Tell the machine goodnight

Katie Williams, 1978-

Book - 2018

Pearl's job is to make people happy. Every day, she provides customers with personalized recommendations for greater contentment. She's good at her job, her office manager tells her, successful. But how does one measure an emotion? Meanwhile, there's Pearl's teenage son, Rhett. A sensitive kid who has forged an unconventional path through adolescence, Rhett seems to find greater satisfaction in being unhappy. The very rejection of joy is his own kind of "pursuit of happiness." As his mother, Pearl wants nothing more than to help Rhett--but is it for his sake or for hers? Certainly it would make Pearl happier. Regardless, her son is one person whose emotional life does not fall under the parameters of her job--n...ot as happiness technician, and not as mother, either.-Amazon.

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Subjects
Genres
Novels
Published
New York : Riverhead Books 2018.
Language
English
Main Author
Katie Williams, 1978- (author)
Physical Description
287 pages ; 22 cm
ISBN
9780525533122
9780525537366
Contents unavailable.
Review by New York Times Review

THE PRICE YOU PAY, by Aidán Truhen. (Vintage Crime/Black Lizard, $16.95.) When his elderly neighbor is killed, things start to go south for Jack Price, the slick cocaine dealer at the heart of this thriller. The book is "brilliant, a latticework of barbed jokes and subtle observations and inventive misbehaviors, a high-end thriller, relentlessly knowing, relentlessly brutal," Charles Finch wrote in his review. "It reads like Martin Amis on mescaline." NO GOOD ALTERNATIVE: Volume 2 of Carbon Ideologies, by William T. Vollmann. (Penguin, $20.) The writer packs voice and passion into his examination of what we are doing to the earth, taking aim at coal, oil and natural gas and filling his book with interviews with people whose lives have been disrupted by those industries. Vollmann's intended readers, he says, are those in the devastated future. TELL THE MACHINE GOODNIGHT, by Katie Williams. (Riverhead, $16.) This novel imagines an invention called the Apricity, which offers individualized "contentment plans" that tell us how to be happy. The book centers on Pearl, who works for the company behind the invention, and her son, who's recovering from an eating disorder and refuses the technology. Williams's characters are complex and deeply human. GIVE PEOPLE MONEY: How a Universal Basic Income Would End Poverty, Revolutionize Work, and Remake the World, by Annie Lowrey. (Broadway, $16.) Lowrey, who writes about economic policy for The Atlantic, marshals considerable research in her argument for a universal basic income. Even $1,000 given each month to every American would eliminate poverty by the government's current benchmark, she says, outlining a number of ways to redistribute the nation's money to make it possible. A TERRIBLE COUNTRY, by Keith Gessen. (Penguin, $16.) A jilted American returns to Russia, the place of his birth, and is enthralled and horrified by the magic and misery he finds there. Our reviewer, Boris Fishman, praised Gessen's novel of modern Russia, writing, "You won't read a more observant book about the country that has now been America's bedeviling foil for almost a century." THE VICTORIAN AND THE ROMANTIC: A Memoir, a Love Story, and a Friendship Across Time, by Nell Stevens. (Anchor, $17.) In this razor-sharp autobiography, the author tells of her obsession with Elizabeth Gaskell, the Victorian British novelist and the subject of Stevens's Ph.D. As she founders in academia, Stevens finds comfort in her kinship with Gaskell.

Copyright (c) The New York Times Company [July 21, 2019]
Review by Booklist Review

What if a machine could tell us what could make us happy? This is the premise of YA writer Williams' (Absent, 2013) first novel for adults, an imaginative tale set in 2035. Pearl, a technician at the Apricity Corporation, takes DNA samples from her clients and runs them through a small machine that spits out results such as eat tangerines and take a trip alone. The machine's 99.97-percent success rate seems inarguable, and yet, as subsequent chapters explore the inner lives of Pearl and those in her orbit, it seems that even the most finely tuned machine can't predict joy. Pearl's teenage son battles anorexia and depression until a former classmate approaches him to help her find out who drugged her, then shamed her on social media. Pearl's ex-husband longs to be close to his new wife, but she's keeping a terrible secret from him. An actress famous for her on-screen deaths goes to extremes to satisfy the public. Daring, inventive, and moving, Williams' novel deftly illustrates that when it comes to happiness, there are no easy answers.--Huntley, Kristine Copyright 2018 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.
Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

