For most of my adult life, I’ve been afraid of apes, the result of an effective—too effective—intro-level anthropology class that outlined the ways in which humans and primates are just a few DNA twists away from being identical. Kate, in her post last week, asked, “Who wants to hate a chimp?” Me. I did. Chimps refuted my vain and delusional nature—they were proof that everything is accidental and there is no God and, given a couple weeks in the jungle, I’d act just like a monkey. Ape. Whatever.
You know where this is going, of course: I loved “Bruno.” And Bruno. Macy discussed the pleasure of Hale’s writing and his adoration of language, and undoubtedly, it was the moments of pitch-perfect humor—because “Bruno” is, at least initially, a very funny book—that allowed me to ease into this chimp’s narrative. Read more at newyorker.com…