Genre Fiction
![Julia May Jonas - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B098R2XG48.jpg)
Vladimir: A Novel
An NPR, Washington Post, Time, People, Vulture, Guardian, Vox, Kirkus Reviews, Newsweek, LitHub, and New York Public Library Best Book of the Year * "Delightful…cathartic, devious, and terrifically entertaining." -The New York Times * "Timely, whip-smart, and darkly funny." -People (Book of the Week)
A provocative, razor-sharp, and timely debut novel about a beloved English professor facing a slew of accusations against her professor husband by former students-a situation that becomes more complicated when she herself develops an obsession of her own...
"When I was a child, I loved old men, and I could tell that they also loved me." And so we are introduced to our narrator who's "a work of art in herself" (The Washington Post): a popular English professor whose charismatic husband at the same small liberal arts college is under investigation for his inappropriate relationships with his former students. The couple have long had a mutual understanding when it comes to their extra-marital pursuits, but with these new allegations, life has become far less comfortable for them both. And when our narrator becomes increasingly infatuated with Vladimir-a celebrated, married young novelist who's just arrived on campus-their tinder box world comes dangerously close to exploding.
"Timely, whip-smart, and darkly funny" (People), Vladimir takes us into charged territory, where the boundaries of morality bump up against the impulses of the human heart. This edgy, uncommonly assured debut perfectly captures the personal and political minefield of our current moment, exposing the nuances and the grey area between power and desire.
A provocative, razor-sharp, and timely debut novel about a beloved English professor facing a slew of accusations against her professor husband by former students-a situation that becomes more complicated when she herself develops an obsession of her own...
"When I was a child, I loved old men, and I could tell that they also loved me." And so we are introduced to our narrator who's "a work of art in herself" (The Washington Post): a popular English professor whose charismatic husband at the same small liberal arts college is under investigation for his inappropriate relationships with his former students. The couple have long had a mutual understanding when it comes to their extra-marital pursuits, but with these new allegations, life has become far less comfortable for them both. And when our narrator becomes increasingly infatuated with Vladimir-a celebrated, married young novelist who's just arrived on campus-their tinder box world comes dangerously close to exploding.
"Timely, whip-smart, and darkly funny" (People), Vladimir takes us into charged territory, where the boundaries of morality bump up against the impulses of the human heart. This edgy, uncommonly assured debut perfectly captures the personal and political minefield of our current moment, exposing the nuances and the grey area between power and desire.
Editorial Reviews
"Delightful…a witty dance with the ghost of Nabokov and a razor-edged commentary on academia at our current fraught moment...by turns, cathartic, devious and terrifically entertaining." -Jean Hanff Korelitz, The New York Times
"A virtuoso debut...our unnamed narrator [is] so witty, sharp and seductive that, as a reader, I was pretty much putty in her hands." -Maureen Corrigan, Fresh Air
"Vladimir goes into such outrageous territory that my jaw literally dropped at moments while I was reading it. There's a rare blend here of depth of character, mesmerizing prose, and fast-paced action." -Kate Tuttle, The Boston Globe
"Jonas, with a potent, pumping voice, has drawn a character so powerfully candid that when she does things that are malicious, dangerous and, yes, predatory, we only want her to do them again." -Jessica Ferri, Los Angeles Times
"A deliciously dark fable of sex and power... Earmark an entire afternoon to devour this propulsive story of obsession, scandal, and transgressive desire." -Esquire
If Netflix's The Chair, Lisa Taddeo's best-seller Three Women, and the most compelling passages of Ottessa Moshfegh's Death in Her Hands had a love child (just go with me here), it would be this fiction debut. With a title character who's a sought-after young novelist new to a college faculty, Vladimir leaves the reader with more questions than answers-about sex, and sexual politics-in the most delicious way. -Entertainment Weekly