Williams's debut, a savvy take on technology's potential and its moral failings, imagines a near future in which lives are altered by a happiness machine. The year is 2026, and Pearl is a technician for Apricity, where she's assigned to analyze and communicate the results of the company's eponymous happiness machines, which read genetic markers and creates individualized formulas for happiness. Her own family's "contentment plan" is not as easy to read: her marriage to Elliot is over, and her teenage son Rhett remains vulnerable, having suffered from an eating disorder for years. Other characters' stories of warped happiness and misbegotten technology spiral out from the central, deeply intimate tale of Pearl's flailing hopes for Rhett's happiness-and his own tentative, private steps toward recovery. These include Elliot's self-destructive performance art based on strangers' Apricity readings, Pearl's boss's ill-advised attempts to use Apricity to gain professional status, and other heartbreaking stories about the intersection of technology, tragedy, and regret. Forays into the realms of celebrity commodification and the absurdities of fame notwithstanding, Williams never allows satire to overtake her story's moral center or its profoundly generous and humanistic heart, resulting in a sharp and moving novel. (June) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Review by Library Journal Review

Pearl is a consultant for Apricity, a San Francisco tech company that specializes in contentment. "Apricity Is Happiness," and the Apricity Happiness Machine is guaranteed to boost employee productivity with individually tailored recommendations. When the company advises an employee to cut off the tip of a finger, the worker passively complies. Single mom Pearl enjoys her job, but her family life is a mess. Son Rhett is anorexic, and ex-husband Eliot is an artist with a much younger wife. Unhappy, isolated, and surrounded by technology 24/7, Rhett refuses to submit to the happiness machine. This leaves Pearl, dedicated to Apricity, helpless and dismayed; she wants to fix him with her machine, but he will not acquiesce. When an old school friend contacts him, he borrows an Apricity -device to help her solve a mystery. Forced to leave his apartment, Rhett rediscovers the messiness of humanity, while Pearl becomes obsessed with her machine. VERDICT The dystopia here is a quiet one, as Williams's first adult novel is interested in how people cope in a hypermanaged society. Highly recommended for readers of Dexter Palmer's Version Control and near-future sf. [See Prepub Alert, 12/11/17.]-Pamela Mann, St. Mary's Coll. Lib., MD © Copyright 2018. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Review by Kirkus Book Review

In her first book for adults, Williams imagines a not-too-distant future in which people find happiness with the help of machines.It's 2035, and for the last nine years Pearl has worked as a technician for the Apricity Corporation, a San Francisco company that's devised a machine that, using skin cells collected from the inside of a subject's cheek, provides "contentment plans" for those seeking happiness. (The firm's name means the feeling of warmth on one's skin from the sun.) The machine's prescriptions veer sharply from the benign to the bewildering, telling one of Pearl's clients to "eat tangerines on a regular basis," "work at a desk that receive[s] more morning light," and "amputate the uppermost section of his right index finger." "The recommendations can seem strange at firstbut we must keep in mind the Apricity machine uses a sophisticated metric, taking into account factors of which we're not consciously aware," Pearl reassures the client contemplating going under the knife, in a speech she has memorized from the company manual. "The proof is borne out in the numbers. The Apricity system boasts a nearly one hundred percent approval rating. Ninety-nine point nine seven percent." Never mind the .03 percent the company considers "aberrations." Pearl herself appears to be a generally happy person despite the current circumstances of her life. Her husband, Elliot, an artist, has left her for a younger, pink-haired woman, Val, who has her own secretsyet Elliot persists in flirting with Pearl. Her teenage son, Rhett, has stopped eating, perversely finding contentment in dissatisfaction and self-denial. Pearl's own contentment plan, which includes painstakingly building elaborate creatures from 3-D modeling kits, keeps her on a steady keel even as she yearns to rescue her son from his unhappy state. Following the trajectory of today's preoccupation with self-help and our perhaps not-entirely-justified faith that technology can fix everything, Williams explores the way machines and screens can both disconnect us, launching us into loneliness, and connect us, bringing us closer to one another. In this imaginative, engaging, emotionally resonant story, she reveals how the devices we depend on can both deprive us of our humanity and deliver us back to it.With its clever, compelling vision of the future, deeply human characters, and delightfully unpredictable story, this novel is itself a recipe for contentment. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

