Death Becomes Her: A tale of mortality.

Lorrie ​Moore: ​A⁢ Master of⁣ Hilarious ‌and Poignant Fiction

Since the ​publication of her first⁤ collection of short stories nearly⁢ 40 years ‍ago, Lorrie Moore has ‍earned⁤ praise from critics and adoration from readers for her hilarious ⁣and⁤ frequently poignant fiction. In ​a distinctive ⁢style that delights in poetic language and frequent wordplay, ⁣and ⁤with a voice that manages to be both detached⁢ and⁢ sympathetic, Moore’s stories depict America’s ⁤bourgeois ‍bohemians as ‌they navigate romances ⁣and⁣ marriages, deal with illness and ‍death, and ⁤struggle with​ loss⁤ and grief. Through it all, her work has been grounded in the realist tradition of most contemporary‌ literary fiction.

But⁢ toward the end of‌ her 2009 ​novel The Gate at the Stairs, an odd⁢ thing happens at⁤ a funeral: The narrator ⁣climbs⁣ into ⁣the casket and snuggles next to her deceased​ loved one, noticing the smell ‌of “field fertilizer used ‌by the agribiz farms.” It was the ‍strangest moment ⁤I​ could recall in Moore’s ‍fiction—and a hint ⁣of ‍things to come in ⁤her latest novel.

A ‍Surreal Journey in⁤ “I ⁢Am Homeless If This Is Not My Home”

In I Am Homeless If This Is ‌Not‌ My Home, characters don’t ⁢have ⁢to ‌climb into caskets because the ​dead⁤ themselves rise. It’s easily ⁣Moore’s strangest, most surreal novel, but it’s also characteristically funny and a deeply affecting account of losing ⁣loved ones.

The novel ⁣has two distinct⁣ storylines. In the central⁢ plot, set in the fall of 2016,‌ Finn, a high school history teacher, has traveled from Ohio to New York City to comfort his brother ‌Max, who’s dying in a hospice ward. They reminisce, talk about conspiracy theories (Finn’s a fan),⁤ and‍ watch​ the World ⁢Series (poor Max ‍roots ⁤for the ​Indians). But⁣ Finn’s visit is cut short when he ⁤receives a text insisting that he must return ‌to Ohio—his ex-girlfriend, Lily, has ⁣committed suicide. As​ it turns out, the rumors ⁢of death’s permanence​ have been greatly exaggerated: Lily—her name an apt evocation⁣ of funerary flora—greets Finn in the graveyard. They hop in⁢ his car and head south, an undead update of a more famous Finn’s‍ adventures, not to mention⁣ of William Faulkner’s As I ‍Lay Dying ‌ (both of which Moore mentions directly ⁢along the way).

During ‍a conversation about the radio—dead people like ⁣to⁤ talk about the radio during‍ road trips, too—Lily ‍asks questions the reader may also be wondering:

• “Is ⁤this ​a‍ zombie ⁢movie?”
• “Nah….”
• “Is it a rom-com?”
• “Maybe.”

It’s ​a hybrid—a zom-rom-com.⁤ Lily describes‍ herself as “a casserole of rot”⁤ and Finn wants seconds.

Interspersed throughout the ⁤story is the novel’s secondary storyline: a series of journal entries, presented as letters, ⁤from a postbellum Kentucky ⁤innkeeper named Libby to⁢ her ⁤dead ​sister. This storyline centers on a mysterious visitor who, Libby realizes, is a notorious​ man widely believed to be dead. ⁤(Not to ​name names, but he’s a theater buff with a leg injury who sympathizes with “seceches,” or secessionists.) ‍When this ​visitor forgets‍ his manners, Libby reminds him.

The parallel narratives eventually intersect when Finn and Lily ‍spend a night at⁢ the old inn, ⁢where he discovers Libby’s journal⁤ and absconds with it. There are more subtle ‌echoes between the two plots, as ‍well. The Lily/Libby ​rhyme invites ‌readers to consider shared themes and concerns, as ‌does the arrival in the 19th-century plot of a man named ​Phinneus‍ Bates ‍who, like Finn, makes a ⁢corpse a⁣ traveling companion. Moore⁣ also nudges readers to‌ notice‍ political similarities between the plotlines, with both taking place against the backdrop of serious ​political‍ division. Most significantly,‌ Libby’s epistolary journal ⁣is her way of⁤ coping with her sister’s death,⁢ just as⁣ Finn is grappling with his brother’s illness and Lily’s suicide.

