Eggplant (2021)

by Ogden Nesmer

Captivating and quirky novel with a driving story that finds space for artistic flourish without succumbing to navel-gazing.

Reads a lot like Pynchon’s Crying of Lot 49 — a comparison I don’t doubt the author would find flattering. An outwardly blasé and independent woman from a fallen California spirals headfirst into a conspiracy that transcends government on a gaslit misadventure that isn’t so much drug-fueled as it is drug-flavored. Not quite as willing to participate as Oedipa, though, Eggplant’s heroine Arda is closer to Diane from Bojack Horseman.

Nesmer writes two distinct classes into his novel: characters, who are fully-formed and taken at face value, and people, who are fallible, vulnerable, and owed the benefit of the doubt. There are only three people, really, and each has his or her POV chapters. The reduction of every other named entity to a caricature reminded me of the way I viewed my parents’ friends growing up, as if a line separated my unformed self from the crystallized form of the adults. This feeling is reinforced in Eggplant in the way drugs, sex, and other R-rated concepts are largely kept at arm’s length. Even the attempts at narcotic rambling somehow fail to convincingly capture the indulgent and desperate perspective of the junkie.

Altogether well written despite the above and its want of a proofreading pass. I started out willing to give it a shot for a chapter or two and ended up finishing it that same afternoon. I will be watching for more releases from Ogden Nesmer, and were the publishing industry any less fucked, I’d say I wouldn’t be surprised to see him circulated more widely at some point down the road.