When life gives you lemons, death keeps you awake wondering why. Or at least, that is the way the struggle with the sour and the meaningless unfolds for Cyrus Shams, the protagonist of Kaveh Akbar’s debut novel “Martyr!” (Knopf, 2024). With his acclaimed poetry collections “Calling a Wolf a Wolf” (Alice James Books, 2017) and “Pilgrim Bell” (Graywolf Press, 2021), Akbar has established a reputation for tackling themes such as addiction recovery, isolation, spirituality, immigration, and Islamophobia, which he brings to this novel with his characteristic blend of beauty and unflinching honesty. Here, these concepts are intricately tied to the condition of the present-day artist living in a late-stage capitalist society. They contend with the emptiness of life, while futilely trying to find meaning in productivity and transform passion into a project.
Cyrus, an Iranian-born young man raised in the American Midwest, harbours a poet’s ambition and a fixation with martyrdom. As the daring title “Martyr!” suggests, he yearns for a meaningful end. “But none of those deaths meant anything,” Cyrus muses about his parents’ fates. “I don’t think it’s crazy to want mine to.” Shortly after his birth, his mother lost her life along with 290 others when a U.S. warship mistakenly shot down her commercial flight. His father, Ali, died years later after decades of draining labour at a chicken farm, appearing to hold on only long enough to see Cyrus leave for college. Through a polyphonic structure, Akbar gives voice to Cyrus’s parents in vivid flashbacks, uncovering the deep scars left by history and generational trauma. We also see through the eyes of Arash, Cyrus’s uncle, who served in the military during the Iran-Iraq War, dressing as an angel of death to inspire dying soldiers to embrace martyrdom.
Our protagonist’s life is shaped by his recovery from addiction. He turns to poetry, hoping to fill the void exposed by sobriety. While unpublished, he shares his work with Zee, his emotional anchor and more-than-friend. The novel features several poems, fragments of Cyrus’s ongoing project: The Book of Martyrs. His work introduces him to Orkideh, an artist who has turned her impending death into a performance at the Brooklyn Museum. Along with these poems, Akbar integrates diverse forms in the novel, such as legal documents concerning the plane crash that killed Cyrus’s mother, and dream sequences where Cyrus imagines conversations between the dead, the fictional, and the famous.
The novel’s ambitious approach to blending multiple forms and points of view is one of its standout features, being the driving force behind its unputdownable quality. The different perspectives intersect but do not form a neatly interconnected narrative; rather, they offer a captivating sense of disjointedness. Every character’s point of view was enjoyable, as their complex, layered mental landscapes came through vividly. Yet, despite their distinct personalities and philosophies, I found their tones sometimes too similar, especially during dialogues, where they sometimes sounded so alike that it felt like Cyrus was conversing with himself. While the diversity of their actions and plot lines helped balance this monotony of tone, there were still moments when I felt the polyphonic quality could have been stronger.
In defiance of the usual advice to avoid dream sequences in fiction, Akbar uses them to significant effect, making Cyrus’s dreams essential to both the plot and an understanding of his psychology. His dreams serve as a coping mechanism for insomnia, starting as conscious imaginings and evolving into surreal conversations beyond his control. The dialogues are as profound as they are humorous, just as you might expect from a conversation between Lisa Simpson and his late mother in his mind. This is one of the many inventive ways in which Akbar approaches character development. Another well-crafted thread throughout the novel is the exploration of how characters struggle with societal binaries. Cyrus, for instance, feels perpetually stuck between identities: “neither Iranian nor American, neither Muslim nor not-Muslim, neither drunk nor in meaningful recovery, neither gay nor straight. Each camp thought he was too much the other thing.”
Akbar’s poetic skill and passion for language are on full display in this novel, with the prose standing out on every page. This is particularly evident in the reflective musings that appear throughout the narrative. While it is true that the protagonist is a self-absorbed individual, the introspection transcends mere navel-gazing, delving into universal themes of cultural memory, ethics, and social politics. Through access to Cyrus’s thoughts, even his choice to wear Vans shoes becomes a layered commentary on class resistance.
Now, shifting to the novel’s weaknesses, one area that fell short for me was the exploration of martyrdom. While the theme is consistently present, it lacks the depth and nuance needed to make Cyrus’s obsession feel fully authentic. Early on, we get brief glimpses of his admiration for figures like Joan of Arc and Bobby Sands, but once Orkideh’s storyline takes centre stage, Cyrus’s focus shifts to her as an individual, overshadowing his study of martyrdom. While the notion of “earth martyrs” (those who sacrifice for secular causes) adds a fresh angle, the broader discourse feels uninspired for a central theme that deserved a more inventive approach.
I have mentioned before how Cyrus struggles with his identity, trapped in an in-between state, which makes him an intriguing character. Unfortunately, a similar tension is present in the novel itself, and it does not quite work in its favour. It is caught between being experimental and structured, between literary fiction and genre. There is a plot reveal, which I will not spoil, but the second half of the book becomes overly focused on making connections to it, disrupting the pacing and the engaging flow of the earlier parts of the book. The plot-driven sections clash with the surreal moments, and with so many elements left open to interpretation, I do not think a big reveal was needed. I would have preferred the story to stay untied, especially since the twist was, in my opinion, somewhat predictable.
What I do appreciate about the second half of the book is how Orkideh is portrayed as offering an alternative artistic approach to Cyrus. While he creates primarily for himself, Orkideh places her art and even her death in the public eye. She channels all her energy into crafting artistic moments, often at the expense of other life pillars. Cyrus initially envies her martyrdom, but I believe he later shifts that envy toward her artistry. When he learns that, even for Orkideh, art is not “the trick to being at peace at the end,” as he puts it, he is left to wonder if anything at all can offer that peace. The way the novel carefully develops an answer to this question will spark enough curiosity to keep you reading.
For those who love poetry, literary fiction, and challenging, creative projects, I highly recommend this book. While it does have its flaws, it is an emotionally resonant piece that thoughtfully tackles addiction, socio-political issues, family conflicts, grief, and, of course, Death! It is important to note that, while the novel delves into tough subjects, it does not fall into the category of trauma-focused stories that sensationalise suffering. The characters’ pain is evident, but so is the underlying beauty of their lives, even when they cannot see it. Kaveh Akbar has a knack for revealing the blind spots that come with the construct of the self, doing so through irony, humour, and subtle reminders of love.
Echinox
Echinox este revista de cultură a studenţilor din Universitatea „Babeş-Bolyai”. Apare din decembrie 1968.
