theMystery.doc

A Novel

Matthew McIntosh

• Publisher: Grove Press
• Year: 2020
• Print ISBN: 9780802124913
• eBook ISBN: 9780802189172
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Literature General
• Index: Literature

"A vast, beguiling…postmodern novel of ideas, misread intentions, and robots, told in words, pictures, symbols, and even blank pages" by the author of Well ( Kirkus).
Rooted in the western United States in the decade after 9/11, Matthew McIntosh's epic and elliptical novel follows a young writer and his wife as he attempts to write the follow-up to his first novel. He desperately searches for a form that will express the world as it has become, even as it continually shifts all around him.
Pop-up ads, search results, web chats, snippets of conversation, lines of code, and film and television stills mix with alchemical manuscripts, classical works of literature—and the story of a man who wakes up one morning having lost his memory. His only clue to his own identity is a single blank document on his computer called theMystery.doc. From text messages to The Divine Comedy, first love to artificial intelligence, the book explores what makes us human—the stories we tell, the memories we hold on to, the memories we lose—and the relationships that give our lives meaning.
Part love story, part memoir, part documentary, part existential whodunit, theMystery.doc is a modern epic about the quest to find something lasting in a world where everything—and everyone—is in danger of slipping away.
"McIntosh is a slacker Proust, writing about the underclass of Spokane rather than the upper classes of Paris as he attempts to convert memories and experience into art…a remarkable achievement."—Steven Moore, Washington Post

ACT III

THE

LAST DAYS

OF

THE SYSTEM

I wake. The room is faintly lit. My vision is blurred. I am without my spectacles. A girl is in the closet, stepping into a skirt. She pulls it up. I see her form, but not her face. The face is blank. But I can tell that she is looking at me. She seems unsurprised that I have woken. It is she who has awakened me. The house is old and the floorboards are noisy. Now she says to me, “I’m super late, so I’m gonna drive. OK?” I grunt to communicate in the affirmative, then close my eyes. I lie, listening to her dress. My body is sore. What happened last night? I remember staying up late, working. What was I working on? I try to remember. There was a man, and a woman. They were in black and white. Yes, I was watching an old film, searching for clues. I had surreptitiously downloaded the film from the Teleframe. I hoped the controllers were not monitoring my actions. It occurred to me that they might send dark-suited men to my little house. The men would knock on the door, and I would answer it. They would say that they were there to collect my information-compiling devices for scrutiny. I might try to resist, but it would be no use. If I did not comply and hand over my devices, they would take them anyway, by force. The girl was then in bed asleep. It was past 2 in the morning. Would they come to take my devices in the middle of the night? Or would they come when the sun was up. On the devices were copies of the codex. But there was one more copy, a backup, housed on an information stick called Pee-Wee. He was hidden away. But would they find him? It would depend on how thoroughly they ransacked the house. I decided that if they should come, I would comply. Make no waves. That way they may think I am giving them every copy of the codex. And then what? Then they would take the devices to their laboratory. Their analysts would find and parse the codex. They would return to the house and arrest me. I would be kept as an enemy of the state. I must remember, I thought, to keep Pee-Wee’s volumes current and up to date. I must remember, I thought, to hide Pee-Wee after each new data transfer. And also to erase any . Now the girl is in the bathroom. I hear her running the faucet. Brushing her teeth. Beside this bed, the window is open. Each dawn is cooler than the one before. The Simulators have conjured up an earth slowly moving away from its sun. I wish it would stay warm. I wish the days would remain long, and that the winter would not come and bury us in darkness and cold. I feel as if I have been in a fight. My body is sore, and my hands are raw. But there was no fight. At least no fight with men. I have not fought with my fists in a long time. No, my body is sore because I have been scraping the paint off of this blasted house. The house is small, yes, but it never seems...

Table of contents

• ACT I: HOME & GARDEN
• ACT II: REAL HUMAN BODIES
• ACT III: THE LAST DAYS OF THE SYSTEM
• Credits