Genre Fiction
![Tess Gunty - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B09M4823CK.jpg)
The Rabbit Hutch: A novel
NATIONAL BOOK AWARD WINNER • The standout literary debut that everyone is talking about • "Inventive, heartbreaking and acutely funny."-The Guardian
A BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR: The New York Times, TIME, NPR, Oprah Daily, People
Blandine isn't like the other residents of her building.
An online obituary writer. A young mother with a dark secret. A woman waging a solo campaign against rodents - neighbors, separated only by the thin walls of a low-cost housing complex in the once bustling industrial center of Vacca Vale, Indiana.
Welcome to the Rabbit Hutch.
Ethereally beautiful and formidably intelligent, Blandine shares her apartment with three teenage boys she neither likes nor understands, all, like her, now aged out of the state foster care system that has repeatedly failed them, all searching for meaning in their lives.
Set over one sweltering week in July and culminating in a bizarre act of violence that finally changes everything, The Rabbit Hutch is a savagely beautiful and bitingly funny snapshot of contemporary America, a gorgeous and provocative tale of loneliness and longing, entrapment and, ultimately, freedom.
"Gunty writes with a keen, sensitive eye about all manner of intimacies―the kind we build with other people, and the kind we cultivate around ourselves and our tenuous, private aspirations."-Raven Leilani, author of Luster
A BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR: The New York Times, TIME, NPR, Oprah Daily, People
Blandine isn't like the other residents of her building.
An online obituary writer. A young mother with a dark secret. A woman waging a solo campaign against rodents - neighbors, separated only by the thin walls of a low-cost housing complex in the once bustling industrial center of Vacca Vale, Indiana.
Welcome to the Rabbit Hutch.
Ethereally beautiful and formidably intelligent, Blandine shares her apartment with three teenage boys she neither likes nor understands, all, like her, now aged out of the state foster care system that has repeatedly failed them, all searching for meaning in their lives.
Set over one sweltering week in July and culminating in a bizarre act of violence that finally changes everything, The Rabbit Hutch is a savagely beautiful and bitingly funny snapshot of contemporary America, a gorgeous and provocative tale of loneliness and longing, entrapment and, ultimately, freedom.
"Gunty writes with a keen, sensitive eye about all manner of intimacies―the kind we build with other people, and the kind we cultivate around ourselves and our tenuous, private aspirations."-Raven Leilani, author of Luster
Editorial Reviews
Chapter 1
The Opposite of Nothing
On a hot night in Apartment C4, Blandine Watkins exits her body. She is only eighteen years old, but she has spent most of her life wishing for this to happen. The agony is sweet, as the mystics promised. It's like your soul is being stabbed with light, the mystics said, and they were right about that, too. The mystics call this experience the Transverberation of the Heart, or the Seraph's Assault, but no angel appears to Blandine. There is, however, a bioluminescent man in his fifties, glowing like a firefly. He runs to her and yells.
Knife, cotton, hoof, bleach, pain, fur, bliss-as Blandine exits herself, she is all of it. She is every tenant of her apartment building. She is trash and cherub, a rubber shoe on the seafloor, her father's orange jumpsuit, a brush raking through her mother's hair. The first and last Zorn Automobile factory in Vacca Vale, Indiana. A nucleus inside the man who robbed her body when she was fourteen, a pair of red glasses on the face of her favorite librarian, a radish tugged from a bed of dirt. She is no one. She is Katy the Portuguese water dog, who licked her face whenever the foster family banished them both in the snow because they were in the way. An algorithm for amplified content and a blue slushee from the gas station. The first pair of tap shoes on the feet of a child actress and the man telling her to try harder. She is the smartphone that films her as she bleeds on the floorboards of her apartment, and she is the chipped nail polish on the teenager who assembled the ninetieth step of that phone on a green factory floor in Shenzhen, China. An American satellite, a bad word, the ring on the finger of her high school theater director. She is every cottontail rabbit grazing on the vegetation of her supposedly dying city. Ten minutes of pleasure igniting between the people who made her, the final tablet of oxycodone on her mother's tongue, the gavel that will sentence the boys to prison for what they're doing to Blandine right now. There is no such thing as right now. She is not another young woman wounded on the floor, body slashed by men for its resources-no. She is paying attention. She is the last laugh.
On that hot night in Apartment C4, when Blandine Watkins exits her body, she is not everything. Not exactly. She's just the opposite of nothing.
