“Cicadia”
by David Gilbert
from the August 24, 2020 issue of The New Yorker
I‘m running late today since I’ve been away, but here is this week’s New Yorker story: David Gilbert’s “Cicadia.” I have not had a chance to read a word, but I’ve enjoyed Gilbert’s stories in the past. Here is the start!
There was once a beginning and it involved sprinklers and green grass, but that happened a long time ago. Right now it’s Saturday night, the night of the big night, in the eternal return of suburban Cincinnati, summer of 1986. The neighborhood in question could be Indian Hill. Or Oakley. Or Stetson Square. Though in reality it’s Hyde Park that the boys are driving through, fresh from their stop at Graeter’s Ice Cream, which might elicit a few nods from the locals in the know—Graeter’s and its black-raspberry chocolate chip, the flavor of choice for all three boys. They lick their cones in almost comedic unison. Like they’re ten again. Speed three-fourths of pleasure. Feeling the cold against the humid air, the sweet smooth taste on their tongues, the tart undertones, the bits of chocolate like smaller deeper holes, like memories within memories. No matter how familiar, this moment is still a delight. Best friends cruising together. On the cusp of senior year. The sky water-colored in dark blues and grays and blacks, the moon eyeballing them through the clouds.
I hope to get some of my thoughts in the comments below when I have a chance to read the story. No need to wait for me, of course! Feel free to share your thoughts below.
I loved this story! David Gilbert is one of my very favorite writers. And–dare I say–so handsome! He looks like Jason Bateman and Bradley Cooper. :)
Immediately immersive. Gilbert’s prose skills are at work from the get-go with well-chosen details like eating ice cream rapidly or “I Got You” by Split Enz (just a wonderful morsel of music-related prose expertly and concisely rendered) or a weed hunt for “wherever he might stash his stash in this wreck of a room.” 80s allusions all around from the Maxell poster to Ferris Bueller quotes (and more deeply buried riffs on plenty of other movies of the period) and of course a nostalgic but not too nostalgic iteration of a less politically correct time. The long paragraphs that bracket that rapid-fire broken-up one-line-each dialogue about rolling the joint, for example, are also structurally well done; though not all of Gilbert’s metaphors and similes land, of course, his ratio is respectable. Some are excellent, like Max’s B-minus persona.
Max’s reflective POV is a little off-putting but you adjust to it, and it’s sort of the crux of the story’s originality. The full pomo second-person “you know where this is headed” thing with Harold and Cupcake is jarring at first as well. Literally naming the guy throwing the party Blaine seemed like a bit much.
As a story, “Cicadia’s” cataloguing of the triumphs and tragedies of time’s passage is effective and terse, not dolorous and self-serious. Use the specific to attain the universal: good advice for the short-story mode. The title conjures the life cycle and the aging process as well.
The need to harp on the “metaphor” thing and to bring Kafka’s “Metamorphosis” back in a second time near the end; I gotta say it felt like Gilbert (or his editors) didn’t trust the reader’s intellect enough with that choice. The narrow youth and time is a fucked-up thing, that would’ve been enough.
Very cool ending. Heart-breaking and plangent. Even amidst the good times there are searing regrets. Cool, kick-ass music grows up to be played lamely in the background at Starbucks as you go in for your autumn pumpkin latte while the kids wait in the minivan, etc etc. The best movies of your youth get yelled at by tomorrow’s youth for promoting “rape culture” or “homophobia”, etc etc.
Not a masterpiece, but a competent, confident short story by a professional writer with real talent. It’s hard to be innovative or original these days, and you can tell he worked his ass off on it.
I hadn’t read anything by Gilbert before but found this to be a strong entry. Sure, the 80s nostalgia has been done to death, but as Sean mentions, the details are done right (if nothing else, Gilbert absolutely had this Ohio native hooked at the description of Graeter’s black raspberry ice cream). The metaphors are obvious, but I didn’t sense any lack of trust toward the reader in the Kafka section—more just a confession/wink-wink to the reader that Gilbert, too, knows it is obvious. And after all, are there any transformation metaphors that by this point haven’t been done to death?
I loved this. There’s something about being 17 where you first realize you’ve had a past and a childhood yet you are also aware the future is still unclear that lends itself to the sort of temporal experiments Gilbert masterfully performs here. I hadn’t even thought of John Hughes but, of course, he’s a definite touchstone. The moment at 17 or so when a wider world–maybe geographical or sexual or cultural–opens up yet one still has one foot in childhood is perfect for expressing complexity and contradiction and so well employed by Gilbert.