Nicholson Baker has been drifting over the literary world like a benevolent, all-seeing deity for more than 35 years. His ingenious 1988 debut, The Mezzanine, unraveled the minute observations and memories of an office drone riding an escalator during his lunch break. He’s since written 17 hyper-perceptive and humane books, won a basket of awards, and on occasion caused significant kerfuffles: his 2004 novel, Checkpoint, painstakingly and hilariously worked through the moral and technical difficulties of assassinating George W. Bush. (His cover story for New York magazine on the laboratory origins of the coronavirus caused a similar hoo-ha during the pandemic.) He has even nailed that trickiest and most controversial of literary maneuvers—writing a great sex novel. (In fact, he’s written three.)
Like the world’s most erudite stand-up—“There is no good word for stomach; just as there is no good word for girlfriend. Stomach is to girlfriend as belly is to lover”—Baker lays bare our half-seen world. His latest book, Finding a Likeness: How I Got Somewhat Better at Art, is an ode to the art of looking. Who better to ascertain the worst things in life than someone who can see so clearly?