The novel is largely about fending off grief, ​in part with⁤ humor. Lily ‌was a grief therapy clown. She donned a dopey nose to cheer up​ sick children⁤ and⁣ was buried​ in her ‌clown shoes—then again, she also tried to⁢ use the ‍laces to kill herself.⁣ She ⁣and Finn ‌engage in witty banter in part to avoid the serious weirdness of their situation. ⁤Jokes are their way⁣ of ‍staving off ​the⁣ harsh realities ‌of life, including illness, death, and grief. “Jokes are flotation devices on the great sea‍ of sorrowful life,” says Lily. “They are exit signs in a very dark room.” When she walks out of ⁣Finn’s life for ⁣the last time, it’s an emotionally powerful‌ moment lightened ⁢by‌ a sight gag: ⁤She’s still wearing⁢ the ​floppy footwear.

Eventually, Finn cannot rely on‌ humor as a defense mechanism. ‍In its final pages,⁣ the novel leaves the world ​of ⁢the living dead and gives ⁢us⁣ glimpses into Finn’s lonely and grief-stricken new world. At ⁤his computer, ​”continually he had to verify⁣ online that he was not a robot.”‌ Not a robot, sure—but what kind of life is ⁤he living?

There are moments in ⁣the novel​ that give the⁣ reader opportunities to interpret⁢ the zombified⁢ Lily as a⁤ projection of Finn’s fevered⁢ mind. He is​ driving⁣ around the country ‌with⁢ a box of kitty litter ​in ‌his car—perhaps that makes him‌ hallucinate? Are anachronistic ‍phrases like “stranger-splain” and⁣ “sweet Jesus take the reins”‌ in⁢ Libby’s journal just Moore’s puckish humor, or do⁢ they suggest that the journal is the figment ‌of Finn’s imagination? One reviewer ⁤even suggested that Finn dies midway through⁢ the book. But⁤ too many⁣ details and plot elements⁢ cut against these interpretations.

Still,‌ this ‌uncertainty about the main⁢ character’s experiences is one of ⁢the book’s surprising similarities ​to⁤ another​ recent work by a modern American great, Cormac⁣ McCarthy’s The Passenger ⁤ (2022). The writers’ styles could not be more different. Yet both works depict ⁣the central character’s grief over the ⁣suicide⁤ of a mentally ill​ loved one; both feature taboo sexual ⁢attraction; both often feel ‌like paranoid fantasies, dabbling‍ in the worlds of conspiracy ⁢theories⁢ and unresolved mysteries. ⁤And both⁣ include loose ends ‍that raise questions ‌about what exactly happened—but ​McCarthy’s‍ work‍ is ⁤frustratingly obscure, while Moore’s ‌is thought-provokingly ​ambiguous.

Many years ago, I took creative writing classes ⁢with Moore. My classmates and I,⁤ Moore⁢ admirers all,⁣ wrote stories that were obviously inspired by our teacher’s work. But one semester, she assigned ‍a short story for discussion that was far different from anything we had written or read so⁤ far, and very unlike⁢ anything Moore herself had published. She made her point ⁣clear when she ‍told⁤ us​ (according to the notes I took ⁢that day), “I want you ​to read this and go home and feel that you can write anything.”

That is the⁢ spirit of I Am Homeless‌ If ‌This Is Not My ‌Home, a⁣ moving and darkly funny work that’s unmistakably⁤ Moore’s even as it is far ​more surreal and unsettling than​ anything ⁣she’s written before.

I Am⁤ Homeless If ‍This ‍Is Not My Home: A ​Novel
by Lorrie Moore
Knopf, 208 pp., $27

Christopher​ J. Scalia⁢ is a senior fellow​ at the ⁢American ‍Enterprise Institute.