All Together, Now
C12: On Wednesday night, in the nine o'clock hour, the man who lives four floors above the crime is staring into an app called: Rate Your Date (Mature Users!). The app glows a deep red, and he is certain that there is no one inside it. Like many men who have weathered female rejection, the man in Apartment C12 believes that women have more power than anyone else on the planet. When evidence suggests that this can'...
The Opposite of Nothing
On a hot night in Apartment C4, Blandine Watkins exits her body. She is only eighteen years old, but she has spent most of her life wishing for this to happen. The agony is sweet, as the mystics promised. It's like your soul is being stabbed with light, the mystics said, and they were right about that, too. The mystics call this experience the Transverberation of the Heart, or the Seraph's Assault, but no angel appears to Blandine. There is, however, a bioluminescent man in his fifties, glowing like a firefly. He runs to her and yells.
Knife, cotton, hoof, bleach, pain, fur, bliss-as Blandine exits herself, she is all of it. She is every tenant of her apartment building. She is trash and cherub, a rubber shoe on the seafloor, her father's orange jumpsuit, a brush raking through her mother's hair. The first and last Zorn Automobile factory in Vacca Vale, Indiana. A nucleus inside the man who robbed her body when she was fourteen, a pair of red glasses on the face of her favorite librarian, a radish tugged from a bed of dirt. She is no one. She is Katy the Portuguese water dog, who licked her face whenever the foster family banished them both in the snow because they were in the way. An algorithm for amplified content and a blue slushee from the gas station. The first pair of tap shoes on the feet of a child actress and the man telling her to try harder. She is the smartphone that films her as she bleeds on the floorboards of her apartment, and she is the chipped nail polish on the teenager who assembled the ninetieth step of that phone on a green factory floor in Shenzhen, China. An American satellite, a bad word, the ring on the finger of her high school theater director. She is every cottontail rabbit grazing on the vegetation of her supposedly dying city. Ten minutes of pleasure igniting between the people who made her, the final tablet of oxycodone on her mother's tongue, the gavel that will sentence the boys to prison for what they're doing to Blandine right now. There is no such thing as right now. She is not another young woman wounded on the floor, body slashed by men for its resources-no. She is paying attention. She is the last laugh.
On that hot night in Apartment C4, when Blandine Watkins exits her body, she is not everything. Not exactly. She's just the opposite of nothing.
All Together, Now
C12: On Wednesday night, in the nine o'clock hour, the man who lives four floors above the crime is staring into an app called: Rate Your Date (Mature Users!). The app glows a deep red, and he is certain that there is no one inside it. Like many men who have weathered female rejection, the man in Apartment C12 believes that women have more power than anyone else on the planet. When evidence suggests that this can'...
Readers Top Reviews
W. Stephens
I purchased this on the basis of it being on so many ‘top books of 2022’ lists. And a promising description. The content does not live up to the hype. A diverse set of chapters about diverse characters who revolve around a building known as the rabbit hutch. Some of the chapters are so crushingly boring (e.g. the obituary) that I just paged forward. Some chapters are reasonably engaging. But there is little coherence between the chapters, characters, writing styles. And not a single character who I could actually care about. Utter waste of time and money. (I barely made it to 30% read before I gave up)
Linda H.W. Stephe
I found this book very different but ultimately enjoyable. Parts of the prose was amazing and the characters memorable. The town itself was a character.
JoannaRob SmithMR
The Rabbit Hutch felt very much as if the author had thrown every idea she had ever had at the book. It is far too long - it could have lost 100 plus pages, and would have been a much better book for it. The cliches come thick and fast and the writing makes Henry James appear taciturn! Somewhere in this book is the kernel of a really interesting story but it is lost in the overblown prose and tedious efforts to appear clever. There are so many good books out there, so don't waste your time on this one.
