Dreaming of Kafka Podcast

Ricardo Pierre-Louis

Fictions, book reviews, and essays by Ricardo Pierre-Louis. All work originally appears at ricardoplouis.substack.com www.ricardoplouis.com

Episodes

  1. Jul 9

    When The Reader Becomes A Confidant

    I wonder where to start. As I tell you my story, will you find it hard to empathize? I am what some call an unreliable character and I have done something unthinkable. But I implore you to listen. As the storyteller, I need you on my side. And we know that a story is only as good as its beginning. - A Splintering by Dur e Aziz Amna Between the tone, tension, and pacing, this is shaping up to be one of the best intros I’ve read in a long time. The book, A Splintering, came out in April of this year and was written by Dur e Aziz Amna , recent winner of the Stanfords Prize for Fiction. Her work stands out to me for both its craft, and because of the way it subverts the conventional teachings of fiction. When we first meet the protagonist, Tara, we learn that she’s a woman from humble beginnings with a voracious appetite for money. Her unbounded ambition catapults her from her small town in rural Pakistan to the country’s capital, and she soon attains a life for herself that was previously unimaginable. Fulfilling career, two kids, accountant husband. But once the trappings of a middle class life become available to her, she decides that it isn’t enough. She needs more. Her story begins with an appeal to us, the dear reader. We are immediately welcomed and bargained with and it soon becomes clear that we are not a passive participant watching a tale unfurl, but rather Tara’s confidant. A reliable person for someone who wants to recount their tragic mistake. Tara wants, no, needs us to be on her side. Why? Maybe everyone else abandoned her. Perhaps it satisfies some guilty desire to confess. We understand little about her, but we are allowed into her inner world to bear witness to her downfall. And this chasm between what we know and how we feel about her is perhaps what propels us forward and makes us want to keep reading. A couple of weeks ago, the writer Lincoln Michel wrote a brilliant piece on the many different types of POVs. It’s a great primer for anyone that hasn’t been in an English class in awhile, as well as anyone who wants to hear a fresh perspective on an old idea. Underneath the first-person POVs, he outlines what he calls the “The Appeal” perspective. A first person, direct address not to some unnamed reader, but to a specific person inside of the novel. A Splintering doesn’t fit neatly into this rule, as it speaks directly to us, the unnamed reader, but it employs a thrilling variant as Tara encourages us to listen without judgement, at least not until we understand her life and where she comes from. Shortly after her desperate plea, she explains the circumstances that lead to her downfall. In the first few pages we come to learn, in a thinly veiled, foreboding kind of way, the entire plot of the story to come. Traditional storytelling dictates that we handle plot the same way Pavlov handles dog treats. Gradually release the details to lead the subject through a desired path. Show, don’t tell. But in the first few pages of A Splintering we are frontloaded with information. Told almost everything that is about to happen. At this point, it would be reasonable for us to walk away knowing what we know, but we can’t can’t because that would mean turning our back on our new fr iend, Tara. Her mea culpa then becomes the driving force of the narrative, the sole reason for us to stay. I’m drawn to stories, stories that that defy conventional standards because they illuminate how capacious the art of fiction can be. Show, don’t tell can be a useful technique for authors struggling to write a scene or place, but sometimes we can simply tell the audience everything we have in store for them. Because once we’ve built up an intimate relationship with the reader, turned them into a confidant, or even an accomplice, then we can rest easy knowing that they’ll stay by our side. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.ricardoplouis.com/subscribe

