In Rebecca Perry’s Booker-shortlisted May We Feed the King, a woman beset by a pervasive loneliness—its origin deliberately unclear—devotes herself to a highly particular vocation: reconstructing history through meticulously staged banquets. The narrator knows the best places to procure a flawless plastic chicken leg and possesses a genuine fondness for a counterfeit fish whose gills glow with a bright red hue. She is a master of her craft, steadfast and unapologetic when pressed about her methods.
This curator takes on a commission to re-create “scenes,” as she calls them, inside an ancient castle. To ensure fidelity, she asks for access to the archives. With the castle’s archivist aiding her, the narrator gradually slips into the life of a Medieval king and his court (soon addressed as “my King”). As her curiosity becomes all-consuming, so too does the novel’s momentum, drawing us into intrigues that belong to centuries past.
The King sits uneasy on his throne of authority. His inner circle includes his aide, his wife, and the wife’s cousin. Perry vividly demonstrates how rumors are conjured and then carried from lip to ear, and how power’s spell can enchant those closest to it. Was that a shadow in the window, or were the King, his wife, and the wife’s cousin entangled in a secret entanglement? Or was the King simply sitting at his desk, head in his hands, overwhelmed by it all? For anyone who loves the portal-like potential of archives and imaginative reconstruction, this is intoxicatingly appealing.
Perry stands among a rare cadre of writers who seem to bridge the gulf between verse and literary fiction. Her phrasing feels lush yet stately, delivering precisely enough. Consider the moment when the king moves through his garden and contemplates “the perfection of the bleeding heart, its blossoms hanging in a neat line, swaying in the breeze.” The Booker judges describe May We Feed the King as “a wonderfully enticing, and eye-opening, fusion of themes, woven together with a remarkably delicate touch.”
— Diana Arterian
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My nightstand tends to overflow with books I have already read and those I have yet to tackle. Occasionally the pile becomes so unruly that I must remove everything, start afresh, and pretend I will keep a strict TBR, a vow I rarely keep.
Items on my nightstand:
A handful of blossoms in a small vintage wooden tulip vase. If fresh flowers aren’t available, a tiny spider plant sits on the surface instead.
An oil painting still life of fish and lemons, a gift from my partner for my 40th birthday—still waiting to be hung.
A pear-shaped candle. A trip with friends to Casa das Velas Loreto in Lisbon—a tiny, gorgeous shop that sells only liturgical and baptismal candles, cash only. May We Feed the King hadn’t been released yet, but I couldn’t resist buying it. It rests on an Italian pietra slate panel inlaid with birds—the panel was a gift from my friend, the writer Amy Key, to remember my grandfather after he passed away.
A framed papercut by the artist Andrea Oke. Amy and I were writers in residence at Halsway Manor, the national center for folk art, a few years back. We created a poetry pamphlet inspired by the archives there, and Andrea crafted a series of papercuts to illustrate it. This particular piece shows a knife nestled among a bunch of leeks.
Books on my nightstand:
Anne Carson, Glass, Irony and God
A remarkable volume containing The Glass Essay, a lengthy meditation on Carson’s mother and Emily Dickinson. It reads like a masterclass and I turn to it often when I teach or run workshops (though teaching isn’t a frequent occurrence). Sometimes I simply pick it up and read a page or two.
Federico García Lorca, Poems (tr. Stephen Spender and J.L. Gili)
A first edition of Lorca’s collected works, purchased for me by my partner of sixteen years for the birthday I had a month after we first met. Lorca remains my initial romance as a writer.
Will Keohane, Out There (proof)
A book that is at once gorgeous, intimate, and incisive—tender in its examination of gender transition, among other themes.
Books I’m eagerly awaiting to read include A Year on the Abyss of Genocide by Mahmoud Al-Shaer (a gift from my PalFest Bookshelf subscription), The Hour of the Wolf by Fatima Bhutto, and Emma Cline’s Switzy.
