"An Elegant Theory is a vibrant puzzle of a novel, an unstoppable force--full of twists, turns, and surprises while remaining fully grounded in real life"
"An Elegant Theory is a vibrant puzzle of a novel, an unstoppable force--full of twists, turns, and surprises while remaining fully grounded in real life"
An Elegant Theory
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In stores November 2016 from Central Avenue Publishing
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Shortlisted for the Horatio Nelson Fiction Prize & Finalist for Foreword Review's 2016 Book of the Year
Coulter Zahn sees reality differently than others. Much like light can theoretically be in all places at once, Coulter sees multiple versions of his life. A promising PhD candidate at MIT, he and his young wife are nervously expecting their first child. When his dissertation comes under intense criticism, his estranged mother returns, and Sara tells him she's leaving him, Coulter’s already delicate mental state becomes further fragmented. One evening, with his life and mental health unraveling, Coulter loses control, irreparably changing the course of the lives around him. But the very next morning, he catches a break in his research, discovering the true shape of the universe. Influenced by those around him and his own untrustworthy psyche, Coulter must decide whether to face the consequences of his actions or finish his research, perhaps making the greatest contribution to science since Einstein’s theory of relativity. An existential psychological thriller, An Elegant Theory explores how the construction of memory and consciousness can shape motive, guilt, and identity through the lens of a modern-day mad-scientist motif. |
Read an Excerpt
A storm system rumbled through southwest Oklahoma, the result of a Rocky Mountain cold front colliding with warm, Gulf of Mexico trade winds. This mixture had accumulated over the panhandle of Texas, grew in mass, and then spun out of the Jet Stream with such force that any sane person hid underground, grasping a handheld radio for the word that all was clear.
Coulter, his father, and his father’s intern, Dianne Feinstein, a graduate student at the University of Oklahoma, approached the storm system from the southeast, well out of harm’s way. This was the first time Coulter had tagged along with his father storm chasing. It was “a birthday present,” his father had said, “a chance for you to prove how much you’ve grown.”
To prepare, Coulter had studied all that he could about storms. He read about the water cycle, how heat evaporated water from the ground so that it turned to vapor. The vapor would then rise into the atmosphere, and as it cooled, it would turn back into water. These molecules would then collide, causing electrons to charge—the positive would rise to the top of the system, the negative to the bottom. Air ionization would cause a conductor, and the electrical current would flow to the ground, creating lightning.
Despite this understanding, though, he harbored a very specific fear, acutely aware that if he were struck, no matter how unlikely the possibility, he would instantly burst into flames.
His father, however, showed no such fear. In fact, Coulter had never seen him afraid or worried or crying. Not that he was stoic by any means or relentless under pressure; he just had this calmness about him, that if Coulter ever felt afraid, he could look at his father and know that in the end everything would be all right. Because of this, Coulter would get into arguments with his classmates, debating whose father was the bravest and strongest and always right. My dad is a molecular biologist, they would say. Mine is a firefighter. Mine is a lawyer and puts bad guys away. Well, Coulter would say, mine chases tornadoes. Beat that.
Dad checked the equipment, adjusted the position and angle of the Doppler satellite. Dianne scanned the GPS for state highways and old dirt roads. There was a mounted anemometer and a sling psychrometer and a handheld HAM radio broadcasting NOAA weather updates. Dianne grabbed an instrument to read atmospheric pressure, and his dad’s hand was already outstretched to take it from her, his eyes still locked on the road.
“We’re going to have to punch it if we’re going to stay out in front of this thing,” Dianne said. “There’s not too many roads from here to the city that gets us very close.”
Dad gassed the Broncho, lurching them forward. They barreled over dirt roads, the Broncho bouncing over mounds of clay and gravel. Rocks clamored against the undercarriage. The storm cloud billowed upward toward the stratosphere and was shaped like an anvil, resembling a volcanic eruption or a bomb explosion, sort of. An atomic bomb would send millions of pounds of sand and dirt into the air, and the heat would pulverize it into trinitite. Everything would constantly be in motion. Smoke would swell and debris would burst into flames and ash would flutter to the ground like snow. The storm, however, looked frozen. With the exception of bulbous bursts of lightning, it appeared to hover there. In reality, the floating was a mirage. The molecules making up the cloud were lighter than air, and the cloud lay on the atmosphere because it had less mass, like oil on water. But the illusion was sublime nevertheless. It made Coulter’s heart sticky and pound faster in his chest.
