Christopher Schaberg and Mark Yakich. Little Data. Red Flag Press, 2024. Reviewed by Henry Yukevich, Feb. 19, 2024.
A sandwich is two pieces of bread with meat, cheese, and/or vegetables between them. An abecedarius is a type of acrostic poem that follows each letter of the alphabet. An encyclopedia is a book or set of books you can pick up to learn more about just about any topic, right? Little Data, the latest offering from the Red Flag Press, is technically none of these, but perhaps evokes all three. It could be a pocket manual of parental wisdom. But Little Data is much more than that—a book to find solace in, an opus magnus of poignant and humorous stories and reflections, a series of beautiful essays to teach and delight us during these troubling times.
Take “Sandwich,” for example. In this essay, one partner says to another, “When you think about it, everything is a sandwich. Armpits, buttocks, sofa cushions” (77). The authors give us funny life lessons with the serenity of parents who have seen it all. Little Data strikes a delicate balance between humor and tragedy, joy and sadness, fact and fiction. For example, the narrator of “Spill” considers consoling their child after spilling milk by explaining “that pouring milk into a cup is simply ‘spilling with intent’” (86). It is impossible to read Little Data without smiling more than a few times along the way. Heartbreaking moments are here as well, such as in “Nursing Home.” It is this contrast between youth and age, joy and sadness, silliness and seriousness, or perhaps the accretion of these essays in one volume that make them so memorable and meaningful.
Little Data is chock-full of parental advice. For example, In “Diapers” the narrator laments the loss of “the perfect kelly green diaper cover” from Pampers or Huggies while warning the reader: “Rolling hills often disguise landfills” (25). Schaberg and Yakich offer humorous advice like this that shows the simple struggles and joys of parenthood. In other essays, they contemplate more disturbing questions that belie terrible realities for parents and their children today, such as in “Backpack”—“Should I get the bulletproof one?” (9).
This collection is also full of surprising statistics, although Schaberg and Yakich playfully warn in the frontmatter that this data may not be accurate “due to the nature of the space-time continuum.” For example, did you know that the average household has 300,000 items, or that most of us will only take half the advice ever offered to us? (40, 2). Neither did I. Regardless of the veracity of these statistics, Little Data may challenge you to get a flip phone, contemplate the difference between God and Godzilla, or to see yellow flowers in a brand-new way. Surprises like these await you.
Looking for old friends? Oh, you’ll find them. A lot of them. Albert Camus, Walt Whitman, Emily Dickinson, Friedrich Nietzsche, William Blake, Charles Dickens, John Keats, Michel de Montaigne, Paul Cézanne, Mary Cassatt, David Foster Wallace, Charlotte Smith, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Vladimir Nabokov, Wallace Stevens, Bob Dylan, even Washington Irving. I probably forgot a few. But they’re all here, waiting for you in Little Data. The ideas of these writers decorate these essays like Swiss cheese and sauerkraut on a good Reuben sandwich.
But in Little Data, the influence of even the greatest writers and artists falls before the words of children. Many of the most profound lines from Little Data constitute remarks from little ones. For example, “Costumes” begins “I love you with all my butt” says the four-year old festooned as a firefighter. He adds, I would say heart, but my butt is bigger” (21). Or puzzling questions, such as in “Cosmos” when the child asks “Papa, back years ago the moon was all clean, with no craters?” (20.) Out of the mouths of babes.
One of the most beautiful things about Little Data is the questions it holds. Many of which you probably have not thought to ask, such as “Did Neanderthals eat asparagus?” or “How come 17% of Americans believe in heaven but not hell?” (6, 38). Part of the joy of this book is rediscovering the curiosity and wonder with which a child experiences the world. As you read these essays, along the way, you might find that kid you used to be.
What does the term “big data” evoke for you? For Christopher Schaberg and Mark Yakich, it refers to “strong thought leaders who assess vast quantities of numbers in order to execute innumerable decisions at multiple scales” (22). You get the idea. Big data is all-knowing, always watching, looking to predict and control for profit. Beneath the humor, storytelling, and heartbreaking moments of Little Data lie vital questions about how to be an artist, a partner, a parent, a subversive agent in a capitalistic world.
