Allegra Hyde is the author of the story collections The Last Catastrophe and Of This New World; her debut novel, Eleutheria, was named a best book of the year by The New Yorker and shortlisted for the VCU Cabell First Novelist Prize. Her fiction, nonfiction, and humor writing has appeared in publications such as The New Yorker, Harper’s, and BOMB, as well in as anthologies including The Best American Short Stories, The Best American Travel Writing, and Best of the Net. She is currently an assistant professor of English Language and Literature at Smith College.
The Georgia Review Prose Prize opens November 1 and closes January 15. The best short story and essay will both be published in The Georgia Review. This year the overall winner, chosen between the two, will also receive $1,500. The runner-up will receive $600. We invite writers from all backgrounds to submit. Full contest details here.
Interim prose editor Amy Bonnaffons recently spoke with Hyde to discuss collectivity, futurity, and curiosity.
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Amy Bonnaffons (AB): I love the dedication of your book The Last Catastrophe: “To who we’ll be.” So much of your work is concerned with futurity as a concept, and with specific possible futures—but I wonder if you can say a bit more about what this dedication means to you.
Allegra Hyde (AH): Futurity obsesses me, certainly. Whether out of anxiety or curiosity, I find the speculative engine of “What if?” consistently illuminating, often provocative. But equal to my interest in futurity is a fixation on collectivity. Collective experiences are central to The Last Catastrophe. Some stories are written explicitly in first person plural—they’re told from the perspective of a group of motorists, or online shoppers, or ghosts—but all the stories, in some way, seek to address a collective existence. I’m especially interested in the ways our reality is the product of collective decision-making. And then, how our future is too.
“To who we’ll be,” as a dedication for the book, was meant to foreground collectivity and futurity. It names the inclusive we of a time ahead. More than that, though, the dedication was meant to pose a sense of possibility: the yet to be determined nature of our future selves. The Last Catastrophe is a book that is full of disasters. Animals go extinct. Algorithms control people’s lives. Politicians waste time and resources. But every catastrophic future scenario presents a new opportunity for a collective human response. We can become more generous, compassionate, wiser versions of ourselves. Or we can barricade ourselves behind fear and greed. Many stories in The Last Catastrophe ultimately teeter on the brink of these two possibilities—especially the culminating novella, “The Eaters,” which ends just before a moment of what will either be violence or healing. I ask the reader to decide what happens next—to decide “who we’ll be”—because I believe we continue to have that choice, as dire as things may seem. I remain hopeful that we’ll choose to become our best selves.
AB: Your collection contains a wonderful story titled “Democracy in America,” and your work often seems interested in reflecting America back to itself. Such a project runs the risk of being didactic or overly broad, but your work manages to stay specific and particular and fresh. What guides you in the complex task of exploring political themes using the specific tools of fiction? Is there any art you look to (written or otherwise) as inspiration?
AH: Thank you for highlighting “Democracy in America”—it’s one of the stories I’m most proud of, though I also know it features a bizarre amalgamation of elements (Alexis de Tocqueville, body-switching, international cruises . . .). But then, I think bizarre amalgamations can be a way to explore, say, political themes in a fresh way. By merging the real historical journey of Tocqueville in America in the 1830s with a speculative future in which people can sell their youthful beauty, I was trying to comment on economic and social inequality, among other things. The challenge—and the thrill—of this kind of writing is finding unlikely points of intersection between seemingly unlike elements. Also in reinhabiting and reinventing familiar narratives. “Democracy in America,” like much of The Last Catastrophe, was meant to depict an America that was recognizable yet also distorted. The story is a fictional funhouse mirror. Sometimes we only notice things about ourselves when the volume is turned up via exaggeration, distortion, surreality. Sometimes we’re also only willing to really look at ourselves when we’re not quite ourselves. When we’re funny-looking, or hideous-looking, or simply askew. But at least we’re looking. And then, there’s still truth in the reflection.
A source of inspiration for me has been the work of Donald Barthelme. His fiction merges humor, misery, overt commentary, and grace. I also learned a great deal from Octavia Butler. Her novels feel so human and yet also barbed with political opinions. I admire the way she synthesizes—and extrapolates from—the past to imagine potential futures. I will never get over the fact that she predicted the political slogan “Make America Great Again” in Parable of the Talents.Even decades ago, she could see the grim trajectory of this country. She could also see, it’s worth noting, avenues for fortitude and liberation.
AB: What are you reading right now (or what have you read in the recent past) that’s excited you, made you laugh, or offered solidarity and accompaniment?
AH: Oh wow. Lots of things. I just read Dancer from the Dance by Andrew Holleran, and now I understand why the novel is considered a gay classic. The swerving, sweeping prose, the vivid frankness of the characters—it’s the kind of book that makes you nostalgic for a life you never lived (or at least, that I haven’t). I also found Percival Everett’s James really funny. And harrowing. And innovative. The book does more than offer another angle on a canonical text, it makes something totally new. I found that really exciting. Lastly, on the theme of classics—in this case, of adventure narratives—I recently read Into Thin Air by Jon Krakauer aloud with my partner. This book is not funny, nor is it about solidarity in any way. If anything, it’s about a disastrous breakdown of solidarity among mountaineers. But the book did bring my partner and me together in the conviction that we would never try to climb Mount Everest.
AB: Any words of advice or encouragement that you’d like to offer emerging and aspiring writers?
AH: I was just talking to friend and fellow author Daniel Peña about The State of Things and something came up in our conversation I’d love to pass on. Specifically, we talked about the impulse to go numb when faced with the horrors of climate change, political absurdity, state violence, and so much else. The State of Things makes it extremely appealing to block everything out. To stop caring because caring seems doomed for disappointment. To stop feeling because one ends up mostly feeling bad. And I get this—I numb out too sometimes. Mostly with escapist TV or mindless scrolling. But the cost of numbing oneself, Daniel pointed out, is curiosity. And if we lose curiosity, we lose the best parts of being alive: a sense of wonder and of discovery, a chance to be reminded of the infinite unknowability of the universe. We lose the capacity to make meaningful art. So if I can offer a bit of encouragement, it’s to make curiosity a habit. A practice. A priority. That’s what I’m trying to do.