LindaLBortJoannaR
The Rabbit Hutch is a modern American story about people who have curious characteristics and have been affected by the horrors of 21st-century life. Its setting is the fictional town of Vacca Vale, Indiana which used to be a thriving car manufacturing town. But, unfortunately, its heyday is over, and widespread poverty and social disintegration prevail. A developer has proposed a rejuvenation plan, but he and his team experience a disturbing interruption to a planning meeting. Numerous characters play a part in the book, and many live in the Rabbit Hutch, affordable housing where the units have little privacy and mimic the blurred boundaries of modern life. Folks know almost everything about their neighbors in adjacent units, and distasteful events occur regularly. We know from the novel's beginning that Blandine Watkins, one of the main characters, an eighteen-year-old malcontent, will exit her body. The reader becomes painfully aware that Blandine IS everything that has wounded her during her childhood in foster care and much angst about religion and the meaning of life. Blandine lives with three male roommates, all aged out of the foster care system. Each carries baggage from the system. It's challenging to keep track of the characters. Many are angry and act in unconventional ways to communicate with others. Some of the stories tie to others; others do not. Contemporary concepts and themes run through the course of the book, and rather than trying to tie them together; I offer this list of concepts typical of post-industrial, modern life: Disposable people American icons Abandonment Decaying towns Flooding and flooded housing areas Marxism Capitalism Abuse of power Sexual abuse Complex villains Fakeness Revitalization Gentrification Emojis—vulgar and others Anonymous lives Social justice discrimination Suicide Opioid abuse Religion Fatal flaws Commodifying people Mysticism Truth Internet Healing Trauma afterlife Love Terror Unwanted babies Motherhood Mothers not bonding with babies American class system Male dominance Power structures Animal sacrifices Animal abuse Cancer Angst Phobias
Short Excerpt Teaser
Chapter 1
The Opposite of Nothing
On a hot night in Apartment C4, Blandine Watkins exits her body. She is only eighteen years old, but she has spent most of her life wishing for this to happen. The agony is sweet, as the mystics promised. It's like your soul is being stabbed with light, the mystics said, and they were right about that, too. The mystics call this experience the Transverberation of the Heart, or the Seraph's Assault, but no angel appears to Blandine. There is, however, a bioluminescent man in his fifties, glowing like a firefly. He runs to her and yells.
Knife, cotton, hoof, bleach, pain, fur, bliss-as Blandine exits herself, she is all of it. She is every tenant of her apartment building. She is trash and cherub, a rubber shoe on the seafloor, her father's orange jumpsuit, a brush raking through her mother's hair. The first and last Zorn Automobile factory in Vacca Vale, Indiana. A nucleus inside the man who robbed her body when she was fourteen, a pair of red glasses on the face of her favorite librarian, a radish tugged from a bed of dirt. She is no one. She is Katy the Portuguese water dog, who licked her face whenever the foster family banished them both in the snow because they were in the way. An algorithm for amplified content and a blue slushee from the gas station. The first pair of tap shoes on the feet of a child actress and the man telling her to try harder. She is the smartphone that films her as she bleeds on the floorboards of her apartment, and she is the chipped nail polish on the teenager who assembled the ninetieth step of that phone on a green factory floor in Shenzhen, China. An American satellite, a bad word, the ring on the finger of her high school theater director. She is every cottontail rabbit grazing on the vegetation of her supposedly dying city. Ten minutes of pleasure igniting between the people who made her, the final tablet of oxycodone on her mother's tongue, the gavel that will sentence the boys to prison for what they're doing to Blandine right now. There is no such thing as right now. She is not another young woman wounded on the floor, body slashed by men for its resources-no. She is paying attention. She is the last laugh.
On that hot night in Apartment C4, when Blandine Watkins exits her body, she is not everything. Not exactly. She's just the opposite of nothing.
All Together, Now
C12: On Wednesday night, in the nine o'clock hour, the man who lives four floors above the crime is staring into an app called: Rate Your Date (Mature Users!). The app glows a deep red, and he is certain that there is no one inside it. Like many men who have weathered female rejection, the man in Apartment C12 believes that women have more power than anyone else on the planet. When evidence suggests that this can't be true, he gets angry. It is an anger unique to those who have committed themselves to a losing argument. The man-now in his sixties-lies on his sheets in the dark. He is done with the day, but the day is not done with itself; it is still too early to sleep. He is a logger, past his professional expiration date but lacking both the financial and psychological savings to retire. Often, he feels the weight of phantom lumber on his back like a child. Often, he feels the weight of a phantom child on his back like lumber. Since his wife died six years ago, the apartment has seemed empty of furniture, but it is, in fact, congested with furniture. Sweating, the man cradles his large, bright screen in his hands.
nice enuf, like a dad, but fatter then his prof pic. his eye contact = wrong. doesnt ask about u and seems obsessed w/ the prices. velcro wallet, user MelBell23 had commented on his profile two weeks ago. smells like gary indiana. ssuuu
The only other comment on his profile was posted six months ago, by DeniseDaBeast: this man is a tator tot. suuuu
Noise rumbles from an apartment below. A party, he assumes.
C10: The teenager adjusts his bedroom light to flattering bulbs of halo. He runs a hand through his hair, applies a lip balm. Smears a magazine sample of cologne on his chest, although he knows the gesture is absurd. Angles the camera so that it catches his best shapes and shadows. His mother is working the night shift, but he locks his door anyway. Does thirty jumping jacks, thirty push-ups. Texts: Ready.
