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I had a wonderful and unforgettable time reading Lincoln in the Bardo by George Saunders. After reading it twice, I finally grasped the book's inventive style, which had taken me a while to fully comprehend. Saunders delves into profound truths of loss, love, and the human condition by way of a true historical event—the passing of Willie Lincoln, the young son of Abraham Lincoln. An intriguing new dimension is introduced by situating the story in the bardo, a place of limbo between life and death. This placement prompts contemplation of the meaning of living and letting go.

The obvious time and energy put into the study was one of the book's strongest points in my opinion. Saunders creates something fresh by incorporating passages from historical documents, letters, and biographies into his own work. The novel manages to be both realistic and inventive because to its use of both fictional and nonfictional elements.

The plot of the narrative is intriguing as well. The specters in the cemetery tell one story, while factual texts tell the other, in alternating chapters that Saunders weaves together. The distinctive rhythm created by this back-and-forth also serves to connect the story's emotional, human aspects to its historical background. Particularly noteworthy are the spectral characters, who inject the narrative with warmth, humor, and sorrow.

What sets this work apart is its unconventional style. It defies the conventions of conventional storytelling and invites a fresh perspective from the reader. I was entertained and moved by it despite its odd format. A moving and imaginative piece of literature, Lincoln in the Bardo lingered with me long after I had put the book down.

Lincoln in the Bardo, written by George Saunders, blends historical fiction, experimental writing, and science fiction, thus challenging standard genre conventions. The work falls under the category of historical fiction because it is based on a true historical occurrence. The incorporation of a bardo, a metaphysical backdrop, and the emphasis on spectral people, however, give it an air of speculation and even fantasticality.

The book pushes the boundaries of traditional storytelling with its experimental style, which incorporates authentic historical materials, different viewpoints, and fragmented narrative. This perspective elevates it to the level of a literary novelty, releasing it from the usual constraints of any particular genre. Saunders delves into universal themes like love, loss, and the afterlife through the interaction of history and imagination, which a simple historical book could miss.

In The Book of Martha, Butler made me think deeply about the balance between good and bad, and the idea that true utopia is impossible because everyone sees it differently. The story follows Martha, a Black woman who is chosen by God to design a perfect world for humanity. But as she works through what that world should look like, she realizes that even her best ideas come with unintended consequences.

The question of whether the good outweighs the bad really stood out to me. Martha initially thinks that eradicating things like poverty and inequality would make the world better, but she starts to see that every solution comes with its own set of problems. For instance, if we got rid of fear, we might lose the ability to empathize. If inequality were gone, would people still have the drive to improve? Butler shows that the idea of "good" is never simple—it always involves trade-offs, and sometimes those trade-offs can create even more issues.

Butler’s exploration of the impossibility of a true utopia hit me hard. Martha, despite having the power to reshape the world, can’t create a perfect society because every person has a different idea of what utopia would look like. What she thinks is best for humanity doesn't align with everyone else’s desires. This really made me think about how subjective our visions of the “perfect world” are. Even if someone has the power to change everything, they’re still working from their own perspective, and that bias will shape the world they create. It made me realize that a true utopia—a world that works for everyone—is just not possible because we’re all so different in what we want and need.

In Amnesty, Octavia Butler forced me to face a difficult question: what would I do if survival required me to compromise my values? The protagonist, who’s captured by aliens and forced to help them communicate with humans, is put in a position where standing up for their rights would mean death. Instead, they make hard decisions to ensure survival—not just for themselves, but for their community too. I found myself wondering: could I do what was necessary to save not only myself, but everyone around me? Could I make a choice that felt wrong, but was the only way to survive?

Butler made me reflect on what survival really means. In the story, there are no clear right or wrong answers—just morally gray choices. The protagonist’s actions, though they might seem like betrayals or compromises, are about survival in a world where the stakes are life and death. That made me question how I would act in a situation with no good choices. Would I fight for my ideals, knowing it could lead to my destruction, or would I make peace with compromising my values for the sake of safety?

Reading Amnesty made me realize how easy it is to judge others for not standing up for what they believe in, but when there’s no way to win, survival becomes something else entirely. What if the only way to protect those I love is to make a choice I find morally troubling? The protagonist’s actions made me think about what it means to be human when survival demands we sacrifice the very things that make us who we are.

Reading Crossover by Octavia Butler, I see how her personal experiences intertwine with the themes of isolation, self-doubt, and the search for meaning in ways that remind me of the impact her speculative work has had on me. Even though Crossover isn't classified as science fiction, Butler’s background in speculative genres definitely influences how she structures the story and gives it its emotional depth.

