Hernan Diaz’s third novel wields post-apocalyptic fantasy as a prescient weapon of forewarning and a torch of hope in the human collective. If it had been published in years past, it would be on the growing lists of banned books that endanger prejudiced systems of power. 

PLY takes place in a city that crumbles from centuries of neglect, Mother Nature’s wrath and authoritarian monopolies, but still thrives with communities and cooperation. Worldbuilding feels like modern commentary built on a template of concerns involving AI, climate change, and an entangled ruling class of corporate and government elites. The story is moved by an unnamed, black market energy trader who feels like she can touch the space between her and whoever is spying on her. 

Stealing electricity from centuries-old power lines, or “pinching,” is the protagonist’s profession. Her name is never spoken, but her skills are well known. As she’s pinching one night, she knows she’s being watched. She soon receives a cryptic but unthreatening letter, asking for a conversation about her design of a “brick,” the unit in which she stores the electricity.

"Whatever world Diaz depicts or creates next --- past, present or future --- if it is as intricate and intimate as this book is, he will further cement himself as one of the most compelling authors of the decade."

The letter is a small microcosm of PLY’s world. Both have grave causes for concern. Birth rates, lifespans, literacy and smallpox resistance are on the decline. Whoever left the note has been spying on the pincher and could be part of the city’s brutal, privatized law enforcement, as well as the energy monopoly that employs it. But the spy left a token of goodwill --- two rare mechanical components --- and an invitation (not a demand or threat) to talk. The pincher was employed to power a rock concert in an abandoned office building, a social and non-utilitarian hobby. Neither the letter nor this world has the inherent tone of most post-apocalypse: omnipresent danger. 

In Part One, odd-numbered chapters are in the pincher’s present as she ponders the letter while she powers concerts and watches how music affects and incorporates the physical space of dilapidated venues. Even-numbered chapters jump around in the pincher’s past. Her father also made a living with non-necessities by trading books. Part of his clientele were fortunate downtowners who somehow knew how to read. Others were affluent, uptown collectors who ventured off the city’s monopolized electric grid in hopes of rare book finds. Tensor and Flow --- the electric and water monopolies, respectively --- offer their supplies at exorbitant rates, and enjoy power and profit. 

PLY is immersive because its setting in the future comes from the collapse of the readers’ present. The immense energy needs of data centers --- and how AI companies are able to circumvent legalities, get elected officials to sign NDAs, and miraculously speed up government proceedings --- have led to fears of energy and water crises, where the affluent get all the energy and water they need, while the masses suffer from shortages. Diaz uses post-apocalypse for its chief purpose: to warn. 

But the novel has hope in its city of vegetation-riddled streets and buildings. A flashback into the pincher’s past describes a community of resistance. These rebels have contrasting ideas of how the world should be rebuilt, in rudimentary parallels of big vs. small government, but they unite nonetheless in hopes of toppling their oligarchal rulers. A sense of community permeates into the pincher’s present when she bikes through downtown for another pinch. She nods at fellow downtowners sitting on their stoops listening to music, and they nod back. Communal water spigots have bulletin boards sharing messages, missing persons and upcoming concerts. 

Acevedo, a master mechanic who offers his parts and machines for bargain trades, has a security system for his warehouse. But the pincher surmises that he doesn’t need it since the downtowners all respect Acevedo and his generosity too much. Peering at the city’s dark skyline, which is slowly eroding into the ocean, the pincher thinks to herself that she prefers this skyline --- quiet, uninhabited --- over the one she has seen on old postcards that were full of people consumed by labor and commerce. 

Before the pincher meets the spy who wrote her the letter, PLY is told from her point of view, with chapters that alternate between the past and the present. Once Part Two begins, when the pincher encounters Pola, the narration switches to third person, with an emphasis on the pincher’s experiences. There are no flashback chapters in the second half, giving it a steadied narrative. This is a good choice from Diaz as Pola’s benevolent intentions for the pincher are quite lofty. Pola needs help pinching the entire grid so she can power her own particle accelerator. 

Perhaps the book’s only flaw is its weight of explanation of quantum physics. While Diaz does a superb job depicting Pola as a brilliant, eccentric and maybe even mad scientist, there are far too many monologues explaining every single fiber of her theory and each contraption’s purpose in her lab. He still paints her as someone who wants others to understand what she is hoping to achieve, which deepens her and the pincher’s relationship. Her collider aims to harness the particles that make up the empty space of atoms. As Pola conveys that all of reality might be connected and be of one matter, the pincher wonders if she’s any different from the age of excess that collapsed into their current reality. 

Although PLY can be dense at times, with its quantum physics and real-world parallels, it’s still a fast-paced novel. Feeling the need to reread is rare, and in instances of an unclear passage, a quick backtrack patches up a reader’s understanding. Whatever world Diaz depicts or creates next --- past, present or future --- if it is as intricate and intimate as this book is, he will further cement himself as one of the most compelling authors of the decade.