  2. Apr 3

    Interview With Vince Omni | Author of 1989

    I hope you’re all doing well on this beautiful Friday afternoon. Earlier this year I read an amazing novelette, 1989 by Vince Omni. Published earlier this year, 1989 won the CRAFT 2025 Novelette Print Prize. The book that has stayed with me long after I finished the last page, and I’m incredibly excited to see what Vince does next. So without further ado, here is the interview. (And an accompanying transcript) Transcript Ricardo Pierre-Louis (00:01) Hello, hello. My name is Ricardo and I’d to welcome Vince Omni, the author of an amazing novelette, 1989. Vince Omni (00:12) Thank you so much. Ricardo Pierre-Louis (00:14) Yeah, I read this book, I forgot, it like a month or two ago. Right, I think right around the time it just came out ⁓ and I was ecstatic. And I also just love short books. Not every book needs to be two or 300 word pages. This is just my opinion. ⁓ But yeah, if you wanna ⁓ introduce yourself, Vince, talk a little about who you are and how this kind of book came to be. Vince Omni (00:40) Sure, yeah. yeah. First of all, Ricardo, thanks for having me, inviting me to this interview. I’m very grateful for an opportunity to talk about 1989 with you. I mean, I tell my students ⁓ that, you know, one of the things I love to talk about is myself and the things that I’m working on. So I teach at Lake Forest College in Lake Forest, Illinois. I teach African-American Lit and Creative Writing. I like to write fiction, short stories, novels, some dabbling in screenplays. I kind of have a, I feel like I have like a cinematic bent to my writing, and I think that’s from spending way too much time in front of a television screen, so yeah. Ricardo Pierre-Louis (01:18) Okay, well, no, we’ll definitely get into that. Vince Omni (01:34) So yeah, so there, that’s a little bit about me. Ricardo Pierre-Louis (01:38) And then 1989. So the book is very interesting for a few reasons. One, so for those that don’t know, 1989 is a novelette, so it’s a little shorter than traditional novel. But also it’s set in a very specific place, Late 80s, Denver, that I’ll be honest, I have not seen too many of any books set in that, especially like the black community in that time. So I feel like you can you know, there has to be like some reason or, know, for how that came to be. Vince Omni (02:12) Yeah, for sure. Yeah, I could talk about that. Yeah, I grew up in Denver. I was born in California, but my mother was a Denverite. I was raised in Denver, Colorado from like age two or three until I left for high school at age 18. And then I was still a resident. Like I went to college back and forth to a small college in Minnesota called St. Olaf. But I would come home for the summers and I actually, this continued to live there sporadically off and on, but I haven’t lived there as a resident probably since 19, the mid 1990s, 90s, 96, somewhere around there. Ricardo Pierre-Louis (02:58) And we’ll get into like the setting of Denver a little bit later because I do want to talk more about that. But I also want to read. I want to get to the book and why. mean, one of the reasons I love it. But for those it’s it’s a book, I guess. I mean, it’s a book about basketball, but also about like so many other things you just rarely see basketball in like a story in a literary form. I think I read, you know, Hanif Abdurraqib’s book a year two ago, but I haven’t, I think this is the only, the second book I’ve ever read that includes basketball, which I loved as a kid. Detached a little bit more as I got older. So how did you end up writing like a basketball? Vince Omni (03:48) Yeah, you know what, it’s funny because first of all, I love basketball. I was never in danger of being a tremendous talent on the basketball court. Right? But I grew up. I grew up with a group of, you know, like, I grew up in a generation where everyone thought, man, a lot of men thought, you we’re gonna grow up, we’re gonna be ballers, we’re gonna be hoopers, we’re gonna play for the rest of our lives. And that worked out for a lot of folks, just not for me. Just not for me. Ricardo Pierre-Louis (04:29) That’s funny. I have a similar story. I mean, anybody that’s met me in person, I’m 5’7”, I’m not a tall guy, right? But I was actually pretty good. Not to toot own horn, but I remember my sophomore year of I made the team, my freshman year in high school, was trying out for my sophomore. The coaches loved me because I was like a defensive player, I had a lot of grit, right? And I could take a punch. But I remember I went to my basketball coach my sophomore year and ⁓ I told him, I was like, hey coach, you know, I was thinking of playing again this year, but there’s also these like business and math club that I was going to join. And I think those honestly take me further than basketball will. And then my coach, he grabs, he puts his arm around my shoulder, looks at me he’s like, Ricardo. I’m trying to think if I should curse. Yeah, why not? He’s like Ricardo, you’re the smartest m**********r on this team. He’s like, I wish everybody thought like that. But yeah, a lot of people, especially in Chicago, like my team won the city championship, Gwendolyn Brooks Eagles, right? So everybody and two of the guys, like both the guards ended up playing D1, right? ⁓ I don’t know what happened to them after that, but they did play D1. Yeah, I come from like a very competitive, very intense, like basketball school environment. So when I was reading it, I was like, oh God, it’s like being in high school again. Vince Omni (06:06) You know, and I played a little bit of high school hoop. I played a year of college at a D3. And you know, I just loved the game. I did. I still do. still follow the pro game, especially around this time of year when the playoffs, when things are amping up for the playoffs. You know, so you know, that’s when I start to really tune in a lot. But I keep track of my hometown team, the Denver Nuggets, you know. Ricardo Pierre-Louis (06:35) Okay, I’m not going to get into, I’ll ask Nugget’s questions at the very end because I do think we could easily turn this into a basketball chat. But so the novel, so one of the things I find, one of the central themes or ideas behind the novel as well, in addition to basketball, is you have this queer basketball player whose story is kind of being told secondhand, right? Church, through Davyon’s interview and I was curious like what kind of led to that decision and like that kind of narrative and I’m very interested because there’s not like it’s I mean, you know, but like in sports, especially basketball like there’s I think only been one Like openly gay basketball player Jason Collins. I don’t know of any others that have been And no act no none since. So I’m curious how you like approach that and how you decided to like, you know explore that kind of queer narrative in Vince Omni (07:15) So, I I heard a lot of questions in there, so I’ll, I’ll just... Ricardo Pierre-Louis (07:38) Answer whatever, which one ever you want. Vince Omni (07:40) I’ll start with like kind of like the motivation like the the inspiration for it like I was I was I was you know I Was a teenager playing at the King Center in Northeast Denver Park Hill is the same neighborhood where Chauncey Billups came out of. And so I was there I was it was summer we were playing you know some pickup games. And there was a coach. He wasn’t my coach. He was just a coach. He was a guy in the building watching kids play hoop. And he kept doing the same thing that Church does to Davyon at the beginning of the book, which is calling him out his name. Using these gender-based slurs to kind of know, infuriate him. And I was a kid at the time. I mean, I’m ashamed to admit that that worked for me. But he kept doing that to me. And then later he told me on the sidelines that we did I kept saying that because you know see a lot of potential in you I want you to work harder this that the third yada yada yada And he actually turned out to be a helpful person like he actually turned out to be a helpful person in fall as far as like you know Basketball knowledge is concerned like you know helping me to increase my basketball IQ. Helping me understand the things that I need to do if I want to continue to play basketball. He really became a helpful person. But I always wondered, like, I was curious about interrogating that kind of, you know, that frame of thought, that motivation. Yeah, like, why motivate me in that way? And not just that, but the 80s, that was just a very, like, there was a lot of toxic masculinity going around. was, you know, where I grew up in Denver. This is the era where the Crips and the Bloods came to town from Los Angeles. And so there was a tradition of, or shouldn’t you say a tradition, was a, there was a point where the guys in my neighborhood went from fighting with their fists to shooting each other. You know what I’m saying? So there was just a lot of, there was just a lot of hyper, what we would call, what would be considered by society hyper masculine behavior going around. And I wanted to push back on that and to interrogate that and to learn more about the motivations for it. And I was curious, what would have motivated someone to take that particular approach with me to motivate me to play harder. And I just kind of arrived at, what if this guy, and I’m not trying to make any speculation about this person who was heckling me on the sideline because I don’t know anything about their sexual history or their sexual, you know, how they identify themselves. But I was just, I just wondered like, what if this was like a, you know, kind of like a mask for this person? And if it was a mask, what would it mean? What did that mean for him and for his life and the way he moved through the world? Ricardo Pierre-Louis (10:47) Yeah, I mean. I k