"Jonas's narrator is a work of art in herself." -The Washington Post
"Timely, whip-smart, and darkly funny." -People (Book of the Week)
"[
"A virtuoso debut...our unnamed narrator [is] so witty, sharp and seductive that, as a reader, I was pretty much putty in her hands." -Maureen Corrigan, Fresh Air
"Vladimir goes into such outrageous territory that my jaw literally dropped at moments while I was reading it. There's a rare blend here of depth of character, mesmerizing prose, and fast-paced action." -Kate Tuttle, The Boston Globe
"Jonas, with a potent, pumping voice, has drawn a character so powerfully candid that when she does things that are malicious, dangerous and, yes, predatory, we only want her to do them again." -Jessica Ferri, Los Angeles Times
"A deliciously dark fable of sex and power... Earmark an entire afternoon to devour this propulsive story of obsession, scandal, and transgressive desire." -Esquire
If Netflix's The Chair, Lisa Taddeo's best-seller Three Women, and the most compelling passages of Ottessa Moshfegh's Death in Her Hands had a love child (just go with me here), it would be this fiction debut. With a title character who's a sought-after young novelist new to a college faculty, Vladimir leaves the reader with more questions than answers-about sex, and sexual politics-in the most delicious way. -Entertainment Weekly
"Jonas's narrator is a work of art in herself." -The Washington Post
"Timely, whip-smart, and darkly funny." -People (Book of the Week)
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Readers Top Reviews
Mrs. Sarah Crabtr
Having read a few excerpts from the fiction of Bret Easton Ellis, and viewing several YouTube book dicussions, this novel's name kept cropping up. Each time I heard it, I couldn't get the name of somebody rather contentious out of my head. When Amazon offered the eBook on a deal, I decided to go for it. I romped through the first half, fascinated by the life of a US PhD tutor in English, two novels under her belt, and still interacting with her lit students. At least one reviewer preferred this novel over BEE's Shards (which I have yet to read). There was also a warning that the contents are controversial. I like my fiction edgy, yet am aware that writers have to be so careful these days, so with writing, it's kind of like walking on a highwire, trying to get the balance right without ruining the whole show. I almost awarded the book five stars, it just missed the full marks because I detected some padding in the middle with the recipes and wine guzzling. Moving the feast aside, I did so want to know what the protagonist was going to do with you-know-who, and what the outcome would be. I didn't really care too much about the husband, and by the second half of the book, I just wished he would leave the room and never come back.
Amy TIDOVSKYMrs.
I read constantly and prolifically, spanning "serious" literature to somewhat more pop lit (e.g. Eliot to Franzen to Rowling). This was one of my favorite of many recent works, and I'm really astounded to find it was a debut. The author's ability to crystalize the interior workings--conflicts and quirks, both unique and universal--of a 21st century intellectual woman at mid-life was profound. It was one of those experiences of finding deep familiarity with one's own preoccupations--recognizing oneself--while also only just having those preoccupations unveiled. It also was entertaining. This is a readerly output from a clearly writerly writer. It is highly psychological, extraordinarily well-written, but there is also enough plot and setting and cast of additional characters to propel the reader rather than getting stuck in the mire of self-exploration. In sum, it's got all the qualities, for me at least ,of a perfect novel. I am anxious for novel #2 from May Jonas.
Candice Jim28A
My advice if reading this book, keep a dictionary close by to look up words and their meaning. Never have I read a book with words no one uses or knows what they mean. At times there were 4 to 5 words used on one page I had no clue what they meant. Writing this review not to be mean but to emphasize tone down the fancy words, reading should be in enjoyable, not chopped up looking up words or authors or artist to understand a point. The book finally got good when she started plotting for their October 20th lunch. I wish the whole book could have been like that because I did enjoy the last half of the book. Didn't see any of it coming.
