The Fugitivities

Perspiring, dizzy with heat and exhaustion, Jonah stopped at the corner of Underhill and St. Johns and plunked down the armchair he had trundled through the leafy streets of Park Slope, along the wide sunbaked extension of Flatbush Avenue, and, at Grand Army Plaza, around the imposing monument to the Defenders of the Union, where bronze charioteers looked out over the construction of a condominium tower. The rich folk in the Slope had a habit of throwing out nice furniture in the summer, and he was determined to furnish his new apartment. The haul had been pretty good so far a reclaimed-wood bookcase, a banker s desk lamp, a vaguely Oriental side table with the only downside being that the crib now had the eclectic air of a showroom.

He was about halfway down the block when he took note of the commo­tion surrounding a double-parked Grand Cherokee directly across from his building. The vehicle was loaded down with equipment for living: a cream leather sitting chair crammed in at an angle, trash bags full of clothes, a plastic crate stuffed with video-game accessories, assorted lotions and hair products. Foodstuffs, cooking appliances, a bottle of Crisco, remained stranded on the sidewalk awaiting transport. A man carrying a stereo unit emerged from the brownstone across the street and hollered. At the boom of his voice, a somber boy in a durag, one earbud pendant, looked up. At the man s side stood a little girl with beaded braids, wearing a backpack; she saw Jonah and ducked behind her father s knee. You heard him, go help your father, shouted a woman from the front passenger side, where she must have been trying to find more room. Her gaze passed over Jonah, assessing and dismissing in one sweep, before turning to the stoop as she called out the girl s name in a high sweet voice.

It took Jonah a moment to understand what he was seeing even though it was the simplest thing in the world. The expression on the face of the man carrying the stereo was

Jesse McCarthy is the author of the essay collection Who Will Pay Reparations On My Soul? and has written for several publications including The New York Times, n+1, and The New Republic. He is a contributing editor at The Point and is an associate professor of English, African American, and African History at Harvard. This is his first novel.

"McCarthy s spiralling, exquisitely cadenced prose is a shot of adrenaline, enlivening an ambitious twenty-first-century sentimental education that recalls Ben Lerner, Ralph Ellison, and Roberto Bolaño." The New Yorker

"Best of 2021: Our Favorite Fiction" Kirkus

A "Most Anticipated Book" The Millions

"Virtuosic ... [McCarthy's] prose, agile as a pianist in full flow, dances across the page ... there are no conclusions, no resolutions to this fugue state, but there is something glorious in its exploration." The New York Times

"McCarthy s captivating debut tackles race and the American dream ... With its rich, lyrically drawn atmosphere and incisive commentary ... McCarthy s tale maintains an authentic feel. Readers are in very good hands with this smart, empathetic, and soul-searching writer." Publisher's Weekly (starred review)

"An acclaimed African American essayist puts forth a first novel whose quirky romanticism, vivid landscapes, and digressive storytelling owe more to classic European cinema than conventional literature ... An intellectually stimulating fiction debut." Kirkus (starred review)

"In his insightful debut, writer, editor, and Harvard professor McCarthy explores the tension between community and individual perceptions of Black identity in different cultures ... Superb storytelling." Booklist

"If you haven t already heard of Jesse McCarthy, you soon will be! ... [The Fugitivities] is best enjoyed by sinking into the ruminative prose and savoring the ride." Bookreporter

"The Fugitivities is a thrilling twenty-first-century sentimental education a tale of black intellectual guilt and irrepressible wanderlust that follows a young teacher from disillusionment in Brooklyn to doubt and revelation abroad. McCarthy s spiraling, observant, exquisitely cadenced prose is a shot of adrenaline in a sea of laconic and episodic