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Chapter 1: What is the New Yorker Fiction Podcast about?
This is the New Yorker Fiction Podcast from The New Yorker magazine. I'm Deborah Treisman, Fiction Editor at The New Yorker. Each month we invite a writer to choose a story from the magazine's archives to read and discuss. This month we're going to hear Evolution by Joan Silber, which appeared in The New Yorker in September of 2022.
I ran away with a boy when I was 16. He was three years older, and I was enormously flattered that he wanted me to run off with him. We didn't say we loved each other. We didn't bring that up. But my lust for him was great and constant.
The story was chosen by Sarah Swanian Bynum, who is the author of three books of fiction, including the novel Ms. Hempel Chronicles, a Penn Faulkner Award finalist, and the story collection Likes, which was published in 2020. Hi, Sarah. Hi, Debra. So you chose to read a story by Joan Silber, who has published 10 books of fiction in the past 45 years or so. Have you read a lot of her work?
And what makes it really stand out for you?
I love Joan Silver's work, which I first discovered in 2003 when I was reading the O. Henry Prize anthology. And she had a story in it called The High Road. And it was this first-person voice that just leapt out and talked. dazzled me.
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Chapter 2: Why did Sarah Shun-lien Bynum choose to read 'Evolution' by Joan Silber?
And I have just been such an admirer of her work ever since then. And each successive book has just been filled with these sharp, indelible voices telling their life stories. And I get pleasure every time I dive into one of them.
What do you think makes her makes her voices so indelible in that way?
I think the retrospection, there's this mix of retrospection and immediacy where she's looking back on a life and reflecting on the shape of life's meaning. But then she is able to animate it with this very intimate conversational touch. and these vivid magical details.
So I love the combination of both this sense of like sweep and perspective and then the just coziness that I feel whenever I'm with one of her narrators and one of her characters.
Right. I guess that's true of this story evolution. We're aware from the very beginning that she's looking back, that the first person narrator is looking back. But then for most of the story, you're so immediately in the moment, in the present, you almost forget it.
Yes, and that's one of her great magic tricks is that we meet this character first when she's a 10-year-old and then when she's a 16-year-old and then when she's the mother of two adult children. And she inhabits each of those experiences with total immediacy. Like the 10-year-old, I feel as if I'm completely seeing the world through.
through her eyes and then again for the teenager and then again for the older mother. And I am just given so much pleasure by the way in which she fully brings those different life stages to the page.
And this story, it was written as a freestanding story, but also as part of a novel in progress, which became the novel Mercy. And I think like several of her books, it's sort of formed from a lot of different voices in a way, each telling their own story. And then those stories become woven together so that each story has its own life and can stand by itself.
Yes. And in fact, after I read The High Road, I then read the novel that that story became a part of. And it was the first time she had innovated this form where the stories are interwoven and ultimately create what she calls a ring of And that book and the way in which it reimagined how a novel could be shaped gave me so much permission.
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Chapter 3: How does the narrator's perspective shift throughout the story?
Vincent's, but it was the closest. We're almost in. Don't go under. Hear me, Eddie? They could have been brothers, but I thought they were friends. My own friend, Nini, had yelled to high heaven to save me. If no one else had been around, she would have phoned someone to help. And if she'd been the one to fall, I would have dragged her outside and talked a taxi into taking us.
I had more nerve than she did and was better at persuading people. My leg was on fire now, even when I didn't move it. I told my mother this, and she went up to the desk one more time. Meanwhile, the guy next to us had got to his feet and was settling his limp, maybe drugged-out friend into the molded plastic chair, getting him positioned so he didn't fall to the floor.
He smoothed his friend's hair down. He patted his head. And then he edged out of the row and along an aisle and headed through a hallway. Where was he going? He was gone. When I told my mother, she said, oh, he'll come back. But he didn't. The friend was alone. Well, they weren't friends, were they? A long time went by. I knew people did terrible things.
I lived in New York, and I'd always been warned about what they might do. When a nurse called the man's name, my mother said, Just let my daughter go in instead. You have to let her. We can't wait while you figure out what to do. Had I ever seen my mother cheat like this? I understood that she was cheating for my sake. But if he died because of us, what then? I was sure we'd never forget.
Though I think now that people do forget such things. The nurse was stumped for a few seconds. Hey, Edward, I said, and I shook his shoulder, in a rough way, as if I were just a kid making fun of him. It hurt my leg when I moved. The man made a choking, burbling sound, desperate and liquid. He terrified us then. He was alive, but he was a dying monster.
The nurse got an orderly to move him onto a gurney, and she was wheeling him away from us before we knew what was happening. And then we had to wait again. I left there with a huge plaster cast on my leg, and I looked forward to having all my friends sign it. I had broken and splintered my tibia in a fairly major way.