    Interview With Vince Omni | Author of 1989

  3. Jan 6

    Cheating Husbands & Coffeehouses

    There were few places one could escape the oppressive air and politics of 17th century London, that is until the first coffee shop arrived. When the brits finally learned of the brew (hundreds of years after its discovery in Ethiopia), it quickly drew the ire and attention of conservatives and victuallers alike. There was widespread fear it would replace alcohol, and foment discord among the drunk, uneducated masses. Propaganda campaigns were unleashed to tie the drink to everything foreign (The Sweat of Negroes, Blood of Moores) and unchristian (i.e. bitter Mohammedan gruel). And while these racist campaigns were as ineffective as they were unoriginal, there is one that stood out against the rest. The Women’s Petition Against Coffee. Unlike the homogenous chains we’ve come to know, the coffee shops of the time varied widely in intent and theme. Rainbow Coffee House became a refuge for freemasons and french refugees. Jonathan’s Coffee House, founded in Exchange Alley, was frequented by merchants and businessmen and became the home of the London Stock Exchange. Others became the birthplace of life insurance, or assassination plots. Dreaming of Kafka is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. The congregation of the masses was and has always been seen as a threat to thin-skinned rulers, so even though these coffeeshops did little to combat the conservative norms (patrons were still largely white men), they were still perceived as an affront to polite society. “…disturbance of the peace and quiet realm,” King Charles II on Coffee and Coffee Drinkers They were the college campuses of the time, deeply unequal institutions that were believed to foster radical thought and just like college campuses, they became the prime target of conservative forces. “..beatniks, radi­cals and filthy speech advocates” Ronald Reagan on College and College Activists In 1674, the “Woman’s Petition Against Coffee” penned by “A Well Wisher” started to make the rounds. In addition to its fantastical takedowns of the male anatomy, the petition is filled with all sorts of jabs aimed at coffee drinking men. Coffeehouses sometimes doubled as brothels, or at least helped encourage certain kinds of matchmaking activities. If a man came home after a late night and smelled like coffee, it was hardly different than him having lipstick on his lapel. So the theory goes that the author of this letter was the wife of an unfaithful man, a woman who took issue with the infidelity of the male species, and needed to let the world know. She attacks their trousers and says: They come from it with nothing moist but their snotty Noses, nothing stiffe but their joints, nor standing but their Ears. Well Wisher, Women’s Petition Against Coffee She talks about how annoying it makes a man. For besides, we have reason to apprehend and grow Jealous, That Men by frequenting these Stygian Tap-houses will usurp on our Prerogative of tattling, and soon learn to exceed us in Talkativeness: a Quality wherein our Sex has ever Claimed preheminence. Well Wisher, Women’s Petition Against Coffee And finally she even takes aim at the brew itself “[men]..spend their Money, all for a little base, black, thick, nasty, bitter, stinking, nauseous Puddle-water. Well Wisher, Women’s Petition Against Coffee Although, there was likely little disagreement on her last point; British coffee was known for being an abhorrent, yet suitable alternative to alcohol or the fetid water flowing through the tap. Still, the author must’ve hit a nerve because shortly thereafter, a man’s answer to this petition was released. The reactionary piece leans heavily on an acerbic, self-righteous type of prose, written by exactly the kind of man the Well Wisher warned us of. Talkative, with nothing to say. Yet, as entertaining as these caustic missives are, there’s another theory that perhaps the petition and it’s resulting discourse serves an ulterior motive. In 1675, one year after the Women’s Petition Against Coffee was written, King Charles II tried to ban coffee through an edict. It then appears to be too much of a coincidence that the will of the King, a man with nearly a dozen mistresses, aligns with that of this fed-up housewife. In his book, Elite Capture, the philosopher Olúfẹ́mi O. Táíwò writes about how identity politics has become weaponized to serve a select few. Elites have learned that rather than fight progressive politics, it’s far easier to incorporate them and water them down to diminish their value. One can only speculate, but I believe that the Women’s Petition Against Coffee is an early attempt at elite capture. While it began as an honest list of objections to the patriarchal culture of coffeehouses, it gained infamy perhaps through the support of the crown and other elite forces that are less interested in equality, and more interested in the squashing of dissent. Footnotes: This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.ricardoplouis.com/subscribe

