Book Review: Red Pill
I read this when I was recently back from my very first writing residency and, hoo boy, I squirmed/chuckled with recognition in some parts – and then I didn’t.
The narrator is facing middle-age, and it’s turning him into something of a worrier. He’s happily married with a three-year-old daughter, living in Brooklyn, NYC, but there’s no time for his writing, so he applies for a three-month residency in Berlin.
When he arrives, things are a little odd, a little off. Instead of having a private studio for writing, he discovers he’s expected to write in a shared, open-plan space with other writers, some of whom are slightly strange or flat-out jerks. He’s expected to mingle. The administrators won’t answer his questions sufficiently and he grows suspicious about their intentions.
For a book about big intellectual topics like morality, creativity and history, it’s surprisingly accessible – it often shakes its own head at its earnestness, remaining wryly self-aware of the difference between intellectual discussions and real life. Until it doesn’t ... The last part of the book – when the residency has ended – pivots into something altogether unexpected and, somehow, inevitable. I don’t want to give away too much, but I will say that Kunzru does a wonderful job of addressing the intellectual and emotional impacts of modern creative life and portraying the tightrope-walk between paranoia and truth.
