AN EARTHQUAKE IS A SHAKING OF THE SURFACE OF THE EARTH

A woman who has come to a crossroads in her life travels a city in the midst of a cataclysm to find someone she intends to murder.

The unnamed narrator of Moschovakis’ latest is an actor at the end of her career. Just prior to an ongoing seismic catastrophe that will alter the basic structures of society, she had an event of her own that rearranged the underpinnings of her identity. At a production in a park in which the narrator had a pivotal role, a protest had broken out and she forgot her lines for the first time in years, but instead of forcing the show to go on, she addressed the protesters directly, admitting, “You’re right, you’re right—We don’t know what we’re doing—We don’t know what we’re doing and we keep doing it anyway…But I’m an actor—I don’t speak, I repeat.” After this was proclaimed a disaster “of the career-ending, unmitigated kind” by the critics, and the narrator was forced to take in a boarder to make ends meet. The boarder, Tala, has what the narrator can no longer lay claim to: youth, beauty, and the kind of self-confident elegance necessary to do things like “cross the room without even stumbling” in the world of constant aftershocks the two inhabit. The narrator’s interest in Tala develops into a fixation that, when Tala doesn’t return home one morning, becomes a full-blown obsession—to find Tala, wherever she is, and murder her, so that by Tala’s erasure the narrator’s own identity as someone who speaks rather than just repeats can take form. What follows is an existential journey through the largely abandoned streets of the trembling city and through the narrator’s past in the world of theater, where, in order to become a character, she first had to learn how to unbecome herself. Told in a multitude of forms, including journal entries, transcriptions, and a form of collage cutup, this story advances the thematic precepts of Moschovakis’ earlier work: rejecting binaries for the more shrouded truths that can be found when language, morality, and even individual selfhood are deconstructed.

Moschovakis continues to provoke her readers to ask: What is a story? Or, even, what is a life?