Over the past three years, I have had the privilege of teaching creative writing courses at Georgetown University. During this time, I have made an interesting observation: the majority of my students have a strong preference for genre fiction—sci-fi, mystery, romance—over literary fiction. While literary fiction focuses on exploring character development and resembles real life, genre fiction relies on familiar themes and places more importance on plot. Initially, I had curated a syllabus packed with classic and contemporary literary short stories, but I soon realized that my students wanted to produce work that aligned with their interests outside the classroom—epic fantasies, apocalyptic science-fiction tales, and daring romances.
Although I have always been more drawn to literary fiction for its exploration of human nature and behavior, I couldn’t ignore the fervor with which my students spoke about their favorite genre stories. They explained that these works provided an outlet for their intense emotions and went beyond the constraints of realism that I had been assigning. They also argued that genre fiction was better equipped to capture the surreal and unpredictable nature of our current world inundated with daily news and information.
This led me on a quest to find an artist who seamlessly blended genre elements in their writing while maintaining the literary craftsmanship I admired. Colson Whitehead immediately came to mind. Throughout his career, Whitehead has demonstrated a remarkable ability to merge different storytelling modes, starting with his powerful debut novel, “The Intuitionist.” However, working in these dual registers comes with its challenges, a lesson that my students could learn from Whitehead as well. In his latest novel, “Crook Manifesto,” Whitehead showcases his skillful writing across various styles, his way with language, and his distinctively sharp and eloquent sentences. Yet, this book falls short of achieving what he had accomplished in his previous works. The characters feel underdeveloped, and the plot fails to evoke the intense emotions and circumstances typically associated with a crime novel. Despite its absorbing characteristic—Whitehead’s voice—this novel is both captivating and limited.
“Crook Manifesto” takes on the qualities of popular culinary dishes. There are two paths to success. The first involves following the recipe precisely, delivering a flawless version of a beloved delicacy. The second path involves deviating from the recipe, reinventing the dish in a way that pays homage to its origins while elevating it to new heights. Whitehead has achieved success by taking the second approach in his career. In his Pulitzer-winning novel, “The Underground Railroad,” for example, he transformed the metaphorical network of individuals helping runaway slaves into an actual network of train stations. By ingeniously combining literary and genre ingredients—a propulsive, adventurous plot populated with authentic characters—he challenged readers’ preconceived notions of history.
“Crook Manifesto” serves as a sequel to Whitehead’s previous novel, “Harlem Shuffle,” a crime story centered around a man named Ray Carney, who profits from acquiring stolen goods. In this new novel, set in the decaying New York City of the 1970s, Carney has retired from a life of crime to focus on running his successful furniture store in Harlem. The backdrop is a city on the verge of collapse, where even the affluent Upper East Side is showing signs of deterioration. Carney’s teenage daughter, May, yearns to attend the Jackson 5’s upcoming concert at Madison Square Garden. When Carney fails to acquire tickets legally, he embarks on one final illegal scheme to obtain them, setting off a series of harrowing events.
The trouble with the novel begins in the second section, which jumps ahead a couple of years and primarily follows a character named Zippo as he tries to make a blaxploitation film in Harlem, with Carney’s store serving as one of the locations. Carney becomes a minor figure, and Whitehead abandons many of the narrative threads he had established earlier. As a result, “Crook Manifesto” reads less like a coherent novel and more like a collection of loosely connected anecdotes. This shift in focus brings attention to the third-person narrator, who assumes a dominant role. The story itself takes a backseat, and the narrator becomes the primary link between the various sections of the book. While Whitehead’s engaging prose carries the reader along, sometimes propelling the plot forward and other times indulging in its own fluency and virtuosity, it becomes increasingly challenging to discern the purpose of the journey.
Whitehead continues to dazzle readers with his exceptional sentences—eloquent yet accessible, infused with a rhythmic sensibility that captivates. For instance, he vividly describes Zippo’s experience as a budding artist in New York, capturing both his thirst for attention and his eccentricity. Yet, as the novel progresses and shifts between perspectives, the language itself overshadows the plot. While the various characters in the book are colorful, it is Whitehead who emerges as the star.
Early on, Whitehead introduces several tropes that suggest a particular type of story. We encounter the reformed criminal forced back into the world of crime, the devoted yet oblivious wife, the corrupt police officers operating on both sides of the law, and more. However, instead of using these elements to build momentum, Whitehead overlays them with literary fireworks—complex sentences, abrupt shifts in point of view, verbose descriptions that interrupt the narrative flow—and a disjointed narrative structure that prevents the novel from cohesively coming together.
Despite its shortcomings, there are compelling reasons to read “Crook Manifesto.” Whitehead effortlessly captures the essence of New York, infusing the novel with vibrant social commentary on the lives of African Americans during the disco era. Yet, as I read, I couldn’t help but think about my conversations with my students. They present a simple yet revolutionary idea—that genre fiction better mirrors real life than literary fiction. I believe both genres offer valuable insights into reality, but the true measure lies in the execution of the stories. Sometimes, our lives are governed by plots we have no say in, while at other times, we seek solace and understanding through introspection and the experiences of the characters who inhabit our days. The best fiction manages to illuminate one or both of these aspects of reality. Unfortunately, “Crook Manifesto” fails to deliver on either front. It was a lesson learned…
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