DELPHI

A British classics professor intersperses her lockdown diary with a taxonomy of ancient systems of prophecy.

The unnamed narrator of Pollard’s debut novel titles each of her short chapters with a method of foretelling the future, starting with “Theomancy: Prophecy by Foretelling Events” and ending with “Dactylomancy: Prophecy by Means of Finger Movements.” Upon a random check, even the kookier-sounding ones—“Urticariaomancy: Prophecy by Itches,” “Ololygmancy: Prophecy by the Howling of Dogs”—are authentic. The entries narrate experiences and emotions familiar from our recent collective experiment in uncertainty, from home schooling to craft cocktails to Zoom exhaustion and news addiction. In fact, except for some slight variations since the book is set in the U.K., it all feels so familiar and real that it has the feeling of a time capsule that’s been opened many years too soon—though Pollard, the author of six books of poetry, is at pains to bookend her narrative with assurances that it is fictional. The narrator teaches a screenful of students with their cameras off, deals with her 10-year-old son's increasing dependence on screens even as she follows on her own screen the unfolding nightmares of Sarah Everard (a young woman who was murdered in London) and Donald Trump. She tries an I Ching app, visits an online psychic, does tarot readings. She keeps getting the family happiness card even as her husband steps up his drinking and the marriage frays. Finally she decides to jump the fence and go for a walk only to run into an acquaintance who complains about her au pair, leading her to rush home in horror. “I haven’t missed small talk” is one of many wry, relatable moments—but these might be funnier later on. Here and there, big plot elements drop in like stones, with little buildup or aftermath, including a last-minute bit of terrifying melodrama with mythic overtones.

Re-creates the particular frustration, tedium, and fear of 2020 and 2021 with depressing verisimilitude.