  4. 12/18/2025

    The Doer of Good

    The Doer of Good It was night-time and He was alone. And He saw afar-off the walls of a round city and went towards the city. And when He came near He heard within the city the tread of the feet of joy, and the laughter of the mouth of gladness and the loud noise of many lutes. And He knocked at the gate and certain of the gate-keepers opened to Him. And He beheld a house that was of marble and had fair pillars of marble before it. The pillars were hung with garlands, and within and without there were torches of cedar. And He entered the house. And when He had passed through the hall of chalcedony and the hall of jasper, and reached the long hall of feasting, He saw lying on a couch of sea-purple one whose hair was crowned with red roses and whose lips were red with wine. And He went behind him and touched him on the shoulder and said to him, ‘Why do you live like this?’ And the young man turned round and recognised Him, and made answer and said, ‘But I was a leper once, and you healed me. How else should I live?’ And He passed out of the house and went again into the street. And after a little while He saw one whose face and raiment were painted and whose feet were shod with pearls. And behind her came, slowly as a hunter, a young man who wore a cloak of two colours. Now the face of the woman was as the fair face of an idol, and the eyes of the young man were bright with lust. And He followed swiftly and touched the hand of the young man and said to him, ‘Why do you look at this woman and in such wise?’ And the young man turned round and recognised Him and said, ‘But I was blind once, and you gave me sight. At what else should I look?’ And He ran forward and touched the painted raiment of the woman and said to her, ‘Is there no other way in which to walk save the way of sin?’ And the woman turned round and recognised Him, and laughed and said, ‘But you forgave me my sins, and the way is a pleasant way.’ And He passed out of the city. And when He had passed out of the city He saw seated by the roadside a young man who was weeping. And He went towards him and touched the long locks of his hair and said to him, ‘Why are you weeping?’ And the young man looked up and recognised Him and made answer, ‘But I was dead once, and you raised me from the dead. What else should I do but weep?’ This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.ricardoplouis.com/subscribe

  5. 12/11/2025

    How It Feels to Be Colored Me

    I am colored but I offer nothing in the way of extenuating circumstances except the fact that I am the only Negro in the United States whose grandfather on the mother’s side was not an Indian chief. I remember the very day that I became colored. Up to my thirteenth year I lived in the little Negro town of Eatonville, Florida. It is exclusively a colored town. The only white people I knew passed through the town going to or coming from Orlando. The native whites rode dusty horses, the Northern tourists chugged down the sandy village road in automobiles. The town knew the Southerners and never stopped cane chewing when they passed. But the Northerners were something else again. They were peered at cautiously from behind curtains by the timid. The more venturesome would come out on the porch to watch them go past and got just as much pleasure out of the tourists as the tourists got out of the village. The front porch might seem a daring place for the rest of the town, but it was a gallery seat for me. My favorite place was atop the gate-post. Proscenium box for a born first-nighter. Not only did I enjoy the show, but I didn’t mind the actors knowing that I liked it. I usually spoke to them in passing. I’d wave at them and when they returned my salute, I would say something like this: “Howdy-do-well-I-thank-you-where-you-go-in’?” Usually automobile or the horse paused at this, and after a queer exchange of compliments, I would probably “go a piece of the way” with them, as we say in farthest Florida. If one of my family happened to come to the front in time to see me, of course negotiations would be rudely broken off. But even so, it is clear that I was the first “welcome-to-our-state” Floridian, and I hope the Miami Chamber of Commerce will please take notice. During this period, white people differed from colored to me only in that they rode through town and never lived there. They liked to hear me “speak pieces” and sing and wanted to see me dance the parse-me-la, and gave me generously of their small silver for doing these things, which seemed strange to me for I wanted to do them so much that I needed bribing to stop, only they didn’t know it. The colored people gave no dimes. They deplored any joyful tendencies in me, but I was their Zora nevertheless. I belonged to them, to the nearby hotels, to the county—everybody’s Zora. But changes came in the family when I was thirteen, and I was sent to school in Jacksonville. I left Eatonville, the town of the oleanders, as Zora. When I disembarked from the river-boat at Jacksonville, she was no more. It seemed that I had suffered a sea change. I was not Zora of Orange County any more, I was now a little colored girl. I found it out in certain ways. In my heart as well as in the mirror, I became a fast brown—warranted not to rub nor run. But I am not tragically colored. There is no great sorrow dammed up in my soul, nor lurking behind my eyes. I do not mind at all. I do not belong to the sobbing school of Negrohood who hold that nature somehow has given them a lowdown