As they got closer, it began to rain. Droplets collected on the windows and streaked sideways from the wind. The sunrays shone at a weird angle. The storm was west of them, and the sun beat down from the east. Being caught in the middle of sunlight and storm added to Coulter’s illusion. Everything seemed so surreal: the way his father gripped the steering wheel loosely with his left hand as they careened down curvy and potholed roads, how Dianne was able to perform multiple tasks at once, navigating the GPS and refreshing the Doppler radar and contacting NOAA for any updates.
His father pointed out the window. “There,” he said, and that was all. It was a funnel cloud, looming low and spinning. The sky burned a green Coulter had never seen before, a mixture of algae and seaweed and mint. Dianne snapped pictures of it on a digital camera, and his father circled toward the southwest of the funnel. Rain fell harder, and the funnel became harder to see. Lightning flashed, the winds howled, and stalks of corn bent near the root like worshippers on their knees.
“You’ve got to get closer,” Dianne said. “It’s rain wrapped.”
She called into the station, giving coordinates, speed, and direction. Hail battered the Broncho. It sounded like gunshots. They scared Coulter. He tried to not let it, but it did. They were getting too close.
“Closer,” Dianne said. She leaned forward and placed her palms on the dash. “Get us closer!”
The Broncho veered in the wind. His father turned against it, accelerating, but the strong wind kept pushing them sideways, the wheels grazing the Indian grass on the side of the road. Coulter was afraid they would lose control and careen into the pasture. They would be injured, and there would be nothing he could do. They would be immobile, and the tornado would touch down and shift direction and come right for them. He’d be helpless. They all would be.
The funnel cloud snaked its way out of the cloud, the cone reaching for the earth, the earth somehow reaching out of the ground up to the storm. The dirt and the wind met in the middle, and the base grew in size and in strength.
“It’s on the ground,” Dianne said into the CB. “Repeat. We got one. F3. Maybe an F2. Heading North, Northeast at about 35 miles per hour.”
“Get the camera!” Coulter’s father yelled. “Get it. Get It. GET IT!” Coulter’s father grasped Dianne’s knee. It was the first time Coulter’d ever seen his father touch another woman besides his mother. Well, he’d hugged Grandma before, but that didn’t count. This was different. This was something intimate, like a shared, lucid dream.
Coulter had to cover his ears as hail pounded the car, and Coulter’s father slammed on the brakes. The tornado twisted in front of them, a giant snake spinning up into the sky above. Coulter leaned his head against the window, palms glued to the glass, and tilted his head up to see where tornado and cloud met. It was like peering into the destructive nature of God. It was transcendent. It was the most glorious thing Coulter had ever witnessed.
The tornado loomed not but a hundred yards from them; it then turned and headed north. As it receded, the rains quieted and so did the hail. Dianne opened the door and stepped outside. Before she walked toward the tornado, though, she turned back.
“You coming?” she asked Coulter.
He nodded.
“Here, take this,” she said as she handed him her camera. “And take my picture, too, will ya?”
When Coulter snapped it, he’d never felt so close to someone before.
Coulter, his father, and his father’s intern, Dianne Feinstein, a graduate student at the University of Oklahoma, approached the storm system from the southeast, well out of harm’s way. This was the first time Coulter had tagged along with his father storm chasing. It was “a birthday present,” his father had said, “a chance for you to prove how much you’ve grown.”
To prepare, Coulter had studied all that he could about storms. He read about the water cycle, how heat evaporated water from the ground so that it turned to vapor. The vapor would then rise into the atmosphere, and as it cooled, it would turn back into water. These molecules would then collide, causing electrons to charge—the positive would rise to the top of the system, the negative to the bottom. Air ionization would cause a conductor, and the electrical current would flow to the ground, creating lightning.
Despite this understanding, though, he harbored a very specific fear, acutely aware that if he were struck, no matter how unlikely the possibility, he would instantly burst into flames.
His father, however, showed no such fear. In fact, Coulter had never seen him afraid or worried or crying. Not that he was stoic by any means or relentless under pressure; he just had this calmness about him, that if Coulter ever felt afraid, he could look at his father and know that in the end everything would be all right. Because of this, Coulter would get into arguments with his classmates, debating whose father was the bravest and strongest and always right. My dad is a molecular biologist, they would say. Mine is a firefighter. Mine is a lawyer and puts bad guys away. Well, Coulter would say, mine chases tornadoes. Beat that.
