Partial Book Review
Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow
I’m on page 175 of the New York Times bestselling novel “Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow” by Gabrielle Zevin. It is 397 pages total. In this post, I give a partial book review, which is a little ridiculous and possibly frustrating for all involved (reviewer, reader, author should she stumble upon it), but I thought it would be fun. If you enjoy my writing, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. —FLD
Established Tastes; Be Forewarned
I am less interested in make-believe if I have to work for it. I am not a fast or agile reader. I can read 25 pages before my synapses require rest. In this way I am consistent in my consumption of television or podcasts. One episode is a delight. More than two back-to-back is gluttonous. Pacing is important.
When I don’t have to work for it—any activity in front of a screen—I embrace fiction. But I prefer if it is based in reality. No special effects, please. No other worlds. I have always felt there was enough protein in ours to satiate an awe-inspiring story: the romance of a new beginning, the horror of inequality, the comedy of grief.
I gravitate towards darkness. My favorite titles growing up were “A Child Called It” by Dave Pelzer, chronicling an incomprehensible case of child abuse, and “A Series of Unfortunate Events” by Daniel Handler, also known as Lemony Snicket. The fiction series debuted two years after Harry Potter, in 1999. I was not so much into the wizard boy but into the turbulent lives of three orphaned siblings fighting for their inheritance in Gothic-suburbia. Another book I loved was, in hindsight, printed to be distributed in a halfway house; how it ended up on my childhood bookshelf I do not know. It was a collection of true stories about addiction and homelessness. The chapter that haunts me describes a young drug mule watching a friend die from erupting baggies of cocaine lodged inside her abdomen.
As an adult I’ve lightened up, but you won’t catch me reading Colleen Hoover. My favorite authors are David Sedaris and Caitlin Flanagan. Those who appreciate the absurdist drama of living will cherish their works, about feeding a snapping turtle a lipoma, which is a benign tumor, or grappling with cancer, famously not benign.
The Partial Review
Even brilliant minds are flawed. Take J. Robert Oppenheimer, a superlative physicist and maker of the atomic bomb who operates in a moral gray zone: extramarital affairs, fathering a weapon of mass destruction. A surplus of talent does not bring promise of good living.
Gabrielle Zevin’s novel “Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow” follows two such minds, Sam Masur and Sadie Green. Sam is injured and skeptical, Sadie stubborn and bitchy. Both are in their early 20s. Both are studying at elite schools in Cambridge but only Sam goes to Harvard. We learn this on page three and are reminded of it often by mentions (insertions?) of Harvard Yard, Brattle Street, the Harvard coop; a sweet apartment “with views of the Charles River, on Kennedy Street, just west of Harvard Square.” Zevin’s preoccupation with elite academic branding is awkward at a minimum. She herself went to Harvard. The gag that ivy league alum plant seeds in conversation to reveal their alma mater may be true, and transferrable to novel writing.
Sam and Sadie meet a decade earlier as children in a hospital game room. Sam is recovering from a car accident which killed his mother. Sadie is supporting her older sister with leukemia. The two become inseparable, bonding over Super Mario Bros. and The Oregon Trail. Months later, they have a falling out which lasts until a fateful run-in in a crowded train station at college. They bond over video games again; this time, one that Sadie developed as a computer science student at MIT. A passionate friendship is alive again.
We jump between timelines with zero frustration. Zevin’s prose has an anticipatory quality. Reading it reminds me of eating a good meal, which, deconstructed, consists of consecutive bites that satisfy but ignite a hunger for more. There is payoff over and over.
Together Sam and Sadie build a video game, Ichigo, which becomes an immediate blockbuster likened to present day Minecraft or Call of Duty. Sam has trouble selling Sadie on the idea of collaborating in the first place (at the time she is heartbroken over Dov Mizrah, an instructor she is sleeping with). But once they get started, nothing can stop them. Not financial constraints: Sam’s roommate, Marx Watanabe, conveniently bankrolls the operation and lets the duo use his luxury apartment as their offices while he interns at an investment bank in London. Not the trappings of novice independence: neither character is interested in partying or even cracking open a beer. Sam is described as a “teetotaler” who does not like taking aspirin. Not even being full-time students: Sadie takes off one semester to focus on Ichigo but there is minimal grieving about exhaustion. When their rudimentary experience does catch up to them—Sadie cannot render photorealistic light for a storm scene—Dov gives her his graphics engine which made him a gaming wunderkind in the first place, “Ulysses.” This would be like Martin Scorsese giving an amateur filmmaker struggling to find competent actors access to Leonardo DiCaprio and Robert De Niro. Sam and Sadie are work horses, and after a year they have a product so impressive that two gaming conglomerates want to buy it, blow it up, and make them filthy rich.
Because the book is of the extraordinary-Harvard-dorm-room flavor, it is hard not to compare Sam and Sadie’s fortune to Mark Zuckerberg’s. But Zuckerberg does not invent Facebook in one go. He has a violent falling out with his best friend. He faces a lawsuit in which he must defend the integrity of his own creation. So far, reading Sam and Sadie’s story is a tender but obvious work of fiction.
Sam and Sadie may strike out soon. Marx may rebel against them Eduardo Saverin-style. (His altruism will be forgiven if it crumples into rage.) Dov may pull Ulysses out from under them or create a competing franchise. The protagonists’ lives do not intrinsically lack conflict. There is plenty of exposition about an unconventional past. My problem is that Sam and Sadie are not convincingly tormented in their endeavor to achieve greatness; only hassled. Likewise, they are both from Los Angeles and do not wince once during the Northeast winter.
Have you read 175 pages or more of Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow? What did you think? Drop a comment below if you’d like to share. In the future, I’ll probably follow a partial review with a complete one, ha.