch of doves or balloons. It was just the sort of thing that hospice people always say, and it’s because they say things like this that I think they should all be put slowly to death, half of them ministering to the others as they expire by deadly injection, having their conversations and dwindling, half by half, until there are only two, and then one, and a little midget comes in and shoots the last one in the face.”My favourite was “A Child’s Book of Sickness and Death”. The main character is a teenage girl with a chronic gut syndrome who has had to be hospitalised many times over her life, and she is a hardened veteran of the system. And this combined with teenage-dom becomes a toxic mix of cynicism and venomous humour. The ‘cuteness’ of a kid is a currency that has to be used when you have it, and it has to work very hard. “It must extend itself to cover horrors — ostomies and scars and flipper-hands and harelips and agenesis of the eyeballs—“ The ‘tremendous faculty of cuteness generated from some organ deep within’ must cover the extra fingers, the bald spots, the yellow eyes, the bitter, nose-tickling odor of urine. She notes the areas of the kids’ hospital that are always replenished with new toys and new decor, because they get noticed by the rich people. “The nicest rooms are those that once were occupied by a privileged child with a fatal syndrome.”