{"product_id":"night-night-fawn-isbn-9780593448007","title":"Night Night Fawn","description":"\u003cb\u003eFrom the author of \u003ci\u003eConfessions of the Fox \u003c\/i\u003ecomes a novel in which a yenta on her deathbed gives an unrepentant account of all her failures—including her child.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“From one of our most fearless living novelists comes this extraordinary book. No half measures here, just big ideas and living characters and metafictional panache and surprise after heart-stopping surprise.”—Carmen Maria Machado, author of \u003ci\u003eIn the Dream House\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA MOST ANTICIPATED BOOK OF THE YEAR: \u003ci\u003ethem, Literary Hub, BookPage, Library Journal, Electric Lit\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn a cluttered rent-controlled apartment in the middle of Manhattan, Barbara Rosenberg is terminally ill, high on opioids, and writing the story of her life. She has opinions about her smutty late husband, her career as the receptionist for a disreputable plastic surgeon, her glory days as an accomplished jazzerciser, and her failed aspirations to be a film noir actress. But what she \u003ci\u003ereally \u003c\/i\u003ewants to talk about are unhinged thoughts on gender, Karl Marx, Zionism, and her two great disappointing loves: an estranged trans son and a long-lost best friend whose betrayal haunts Barbara still. As she descends further into delirium and illness, Barbara finds herself in a nightmare from which she cannot escape, and her circumstances put her on a crash course with these intimates—or are they avenging nemeses?—once again. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePart novel, part someone’s mother’s unauthorized memoir—all diatribe, gutter schtick, and deranged manifesto, \u003ci\u003eNight Night Fawn \u003c\/i\u003eis a ferociously candid account of intergenerational conflict.“Incendiary . . . Rosenberg crafts his satirical portrayal of Barbara’s transphobia with a dizzying blend of broad humor and vitriol . . . her voice is consistently arresting, and a shocking final twist will cause readers to reexamine everything that came before. It’s a memorable familial reckoning.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eNight Night Fawn i\u003c\/i\u003es comic fiction as political firepower . . . Rosenberg’s novel is a bright streetlight illuminating one strip of a dark street: The dangers are still nearby, but it’s a place to stand and laugh loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBookPage, \u003c\/i\u003estarred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eNight Night Fawn\u003c\/i\u003e is undoubtedly the Marxist, trans, comedic dystopia we need in 2026. . . Jordy Rosenberg’s second novel subverts form to become an inherently transgressive unauthorized fictional 'memoir' that reads as hysterical manifesto . . . As with Rosenberg’s first book, the prose crackles.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eElectric Literature\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Readers familiar with any intergenerational family friction will find catharsis here. And that's the gift of Rosenberg, the author: funny, readable prose inviting everyone into the thrill of relatable satire.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist, \u003c\/i\u003estarred review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“From one of our most fearless living novelists comes this extraordinary book. No half measures here, just big ideas and living characters and metafictional panache and surprise after heart-stopping surprise.”\u003cb\u003e—Carmen Maria Machado, author of \u003ci\u003eIn the Dream House\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Hot damn, Jordy Rosenberg can \u003ci\u003ewrite! Night Night Fawn\u003c\/i\u003e contains an unabashed, unhinged, urgent id that rockets around its pages at escape velocity—and yet it voices that id with control, precision, and originality. Moving! Thrilling! This is me applauding in blurb form.”\u003cb\u003e—Torrey Peters, author of \u003ci\u003eDetransition, Baby\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eNight Night Fawn\u003c\/i\u003e is one of the most astounding novels of our time, a triumph of voice and social critique, a generational reckoning that is as urgent and gripping as it is playful and wickedly funny. Trust again the singular brilliance and heart of Jordy Rosenberg.”\u003cb\u003e—David Chariandy, author of \u003ci\u003eBrother\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A singularly hysterical and ferocious novel, a book that has you in stitches while re-suturing you—inviting you to feel how history both moves through and acts upon a body . . . an urgent intervention into contemporary Jewish letters and the ways in which settler colonialism and gendered violence reproduce inside our families. . . . I was absolutely floored by this book and am just now peeling myself up off the ground.”\u003cb\u003e—Sam Sax, author of \u003ci\u003eYr Dead\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“An epic, audacious and daring act of literary trespass through the ruins of family, history, and Zionism.”\u003cb\u003e—Andrea Lawlor, author of \u003ci\u003ePaul Takes the Form of a Mortal Girl\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Jordy Rosenberg’s exuberant, exasperating narrator unleashes the full, hilarious, and ultimately revealing power of the rant. \u003ci\u003eNight Night Fawn\u003c\/i\u003e is a hugely enjoyable novel, devious and rich in irony.”\u003cb\u003e—Sofia Samatar, British Fantasy Award-winning author of \u003ci\u003eThe White Mosque\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A bravura performance . . . Rosenberg breaks open a library of silences here.”\u003cb\u003e—Alexander Chee, author of \u003ci\u003eHow to Write an Autobiographical Novel\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A novel as wickedly funny as it is smart . . . I have simply never read anything like it.”