dirty deal and whose feelings are all but about it. Even in the helter-skelter skirmish that is my life, I have seen that the world is to the strong regardless of a little pigmentation more or less. No, I do not weep at the world—I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife. Someone is always at my elbow reminding me that I am the granddaughter of slaves. It fails to register depression with me. Slavery is sixty years in the past. The operation was successful and the patient is doing well, thank you. The terrible struggle that made me an American out of a potential slave said “On the line!” The Reconstruction said “Get set!” and the generation before said “Go!” I am off to a flying start and I must not halt in the stretch to look behind and weep. Slavery is the price I paid for civilization, and the choice was not with me. It is a bully adventure and worth all that I have paid through my ancestors for it. No one on earth ever had a greater chance for glory. The world to be won and nothing to be lost. It is thrilling to think—to know that for any act of mine, I shall get twice as much praise or twice as much blame. It is quite exciting to hold the center of the national stage, with the spectators not knowing whether to laugh or to weep. The position of my white neighbor is much more difficult. No brown specter pulls up a chair beside me when I sit down to eat. No dark ghost thrusts its leg against mine in bed. The game of keeping what one has is never so exciting as the game of getting. I do not always feel colored. Even now I often achieve the unconscious Zora of Eatonville before the Hegira. I feel most colored when I am thrown against a sharp white background. For instance at Barnard. “Beside the waters of the Hudson” I feel my race. Among the thousand white persons, I am a dark rock surged upon, and overswept, but through it all, I remain myself. When covered by the waters, I am; and the ebb but reveals me again. Sometimes it is the other way around. A white person is set down in our midst, but the contrast is just as sharp for me. For instance, when I sit in the drafty basement that is The New World Cabaret with a white person, my color comes. We enter chatting about any little nothing that we have in common and are seated by the jazz waiters. In the abrupt way that jazz orchestras have, this one plunges into a number. It loses no time in circumlocutions, but gets right down to business. It constricts the thorax and splits the heart with its tempo and narcotic harmonies. This orchestra grows rambunctious, rears on its hind legs and attacks the tonal veil with primitive fury, rending it, clawing it until it breaks through to the jungle beyond. I follow those heathen—follow them exultingly. I dance wildly inside myself; I yell within, I whoop; I shake my assegai above my head, I hurl it true to the mark yeeeeooww! I am in the jungle and living in the jungle way. My face is painted red and yellow and my body is painted blue. My pulse is throbbing like a war drum. I want to slaughter something—give pain, give death to what, I do not know. But the piece ends. The men of the orchestra wipe their lips and rest their fingers. I creep back slowly to the veneer we call civilization with the last tone and find the white friend sitting motionless in his seat, smoking calmly. “Good music they have here,” he remarks, drumming the table with his fingertips. Music. The great blobs of purple and red emotion have not touched him. He has only heard what I felt. He is far away and I see him but dimly across the ocean and the continent that have fallen between us. He is so pale with his whiteness then and I am so colored. At certain times I have no race, I am me. When I set my hat at a certain angle and saunter down Seventh Avenue, Harlem City, feeling as snooty as the lions in front of the Forty-Second Street Library, for instance. So far as my feelings are concerned, Peggy Hopkins Joyce on the Boule Mich with her gorgeous raiment, stately carriage, knees knocking together in a most aristocratic manner, has nothing on me. The cosmic Zora emerges. I belong to no race nor time. I am the eternal feminine with its string of beads. I have no separate feeling about being an American citizen and colored. I am merely a fragment of the Great Soul that surges within the boundaries. My country, right or wrong. Sometimes, I feel discriminated against, but it does not make me angry. It merely astonishes me. How can any deny themselves the pleasure of my company? It’s beyond me. But in the main, I feel like a brown bag of miscellany propped against a wall. Against a wall in company with other bags, white, red and yellow. Pour out the contents, and there is discovered a jumble of small things priceless and worthless. A first-water diamond, an empty spool, bits of broken glass, lengths of string, a key to a door long since crumbled away, a rusty knife-blade, old shoes saved for a road that never was and never will be, a nail bent under the weight of things too heavy for any nail, a dried flower or two still a little fragrant. In your hand is the brown bag. On the ground before you is the jumble it held—so much like the jumble in the bags could they be emptied that all might be dumped in a single heap and the bags refilled without altering the content of any greatly. A bit of colored glass more or less would not matter. Perhaps that is how the Great Stuffer of Bags filled them in the first place—who knows? This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.ricardoplouis.com/subscribe

