Gary Shteyngart is like the stand-up comedian of American literature—a witty, playful Russian-born writer who observes the U.S. with the curiosity of a tourist. New York’s immigrant melting pot is his stage, and the complexities of the English language his prop. His characters, often thinly disguised versions of himself, constantly fumble through life, tripping over social cues and miscommunicating. It’s these awkward, imperfect moments that give his stories their spark.
His sixth novel is a lively coming-of-age story with a dark edge, following 10-year-old Vera Bradford-Shmulkin—an anxious, overachieving student whose perfect grades have just been marred by a B. “Being smart is one of the few things I have to be proud of,” Vera laments, keeping a diary where she jots down unfamiliar words and phrases. She’s precocious and determined, even if she mixes up words like “facile” and “futile” or rhapsodizes about Manhattan’s “she-she” districts. Her vocabulary is impressive, but just shy of fully capturing the world around her.
Shteyngart credits Henry James’ What Maisie Knew as inspiration for Vera’s child’s-eye view of adult chaos, though his awkward heroine also resembles the author himself in his memoir Little Failure. Vera lives with her disheveled Russian-Jewish father, Igor (Shteyngart’s birth name), who edits a struggling liberal arts magazine; her frazzled WASP stepmother, Anne (who added an “e” in homage to Anne Frank); and her mischievous half-brother, Dylan, who enjoys flashing houseguests. Her Korean-born mother, Iris Choi, is long gone—a ghostly figure Vera is desperate to find.
The Bradford-Shmulkins are a mess, but they seem stable compared to the rest of the country, glimpsed in unsettling flashes throughout the story. The novel is set in a near-future “post-democracy” America where red states track menstrual cycles, self-driving cars report their owners, and Russian disinformation floods the news. Desperate to prove herself at school, Vera prepares to debate in favor of the “Five-Three Amendment,” a racist law that would give extra voting power to “exceptional Americans” whose ancestors arrived before the Revolutionary War—”but were exceptional enough not to arrive in chains.” In doing so, she’s arguing against her own interests: blonde, blue-eyed Dylan would qualify; dark-haired, brown-eyed Vera would not.
Though Henry James provides the initial spark, Vera, or Faith is anything but Jamesian. The prose is light and conversational, even when playfully stumbling over words. If the novel has a guiding spirit, it’s not James but Nabokov—the title nods to Ada, or Ardor, and Vera herself resembles a miniature Timofey Pnin, caught between cultures and lost in translation. Along the way, she learns she was named after Nabokov’s wife.Life, “a woman who was brilliant in her own right but, in those days, was expected to serve her husband.” Vera Nabokov’s 21st-century counterpart—driven, principled, and top of her class—faces the same risk of being sidelined as a second-class citizen.
The novel is lively and eager to please, almost to a fault, giving it a restless, scattered feel—like a cultural chameleon. Vera, or Faith was reportedly written quickly in under two months, borrowing elements from an abandoned spy novel. This explains its chaotic energy and abrupt shifts in tone. Shteyngart’s tribute to a decent American in a troubled America swings between bittersweet comedy, coming-of-age adventure, dystopian thriller, and spy story. The vibrant narrative never quite coheres; its pieces clash more than they blend. Yet Shteyngart tackles his material with infectious energy and wit. He paints a vivid, exaggerated near-future America and gives us a resilient heroine worth cheering for. Even in a topsy-turvy, morally murky world, that’s easily worth a solid B.
Vera, or Faith by Gary Shteyngart is published by Atlantic (£16.99). To support The Guardian, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.