What stands out to me is how Butler blends speculative thought with very real, everyday struggles. The protagonist’s emotional journey feels familiar in the way it explores personal pain and coping, yet there's an underlying “what if”—what if this woman’s life could change, or what if there was an escape from her isolation? This sense of possibility, often seen in Butler’s sci-fi novels, is still present in Crossover. The protagonist’s reliance on alcohol becomes a form of escape, much like how characters in her science fiction stories often struggle to break free from larger, oppressive systems.

Butler uses science fiction to not only explore possible futures but also to criticize how people act and how societies are set up. She does this by weaving themes of broken communication, social order, and human instinct into the story. Because Butler chose a made-up situation in which communication is completely broken, she can focus on what happens when normal social dynamics are taken away and communication is completely or seriously limited. People in this dystopian world are more likely to want to dominate, control, and create hierarchy over others because they can't talk to each other.

Literature that deals with "taboo subjects" looks at themes, ideas, and experiences that go against societal norms, values, and moral codes. This kind of talk about uncomfortable, controversial, or upsetting topics brings up interesting things about people, society, and how hard it is to make moral choices.

In her work Near of Kin, Butler looks at how the weight of secret truths, like the girl's mother and uncle's sexual relationship, can cause deep breaks in family ties. The fact that the secret is a taboo raises the emotional stakes of the story as the characters deal with the deep shame, guilt, and betrayal that come with these banned relationships. Finding out about the incestuous act that caused her mother to leave her is a huge blow to the girl's identity, which was once based on family love and trust. The girl has to rebuild her sense of self after this secret is told to her. It also makes her question her family ties, her loyalty, and the love she thought she knew.

The study of genre is closely linked to the study of taboo topics in literature, like the incestuous relationship in Near of Kin. This is because it shows how certain genres, especially those that deal with psychological, emotional, or social conflict, make it okay to talk about uncomfortable or controversial topics in a way that makes sense. Fiction types like literary fiction, psychological drama, and even speculative fiction often explore the complicated human experience by using taboo topics to make readers think about morals, family, and who they are.

Science fiction often imagines futures or alternate realities to reflect on present-day problems, and Butler’s story really resonated with me in how it uses this structure to explore themes of choice, institutional neglect, and the human condition.

The genetic disease Duryea-Gode (DGD) struck a personal chord. Even though it’s fictional, its effects feel painfully real—mirroring the helplessness and stigma I’ve faced with chronic illness and mental health struggles. Butler uses the speculative nature of science fiction to amplify these issues, making them feel universal and inescapable. It’s like she’s showing that the battles I face aren’t just mine; they’re part of a bigger, systemic struggle that others experience too.

In the story, the unreliable medical and education systems failing people with DGD remind me of my own frustrations with systems that are supposed to help but often don’t. Butler’s ability to take these failures to their extreme in a sci-fi setting really hit home, showing just how devastating neglect can be when society turns a blind eye. It’s a critique that feels both personal and painfully accurate, even though it’s presented in this imagined world.

What I love most about Butler’s approach is how she breaks away from typical sci-fi tropes. Instead of focusing on big technological breakthroughs or heroic triumphs, she zeroes in on the emotional and mental struggles of characters like Lynn. That focus feels deeply human and relatable—her struggles with acceptance and finding purpose reminded me of my own efforts to find stability in the chaos of living with chronic illness.

Bloodchild by Octavia Butler cleverly uses aliens as a way to look at themes of trust and closeness, going against what most people think about relationships between aliens. Aliens are often used as a metaphor for the "other" in science fiction—something strange and scary. Butler turns this trope on its head by making the Tlic both caring and dangerous. This forces readers to deal with a complex, mutually beneficial relationship that needs trust to live.

The story breaks down standard gender roles and ideas about reproduction because it is told in a way that isn't typical. By having a man main character become pregnant, which is usually a female role, Butler makes us think again about what it means to be vulnerable, to have control, and to love someone.

It clearly explores emotional connection, self-sacrifice, and interdependence, which are all important parts of romantic stories, but it is still clearly classed as SciFi. This shows how setting or premise are often given more weight than thematic roots when deciding what genre something is. The alien setting changes the meaning of romance, making it feel new and complicated while pushing the limits of how trust and closeness can show up in strange ways.

The rifle is a physical symbol of Gan's mixed feelings—fear, trust, and love—about T'Gatoi and their special bond. Its role in Bloodchild is connected to the romantic parts. In this story, romance isn't defined in the usual way. Instead, it's shown through themes of friendship, suffering, and relying on each other. The gun stands in contrast to these themes and represents a possible breach in their trust.

Gan is thinking about the limits of their relationship when he thinks about using the gun. How much of himself is he willing to give? How much real power does he have? This tension is a lot like the problems that come up in love relationships, where trust and openness have to win out over fear and doubt. By turning down the rifle in the end, Gan makes a choice that shows love—not in the usual romantic sense, but in the way that he is willing to be close to and rely on T'Gatoi.