  6. 12/03/2025

    Death By Lightning Review

    Death By Lightning, is a four part miniseries on Netflix that deftly depicts the violence of men and the political climate that emboldens them. Based on the book, Destiny of the Republic by Candice Millard, this historical drama examines how political rhetoric has contributed to what historian Richard Hofstadter calls, the Paranoia Style of Politics, a uniquely American phenomenon that ultimately led to the assassination of our 20th president, James A. Garfield. The opening scene begins in 1969 with a few movers shuffling boxes around at the Army Medical Museum. One of the careless workers tips over a wooden crate, and out rolls a jar filled with a murky white liquid. They pick it up to discover a floating brain labeled “Charles Guiteau”. “Who the f**k is Charles Guiteau.” One of the men exclaims. Flashback nearly a hundred years, 1880, and we meet Garfield’s soon-to-be assassin, played by Matthew Macfadyen, as he’s rotting away in a Manhattan cell for a petty crime. His professional career is sparse, but his schemes are numerous: fraud, plagiarism, failed business ventures. Ultimately he has dreams and plans of becoming a politician, a man of importance. And if Guiteau had been a Republican in 2025, then maybe he’d be successful, perhaps even secure himself the highest office in the land, but America was less hospitable to scammers and failsons in 1880 than it is today. Hundreds of miles away, woodworking on his quaint farm in Mentor, Ohio, we meet another man with great political ambitions, but from a much poorer background, James A. Garfield. Michael Shannon’s depiction of this flinty, progressive politician is both revering and hope-inducing. Parables or playful metaphors litter the dialogue of this even-keeled man. Rarely do we get outbursts of anger, loss of control, but even when we do, those feelings are in accordance with the occasion. Shannon’s portrayal of the oft forgotten president reminds me a bit of Daniel Day-Lewis’ Lincoln, but with much less self-righteousness. Though, as kind as Shannon’s portrayal of Garfield is, the historical drama has no problem eviscerating other politicians of the time. Chester Arthur, (Nick Offerman), is a bumbling drunk, with few original ideas of his own, but many deep political ties. The most formidable of them being a conniving womanizer, Roscoe Conkling, played by Shea Whigham, who has managed to gain complete control over the Republican Party because of corruption and cronyism. What I enjoy most about this show is that it doesn’t make any idealized claims about what American politics was like then or now. Throughout each episode, we see the predominantly white men in charge of running our country hurl invectives at one another, unconcerned about the reverberations of their language. Conkling and Arthur are especially guilty of fomenting mobs against this new progressive president as he tries to do away with the “spoils system.” Newspapers happily reprint their bogus claims that he’s “missing” or “running the country” into the ground, and then one of those newspapers lands into the lap of a disgruntled office seeker, Guiteau himself. In 1969, Richard Hofstadter wrote an essay in Harpers called The Paranoid Style in American Politics, that has come to define conservatism ever since. Written in the shadows of the Red Scare, Hofstadter claims that the American right wing (though not exclusively), has wielded the language and tactics of conspiracy to provoke the dispossessed. Their propaganda has largely proven fruitful as communism and socialism are viewed poorly by most Americans, even those that don’t know the definition of either. American liberals historically have been pro-capitalism, so while they don’t explicitly repeat right-wing talking points, they largely agree with them in principle and endorse them by silence. But the cost of this conspiratorial rhetoric has proven to be disastrous. Out of the 45 U.S. presidents, 4 have been assassinated, and an additional three have been shot. This means 15% or roughly one out of seven U.S. presidents have either historically been killed or shot at. By most occupational standards, the role is perhaps one of the most dangerous ones out there. Many of the aforementioned assassins have made bold claims that they are saving the nation from the threat within, utilizing the same populist, anti-communistic talking points that are parroted by the conservatives and endorsed liberals alike. Macfadyen’s portrayal of Guiteau is as illuminating as it is horrifying, because although the man has a dubious professional career, and a weak relationship with the truth, if we closely examine his character and his politics, we find that he’s not too different from many modern Americans. His material suffering, coupled with his indomitable faith in god, lead him down what he believes is the righteous and necessary path for saving the country. When he experiences self-doubt and starts to question his plans, he turns to the papers, turns to the politics of the time and finds himself emboldened once again. Scientists examine his brain post-mortem, and try to find a clinical excuse for his heinous crime, but find nothing. The truth, unfortunately, is far more implicating. Only America, a country as rich as it is cruel, could routinely produce a man like Charles Guiteau, an armed white man with few opportunities, and outsized ambitions. Charles Guiteau and James Garfield are two sides of the same coin, but the truth is that both of them, in their pursuit of legacy and relevance in a deeply divided nation, are as American as they come. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.ricardoplouis.com/subscribe

  7. 11/25/2025

    An Hymn To The Evening By Phillis Wheatley

    SOON as the sun forsook the eastern mainThe pealing thunder shook the heav’nly plain;Majestic grandeur! From the zephyr’s wing,Exhales the incense of the blooming spring.Soft purl the streams, the birds renew their notes,And through the air their mingled music floats. Through all the heav’ns what beauteous dies are spread!But the west glories in the deepest red:So may our breasts with ev’ry virtue glow,The living temples of our God below! Fill’d with the praise of him who gives the light,And draws the sable curtains of the night,Let placid slumbers sooth each weary mind,At morn to wake more heav’nly, more refin’d;So shall the labours of the day beginMore pure, more guarded from the snares of sin. Night’s leaden sceptre seals my drowsy eyes,Then cease, my song, till fair Aurora rise. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.ricardoplouis.com/subscribe

  8. 11/07/2025

    The Weary Blues By Langston Hughes

    Droning a drowsy syncopated tune,Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon, I heard a Negro play.Down on Lenox Avenue the other nightBy the pale dull pallor of an old gas light He did a lazy sway.... He did a lazy sway....To the tune o’ those Weary Blues.With his ebony hands on each ivory keyHe made that poor piano moan with melody. O Blues!Swaying to and fro on his rickety stoolHe played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool. Sweet Blues!Coming from a black man’s soul. O Blues!In a deep song voice with a melancholy toneI heard that Negro sing, that old piano moan— “Ain’t got nobody in all this world, Ain’t got nobody but ma self. I’s gwine to quit ma frownin’ And put ma troubles on the shelf.”Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor.He played a few chords then he sang some more— “I got the Weary Blues And I can’t be satisfied. Got the Weary Blues And can’t be satisfied— I ain’t happy no mo’ And I wish that I had died.” And far into the night he crooned that tune.The stars went out and so did the moon.The singer stopped playing and went to bedWhile the Weary Blues echoed through his head.He slept like a rock or a man that’s dead. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.ricardoplouis.com/subscribe