\u003cb\u003e—Melissa Febos, author of \u003ci\u003eBody Work\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eJordy Rosenberg\u003c\/b\u003e is the author of the novel \u003ci\u003eConfessions of the Fox,\u003c\/i\u003e a \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e Editors Choice selection, shortlisted for the Center for Fiction First Novel Prize, a Lambda Literary Award, a Publishing Triangle Award, the UK Historical Writers Association Debut Crown Award, longlisted for The Dublin Literary Award, and named one of the best books of the year by \u003ci\u003eThe New Yorker, Kirkus Reviews \u003c\/i\u003eand others. Jordy’s work has been supported by MacDowell, The Lannan Foundation, The Banff Centre, and The Ahmanson-Getty Foundation. He is a professor in the Department of English and Associated MFA Faculty in the Program for Poets and Writers at UMass-Amherst.\u003cb\u003eA Woman Marked for Death\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRoused from a damp OxyContin slumber into the dirty orange Manhattan night, I lay there, trying to pick the nocturnal sounds apart. The ocean squall of traffic, constant. The intermittent beep of a forklift at the post office loading dock. The wind pouring down the canyon of East Sixty-­ninth Street.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd something else. An ambient noise, like static in the air. From inside the apartment.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI pushed myself to sit and swung my legs out of bed, sliding them to the floor. There was the terrible ache I’ve come to expect, but they didn’t fold, so I pumped myself into a stagger, one hand on the bottom of the bed, the other on the dresser, and made my way toward the door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI did not have a weapon, I realized, as I reached the mirrored dressing table at the threshold of my bedroom. In addition to that, I am a Woman. A woman marked for death and caught in the jaws of a notoriously lethal illness. An arrhythmic banging came from somewhere and then a terrible, vague sloshing. On my dressing table I spotted my pink and black Tweezermans, sharp as little baby teeth. I grabbed them and, holding them out in front of me, advanced farther into the apartment like Rita Hayworth sneaking around the Mundson mansion in \u003ci\u003eGilda\u003c\/i\u003e, the hem of my robe flittering along the carpet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn my daughter’s bedroom the traffic along Second Avenue cast stripes of light through the blinds; they floated across the ceiling like empty frames of film reel ticking off after a show. My eyes traced the perimeter. Small writing desk, wheeled office chair, slim bookshelf. And then, along the far wall—­my god!—­a coffin, quiet as a turd, lewd and horrible. Heat flew up my neck. How did someone get a coffin in here? And who was inside it? Or—I trembled—­was it for me?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCars whirred past down below, indifferent. Then the bedroom glowed red. The light had changed and the traffic paused. The shadows fleeing across the ceiling paused. Shapes sharpened in the dark. The coffin resolved into its ordinary form, just an empty twin bed sagging against the floral wallpaper, pink blossoms pale with time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe noise, meanwhile, had become a low rumble punctuated by thuds.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI backed out of the bedroom and crossed the living room. I began to make out choking, gurgling sounds. Locking my elbows, I pushed the Tweezermans farther out in front of me and turned the corner like a cowboy sliding into a saloon, flicking on the light with the back of my shoulder. The fluorescent ceiling ring sizzled to life, and the thin needle of the galley kitchen flashed bright as a surgical theater. A shiny cockroach toddled across the Formica and slipped into a crack between the sink and countertop.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy eyes searched every surface until they reached the small dishwasher, chugging its load. Of course! I’d turned it on before I went to bed. Exhaling with relief, I sank against the doorframe, bubbly with decades of thick acrylic paint.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMaking my way back across the living room, crisis averted, my legs began to shake. I had exerted myself too much.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eSilly, Barbara\u003c\/i\u003e, I muttered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI felt a bolt of fury at Stephen for being dead and unable to do his husbandly duty of investigating weird noises. And maybe a little teasing appreciation of my hysterics. Say what you will—­and seventy years of life have clarified to me that people always do, though rarely to your face—­I loved it when he treated me like a dumb shiksa bimbo.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen, underneath the dishwasher’s slurp and rattle, there was a whisper. I froze.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSomeone was standing between the plastic fern and the credenza, facing the wall and sighing, like a teacher getting composed before addressing an unruly class. I begged the vision to become something benign. Furniture, a shadow, a mirage. But the image held. The figure began to turn. The room radiated with the inevitability of our encounter.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI had seen glimpses before. Always out of the corner of my eye, always in the middle of the night. Once, getting up to pee, I caught a flash of something darting around a corner. Another time, teetering to the kitchen for water, I swore I heard a peculiar scratching behind me, like claws moving across the carpet. What was I to do! It’s a dream, I convinced myself, scuttling back to bed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut, after each of these episodes, I’d wake with the feeling that someone had been in my room. Accompanied by the strange, deflated sensation of having been scolded for hours on end, and the overpowering sense that I needed to apologize for my life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe face was familiar—­that was the most unnerving part.