It’s not like I remember it, this planet. The blues and greens that painted me as a child have been replaced with browns and grays, the color of dry bones. Crouched here among these windowed walls, roofless with decay, I long for my youth. What winter could devastate me then, having known only a few silent snows, spectral with belonging?
Gish Jen’s eighth book, THE RESISTERS, is the feminist, dystopian, baseball novel we didn’t know we needed — and, actually, maybe we don’t.