YOU TELL ME

Why Percival Everett cant say what his novels mean.

- MAYA BINYAM

In a narrow, windowless room at the University of Southern California, a group of graduate students is workshopping a short story. Its author is silent as her classmates deliver gentle feedback. Some suggest minor improvements of pacing, setting, and tone. One student would appreciate a more robust description of the protagonist’s emotions, but enjoys the sparseness, too. “I like this version,” another adds. “I don’t think I have much in the way of critique.”

While they speak, their professor, the novelist Percival Everett, sits quietly at the head of a too-large table, one palm steadied against it, his body swivelling almost imperceptibly from side to side. His head, decorated with errant coils of dark gray hair, is framed by a gargantuan television that hangs behind him, its screen a black expanse. He wears the uniform of a professional Everyman: slacks, button-down, glasses. He talks at a low volume, but the sounds he makes have the electric quality of speech being filtered through a mike.

“I think you guys must be a whole lot smarter than me,” he says, pushing his glasses to his forehead. “Because I’m just a dumb old cowboy, and I can’t figure out what’s going on.”