In The Falls, George Saunders takes us on a journey through the minds of two very different men—Morse and Cummings—as they each find themselves in a high-pressure situation. The story flips between their perspectives, which is a clever way of showing how differently people handle moral dilemmas and personal failures.

The contrast between these two characters shows how differently people can respond when faced with a moral choice. Morse, despite all his self-doubt, finds the strength to act, while Cummings is stuck in an imaginary world where he doesn’t have to do anything. In a way, the story is a playful (and not-so-playful) reminder that the big moments in life aren’t always about what we think we’re capable of, but about whether we can step up and do what needs to be done, even when we’re not sure we have the answers.

The barber spends a lot of time criticizing his customers. However, it's clear that this is more because he's unhappy with his own life than anything else. It's like when we see someone and think, "Ugh, that person's outfit is terrible." But deep down, it could be because we don't think our own outfit is great, or we just don't feel good about ourselves that day.

The barber's sharp criticisms aren't really about the people he's talking about; he's just trying to feel better about himself. It's like being extra mean to the person who cuts you off in traffic or the neighbor who didn't return your rake after having a bad day. You could say it's a screen that keeps us from having to face the things we don't like. The really bad thing is that it seems to work against the barber the more he judges others. It keeps him stuck in his own misery and doesn't make him feel better.

In “The End of Firpo in the World,” George Saunders does an amazing job of pulling us into Cody’s chaotic brain. His run-on sentences totally capture how Cody’s thoughts just tumble over each other, giving us a front-row seat to the swirl of emotions and frustrations inside his head. It’s like trying to catch a bunch of marbles rolling around in his mind—messy, but kind of fascinating.

The way the story is told lets us peek into Cody’s thoughts, but still keeps a little distance, which makes it feel like we’re watching him from the outside. Instead of dealing with his emotions directly, Cody seems to lash out at the world, imagining all sorts of wild scenarios like shrinking his neighbors’ houses or throwing insults. It makes me wonder if underneath all that anger, there’s a kid who feels misunderstood or neglected, and just doesn’t know how to say it. Saunders lets us see that Cody’s not just a troublemaker; he’s someone trying to make sense of a world that doesn’t always seem to make sense to him.

Aunt Bernie’s death in Sea Oak is both hilarious and heartbreaking, especially when you think about what it symbolizes. In life, Bernie was the classic selfless optimist—the kind of person who put everyone else’s needs before her own, even if it meant never getting a chance to live for herself. But after her death, she comes back as a no-nonsense, brutally honest version of herself, and honestly? She’s kind of a mood. When she says, “You regret all the things you never did,” you can’t help but feel a little called out. Her transformation is a wild way of showing how regrets can weigh on us, especially if we spend our lives playing it safe and not going after what we really want.

When I started reading Pastoralia, I couldn’t help but wonder how the title tied into the story. Breaking it down, the word “pastoral” comes from the Latin root for religious practices or spiritual care—like what priests provide to their congregations. So, I decided to read the story through this lens, focusing on how it explores religion and spirituality. Turns out, Saunders has a lot to say, and he doesn’t hold back on the satire.

The theme park, where the main character works as a caveman reenactor, feels like a stand-in for a strict religious institution. The employees have to follow all these rigid rules, even when they seem pointless. It reminded me of the kind of rituals that sometimes feel more about appearances than genuine belief. A perfect example is the daily goat “sacrifice” that the protagonist and his coworker Janet have to perform.

This whole goat thing is kind of fascinating (and absurd). On the surface, it’s a ritual to make the theme park seem authentic, but it’s really just a routine they go through because someone up top said so. It’s not about faith or connection—it’s about keeping up appearances. If you think about it, it’s a lot like some religious ceremonies that have lost their deeper meaning over time, becoming more about obligation than anything else.

The goat itself is such a powerful symbol. In religious traditions, goats are often associated with sacrifice and atonement—think of all those Biblical offerings. But here, it’s not about cleansing sins or pleasing a higher power. It’s just another task on the job list, which makes the whole thing feel pretty empty. Saunders uses this to critique how modern institutions, whether religious or corporate, can take something meaningful and reduce it to a mindless routine.

Then there are the crackers. Oh, those sad, stale crackers. They made me think of communion wafers, which are meant to symbolize spiritual nourishment and unity. But in this story, the crackers have no sacred purpose—they’re just another part of the act. Eating them doesn’t bring anyone closer to a higher power or even to each other. Instead, it highlights how the characters are stuck in this fake narrative created by their corporate overlords.

