From a pathbreaking writer, a thrilling, form-bending novel about a trans healthcare worker whose carefully built life is suddenly imperiled.
Ro and Liam live in a ramshackle cabin in a secluded stretch of Florida. Neither their home nor their sometimes-tumultuous relationship is what the world would call perfect, but to Ro—newly diagnosed with autism and working as a patient navigator for people seeking gender-affirming care—their life, despite the deeply inhospitable political climate, is a kind of paradise.
It's hard to pinpoint exactly what shatters their peace. There’s Quentin, the unpredictable teenager for whom Liam and Ro are quasi-parents, who visits on his way to college, where he plans to finally start T. There’s the appearance of “Mad Eden,” an online fantasy serial about heroic dragon riders that increasingly becomes Ro’s obsession. And then there’s a seemingly innocuous patient video call that results in consequences both unexpected and grave. This triad of circumstances sends Liam's and Ro’s world spinning toward disaster—unless Ro can become the real-life hero their situation demands without betraying who they are and who they love.
With colossal heart and preternatural skill, Morgan Thomas crafts a deliciously destabilizing debut novel that challenges us to confront and reinvent questions of language, sex, prejudice, identity, and the shifting scales of morality. Playing with the possible relationship between autism and time to forge an ingenious new kind of storytelling, Mad Eden imagines, with exhilarating courage, how we might yet joyfully live in a precarious world.
I can’t remember reading a novel so immersive in an aspect of neurodivergent experience. The only other work that comes close is Mel Y. Chen’s Intoxicated: Race, Disability, and Chemical Intimacy across Empire—but that’s theory. An added bonus is an Oulipo-like play with a scientific text transformed into a fantasy story. It also got me thinking about what autie-aesthetics might bring to light (ahem), alongside auti(trans)gender. Now I need to track down Morgan Thomas’s short story collection. My appetite is properly whetted.
A novel that exists in the intersectional space created by neurodivergence and queerness, that explores the dangerous effects of halting gender affirming care and the post (zip) code lottery created by local decision making on healthcare. The novel wasn't what I expected from the description, but it was so much more than I expected. It's hard to say what the novel is ultimately about, as I think that might be something each reader will have to decide for themselves. Nonetheless, a significant theme for me was the search for peace and joy, through a relationship, which only has to work for those within it and how a mutually sustaining relationship of love and understanding can be nurtured in spite of one's difference from mainstream society.
I enjoyed this novel in the form of an eARC thanks to NetGalley, but leave this honest review freely.
3.5 stars. Mad Eden was written from the perspective of Ro, a neurodivergent person who works in gender-affirming healthcare. The book brought clarity into the lived experiences of those who have to deal with the difficulties of finding gender affirming care in the US, specifically given the political climate there. The ups and downs with Ro and Liam's relationship as they worked to understand and compromise with each other were my favorite parts - mutualism was a major theme. The writing was sharp in areas but felt cloudy in others, which made a few chapters drag, but was clear the author was well-versed in the subject matter and I appreciated that there were resources/references included at the end of the book.
Thank you to NetGalley and Farrar, Straus and Giroux for the advanced copy!
an infinitely recognizable antidote to frictionless comfort reading. thank you thank you thank you.
Mad Eden is a neuroqueer earthquake, a destabilizing, ecstatic, violent, breathtaking novel that inhabits every corner of its characters and our screwed up world. our ugly politics. our bigotries. our loneliness. our bodies. our miscommunications. our love. our ineffable thing that hasn't died yet. It kept looking back at me. I kept seeing too clearly when I looked at it.
it is furiously odd and fully embodied, and i loved it, and it upset me many times. how do you feel desolate and welcomed at the same time?