A former writing professor of mine calls the novella “the perfect form.” It requires the concision and pacing of a short story but is long and deep enough to draw the reader into its world and hold them there. As it happens, Kevin Lichty understands the challenges and rewards of the form, the sitting or two in which the reader lives inside a narrator’s life, rather than the weeks or months it might take to invest in a longer work.

Ma Jian’s brutal political discourse would be nothing without the power and creativity he wields as a writer.

They really did you in Mr. Angelo, didn’t they, just when you thought it was going to be ok and the quarter of a million dollars they offered to transfer to you via a square white briefcase would be your ticket out of here, new face or old. And the rotten part is that no one will ever recognize you for who you are, outside or in, or that you did it all for Lorraine, who thinks you’re still abroad somewhere doing secret work for the government.