But what I took from that night most of all was the shock at the man walking out on his unconscious friend, the silent story of it. My mother said the man probably had reasons we couldn't know, which was definitely true, but what I held on to was the lasting certainty that I was going to have to look out for myself. It wasn't my mother's fault.
She never neglected me, before or after the divorce, or led me to think that she would. But I saw what the world was. I saw how things could get. Nobody's sweetness could take that away. I ran away with a boy when I was 16. He was three years older, and I was enormously flattered that he wanted me to run off with him. We didn't say we loved each other. We didn't bring that up.
But my lust for him was great and constant. Lust was a big deal in the world around me. People believed in sex in a way that they don't quite anymore. Did we run that idea into the ground? Overplay it? I could not have been prouder of myself in those days to be following sex as my guiding star. I thought that it was an exalted idea. as well as a source of beautiful sensations.
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Chapter 4: What themes of vulnerability and agency are explored in the story?
He told her his favorite kind of books to read were true crime books. I like action and death, he said. True crime is a very popular genre, I said. Brody said I should just lie to her about seeing him. So I did. The only person who knew I had a secret life was Nini. What scared her about Brody was the way he got money. At work, he sometimes rang up his own version of sales, but not too often.
His other more ambitious scam was stealing items from department stores and then returning them for cash. Once a cashmere sweater, once a silk shirt, once a watch. one ever really goes to jail for that, I informed Nini. They were allied in my mind, the new bodily thrills and Brody's lawlessness. Sometimes we smoked weed in the park. I was very adamant about not drinking.
I thought civilization had advanced beyond alcohol, which made people violent, to more peaceful drugs like cannabis. an evolutionary change. Smoking pot made me nestle in Brody's arms on the park bench, curve against him in delight. By May, Brody had finished a year of community college, allegedly studying business administration, and he said he'd had it with school crap.
"'Want a hitch to Arizona?' he said. "'It wouldn't be hard.' He had a friend there we could stay with. It was a good place to live, he'd heard. The wide expanse of the desert. We had found a new place to have sex, Nini's bedroom, when her parents weren't home, and he said this after a long, intricate session.
My mother had said she hated seeing me hang all over him, like a doting idiot, and why wasn't he with someone his own age? Did I know how pathetic I looked, flinging myself at him? This insult had broken my loyalty to my mother. So I could go wherever I wanted, couldn't I? I'd never been farther away than Washington or Boston.
My mother was horrified that I was so unlike the Kara she'd always known, but that was what elated me, the new depths I'd found in myself, my untapped capacities. I thought my mother had probably never had really good sex. Brody had ideas about what clothes I should bring to Arizona.
It was early June in New York, not really hot yet, but we'd do better picking up rides if I brought some of the nice things I had that showed my figure. I was a small, skinny girl with a big bust, and he admired the sundress with the plunging neckline and the T-shirt that was tight and orange. Oh, also the ripped jeans with the tear near the crotch. We have to think ahead, he said.
In the end, a friend of his drove us as far as the New Jersey Turnpike, and I stood by the highway in my little orange T-shirt and jeans, with Brody lurking behind a tree. How smug I felt when a large truck stopped right away, and Brody suddenly ran up to get in with me. The driver was an old fat guy, and we squashed ourselves next to him by having Brody put me on his lap.
My mother thought I was on a class trip to the Adirondacks. "'You cozy?' the man said. He had a growly voice and snorted when he heard that we were heading all the way to Arizona. "'Did we know how far that was?' Watch out for the rattlesnakes, he said, when he led us off five exits further.
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Chapter 5: How does the story portray the complexity of teenage sexuality?
Our last day in Texas was steamy hot and had one unpleasant incident. Brody tried to steal a pack of American cheese and three pepperoni sausages from a gas station grocery, and the guy followed us to the door and said, People get shot for less. I was terrified. Brody said nothing and kept his head down as he gave up the goods. Arizona was thrilling to see outside the windows.
There really were cacti. But it was midnight on a dark desert night by the time we got close to Tucson, where his friend lived. He won't mind our showing up so late. We'd been let out at a bare strip of closed snack joints along the highway. There were two payphones, and one of them worked. Brody fed it all his change and dialed a number that rang and rang.
After what seemed like hours, I heard him say, Russell? Yeah, it's me. Really? I told you. He wanted Russell to come pick us up, wherever we were, but Russell apparently wanted us to hitch to his house. So we stood with our thumbs out, but no vehicle of any kind was stopping at this hour. Brody got more change from me and went back to the payphone to call again.
