Reviewed by Hadley Duncan Howard
I have just read Recenses / Recencies (University of Nebraska Press; Nov. 2026), Patrick Madden’s latest collection of essays. I say I read it, in that my eyes did pass over every letter and my mind did take in the wondrous language and visceral imagery and meaty ideas and thoughtful veerings. But I more than read it; I raced through it, went back and mentally marinated in it, highlighted much of it, and read sections of it aloud to those who initially thought they had other things to do but whose minds were so engaged they subsequently wanted to discuss the book at length and borrow it indefinitely. (I’m a generous friend, but they were told to buy their own copy.)
These elevating literary antics — both Madden’s style and my response to it — came as no surprise, as his work is always an enlivening encounter of the spirit and a playful romp through his mind. His essays are associative, his canon characterized by its experimentation within the genre and his own willingness to allow one thought, memory, or observation to lead to another, often ending up somewhere completely unexpected. He has in fact described his creative process as “sallying forth in writing without a plan,” and his digressions aren’t just entertaining detours. They’re how he uncovers his own thoughts and finds surprising meanings.
Recenses / Recencies, Madden’s most recent escapade, compiles thirty essays over 170 pages, each an entity unto itself, the whole organized by no discernible criteria. There is, however, a unique constraint employed in this collection: each piece introduces itself to the reader with “I have just…” He disciplines himself with the immediacy of that beginning, writing in the moment rather than from the lofty perspective of time and reflection, but allows himself the freedom to wander and roam. This is how he, say, starts with 1980s television, takes a left at a man wearing a gorilla suit, yields to ruminations on “linguistic antagonisms unrelated to, or preceding, sense,” and ends up contemplating the “impossible monstrosity of human cruelty or glory of human goodness.” Each essay in this collection starts with the same three words, but the magic is in the meandering.
Madden variously explores birdsong; the pop music of his glory days; water park wedgies; assorted f-words; Darwin’s bathtub; and the kind of made-for-TV, action-packed, race-against-time that only a lost passport and a dying grandmother can generate. But then, once the reader observes the wry twinkle in his writerly eye, he swerves and swoops toward interpretation and meaning that no one, perhaps he least of all, saw coming. He meditates on the influence of a dear friend, the late essayist Brian Doyle; the smallness of self set against an unfathomable yet “crude, most obvious” universe; the daily gestures of affection that are nothing special beyond the countless Everythings they represent; and the “poppy-petaled metastases” of political history made current, among other prodigious ponderings. And he does it all while essaying on his essaying, (re-)thinking about his thoughts, inserting parentheticals to his own parentheticals, and choosing words to better consider the meaning of his words. Classic meta Madden.
Also Maddenesque: the conspicuous absence of titles throughout, paired with the winky inclusion of callouts on every page that provide both place and mirth to the reader. Although this is his first book organized in such a fashion, the fashion itself speaks to his authorial voice, considerable brain, and dry humor scribbled onto every page. His style remains erudite and accessible, as if he’s the most interesting guy you’ll hear from on any given day, both because he mines notions of what it means to be a good-faith human but also due to the swirly conversational manner of the seemingly attention-deficient. Open this book to any random page and dig in; there’s something there to gnaw on — and, yes, Madden himself would appreciate that mixed metaphor.
While others of Madden’s works skew lengthier, the essays in Recenses / Recencies are pocket-sized and personal, exactly right for readers who prefer to take their time, one essay per lamplit evening, as well as those looking to cram in rather a lot of essential intelligence (emotional or otherwise) all in one go. For me, it’s the savoring of each singular, Montaignean offering that feeds me slowly until eventually I need more of the same in all its discerning differences. Each essay is a feast.
Hadley Duncan Howard is a writer, editor, and creative. Her work often focuses on themes of identity, family, and faith, with essays published or forthcoming in Under the Gumtree, Wayfare, Dialogue, Exponent II, and elsewhere. She earned an MFA in creative nonfiction from Brigham Young University.