Bridget ErinCandi
Don't make the mistake I did and start reading this book when you have other responsibilities to take care of - you'll want to abandon them, and the book's charming and slightly unhinged narrator will almost seem to encourage you to. Ignoring responsibilities to read a book is, after all, very mild compared to her transgressions, both real and imagined. All of the characters are so well imagined, certainly flawed but somehow also charming. The book also offers a nuanced and thought-provoking analysis of sex and power. This is "dark academia" from the faculty's perspective, and my only complaint is that I wanted it to be about twice as long.
Amanda Gram-Wilde
This book was so fun! I couldn’t put it down. Hilarious, sharp, surprising. Can’t wait to see what this author does next.
Short Excerpt Teaser
Chapter I I.
Although I had seen and heard Vladimir speak during the master class, the candidates luncheon, and the faculty retreat, I had not had the chance to say more than a few words directly to him until the fall semester. When I first met him, in the spring after he'd been hired as a full-time junior professor, I was coming late to and leaving early from all full-faculty events to avoid having to talk with any of my colleagues. Even sitting three chairs away from Florence was almost too much for me to bear-lightning bolts of anger shot from my vagina to my extremities. I've always felt the origin of anger in my vagina and am surprised it is not mentioned more in literature.
On an early September evening, the first week of the semester, he visited me at my home, and that is when we had our first real conversation. I was enjoying the cool breeze in the sitting room of our town house, drinking mineral water-my rule is that if I am alone I do not drink alcohol until 9 p.m. (a practical tactic to keep my weight down)-and reading a history of witches in America, when he rang the bell. Since the allegations had been brought against my husband, I felt unable to read fiction. Usually I eagerly set about a reading project each summer to find at least one or two new short stories or novel excerpts to read with my classes. It was important for them and me to always keep acquainted with the contemporary voice. This summer, however, my eyes felt as though they could not focus on the words. The invented worlds, all the made-up-ness and stolen-ness of fiction, all the characters-they felt like a meager and pitiful offering. I needed dates, facts, numbers, and statistics. Weapons. This is our world and this is what happened in it. In the first class of my survey courses I was accustomed to reading a section of Poetics aloud. In it Aristotle discusses the difference between history and poetry and why poetry, being crafted and theoretical, is a superior representation of humanity. This year I skipped it. This year I skipped my whole introductory lecture-usually a litany of references and quotations that I prepped and practiced for well in advance-designed to cow and delight my students. This year, instead, I asked them to speak about themselves and their experiences. While I wish I could say that this decision came from a desire to get to know them, it did not. On my notes for the class I wrote: "Have them talk! (They're only interested in what they think, anyway.)"
I heard a car pull into the drive, and then listened for a while as someone paced around the property, wondering which door to approach. In our town, there's a general custom of entering through the back porch, which, if the house has not been completely remodeled, opens to the kitchen, from a time when in-house help was more prevalent, and domestic labor less of a performance displaying taste, choice, and skill.
Vladimir, however, being new, rang the entrance at the front of the house-which opened to a cold little corridor that we used only as a pass-through to the upstairs. When I opened the door he stood spotlit by the porch light, and immediately put his free hand in his pocket, as though he had been adjusting his hair. He seemed abashed. I remembered my thirties, as a young mother, meeting young fathers, talking about where their sons or daughters were going to elementary school, or whether they were going to try out karate, and how thrilled it made me to see them adjusting their hair or clothing subconsciously: a nervous nod to the powers of attraction I possessed at the time.
He held a bottle of red wine in his other hand and a book tucked into his armpit. When I opened the door he awkwardly switched the two-moving the wine underneath his opposite arm, so it lay against his side like a violin at rest. He wore a knit tie with an engraved tie bar over a checked shirt with rolled-up sleeves, well-cut pants, and good-quality leather boots with thick white soles. Clearly a transplant from the city-no heterosexual man who'd spent much time here would look like that. Even my husband, a vain man with a taste for expensive Irish knit sweaters, had forgotten the specificity and light irony of urban style. My husband wore what he wore because he believed in it-he had lost the sense of costuming and presentation that well-dressed city dwellers naturally possessed. That perambulating sense of always being on display.
