Megan GarberĪlways Crashing in the Same Car: On Art, Crisis, and Los Angeles, California, by Matthew Specktor She documents the casual cruelties that shape her daily life-and she defies them. She observes, and she watches herself being observed. The narrator’s assessments of her life, rendered primarily in the first person, are studies of evocative contrasts. There is a pointed plot twist I won’t spoil, but what makes Assembly singular, in the end, is less its story than the manner of its storytelling.
She goes to a party (thrown by the parents of her wealthy, white boyfriend, on their ancient estate). The narrator, a Black woman living in London whose name is never revealed, goes to work (the job is a financially lucrative and spiritually vampiric role in banking). Force yourself into their form.” Natasha Brown’s debut novel is propelled by elegant, elliptical, violent lines like that. Bend your bones until they splinter and crack and you fit. “Dissolve yourself into the melting-pot,” says the narrator of Assembly.
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