C8: The mother carries her baby to the couch and pulls up her tank top. He's not supposed to be awake this late at night, but rules mean nothing to babies. While he nurses, he demands to bond, and the mother tries. Tries again. Tries harder. But she can't do it. He fires shrewd, telepathic, adult accusation upon her skin. She can feel it. He sucks hard and scratches her with nails too tender to clip, long and sharp enough t...
The Opposite of Nothing
On a hot night in Apartment C4, Blandine Watkins exits her body. She is only eighteen years old, but she has spent most of her life wishing for this to happen. The agony is sweet, as the mystics promised. It's like your soul is being stabbed with light, the mystics said, and they were right about that, too. The mystics call this experience the Transverberation of the Heart, or the Seraph's Assault, but no angel appears to Blandine. There is, however, a bioluminescent man in his fifties, glowing like a firefly. He runs to her and yells.
Knife, cotton, hoof, bleach, pain, fur, bliss-as Blandine exits herself, she is all of it. She is every tenant of her apartment building. She is trash and cherub, a rubber shoe on the seafloor, her father's orange jumpsuit, a brush raking through her mother's hair. The first and last Zorn Automobile factory in Vacca Vale, Indiana. A nucleus inside the man who robbed her body when she was fourteen, a pair of red glasses on the face of her favorite librarian, a radish tugged from a bed of dirt. She is no one. She is Katy the Portuguese water dog, who licked her face whenever the foster family banished them both in the snow because they were in the way. An algorithm for amplified content and a blue slushee from the gas station. The first pair of tap shoes on the feet of a child actress and the man telling her to try harder. She is the smartphone that films her as she bleeds on the floorboards of her apartment, and she is the chipped nail polish on the teenager who assembled the ninetieth step of that phone on a green factory floor in Shenzhen, China. An American satellite, a bad word, the ring on the finger of her high school theater director. She is every cottontail rabbit grazing on the vegetation of her supposedly dying city. Ten minutes of pleasure igniting between the people who made her, the final tablet of oxycodone on her mother's tongue, the gavel that will sentence the boys to prison for what they're doing to Blandine right now. There is no such thing as right now. She is not another young woman wounded on the floor, body slashed by men for its resources-no. She is paying attention. She is the last laugh.
On that hot night in Apartment C4, when Blandine Watkins exits her body, she is not everything. Not exactly. She's just the opposite of nothing.
All Together, Now
C12: On Wednesday night, in the nine o'clock hour, the man who lives four floors above the crime is staring into an app called: Rate Your Date (Mature Users!). The app glows a deep red, and he is certain that there is no one inside it. Like many men who have weathered female rejection, the man in Apartment C12 believes that women have more power than anyone else on the planet. When evidence suggests that this can't be true, he gets angry. It is an anger unique to those who have committed themselves to a losing argument. The man-now in his sixties-lies on his sheets in the dark. He is done with the day, but the day is not done with itself; it is still too early to sleep. He is a logger, past his professional expiration date but lacking both the financial and psychological savings to retire. Often, he feels the weight of phantom lumber on his back like a child. Often, he feels the weight of a phantom child on his back like lumber. Since his wife died six years ago, the apartment has seemed empty of furniture, but it is, in fact, congested with furniture. Sweating, the man cradles his large, bright screen in his hands.
nice enuf, like a dad, but fatter then his prof pic. his eye contact = wrong. doesnt ask about u and seems obsessed w/ the prices. velcro wallet, user MelBell23 had commented on his profile two weeks ago. smells like gary indiana. ssuuu
The only other comment on his profile was posted six months ago, by DeniseDaBeast: this man is a tator tot. suuuu
Noise rumbles from an apartment below. A party, he assumes.
C10: The teenager adjusts his bedroom light to flattering bulbs of halo. He runs a hand through his hair, applies a lip balm. Smears a magazine sample of cologne on his chest, although he knows the gesture is absurd. Angles the camera so that it catches his best shapes and shadows. His mother is working the night shift, but he locks his door anyway. Does thirty jumping jacks, thirty push-ups. Texts: Ready.
C8: The mother carries her baby to the couch and pulls up her tank top. He's not supposed to be awake this late at night, but rules mean nothing to babies. While he nurses, he demands to bond, and the mother tries. Tries again. Tries harder. But she can't do it. He fires shrewd, telepathic, adult accusation upon her skin. She can feel it. He sucks hard and scratches her with nails too tender to clip, long and sharp enough t...
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