And in the wee hours of the morning an old dodged dart came out of the black highway and stopped for us. What an asshole you are, the driver said. He looked okay, skinny in his t-shirt, wearing a straw cowboy hat to keep out the sun to come. Russell, my man, so good to see you, Brody said. Who's the girl? Kara. Isn't she cute? Not really, he said.
I was in the back seat, they were in the front, and Brody looked back at me, scowling. I don't even know you, Russell said. and you've got me driving all over the state for you. They had met, by Brody's account, at a retreat in Nebraska that his high school, St. Somebody's, had had with other Catholic schools.
He and Russell had sneaked away from the Sylvan premises together and had been sent home in disgrace, thereby forming a lifelong bond, or so Brody had decided. I'm so happy to be in Arizona, Brody said. It just feels freer here. The air.
I fell asleep in the car, with the free air blowing on my head, and Brody woke me up later to walk me into a very small adobe house, cluttered with furniture I couldn't see. I was put in an armchair to sleep, and I didn't wake up till bright daylight got me, and I could hear voices from what turned out to be a kitchen alcove. The girl is awake, Brody said.
The two guys were laughing about something. That was good. And eating toast. And Brody actually gave me a piece from his plate. I scarfed it down without even speaking. I hadn't known how hungry I was. Russell said I could finish the loaf if I went out for supplies afterward with Brody. A fifteen-minute walk to the grocery store and we could admire the scenery.
I saw that Russell's cube of a house was one room with too many chairs in it. In the corner was a mattress with blue sheets, which seemed to be where Russell slept. You know what I think, Brody said. You know that retreat we were on? They were right about one thing. Father Mike, don't remind me. He said that nature was how God revealed himself to us. Have you been outside yet?
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Chapter 6: What contrasts are drawn between Kara's past and her daughters' experiences?
Plan B, he said, since some people don't know what friendship is. That night, in our big armchair, he was a force of nonstop ardor, a zealot of every orifice, more than ever before. I didn't forget that Russell was there, on his mattress across the room. A flush of horror came and went, but I did what we were doing. I was used to it. and I thought that Phoenix would probably be better.
The friend there lived in a big house with a great view, according to Brody. Good night, babe, he said when we were done, and he fell asleep in seconds with his weight on my chest. In what seemed like the middle of the night, I woke to feel Brody twisting around and getting up. By the time I opened my eyes, he was standing nearby, pulling on his pants. I'm going out to see the sunrise, he said.
Sleep on, my girl. Which I did. He wasn't there when I woke up, and I was glad to have the bathroom to myself, though I didn't hog the shower for too long. The little house was very quiet when I emerged. I thought it was soulful of Brody to stay on after sunrise, still looking at whatever the vista was. Maybe I'd walk a little myself. I was looking for my baseball hat.
Everybody said you needed a hat here, but I couldn't find our backpack. Not anywhere. Had I put my hat in my shoulder bag? My bag was on the floor, with its contents spilling out. My wallet was still there, right on top, and I could see immediately that the billfold was empty. I was suddenly very afraid that a robber had come in while we slept, and I wanted to tell Brody.
As if Brody weren't gone. I went back to the bathroom to check. No Brody shampoo. No Brody shaving cream. He'd made a clean sweep. In the kitchen, there was a note on the table. Looks like your asshole boyfriend is gone. I'm at work. See you later. Here's a key. Do not leave the door unlocked if you go out. R. There wasn't much food left, three slices of bread, two slices of cheese.
And that was the moment when I couldn't stand it. I was weeping, little soft sobs that turned louder. I heard myself howl. Brody had left me without anything, in the middle of nowhere. Brody whose penis had been in every portal of my body, Brody whose skin I'd licked and loved the taste of, whose smell was in my clothing.
I took Russell's key and walked outside, past trees with branches like gnarled fans and houses the color of sand and rust, but I didn't get very far in the heat, without a hat, too. Where had Brody looked at any sunrise? I was heading back, and I knew what I was going to do. My mother was at the library, at her job, but she'd be home by six, which was three here, and I could call her collect.
I'd given my mother a bad scare, and I was sorry now. I got the door to Russell's house unlocked, which wasn't easy, and when I went back inside, I was hoping that Brody would be there, but of course he wasn't. How could I keep on longing for him? Well, I could. I knew he had dishonored the power of our bodies by running away. I'd stayed faithful to my beliefs.
I buoyed myself with this truth while I waited for Russell to get home. My poor mother. Russell had been home for a while. He'd been grouchy, but it fed me some spaghetti when I finally tried phoning her. Oh, Kara, she said when she heard my voice. Why did you do this? She had pestered and plagued Nini, who would say only that we were on the road.
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Chapter 7: How does the story address the concept of freedom in relation to sexuality?