1 The Happiness Machine Apricity (archaic): the feeling of sun on one's skin in the winter The machine said the man should eat tangerines. It listed two other recommendations as well, so three in total. A modest number, Pearl assured the man as she read out the list that had appeared on the screen before her: one, he should eat tangerines on a regular basis; two, he should work at a desk that received morning light; three, he should amputate the uppermost section of his right index finger. The man-in his early thirties, by Pearl's guess, and pinkish around the eyes and nose in the way of white rabbits or rats-lifted his right hand before his face with wonder. Up came his left, too, and he used its palm to press experimentally on the top of his right index finger, the finger in question. Is he going to cry? Pearl wondered. Sometimes people cried when they heard their recommendations. The conference room they'd put her in had glass walls, open to the workpods on the other side. There was a switch on the wall to fog the glass, though; Pearl could flick it if the man started to cry. "I know that last one seems a bit out of left field," she said. "Right field, you mean," the man-Pearl glanced at her list for his name, one Melvin Waxler-joked, his lips drawing up to reveal overlong front teeth. Rabbitier still. "Get it?" He waved his hand. "Right hand. Right field." Pearl smiled obligingly, but Mr. Waxler had eyes only for his finger. He pressed its tip once more. "A modest recommendation," Pearl said, "compared to some others I've seen." "Oh sure, I know that," Waxler said. "My downstairs neighbor sat for your machine once. It told him to cease all contact with his brother." He pressed on the finger again. "He and his brother didn't argue or anything. Had a good relationship actually, or so my neighbor said. Supportive. Brotherly." Pressed it. "But he did it. Cut the guy off. Stopped talking to him, full stop." Pressed it. "And it worked. He says he's happier now. Says he didn't have a clue his brother was making him unhappy. His twin brother. Identical even. If I'm remembering." Clenched the hand into a fist. "But it turned out he was. Unhappy, that is. And the machine knew it, too." "The recommendations can seem strange at first," Pearl began her spiel, memorized from the manual, "but we must keep in mind the Apricity machine uses a sophisticated metric, taking into account factors of which we're not consciously aware. The proof is borne out in the numbers. The Apricity system boasts a nearly one hundred percent approval rating. Ninety-nine point nine seven percent." "And the point three percent?" The index finger popped up from Waxler's fist. It just wouldn't stay down. "Aberrations." Pearl allowed herself a glance at Mr. Waxler's fingertip, which appeared no different from the others on his hand but was its own aberration, according to Apricity. She imagined the fingertip popping off his hand like a cork from a bottle. When Pearl looked up again, she found that Waxler's gaze had shifted from his finger to her face. The two of them shared the small smile of strangers. "You know what?" Waxler bent and straightened his finger. "I've never liked it much. This particular finger. It got slammed in a door when I was little, and ever since . . ." His lip drew up, revealing his teeth again, almost a wince. "It pains you?" "It doesn't hurt. It just feels . . . like it doesn't belong." Pearl tapped a few commands into her screen and read what came back. "The surgical procedure carries minimal risk of infection and zero risk of mortality. Recovery time is negligible, a week, no more. And with a copy of your Apricity report-there, I've just sent that to you, HR, and your listed physician-your employer has agreed to cover all relevant costs." Waxler's lip slid back down. "Hm. No reason not to then." "No. No reason." He thought a moment more. Pearl waited, careful to keep her expression neutral until he nodded the go-ahead. When he did, she tapped in the last command and, with a small burst of satisfaction, crossed his name off her list. Melvin Waxler. Done. "I've also recommended that your workpod be reassigned to the eastern side of the building," she said, "near a window." "Thank you. That'll be nice." Pearl finished with the last prompt question, the one that would close the session and inch her closer to her quarterly bonus. "Mr. Waxler, would you say that you anticipate Apricity's recommendations will improve your overall life satisfaction?" This phrasing was from the updated training manual. The question used to be Will Apricity make you happier? but Legal had decided that the word happier was problematic. "Seems like it could," Waxler said. "The finger thing might lower my typing speed." He shrugged. "But then there's more to