  9. 10/31/2025

    Tell Tale Heart by Edgar Allen Poe

    In honor of spooky season, I decided to do a fun little narration of the Tell Tale Heart by Edgar Allen Poe. I chose Poe because like many others, I was introduced to his work in high school and his neurotic, gothic style has appealed to me ever since.This is one of what I hope to be many voiceovers as I learn the ins and outs of the craft, so if you have any thoughts, questions, or feedback, feel free to leave it in the comments. Always looking for ways to improve. Enjoy! Tell Tale Heart By Edgar Allen Poe (Courtesy of Project Gutenberg) True!—nervous—very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses—not destroyed—not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily—how calmly I can tell you the whole story. It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture—a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees—very gradually—I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever. Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded—with what caution—with what foresight—with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it—oh, so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly—very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man’s sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha!—would a madman have been so wise as this? And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously—oh, so cautiously—cautiously (for the hinges creaked)—I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights—every night just at midnight—but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he has passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept. Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch’s minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers—of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back—but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness, (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers,) and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily. I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out—“Who’s there?” I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening;—just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to the death watches in the wall. Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief—oh, no!—it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself—“It is nothing but the wind in the chimney—it is only a mouse crossing the floor,” or “It is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp.” Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions: but he had found all in vain. All in vain; because Death, in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel—although he neither saw nor heard—to feel the presence of my head within the room. When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little—a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it—you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily—until, at length a simple dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell full upon the vulture eye. It was open—wide, wide open—and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness—all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man’s face or person: for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot. And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the sense?—now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man’s heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage. But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eye. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man’s terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment!—do you mark me well? I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me—the sound would be heard by a neighbour! The old man’s hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once—once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more. If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs. I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye—not even his—could have detected any thing wrong. There was nothing to wash out—no stain of any kind—no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all—ha! ha! When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o’clock—still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart,—for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbour during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises. I smiled,—for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search—search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim. The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But,

  10. 10/09/2025

    Peak Gaming!!!

    The story behind the indie game, Peak, is simple enough. After crash landing onto an unknown island, you and your friends must climb to the top of a mountain peak where you can light a flare to be rescued. The salvation of you and your crew rests solely in the hands of this cute little blob with stubby arms, four fingers, and tremendous dexterity. Throughout your climb you’ll encounter a head-spinning number of obstacles that range from annoying, like steep ledges, banana peels, to outright devastating (tornadoes… so many tornadoes 🙁). But unlike most games, Peak is designed to be played in a single session. There’s no way to save your progress or reach a checkpoint. When you and your friends load into the game, you do so with the knowledge that you’ll either leave as heroes or a bag of bones. So when you accidentally hit that exploding mushroom halfway into your fourth attempt and are sent careening hundreds of meters down the side of a mountain, you can’t help but feel a bit of dread while your limp body floats through the air because it’s only then that you realize that all the blood, sweat and tears you’ve poured into the game (for the past two hours) have been for naught. Not that I’m speaking from experience or anything. Yet, as depressing as this sounds, Peak still shapes up to be one of the most delightful games of the year. Because as you’re playing it becomes clear that true bliss doesn’t arise from reaching the top, but rather from those interstitial moments between long climbs when you get to spend the most time with your friends. Much like a real hike, the game does an excellent job at manufacturing tiny, serendipitous points of connection. And it’s vital that we remember how important those little moments are, especially in this increasingly busy world, where the tenuous connections between us become harder to nourish. So if you and your friends have a couple hours to spare one night, I’d suggest you download this dopey little game that reminds us that no obstacle is too great, no mountain peak is too daunting, if we can experience it alongside our climbing partners, our comrades, our day ones. Dreaming of Kafka is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.ricardoplouis.com/subscribe

  11. 09/29/2025

    A Spoiler Free Review of The Long Walk

    Set in an alternate reality where the U.S. is under the control of an authoritarian regime (lol), The Long Walk is a story about a group of young men who must march across the country and outlast one another for the chance to win untold riches. Fifty boys, one from each state, must walk at a pace of three mph until they are the last one left. If they fall below that speed for too long, they die. If they step off the concrete path, they die. If they stop to take a dump, they die. There are more ways to die than there are to win, but this heavy handed metaphor for the poverty draft, shows us that if you make people poor, and desperate enough, then they might just risk it all. The first contestant we meet is a grungy, ill-mannered young man by the name of Ray (played by Cooper Hoffman). He’s arguing with his mother, the prolific Judy Greer, as she very reasonably asks him to drop out of the death march. She cries while begging him to reconsider, and Ray does little to console her, in fact, he inflames the situation by berating her. It’s only when they’re about to part ways for the final time that he manages to show an ounce of humanity and gives her a conciliatory hug. From our first impression it’s hard to describe him as anything other than another mouthy, self-centered young man with contempt for the world. A d******d. Though as the story progresses, and we see the relationships between Ray and the others develop, the softer, more righteous parts of him are unveiled. The man who manages to bring out the best in Ray, and becomes his closest friend along the way, is a self-assured foster kid by the name of Peter McVries (played by David Jonsson). Please allow me to digress and heap praise upon the man, but if you don’t know David Jonsson, then you will soon. I first had the pleasure of seeing him on Industry, where he played Gus, an absolutely charming and deeply intelligent investment banker. Though his role on the HBO series was limited, he never once failed to captivate and light up the screen. A nonpareil talent. As the hours pass and bodies pile up along the highway like roadkill, Peter and Ray are forced to become dependent on one another for both companionship and survival. It’s the type of beautiful, healthy male relationship that we love to see on and off screen. More than once Peter saves Ray’s ass, and later down the line, Ray repays the favor tenfold. The bromance between Ray and Peter is enthralling, but I’ll be the first to admit that the writing itself was a bit lackluster. There was so much high school humor in this movie that I started to wonder if it was written by teenagers. But ultimately, the bonds formed and destroyed along this nightmarish trek was enough to make me sanguine about the tremendous capacity of young men. Cooper Hoffman had me rolling my eyes upon his first arrival, but ended up redeeming himself with how selfless he was. Towards the end I found myself apologizing for every bad thought I ever had about the man. I’m sorry Cooper. Tut Nyuot, who plays a supporting role as the good christian boy from Louisiana named Art, delivered one of the best scenes in the entire film, one so devastating that I could even hear the frat bros behind me stress eating popcorn and sniffling in between bites. Like a well-crafted novella, the film is both compact, at 108 minutes, and charming. Character development and backstory comes mostly from dialogue, and there’s only one (maybe two?) flashbacks in the entire film, but it’s enough for us to get invested. The gore is minimal, and despite it being based on a book by the King of Horror, it’s not as scary as you’d think. Even though this trauma-bonding hike through the country is unlikely to break the box office, I’d still recommend it for the scaredy cats, the David Jonsson fans, and anyone that wants to see a well-paced, B-tier Stephen King adaptation. Dreaming of Kafka is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.ricardoplouis.com/subscribe

