In her debut novel “Crush,” acclaimed nonfiction writer Ada Calhoun ventures into fiction with a story that feels both deeply personal and universally resonant. Known for her bestselling work “Why We Can’t Sleep” and the memoir “Also a Poet,” Calhoun brings her introspective, literary sensibility to this exploration of marriage, desire, and the sometimes painful journey toward authenticity.
“Crush” tells the story of a successful ghostwriter and author who finds herself caught in a complex emotional triangle after her husband Paul suggests opening their marriage. What begins as a simple permission to kiss other men—something she’s missed in their relationship—evolves into an all-consuming connection with David, a religious studies professor who awakens parts of herself she’d long suppressed. As their connection deepens from intellectual correspondence to physical intimacy, she experiences what she describes as a mystical revelation, forcing her to reckon with what she truly wants from life, love, and herself.
Where Intimacy Meets Intellectualism
The greatest strength of “Crush” lies in Ada Calhoun’s exquisite rendering of intellectual and emotional intimacy. When the narrator and David begin their correspondence, their exchanges bloom with literary references, philosophical questions, and shared discoveries. These moments shimmer with authenticity:
“He quoted Randall Jarrell: ‘A good poet is someone who manages, in a lifetime of standing out in thunderstorms, to be struck by lightning five or six times; a dozen or two dozen times and he is great.’
I replied with the Ted Williams line ‘Baseball is the only field of endeavor where a man can succeed three times out of ten and be considered a good performer.'”
Their relationship unfolds through shared playlists, book recommendations, and what the narrator calls “tractates”—lengthy emails exploring everything from Emerson to Whitman. This literary courtship feels genuinely engaging, avoiding the trap of intellectual posturing that sometimes plagues novels about writers and academics.
Equally compelling is Calhoun’s exploration of how an emotional affair becomes physical. When the narrator and David finally meet in California, their connection culminates in what she experiences as transcendent:
“I’m praying; no, I am the prayer.
David is here and I’m alone, everyone who ever lived and no one.”
This scene, rendered with striking lyricism, elevates the novel beyond a simple story of infidelity to something more profound—a woman’s spiritual awakening through physical and emotional connection.
The Politics of Permission
Where “Crush” by Ada Calhoun becomes more complicated—both as a narrative and as an ethical exploration—is in its treatment of marriage and consent. The novel begins with Paul encouraging his wife to kiss other men, essentially granting permission for what will eventually destroy their marriage. This premise creates fascinating tensions, but sometimes leaves the moral center of the story feeling slippery.
Paul’s initial encouragement feels oddly convenient as a narrative device. His transformation from enthusiastic promoter of nonmonogamy to jealous spouse tracks a predictable arc that sometimes lacks the complexity the rest of the novel offers. The therapist’s later assessment that they were never truly practicing polyamory but rather “all hell broke loose” feels like an accurate but belated recognition of the story’s fundamental tension.
The narrator frequently examines her own culpability, asking herself whether seeking authenticity justifies breaking commitments:
“Was I thinking too much about ‘the marriage’ and not enough about him as a person? When I was unmoved by how upset he was, was that me being a monster or myself for the first time, or both?”
These questions give the novel ethical weight, but they sometimes feel inadequately resolved.
The Shadow of Selfishness
Perhaps the most challenging aspect of “Crush” by Ada Calhoun is its narrator’s journey toward prioritizing her own happiness. While the novel frames this as liberation, readers may find themselves questioning the collateral damage. The narrator’s teenage son Nate appears remarkably unfazed by his parents’ separation, which feels like a missed opportunity to explore the full consequences of the narrator’s choices.
Similarly, the narrator’s repeated references to her grandmother and mother’s lifelong marriages create a generational context for her decision to leave Paul, but sometimes these references feel like justifications rather than genuine reckonings with tradition and obligation. Her mother’s surprising blessing—“You don’t get divorced—until you have to”—offers a too-neat resolution to a complex moral struggle.
The novel is at its most compelling when the narrator acknowledges her own selfishness without excusing it:
“Paul and I had thought we were somehow supremely enlightened. One of our downfalls was pride.”
These moments of honest self-assessment give the story authenticity that counterbalances its sometimes romanticized view of following one’s heart.
Grief and Transcendence
“Crush” by Ada Calhoun reaches its emotional apex not in the love story but in its portrayal of the narrator’s father’s death. These scenes, rendered with unflinching clarity and unexpected tenderness, showcase Calhoun’s greatest strengths as a writer:
“I put my hand on his arm. He didn’t move. I couldn’t tell if he was still breathing. I stared. It seemed at first as if he was, but I couldn’t tell if it was a trick of the light. His heart, so furious against my hand a few minutes earlier, was still.”
The parallels between losing her father and losing her marriage create a resonant emotional architecture that gives the novel depth beyond its romantic elements. The narrator’s realization that she must “pay the f*ck attention” to what’s real rather than what she wishes were true applies equally to her father’s limitations and her marriage’s shortcomings.
Strengths and Shortcomings
What Works:
- Calhoun’s prose is luminous and precise, particularly when exploring intellectual connections
- The portrayal of a middle-aged woman claiming her desire feels genuinely transgressive and necessary
- The integration of literary references enhances rather than distracts from the emotional narrative
- The father’s death scenes are masterfully rendered
- The novel captures the disorienting nature of major life transitions with psychological acuity
Where It Falls Short:
- The “mystical experience” during sex, while beautifully written, sometimes strains credibility
- Paul’s character occasionally feels more like a plot device than a fully realized person
- Some ethical questions are raised but not fully explored
- The conclusion wraps up too neatly for a story about such messy human emotions
- The narrator’s privilege (financial security, supportive ex-husband, minimal parental responsibilities) sometimes insulates her from the full consequences of her choices
Comparable Works and Context
“Crush” by Ada Calhoun joins a growing body of literature exploring modern marriage, including Lauren Groff’s “Fates and Furies,” Sally Rooney’s “Normal People,” and Meg Wolitzer’s “The Position.” Like these works, it examines the gap between public commitments and private desires.
Calhoun’s approach feels particularly reminiscent of Sheila Heti’s “How Should a Person Be?” in its blending of autofiction with philosophical inquiry. The novel’s interest in mystical experience also connects it to earlier works like Kate Chopin’s “The Awakening,” though with a contemporary sensibility.
For readers familiar with Calhoun’s nonfiction, particularly “Why We Can’t Sleep” about Gen X women’s midlife challenges, “Crush” feels like a fictional exploration of similar themes—women reassessing their choices and seeking fulfillment beyond conventional expectations.
Final Assessment: Between Revelation and Self-Indulgence
“Crush” is an impressive fiction debut that showcases Ada Calhoun’s considerable talents as a prose stylist and emotional cartographer. At its best, it offers profound insights into desire, connection, and self-discovery in middle age. The narrator’s journey feels simultaneously specific to her circumstances and universal in its emotional truths.
However, the novel sometimes skirts difficult ethical questions in favor of romantic transcendence. While it acknowledges the pain of broken commitments, it ultimately prioritizes individual fulfillment in ways that may leave some readers questioning the narrator’s choices, if not her insights.
What saves “Crush” from becoming a simple justification for following desire is its unflinching examination of grief and loss. In showing how the narrator navigates both chosen and unchosen endings, Calhoun creates a complex portrait of a woman reconciling herself to change in all its forms.
For readers interested in beautifully written explorations of marriage, desire, and midlife reinvention, “Crush” by Ada Calhoun offers rich rewards. Its occasional moral convenience is balanced by genuine emotional intelligence and literary prowess that mark Calhoun as a fiction writer worth following.