Today's reading of Winky by George Saunders really made me reflect on the complexities of family relationships and the quiet tensions that often simmer beneath the surface. I felt a lot of sympathy for Neil Yaniky, who is trying to take control of his life, yet finds himself caught in this struggle with his sister, Winky. His decision to attend a self-help seminar and confront the "person crapping in his oatmeal"—in his case, Winky—felt both relatable and difficult. It's interesting how he is initially determined to set boundaries with her, but when faced with her warmth and the reality of their relationship, his resolve crumbles. I couldn't help but think about how often we all hold onto unspoken resentments, and how hard it can be to actually address them, especially when emotions are tangled with love, guilt, and responsibility. Winky’s innocence and Neil’s internal conflict create this tension that feels both sad and funny, and it made me think about the ways in which we try to improve our lives while also dealing with the people we love and the ways they shape us.

Mark McGurl's introduction talks about how creative writing had a huge effect on American literature after World War II. McGurl looks at how the introduction of creative writing programs in colleges changed both the making and reading of fiction, causing a "program era" in American literature. He says that these programs not only changed the way stories were told and what they were about, but they also created a culture of self-reflection in which writers figure out who they are within a structured framework.

1) Spend some time simply discussing the form of your New Yorker without opening it. If it's useful, you might double back to our Prownian Analysis worksheet. What are the object’s material features? What information is a part of its form? How does it reflect certain notions of "genre?" What things does it expect that you recognize or take for granted?

I feel like this cover of The New Yorker makes me remember what it's like to be small in a big city. Almost every building in the night scene is lit up, making it look like the city is alive and well even though it's late. It looked like New York place right away, which makes sense since The New Yorker is so obsessed with this place. It's funny that you don't even need to see a title or street sign to figure out where this scene is. It's like The New Yorker knows that its readers will just "get it."

The two people holding hands on the roof, on the other hand, make it feel very different. Seeing only two people in this huge city makes me feel very close to them and maybe even a little lonely, like they're trying to find a quiet place in the middle of all this noise. That hits home for me. It makes me think of them standing there and watching the world go by, which is strangely soothing. Even though New York is very crowded, The New Yorker seems to be trying to show that people can still find time to meet and be alone.

This cover is great for The New Yorker because it combines art and city life in a way that is both intellectual and nostalgic or reflective. People who are "in the know," like people who know about New York's sites and like this mix of intimacy and urban intensity, tend to read this magazine. It expects readers to know the city without being told and to be able to connect to this mix of busy city life and quiet times. It's pretty cool how all of that can be shown in one picture.

2) Move into the magazine. I suppose now I'll call it a "magazine," but it might be worthwhile to think of this as an alien observer would--holding your expectations at one remove so that you notice with more depth and precision. Take the same approach to the "insides" that you took in step one. Describe everything about its form, layout, and materiality that you can. What sits next to what? Again, how does it engage with or create a sense of genre? What things would you typically NOT notice?

The New Yorker's layout is easy to spot: shorter, funnier pieces at the front, longer, more in-depth articles in the middle, and lighter content or cartoons at the end. I don't have a physical copy with me, but I can see from other issues that there is a clear pattern. Each part is carefully put together to make it easy for readers to move from casual to intellectual material and back again. With well-balanced white space, consistent fonts, and small, tightly controlled design details, the pages feel like they were put together by a professional.

Ads are placed so that they don't stand out and look like they're part of the content. Cartoons, on the other hand, add a bit of humor to break up the gravity. It's hard to tell how predictable the framework is because every part seems to be there to keep readers interested without them even realizing it. Overall, this layout fits the style of The New Yorker: it's polished, understated, and always stylish.

3) Look at the fictions in the magazine. What are they next to? How are they laid out? And finally, hope might all of these formal and material considerations have bearing on the meaning of the stories within the magazine--the meaning that the reader creates and that an author, ultimately, must take into consideration. How is the magazine a "wundertopf" that makes its own demands on what authors collect?

Fiction in The New Yorker is usually tucked between serious essays, ads, and sometimes cartoons. This gives it a calm place to breathe in the magazine's mix of material. There are usually fiction pieces in the middle or back, which makes you want to slow down and read them after the more recent or quick articles. These stories feel high-class because of the clean style and white space around them. It's like they're set apart for a reason.

The way the stories are set up affects how we read them, making them feel like they are part of a bigger conversation with the intelligent tone of the magazine. This magazine has a polished, city-like voice, so fiction in it feels like it was meant to connect with cultural problems or ideas that we already want to think about. It's almost like the magazine is a "wundertopf," which is a container that gives meaning to what's inside it. They know that their stories will be read in this smart, thoughtful setting, so they choose themes that fit with that mood.

Imagining Saunders' stories as being written just for readers of The New Yorker changes the way I think about his work. He knows that he's writing for a magazine with smart, city-dwelling readers who expect wit, cultural insight, and a good mix of humor and intelligence, so it's clear that his style and subjects are meant to meet those needs. Saunders' mix of comedy, social criticism, and dark humor fits right in with The New Yorker's style. People who read the magazine are probably interested in both weird cultural things and big social problems.