Nonfiction is for boring people. Romance is for girls. And literary fiction? It’s for snobs. At least that’s what a lot of people seem to think. I, on the other hand, like to think of it as literature’s most artistic faction. To me, literary fiction is the art of words.
Let’s start at the beginning and figure out what literary fiction even is, because it’s not exactly a genre. Michael Woodson from Writer’s Digest describes it as more of a “category” that focuses on “style, character, and theme over plot.” What that means is that a book classified as literary fiction can have elements of sci-fi, fantasy, mystery or any other group that we generally think of when we name genres. What’s important is the writing itself and the ways in which its innovations further the exploration of the human condition, not necessarily the archetypes and expectations that are tied to genre. Many times this results in experimental prose that encourages readers to linger in the intricacies of each sentence rather than plowing through the pages in search of a resolution. Like many other forms of art, this can come off as snobbish, boring or hard to read to those who aren’t used to reading that kind of literature.
But since when has anything worth doing not required at least some effort?
That brings me to my latest read, Orbital by Samantha Harvey, winner of The Booker Prize 2024, a breathtaking contemplation of humanity and our planet from the perspective of six astronauts as they orbit our earth in the International Space Station. We join their journey for the duration of a single day, one made up of 16 orbits, 16 sunrises and 16 sunsets. Composed of a diverse cast of astronauts who come from different countries and origins, Harvey uses those differences to show how at the end of the day, we’re all very much alike in wondering. Upon picking it up at the bookstore, the premise was immediately enough to pull me in, but it was the gorgeous writing that kept me reading. Harvey hits the ground running with a gorgeous hook: “Rotating about the earth in their spacecraft they are so together, and so alone, that even their thoughts, their internal mythologies, at times convene.”
The poetic lines kept coming, so much so that my copy of Orbital has either a sticky note or a badly-scrawled underline on almost every page. Not that there’s many of them. In just 136 pages, Harvey managed to open my eyes in awe and to find more than a few kernels of truth about what it’s like to live, grow and change on our tiny blue dot.
“What kind of absurd miracle is this? All of this?” She writes as Anton, one of the two Russian cosmonauts marvels at a petri dish of heart cells and dutifully records their behavior in zero gravity. He sits astonished at the incredible unlikelihood that each one of us gets to stand on this planet and look out at the stars, but when I read it, I marveled at the “absurd miracle” that were those precious words bound together in my hands.
When I read the Chapter entitled “Orbit 9,” I experienced the full extent of the power of words. Through an astute use of rhythm and tension, Harvey literally made me breathless. I was reading in my mind, not making a sound, and yet by the end of a long paragraph my chest was heaving. It doesn’t seem possible that words on a page would cause me to have a physical reaction, let alone an emotional one, and yet there I was, out of breath.
So yes, Orbital is slow paced, often lingering at the places you least expect, but each letter, each comma, each space, is intentional and thoughtfully crafted in the way most literary fiction is. In a way that merits being enjoyed, learned and studied inside and out. It’s not something you should hunker down and try to read in one sitting, and it’s definitely not a read conducive to turning your brain off. It demands your reflection, your thoughtfulness and care. It demands that you take the time to ponder just like each one of those astronauts is doing as they hurtle around the Earth day in and day out.
While it may not be the easiest thing to read, literary fiction like Orbital is vital. It’s a miracle of life, one that illuminates the beautiful extent of what the human mind can conjure. It shows us what we are capable of and shines a light on what being human means in a world that can easily make life feel muddy: “It's not everything, and it's not nothing, but it seems more than something.”
I want to leave you with another nugget of gold from Harvey’s novel, not an answer to one of life’s great questions, but an important consideration that applies to everything from your day to day life, to literature, to history at large: “How are we writing the future of humanity?”
I hope it's like this, with care and thought. With intention and a healthy dose of artistry so that together we make something lovingly last. I hope we write a history we’re proud of, one worth studying and enjoying. One that, like literary fiction, is definitely worth the bother.
Rafaella Gonzalez is a junior in the College of Arts and Sciences. She can be reached at rgonzalez@cornellsun.com.
