Temim Fruchter’s novel City of Laughter is my favorite book published this year. A profound and ambitious debut that spans over a century, this is a multigenerational epic that melds magical realism, queerness, and folklore into a book I think about every day months after reading it.
The New York Times wrote of the book:
“[A] brainy and richly textured debut . . . Bringing a queer sensibility and a deep understanding of Modern Orthodox Jewish tradition to novel writing, Fruchter asks whether finding comfort in mystery is a viable alternative to standard happy endings or bleak fates. ‘City of Laughter’ argues that flouting convention makes space for more authentic, expansive stories and more authentic, expansive lives . . . In this book, a new generation accepts the complicated lacunae of history; what they can’t abide is silence and obstruction”
In her own words, here is Temim Fruchter’s Book Notes music playlist for her debut novel City of Laughter:
Shout, Tears for Fears. For Hannah. I listened to this song quite literally dozens of times while writing and while not writing, simply circling Prospect Park calling it ‘research.’ I wanted to live in that sad-happy lusty lonely longing eighties shimmer, and I wanted this book and this character to have that, too.
Walking in the Rain, The Ronettes. This is really a book about weather! And the drama of desire. And for a song that brings both the drama and the literal thunder sounds, look no further.
Who Fans The Flames, Low Tide. We need a fire in here somewhere. Some deeply moody blaze without an obvious source.
You Just Haven’t Earned It Yet, Baby, Kirsty MacColl. Song for Shiva on repeat between iced coffees in Tompkins Square Park. All the amped-up crushed-out frenetic eighties energy a girl could ask for during a first New York summer.
It’s Oh So Quiet, Bjork. A song that whispers and screams, that laughs and pranks and stomps and growls all at once. A queer song, in the strangest sense of the word. For Mira, and for all of them, really.
It Had to Be You, Billie Holiday. Because this book is for lovers, and also specifically for Nora Ephron lovers. But the Billie Holiday version, because it’s by far the best and dreamiest version.
The Downeaster ‘Alexa,’ Billy Joel. For Jon, obviously, wherever he is. And for more statement weather, more of the time.
La Vie En Rose, Edith Piaf. An opulence. A bejewelment. Otherwise known as Song for Queer Porn Night in Warsaw.
Words of Love, The Mamas and the Papas. Mama Cass is a big rollicking femme anthem personified, IMO, and this novel needs at least one of those.
Rozhinkes mit Mandlen, Tanja Solnik. The Yiddish lullaby that raised me. The title means raisins and almonds. Sung to me by my mother, sung to her by her mother, sung to her by her mother. Straight from Ropshitz. Straight from the old world.
Superstition, Stevie Wonder. I mean. Never bargain with a mirror.
Wicked Game, Chris Isaak. Just a little more shimmer, even/especially in the cruelty of sudden heartbreak. And hey, this one goes out to Dani. And for anyone who ever just wanted to see what was possible, but never quite got the chance.
Dybbuk Shers, The Klezmatics. A song about possession. A song to play in transit between one world and another. I burned many a hole in many a klezmer playlist while writing this book. The funereal sadness and the prayerful and irreverent exuberance of this music saturates every paragraph.
Goodnight Warsaw, Paula & Karol. Dreamy Warsaw-based neo-folk for a Warsaw lullaby. Welcome. Stay awhile. Listen more carefully than you think you’re able.
Please Mr. Postman, The Marvelettes. Because most everyone is waiting for a box of letters, and perhaps even more importantly, whoever might show up to deliver them.
Bulbes, Ben Zimet. A Yiddish song that is simply about potatoes! Classic. Lumpy! For a novel that is, somehow, full of potatoes.
You Don’t Own Me, Lesley Gore. For Syl. Who could always doll up and it’s my party with the best of them, but who would, I’m certain, ultimately choose this as her swan song. Because no one did, and no one ever quite could.
Lipstick Lover, Janelle Monae. More queer lust, more queer lipstick. This book wears at least three coats of each at all times.
Here Comes the Rain Again, Eurhythmics. The sky is foreboding! The weather is giving! The weather means everything! And, of course, make it synths.
The Curlew’s Song, Ashley Davis. Curlews, birds who move and cry and sing as collective, and who are impossible to sex, truly own this story. Together, a group of them narrates one of the chapters deep at the heart of the novel.
Your Ghost, Kristin Hersh. A good haunting. A speculation. An incantatory longing on a desirous loop. Did you feel something, or didn’t you? Was it what you thought it was or was it just a fleeting shadow? You may never quite know, but the beautiful thing is that you can, now and forever, ask the question.
Temim Fruchter is a queer nonbinary writer who was raised in a Modern Orthodox Jewish household. She holds an MFA in fiction from the University of Maryland, and has received first prize in short fiction from both American Literary Review and New South; she is a 2020 Rona Jaffe Foundation Writer’s Award winner. She lives in Brooklyn, New York.