Vladimir held out the slim book, chalkboard green with sans serif lettering. "I was going to say I was in the neighborhood but I wasn't-I came from the college-I wanted to give-John and I had spoken earlier-I wanted to bring him-and you, you-this.
Although I had seen and heard Vladimir speak during the master class, the candidates luncheon, and the faculty retreat, I had not had the chance to say more than a few words directly to him until the fall semester. When I first met him, in the spring after he'd been hired as a full-time junior professor, I was coming late to and leaving early from all full-faculty events to avoid having to talk with any of my colleagues. Even sitting three chairs away from Florence was almost too much for me to bear-lightning bolts of anger shot from my vagina to my extremities. I've always felt the origin of anger in my vagina and am surprised it is not mentioned more in literature.
On an early September evening, the first week of the semester, he visited me at my home, and that is when we had our first real conversation. I was enjoying the cool breeze in the sitting room of our town house, drinking mineral water-my rule is that if I am alone I do not drink alcohol until 9 p.m. (a practical tactic to keep my weight down)-and reading a history of witches in America, when he rang the bell. Since the allegations had been brought against my husband, I felt unable to read fiction. Usually I eagerly set about a reading project each summer to find at least one or two new short stories or novel excerpts to read with my classes. It was important for them and me to always keep acquainted with the contemporary voice. This summer, however, my eyes felt as though they could not focus on the words. The invented worlds, all the made-up-ness and stolen-ness of fiction, all the characters-they felt like a meager and pitiful offering. I needed dates, facts, numbers, and statistics. Weapons. This is our world and this is what happened in it. In the first class of my survey courses I was accustomed to reading a section of Poetics aloud. In it Aristotle discusses the difference between history and poetry and why poetry, being crafted and theoretical, is a superior representation of humanity. This year I skipped it. This year I skipped my whole introductory lecture-usually a litany of references and quotations that I prepped and practiced for well in advance-designed to cow and delight my students. This year, instead, I asked them to speak about themselves and their experiences. While I wish I could say that this decision came from a desire to get to know them, it did not. On my notes for the class I wrote: "Have them talk! (They're only interested in what they think, anyway.)"
I heard a car pull into the drive, and then listened for a while as someone paced around the property, wondering which door to approach. In our town, there's a general custom of entering through the back porch, which, if the house has not been completely remodeled, opens to the kitchen, from a time when in-house help was more prevalent, and domestic labor less of a performance displaying taste, choice, and skill.
Vladimir, however, being new, rang the entrance at the front of the house-which opened to a cold little corridor that we used only as a pass-through to the upstairs. When I opened the door he stood spotlit by the porch light, and immediately put his free hand in his pocket, as though he had been adjusting his hair. He seemed abashed. I remembered my thirties, as a young mother, meeting young fathers, talking about where their sons or daughters were going to elementary school, or whether they were going to try out karate, and how thrilled it made me to see them adjusting their hair or clothing subconsciously: a nervous nod to the powers of attraction I possessed at the time.
He held a bottle of red wine in his other hand and a book tucked into his armpit. When I opened the door he awkwardly switched the two-moving the wine underneath his opposite arm, so it lay against his side like a violin at rest. He wore a knit tie with an engraved tie bar over a checked shirt with rolled-up sleeves, well-cut pants, and good-quality leather boots with thick white soles. Clearly a transplant from the city-no heterosexual man who'd spent much time here would look like that. Even my husband, a vain man with a taste for expensive Irish knit sweaters, had forgotten the specificity and light irony of urban style. My husband wore what he wore because he believed in it-he had lost the sense of costuming and presentation that well-dressed city dwellers naturally possessed. That perambulating sense of always being on display.
Vladimir held out the slim book, chalkboard green with sans serif lettering. "I was going to say I was in the neighborhood but I wasn't-I came from the college-I wanted to give-John and I had spoken earlier-I wanted to bring him-and you, you-this.
