Transcription by Ben Lerner
Monday, March 30, 2026 at 10:56AM 
Published by Farrar, Straus and Giroux on April 7, 2026
The unnamed narrator of Transcription has been engaged by a magazine to interview an author and filmmaker named Thomas. The narrator is 45. As a younger man, he came to admire Thomas while taking one of his classes. The narrator was also a college friend of Thomas’ son Max. Thomas is now 90 and the miraculous survivor of a COVID infection. The interview is something of a coup as Thomas has not given one in years. This one will be his last.
At his hotel in Providence, the narrator FaceTimes his daughter Eva before dropping his phone into a sink full of water. If he buys a new iPhone, he’ll be late to his appointment with Thomas. And he can’t call Thomas from the room phone to explain his tardiness because the number is stored in his dead phone. The role that smartphones play in modern life is a recurring theme.
The narrator realizes how dependent he is on his phone (or as the blurbs suggest, Ben Lerner is illustrating how devices control our lives) when he can’t summon an Uber. He opts to walk to Thomas’ building without the hell of an app. “I would typically start walking directions on the map— even though I knew the way.” He talks about experiencing a “withdrawal” from his phone that sparks a sharper awareness of his surroundings.
The narrator had been planning to record the interview but, lacking any other recording device, decides to have a preliminary chat with Thomas and to record the interview the following day after purchasing a new phone. Unfortunately for him, Thomas objects that all their words should be recorded. “Otherwise we repeat ourselves and it grows unnatural. We will sound like bad actors. Even the transcript will show that we have rehearsed.”
The narrator pretends to record the interview because he is too embarrassed to admit that he drowned his phone. That incident provides context for the rest of the novel. I take it from the blurbs that the story encourages readers to consider the relationship between words recorded on devices and those recorded in our memories, or between a transcript and a reconstruction. I was more engaged by Ben Lerner’s use of Thomas’ deceit as the foundation for an ethical inquiry: is it acceptable for the narrator, having deceived Thomas, to fail to disclose to his audience that some of the article he will write is based on his memory rather than a literal transcript of the interview?
The novel’s first part recounts the unrecorded conversation. It is the stuff of high-level intellect. Thomas discusses radio and the nature of sound as experienced in the womb, the Hezbollah bomb at the Rue de Rennes in 1986, childhood addictions to devices with screens (“I am a partisan of the new, but only when it admits distance”), memory and misremembered events, and a dozen other topics.
Perhaps the conversation is a bit pretentious, but that might be my insecure reaction to intellectual chitchat. Thomas says things like “All light is social” or “A problem with Freud is he thinks we dream only our own dreams” and my reaction is, Dude, what does that even mean?
In an interesting twist, Thomas mentions people (including Max and Max’s dead mother) he won’t talk about while he’s being recorded, not knowing that he is free to speak because the recording is an illusion. Is the absence of recording important because Thomas wants to preserve deniability of his unflattering opinions of family members?
The novel’s second section takes place after the narrator’s account of the interview has been published. This section is set in Spain. The narrator has just given a talk at a museum where Rosa, one of the curators, was “intensely devoted” to Thomas. The narrator creates an unintended scandal by telling a self-effacing story about ruining his phone and pretending to record part of the interview. Rosa insists that he “more or less confessed that you falsified a big part of what many of us thought of as his last, I don’t know, testament. A deepfake.” The narrator protests that all journalists edit and often reconstruct their interviews, but Rosa reminds him that he is not a journalist. In her view, the interview “was conducted under false pretenses. That’s what you revealed.”
In the last section, the narrator conducts another interview, this time with Max. Technology again enters the story as Max talks about his father’s hospitalization with COVID and their attempt to communicate in a failed Zoom call followed by a more successful voice call.
Max gives a lengthy account of his attempt to address his daughter Emmie’s eating disorder. He felt shame at the term “failure to thrive” and its implication that he was remiss in providing Emmie with adequate nutrition, but Emmie could not be persuaded to eat until, in desperation, they let her eat whatever she wanted. Even then, she only demonstrated a normal appetite when they let her eat without putting her screen down. The (perhaps frightening) importance that modern children attach to screens has been part of public discourse for several years, but Lerner’s clever illustration of the phenomenon is one of the smartest I’ve seen in fiction.
Some of the story may have passed over my head, but it is a testament to Lerner’s skill that I never lost interest in it, even as I tried to puzzle out its meaning. The fluidity of Lerner’s prose likely accounts for my engagement with a story in which nothing much happens. At times, disconnected events seem to flow together, representing (I assume) distortions of memory, or the ability of memory to transport us into a different time, or the ability of misremembered events to change the past as we understand it. Readers in search of a short novel with literary heft will find much to admire in Transcription, as will readers who take an interest in the malleable nature of memory and the role that screens play in modern life.
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