My mother was afraid I was going to escalate, take off into drugs and crime, dare myself into bigger trouble. And I might have, but I didn't. Not then. Why didn't I? I was still hungry for Brody for a long time, and I wasn't sure I liked anything else. I knew perfectly well that he was an asshole. I'd sort of always known it, but I thought that what we'd had was a tremendous thing, in its way.
It had taken me more than 2,000 miles across the country. It had caused me to sleep on the ground, on benches and chairs, without even minding. It had led me to eagerly slip into dozens of vehicles driven by strangers. It had its own unnamed beauties of feeling. I didn't have to call it love, and I didn't. But even as I thought pretty poorly of him, I believed it was something.
I'd been through my days and nights of initiation, testing my mettle, and I took pride in that. I had now passed beyond a lot of what went on around me. I turned out to be much closer to normal than my poor mother ever expected. I got into cocaine a little in college, and some of my boyfriends were alarming, but I was all right.
I never held up a bank or OD'd on anything or joined a cult or even dropped out of school. I did things I still regret. I slept with the best friend of a boyfriend I really liked. I slept with a professor my dear female pal was in love with. I did this because I could, and because such adventures were still irresistible to me.
I thought that I was onto something that had been known throughout history, but never acted out as candidly. Nini, who was studying anthropology at NYU, pointed out to me that sexual behavior was always a social construct. Okay, I'm a creature of my times, I said. Actually, Nini had had affairs with women and was much more up-to-date than I was. I lived at home during those years.
I took the subway up to City College in Harlem, and I let my mother meet only one of the boys I dated, if you could call it dating. He was a nice guy, anyone could see that, nerdy but alluring, who talked to my mother about geophysical research. She thought it was fine when I went off to Berkeley for grad work, following him, though we split up midway through the first semester.
Northern California, it turned out, was a great place for me. What a pleasant and civilized climate. What cool people. So when I came home to frozen New York for Christmas break, I felt distant and older. Long ago, I had lived here.
But I was happy to see Nini again, and I fondly walked by my old high school, even stopped by the donut shop on 8th Street that had once been rash enough to employ me. My old boss, Ronald, was behind the counter, a little balder and more creased. "'Look at you,' he said. "'You were a pipsqueak when I saw you last, and now you're a grown woman.' "'How's it been going without me?' I said."
Business was down. Eighth Street wasn't what it once was, but he was always glad to see his old workers. Crawlers weren't selling. Did I want one for free? I did. It was so sad about Brody, wasn't it? he said. What? Brody had never been completely out of my thoughts, and I used to guess how far he'd hitched and where he'd ended up. Las Vegas? Baja? Ronald, who couldn't get over my not knowing.
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Chapter 8: What lasting impact does the story have on the understanding of personal narratives?
Later, I told Nini it was all very interesting. I acted as if I'd wanted to know everything, though I didn't. Who does? When I was back in school with my plaster cast with all the signatures on it, I'd look at those names and feel superior. for having been in that room with its evidence of what the body was. I believed my tibia would grow back fine. I was a confident girl.
But bone didn't last forever, did it? I kept this question to myself, as if no one were in on the mystery but me.
That was Sarah Swan-Yen Bynum reading Evolution by Joan Silber. The story appeared in The New Yorker in September of 2022 and became part of Silber's novel Mercy, which was published in 2025.
We are in uncharted territory. Staff writer Evan Osnos on The New Yorker Radio Hour. I think all of us right now are trying to make sense of an avalanche of news every day. And there aren't very many places where you can go and understand how something looks in the grand scope of history and context. That's what I come to The New Yorker for.
I'm David Remnick. And each week, my colleagues and I try to make sense of what's happening in this chaotic world. And I hope you'll join us for The New Yorker Radio Hour.
So, Sarah, our first vision of Kara is of this 10-year-old sashaying around on her New York City fire escape in the middle of winter, swinging her bathrobe belt and singing. It's quite a way to establish a character from the get-go. Do you think that that moment is in any way symbolic?
You know, that we have this girl who's in a sense kind of playing with danger and then engaging with sexuality and then suddenly gets hurt by it.
there's also an exuberance there. There is, yes. And the exuberance is there in the performance, but it's also there in the language with which the narrator recollects this moment. The whoopty-whoopty and the foxy little move. I mean, even the way she tells the story has... the sassiness that I imagined that that 10-year-old girl had out on the fire escape.
So, yes, it's absolutely setting up the vulnerability of the body, the fact that this exuberant 10-year-old does end up majorly fracturing her tibia. And it also sets up the curiosity about... winning people's attention through her sexy moves. But to me, almost as importantly, it introduces us to this joyful, playful aspect of her character as well.
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