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Ling Ma's first novel predicted the pandemic. Her new collection goes one step beyond

Maureen Corrigan reviews Ling Ma's new collection of stories Bliss Montage.


Other segments from the episode on September 14, 2022

Fresh Air with Terry Gross, September 14, 2022: Interview with Nina Totenberg; Review of Bliss Montage



This is FRESH AIR. If Ling Ma never wrote another book after "Severance," she'd be remembered as one of that small group of authors - along with Emily St. John Mandel and "Station Eleven" and Christina Sweeney-Baird and "The End Of Men" - whose fiction seemed to predict the COVID-19 pandemic. Ma's new book is a collection of stories called "Bliss Montage." And our book critic, Maureen Corrigan, says she hopes this book does not predict the future.

MAUREEN CORRIGAN, BYLINE: Ling Ma's 2018 debut novel "Severance" imagined a world ravaged by the sudden onset of something called Shen Fever, a fictitious infection that originated in southern China. By early spring of 2020, Ling Mao was being hailed as an oracle of the pandemic. But the prophetic quality of "Severance" only enhanced its power. The novel was already disturbing in and of itself because of its sardonic tone and its mundane imagery that smoothly morphed into the macabre.

Ma's writing, in short, stays with you whether you want it to or not. And so I felt reluctant but compelled to pick up her new book, a collection of short stories called "Bliss Montage." In one of those short stories, called "Office Hours," a film professor declares to his class, it is in the most surreal situations that a person feels the most present, the closest to reality. That pronouncement could serve as an epigram for this entire collection, an apt way to characterize its distinctive aura. Take the opening story, called "Los Angeles." Here's how our narrator introduces herself and her world. (Reading) The house in which we live has three wings. The west wing is where the husband and I live. The east wing is where the children and their attending au pairs live. And lastly, the largest but ugliest wing, extending behind the house like a gnarled, broken arm is where my 100 ex-boyfriends live. We live in LA.

The deadpan tone of that narrator's voice implicitly urges us readers to just roll with it. And so we do. The husband, who our narrator tells us she met on, only speaks in dollar signs, not words, which is very funny on the page. But nothing is just one thing in Ma's writing. Satire swirls into savagery, a gimmicky premise into poignancy. What does this story mean? Maybe something about the truth of most of us living with memories of people, old lovers and others populating our headspace. Except here, the memories and the space are made literal. But beware.

Another story, called "Peking Duck," explicitly warns against asking of any story, what's the lesson here supposed to be? "Peking Duck" is a dazzling box-within-box story that reads like autofiction. In it, an unnamed female narrator recalls moving to the U.S. from China as a child and living with her parents in Utah, as Ma herself did. There, the narrator's father goes to graduate school. And her mother works as a nanny. Years later, when the narrator is a student in an MFA program, she writes a short story about an incident she witnessed when a creepy salesman came to the door and fixated on her mother. When she workshops the story, the narrator hears criticism from a fellow Asian student that it's just a tired Asian American subject, these stories about immigrant hardships and intergenerational woes.

That critic may be right about the subject, but not about the technique. In Ma's hands, this story is a rough tug of war between daughter and mother who vie with each other for control. The answer to the vexed question of, who does a story belong to, seems to be whoever is left holding on to it at the bitter end. Every one of these eight stories ventures out of familiar situations into the weird.

In "Tomorrow," a story set in the near future, a pregnant woman discovers her unborn babies arm protruding out of her and waving. It's not ideal, a doctor assures her, but I've seen worse. In "G," two women take a recreational drug that frees them from, among other things, the male gaze by making them disappear. And in the aforementioned "Office Hours," another professor discovers a portal to a different dimension in her office closet. All of the stories in "Bliss Montage" are haunting. None are didactic. Ling Ma writes with such authority that we readers are simply swept along like that professor through the portal. If sometimes we wonder where we've ended up, maybe that sense of dislocation is the desired final effect.

GROSS: Maureen Corrigan is a professor of literature at Georgetown University. She reviewed "Bliss Montage" by Ling Ma. Tomorrow on FRESH AIR, our guest will be Buzz Bissinger, author of "Friday Night Lights." His new book tells the story of college football stars turned Marines who endured some of the most savage fighting in the Second World War at the Battle of Okinawa. The book is called "The Mosquito Bowl: A Game Of Life And Death In World War II." I hope you'll join us.

Our interviews and reviews are produced and edited by Amy Salit, Phyllis Myers, Sam Briger, Lauren Krenzel, Heidi Saman, Therese Madden, Ann Marie Baldonado, Thea Chaloner, Seth Kelley and Susan Nyakundi. Our digital media producer is Molly Seavy-Nesper. I'm Terry Gross.

Transcripts are created on a rush deadline, and accuracy and availability may vary. This text may not be in its final form and may be updated or revised in the future. Please be aware that the authoritative record of Fresh Air interviews and reviews are the audio recordings of each segment.

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