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBecause my terror did not vanish when I realized that it was familiar. Actually, my terror increased. Something was very wrong with the face.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIts nose was not a nose.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOr, maybe it was a nose. But it was not made of nose flesh. Where a nose should have been, something hard and black curled down into a shiny tip.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe figure just stood there, blinking at me. And as I was staring back, the inscrutable hard black thing on its face began to take shape.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was a beak.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA big hawk-­like beak.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd then the figure opened its beak.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd said, \u003ci\u003eMom.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis Other You\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe next morning when you came to check on me, I shuddered and pulled the pilly yellow blanket all the way up to my face, the worn satin edge soft against my lips. My eyes peeked out like a child at a scary movie. I couldn’t get this image of you—­this other you—­out of my head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou, meanwhile, were acting like everything was normal. Your nose looked nose-­like again. Maybe it had retracted like a flaccid penis back into your regular nose. This is one theory I am developing. You were acting like I wouldn’t remember, probably telling yourself that I had been so out of it that I couldn’t put two and two together.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou leaned across the bed and placed one of those green shakes you’re always forcing on me onto the dresser. I followed you with my eyes as you started back out the doorway. Eager to go make one of your endless phone calls.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eAm I awake?\u003c\/i\u003e I heard myself slur against the blanket’s wet rim.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou turned back, exasperated, which wasn’t fair. It’s not like I’d been haranguing you all morning. I’d been lying there for hours, frankly parched.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eWhat do you mean?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eIs this real?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eIs what real.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI tunneled one hand out and waved it around at the gargoyling mahogany bedroom set, the constantly playing television, the pawn shop paintings of Parisian dancing ladies. \u003ci\u003eThis,\u003c\/i\u003e I said. \u003ci\u003eAll of it.\u003c\/i\u003e You squinched your face, assessed the row of pills along the edge of the dresser. \u003ci\u003eYour doctor said the OxyContin could have a “derealizing effect,” remember?\u003c\/i\u003e You had that cloyingly calm, ultra reasonable tone you always have now. I know exactly where you get it from. I found it infuriating when your father used to do it, so you can just imagine how I feel about it coming from you.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut you were enjoying this. You have all the power now and you know it. I’m wearing a diaper, after all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe thing is, though, I saw something sticking out from between your shirt and the waist of your jeans when you bent over to put down the shake. A feather? And at that moment I realized several things:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e• ­I wasn’t dreaming last night.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e•­ (But you’d like me to think I was.)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e• ­You are changing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e• ­(And I can’t tell you that I know.)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis is my punishment for having been cruel to you. Isn’t it enough that I should die with only you as my caretaker? That I should end up needing the specific individual I had successfully purged from the family decades ago?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBack then, in the 1990s, I had been at the height of my powers and I was just not having it. I was not having my daughter running around in combat boots and no lipstick. Frankly, I am proud to say I didn’t budge one goddamned inch. It wasn’t so hard. In fact, things were easier without you around. For two decades I simply told everyone you were still dating that one boy from high school and no one asked another thing about it. (There is a yenta code of ethics, believe it or not, which is to leave people alone in their misery.)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo isn’t it humiliation enough that after all these years I should have to admit I needed help? From you, no less. Isn’t it enough that I should have to die overhearing you conduct your sordid business, wishing (multiple?) women good night on the phone. Talking filthy, using syrupy words. That I should die completely at your mercy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut now this.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy daughter, what have you become?","brand":"One World","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48233433104613,"sku":"NP9780593448007","price":29.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593448007.jpg?v=1767733717","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/night-night-fawn-isbn-9780593448007","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}