Dad checked the equipment, adjusted the position and angle of the Doppler satellite. Dianne scanned the GPS for state highways and old dirt roads. There was a mounted anemometer and a sling psychrometer and a handheld HAM radio broadcasting NOAA weather updates. Dianne grabbed an instrument to read atmospheric pressure, and his dad’s hand was already outstretched to take it from her, his eyes still locked on the road.
“We’re going to have to punch it if we’re going to stay out in front of this thing,” Dianne said. “There’s not too many roads from here to the city that gets us very close.”
Dad gassed the Broncho, lurching them forward. They barreled over dirt roads, the Broncho bouncing over mounds of clay and gravel. Rocks clamored against the undercarriage. The storm cloud billowed upward toward the stratosphere and was shaped like an anvil, resembling a volcanic eruption or a bomb explosion, sort of. An atomic bomb would send millions of pounds of sand and dirt into the air, and the heat would pulverize it into trinitite. Everything would constantly be in motion. Smoke would swell and debris would burst into flames and ash would flutter to the ground like snow. The storm, however, looked frozen. With the exception of bulbous bursts of lightning, it appeared to hover there. In reality, the floating was a mirage. The molecules making up the cloud were lighter than air, and the cloud lay on the atmosphere because it had less mass, like oil on water. But the illusion was sublime nevertheless. It made Coulter’s heart sticky and pound faster in his chest.
As they got closer, it began to rain. Droplets collected on the windows and streaked sideways from the wind. The sunrays shone at a weird angle. The storm was west of them, and the sun beat down from the east. Being caught in the middle of sunlight and storm added to Coulter’s illusion. Everything seemed so surreal: the way his father gripped the steering wheel loosely with his left hand as they careened down curvy and potholed roads, how Dianne was able to perform multiple tasks at once, navigating the GPS and refreshing the Doppler radar and contacting NOAA for any updates.
His father pointed out the window. “There,” he said, and that was all. It was a funnel cloud, looming low and spinning. The sky burned a green Coulter had never seen before, a mixture of algae and seaweed and mint. Dianne snapped pictures of it on a digital camera, and his father circled toward the southwest of the funnel. Rain fell harder, and the funnel became harder to see. Lightning flashed, the winds howled, and stalks of corn bent near the root like worshippers on their knees.
“You’ve got to get closer,” Dianne said. “It’s rain wrapped.”
She called into the station, giving coordinates, speed, and direction. Hail battered the Broncho. It sounded like gunshots. They scared Coulter. He tried to not let it, but it did. They were getting too close.
“Closer,” Dianne said. She leaned forward and placed her palms on the dash. “Get us closer!”
The Broncho veered in the wind. His father turned against it, accelerating, but the strong wind kept pushing them sideways, the wheels grazing the Indian grass on the side of the road. Coulter was afraid they would lose control and careen into the pasture. They would be injured, and there would be nothing he could do. They would be immobile, and the tornado would touch down and shift direction and come right for them. He’d be helpless. They all would be.
The funnel cloud snaked its way out of the cloud, the cone reaching for the earth, the earth somehow reaching out of the ground up to the storm. The dirt and the wind met in the middle, and the base grew in size and in strength.
“It’s on the ground,” Dianne said into the CB. “Repeat. We got one. F3. Maybe an F2. Heading North, Northeast at about 35 miles per hour.”
“Get the camera!” Coulter’s father yelled. “Get it. Get It. GET IT!” Coulter’s father grasped Dianne’s knee. It was the first time Coulter’d ever seen his father touch another woman besides his mother. Well, he’d hugged Grandma before, but that didn’t count. This was different. This was something intimate, like a shared, lucid dream.
Coulter had to cover his ears as hail pounded the car, and Coulter’s father slammed on the brakes. The tornado twisted in front of them, a giant snake spinning up into the sky above. Coulter leaned his head against the window, palms glued to the glass, and tilted his head up to see where tornado and cloud met. It was like peering into the destructive nature of God. It was transcendent. It was the most glorious thing Coulter had ever witnessed.
The tornado loomed not but a hundred yards from them; it then turned and headed north. As it receded, the rains quieted and so did the hail. Dianne opened the door and stepped outside. Before she walked toward the tornado, though, she turned back.
“You coming?” she asked Coulter.
He nodded.
“Here, take this,” she said as she handed him her camera. “And take my picture, too, will ya?”
When Coulter snapped it, he’d never felt so close to someone before.