Sarah Orman reframes the current literary zeitgeist not through the lens of a single breakout hit, but through the enduring philosophy of Isaiah Berlin, arguing that Percival Everett's genius lies in his refusal to be categorized. While the publishing industry chases the next viral sensation, Orman suggests that Everett's true power comes from his "fox-like" ability to leap between contradictory forms, turning the very act of reading into a discovery of how language fails and succeeds in the American experience.
The Fox and the Hedgehog
Orman anchors her analysis in Berlin's famous distinction: hedgehogs relate everything to a single central vision, while foxes "pursue many ends, often unrelated and even contradictory." She applies this framework to Everett, noting that his career is defined by a centrifugal force that scatters his thought across genres, from mock historical records to dark crime novels. "Percival Everett, said Reeves, is a fox, 'leaping from form to form,'" Orman writes, capturing the moment the author's stylistic chaos suddenly coalesced into a coherent philosophy.
This framing is particularly effective because it explains why Everett has thrived with a small press like Graywolf rather than a corporate giant. Orman points out that "Had he been published by one of the Big 5 publishers, it's unlikely he would have been supported through so many different forms." The argument holds weight: the commercial machinery of the "Big 5" demands marketable consistency, whereas Everett's refusal to "linger in one genre for too long" requires a publisher willing to bet on the author's intellect rather than a brand. Critics might note that this "fox" label risks romanticizing a lack of focus, but Orman counters that this diffusion is actually a deliberate strategy to capture the "essence of a vast variety of experiences" without forcing them into a single, fanatical narrative.
The fox knows many things, but the hedgehog knows one big thing.
The Architecture of Language
The core of Orman's commentary shifts to how Everett weaponizes language, particularly in his National Book Award finalist, James. She highlights Everett's radical decision to have enslaved characters speak standard American English, reserving the "tortured vernacular" of Mark Twain's original only for their interactions with white oppressors. "Any oppressed people will find a way of speaking and communication that doesn't allow the oppressor entry," Orman quotes Everett, revealing the political mechanics behind the stylistic choice.
This is not merely a historical correction; it is a satire of the publishing industry's appetite for racial stereotypes. Orman draws a parallel to Everett's earlier novel, Erasure, where the protagonist writes a parody book titled My Pafology that becomes a massive hit precisely because it confirms the industry's biases. "Anyone who speaks to members of his family knows that sharing a language does not mean you share the rules governing the use of that language," she notes, extending the critique from race relations to the fundamental human inability to truly understand one another. The commentary lands because it refuses to let the reader off the hook; Orman admits that while James allows the reader to laugh at racist slaveholders, Erasure forces the reader to recognize themselves as the target of the satire.
The Danger of the Book Within a Book
Orman identifies the "Book Within a Book" (BWAB) as a quintessential trait of the foxy writer, a structural device that allows Everett to pack "a zillion different things in a zillion different forms" into a single volume. She acknowledges that this technique is polarizing, noting that "highly intelligent readers" often skip these sections entirely. However, she argues that in Everett's work, skipping the BWAB is a critical error. "Did you try to skip my BWAB?" she asks, channeling the author's likely frustration with readers who seek comfort over challenge.
This section of the piece is a bold defense of difficulty. Orman suggests that the discomfort of reading My Pafology is essential, arguing that "Reading for comfort has its place, but in my view it's overrated." She champions what Jia Tolentino called "the genuine pleasure of decentering in fiction," urging readers to embrace the confusion rather than retreat to the familiar. While some might argue that such dense, self-referential structures alienate the general audience, Orman posits that Everett's work is designed to be an active, rather than passive, engagement. The "fox" does not want to be easily understood; the fox wants to be encountered.
It's incredible that a sentence is ever understood.
Bottom Line
Orman's strongest contribution is her insistence that Everett's genre-hopping is not a lack of direction, but a sophisticated method for exposing the fractures in American language and history. Her argument's vulnerability lies in its reliance on the reader's willingness to do the heavy lifting required by Everett's experimental structures, a barrier that may limit his reach despite his recent acclaim. The piece serves as a vital guide for navigating a literary landscape where the most important work often refuses to stay in its lane.