life than typing speed." "So . . . yes?" "Sure. I mean, yes." "Wonderful. Thank you for your time today." Mr. Waxler rose to go, but then, as if struck by an impulse, he stopped and reached out for the Apricity 480, which sat on the table between them. Pearl had just last week been outfitted with the new model; sleeker than the Apricity 470 and smaller, too, the size of a deck of cards, the machine had fluted edges and a light gray casing that reflected a subtle sheen, like the smoke inside a fortune-teller's ball. Waxler's hand hovered over it. "May I?" he said. At Pearl's nod, he tapped the edge of the Apricity with the tip of the finger now scheduled to be amputated in-confirmations from both HR and the doctor's office had already arrived on Pearl's screen-a little over two weeks. Was it Pearl's imagination or did Mr. Waxler already stand a bit taller, as if an invisible yoke had been lifted from his shoulders? Was the pink around his eyes and nose now matched by a healthy flush to the cheek? Waxler paused in the doorway. "Can I ask one more thing?" "Certainly." "Does it have to be tangerines, or will any citrus do?" pearl had worked as a contentment technician for the Apricity CorporationÕs San Francisco office since 2026. Nine years. While her colleagues hopped to new job titles or start-ups, Pearl stayed on. Pearl liked staying on. This was how sheÕd lived her life. After graduating college, Pearl had stayed on at the first place that had hired her, working as a nocturnal executive assistant for brokers trading in the Asian markets. After having her son, sheÕd stayed on at home until heÕd started school. After getting married to her college boyfriend, sheÕd stayed on as his wife, until Elliot had an affair and left her. Pearl was fine where she was, thatÕs all. She liked her work, sitting with customers who had purchased one of ApricityÕs three-tiered Contentment Assessment Packages, collecting their samples, and talking them through the results. Her current assignment was a typical one. The customer, the up-and-coming San Francisco marketing firm !Huzzah!, had purchased Apricity's Platinum Package in the wake of an employee death, or, as Pearl's boss had put it, "A very un-merry Christmas and to one a goodnight!" Hours after the holiday party, a !Huzzah! copywriter had committed suicide in the office lounge. The night cleaning service had found the poor woman, but hours too late. Word of the death had made the rounds, of course, both its cause and its location. !Huzzah!'s January reports noted a decrease in worker productivity, an accompanying increase in complaints to HR. February's reports were grimmer still, the first weeks of March abysmal. So !Huzzah! turned to the Apricity Corporation and, through them, Pearl, who'd been brought into !Huzzah!'s office in SoMa to create a contentment plan for each of the firm's fifty-four employees. Happiness is Apricity. That was the slogan. Pearl wondered what the dead copywriter would think of it. The Apricity assessment process itself was noninvasive. The only item that the machine needed to form its recommendations was a swab of skin cells from the inside of the cheek. This was Pearl's first task on a job, to hand out and collect back a cotton swab, swipe a hint of captured saliva across a computer chip, and then fit the loaded chip into a slot in the machine. The Apricity 480 took it from there, spelling out a personalized contentment plan in mere minutes. Pearl had always marveled at this: to think that the solution to one's happiness lay next to the residue of the bagel one had eaten for breakfast! But it was true. Pearl had sat for Apricity herself and felt its effects. Though for most of Pearl's life unhappiness had only ever been a mild emotion, not a cloud overhead, as she'd heard others describe it, surely nothing like the fog of a depressive, none of this bad weather. Pearl's unhappiness was more like the wisp of smoke from a snuffed candle. A birthday candle at that. Steady, stalwart, even-keeled: these were the words that had been applied to her since childhood. And she supposed she looked the part: dark hair cropped around her ears and neck in a tidy swimmer's cap; features pleasing but not too pretty; figure trim up top and round in the thighs and bottom, like one of those inflatable dolls that will rock back up after you punch it down. In fact, Pearl had been selected for her job as an Apricity technician because she possessed, as her boss had put it, "an aura of wooly contentment, like you have a blanket draped over your head." "You rarely worry. You never despair," he'd gone on, while Pearl sat before him and tugged at the cuffs of the suit jacket she'd bought for the interview. "Your tears are drawn from the puddle, not the ocean. Are you happy right now? You