  12. 09/25/2025

    Things Fall Apart

    Spoiler Alert In Things Fall Apart, Chinua Achebe composes a cautionary tale of the innumerable ways patriarchy fails us all. The story centers Igbo people living in the fictional village of Umuofia, a society with values not too different from our own. Men occupy most if not all positions of power, the most important identities imposed upon women are as mothers or homemakers, and the one of the worst things you can call a man is a woman. Then, just as the ostracized and downtrodden reached their wit’s end, here come the missionaries, who arrive to preach the “Lord’s Word” to anyone willing to listen. When the missionaries arrive they’re given no more respect than a pack of rodents. Their philosophies and practices are deemed more foolish than harmful. They talk about a god no one can see, and speak of a land no one can visit. But this underestimated, ragtag band of christians are able to grow their ranks by exploiting the suffering in the village. And no man is perhaps more responsible for their success, than the protagonist himself, Okwonko. Born to Unoka, a man gentle in nature, but burdened with terrible debts, Okonkwo grows up in the shadow of his father’s failings. Unoka’s financial mismanagement and carefree nature bring tremendous shame to both himself and his family as his reputation is tarnished in both life and death. Okonkwo is tired of living in shame, and poverty and after his father dies, vows to become a real man, a propertied man, a reliable man. He vows to become everything his father was not. And so Okonkwo was ruled by one passion — to hate everything that his father Unoka had loved. One of those things was gentleness and another was idleness (Achebe 13) As he gets older, Okonkwo manages to do well for himself, and avoid the destitution his father faces, but his ambition blinds him. In Umuofia violence is one of the rungs you may climb to advance in society. If you are not imbued with spiritual abilities at birth then one of the main means in which you impress the elders and gain rank is through your strength in the ring, or in war. Given Okonkwo’s desire to prove himself, and build a legacy of his own, it only made sense for him to hop in the ring and become the man he hoped his father would be. It was this man Okonkwo threw in a fight which the old men agreed was one of the fiercest since the founder of their town engaged a spirit of the wild for seven days and seven nights. (Achebe 3) Vigor and brutality in the ring earn him immediate respect from his community, as he wins battle after battle. His status and grit transformed him into a well-respected landowner with vast fields of yams and a few wives to tend to his every need. Unfortunately for Okonkwo, his brazenness increases as quickly as his wealth does. His predilection for violence doesn’t stop inside the ring, anytime he has to interact with anyone that he deems inferior, whether it’s a woman, or his own children, he beats them senselessly until they fear him. It’s after one of these beatings that Okonkwo’s eldest son, decides to join the missionaries himself. The missionaries’ ranks grow as they recruit from the downtrodden, the ostracized lesser people known as “Osu”, and all the brutalized men, women and children. Soon they have a membership that starts to rival the village population. The church had come and led many astray. Not only the low-born and the outcast but sometimes a worthy man had joined it. Such a man was Ogbuefi Ugonna, who had taken two titles, and who like a madman had cut the anklet of his titles and cast it away to join the Christians. (Achebe 174) In addition to these outcasts, there’s an even larger segment of the population that quietly questions some of the customs, but fears to speak out for fear of retribution. For instance, one of the customs of the village is to sacrifice all twins to the earth goddess. One mother who was been forced to sacrifice four pairs of twins, leaves the village and joins the church as a means of escape. The membership for the church grows and surpasses that of the village which loses all and the village loses all power. That was one of the greatest men in Umuofia. You drove him to kill himself; and now he will be buried like a dog... (Achebe 208) In the final act of Things Fall Apart, Okonkwo kills himself and becomes a martyr for all those left behind. The legacy of Umuofia falls with one of their greatest warriors as the missionaries succeed in spreading the “Lord’s Word”. Although the missionaries won’t create a more equal society for all the outcasts, women, and children, they at least listen and pretend to have their best interests at heart, as opposed to men like Okonkwo who simply deem anyone weaker as inferior. Things Fall Apart demonstrates that a society rife with inequalities renders itself vulnerable to false prophets and colonizers. If we choose to ignore or disregard the wishes and cries of the few, then in the end, we may all suffer. Dreaming of Kafka is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.ricardoplouis.com/subscribe

  • 12 Episodes

About

Fictions, book reviews, and essays by Ricardo Pierre-Louis. All work originally appears at ricardoplouis.substack.com www.ricardoplouis.com

Information

  • Creator
    Ricardo Pierre-Louis
  • Years Active
    2025 - 2026
  • Episodes
    12
  • Rating
    Explicit
  • Copyright
    © Ricardo Pierre-Louis
  • Show Website
    Dreaming of Kafka Podcast