are, aren't you?" "I'm fine." "You're fine! Yes!" he shouted at this revelation. "You store your happiness in a warehouse, not a coin pouch. It can be bought cheap!" "Thank you?" "You're very welcome. Look. This little guy likes you"-he'd indicated the Apricity 320 in prime position on his desk-"and that means I like you, too." That interview had been nine years and sixteen Apricity models ago. Since then Pearl had suffered dozens more of her boss's vaguely insulting metaphors and had, more importantly, seen the Apricity system prove itself hundreds-no, thousands of times. While other tech companies shriveled into obsolescence or swelled into capitalistic behemoths, the Apricity Corporation, guided by its CEO and founder, Bradley Skrull, had stayed true to its mission. Happiness is Apricity. Yes, Pearl was a believer. However, she was not so na*ve as to expect that everyone else must share her belief. While Pearl's next appointment of the day went nearly as smoothly as Mr. Waxler's-the man barely blinked at the recommendation that he divorce his wife and hire a series of reputable sex workers to fulfill his carnal needs-the appointment after that went unexpectedly poorly. The subject was a middle-aged web designer, and though Apricity's recommendation seemed a minor one, to adopt a religious practice, and though Pearl pointed out that this could be interpreted as anything from Catholicism to Wicca, the woman stormed out of the room, shouting that Pearl wanted her to become weak minded, and that this would suit her employer's purposes quite well, wouldn't it, now? Pearl sent a request to HR to schedule a follow-up appointment for the next day. Usually these situations righted themselves after the subject had had time to contemplate. Sometimes Apricity confronted people with their secret selves, and, as Pearl had tried to explain to the shouting woman, such a passionate reaction, even if negative, was surely a sign of just this. Still, Pearl arrived home deflated-the metaphorical blanket over her head feeling a bit threadbare-to find her apartment empty. Surprisingly, stunningly empty. She made a circuit of the rooms twice before acknowledging that Rhett had, for the first time since he'd come back from the clinic, left the house of his own volition. A shiver ran through her and gathered, buzzing, beneath each of her fingernails. She fumbled with her screen, pulling it from the depths of her pocket and unfolding it. "Just got home," she spoke into it. k, came the eventual reply. "You're not here," she said. What she wanted to say: Where the hell are you? fnshd hw wnt out came back. "Be home in time for dinner." The alert that her message had been sent and received sounded like her screen had heaved a deep mechanical sigh. Her apartment was in the outer avenues of the city's Richmond District. You could walk to the ocean, could see a corner of it even, gray and tumbling, if you pressed your cheek against the bathroom window and peered left. Pearl pictured Rhett alone on the beach, walking into the surf. But no, she shouldn't think that way. Rhett's absence from the apartment was a good thing. It was possible-wasn't it?-that he'd gone out with friends from his old school. Maybe one of them had thought of him and decided to call him up. Maybe Josiah, who'd seemed the best of the bunch. He'd been the last of them to stop visiting, had written Rhett at the clinic, had once pointed to one of the dark bruises that had patterned Rhett's limbs and said, Ouch, so sadly and sweetly it was as if the bruise were on his own arm, the blood pooling under the surface of his own unmarked skin. Pearl said it now, out loud, in her empty apartment. "Ouch." Speaking the word brought no pain. To pass the hour until dinner, Pearl got out her latest modeling kit. The kits had been on Apricity's contentment plan for Pearl. She was nearly done with her latest, a trilobite from the Devonian period. She fitted together the last plates of the skeleton, using a tiny screwdriver to turn the tinier screws hidden beneath each synthetic bone. This completed, she brushed a pebbled leathery material with a thin coat of glue and fitted the fabric snugly over the exoskeleton. She paused and assessed. Yes. The trilobite was shaping up nicely. When it came to her models, Pearl didn't skimp or rush. She ordered high-end kits, the hard parts produced with exactitude by a 3-D printer, the soft parts grown in a brew of artfully spliced DNA. Once again, Apricity had been correct in its assessment. Pearl felt near enough to happiness in that moment when she sliced open the cellophane of a new kit and inhaled the sharp smell of its artifice. Excerpted from Tell the Machine Goodnight: A Novel by Katie Williams All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.