So what is, Little Data, then? How can we stand a chance against big data and algorithms that seek to absorb and engulf us? Is writing and reading about the human experience, portrayed in all its crumbs-in-the-backseat, melted mozzarella glory one way to fight back? That’s for you to decide as you read this wonderful book. Could a sandwich also be two pieces of paper with a plentitude of gorgeous essays between them? After all, who doesn’t like a good sandwich?
A sandwich is two pieces of bread with meat, cheese, and/or vegetables between them. An abecedarius is a type of acrostic poem that follows each letter of the alphabet. An encyclopedia is a book or set of books you can pick up to learn more about just about any topic, right? Little Data, the latest offering from the Red Flag Press, is technically none of these, but perhaps evokes all three. It could be a pocket manual of parental wisdom. But Little Data is much more than that—a book to find solace in, an opus magnus of poignant and humorous stories and reflections, a series of beautiful essays to teach and delight us during these troubling times.
Take “Sandwich,” for example. In this essay, one partner says to another, “When you think about it, everything is a sandwich. Armpits, buttocks, sofa cushions” (77). The authors give us funny life lessons with the serenity of parents who have seen it all. Little Data strikes a delicate balance between humor and tragedy, joy and sadness, fact and fiction. For example, the narrator of “Spill” considers consoling their child after spilling milk by explaining “that pouring milk into a cup is simply ‘spilling with intent’” (86). It is impossible to read Little Data without smiling more than a few times along the way. Heartbreaking moments are here as well, such as in “Nursing Home.” It is this contrast between youth and age, joy and sadness, silliness and seriousness, or perhaps the accretion of these essays in one volume that make them so memorable and meaningful.
Little Data is chock-full of parental advice. For example, In “Diapers” the narrator laments the loss of “the perfect kelly green diaper cover” from Pampers or Huggies while warning the reader: “Rolling hills often disguise landfills” (25). Schaberg and Yakich offer humorous advice like this that shows the simple struggles and joys of parenthood. In other essays, they contemplate more disturbing questions that belie terrible realities for parents and their children today, such as in “Backpack”—“Should I get the bulletproof one?” (9).
This collection is also full of surprising statistics, although Schaberg and Yakich playfully warn in the frontmatter that this data may not be accurate “due to the nature of the space-time continuum.” For example, did you know that the average household has 300,000 items, or that most of us will only take half the advice ever offered to us? (40, 2). Neither did I. Regardless of the veracity of these statistics, Little Data may challenge you to get a flip phone, contemplate the difference between God and Godzilla, or to see yellow flowers in a brand-new way. Surprises like these await you.
Looking for old friends? Oh, you’ll find them. A lot of them. Albert Camus, Walt Whitman, Emily Dickinson, Friedrich Nietzsche, William Blake, Charles Dickens, John Keats, Michel de Montaigne, Paul Cézanne, Mary Cassatt, David Foster Wallace, Charlotte Smith, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Vladimir Nabokov, Wallace Stevens, Bob Dylan, even Washington Irving. I probably forgot a few. But they’re all here, waiting for you in Little Data. The ideas of these writers decorate these essays like Swiss cheese and sauerkraut on a good Reuben sandwich.
But in Little Data, the influence of even the greatest writers and artists falls before the words of children. Many of the most profound lines from Little Data constitute remarks from little ones. For example, “Costumes” begins “I love you with all my butt” says the four-year old festooned as a firefighter. He adds, I would say heart, but my butt is bigger” (21). Or puzzling questions, such as in “Cosmos” when the child asks “Papa, back years ago the moon was all clean, with no craters?” (20.) Out of the mouths of babes.
One of the most beautiful things about Little Data is the questions it holds. Many of which you probably have not thought to ask, such as “Did Neanderthals eat asparagus?” or “How come 17% of Americans believe in heaven but not hell?” (6, 38). Part of the joy of this book is rediscovering the curiosity and wonder with which a child experiences the world. As you read these essays, along the way, you might find that kid you used to be.
What does the term “big data” evoke for you? For Christopher Schaberg and Mark Yakich, it refers to “strong thought leaders who assess vast quantities of numbers in order to execute innumerable decisions at multiple scales” (22). You get the idea. Big data is all-knowing, always watching, looking to predict and control for profit. Beneath the humor, storytelling, and heartbreaking moments of Little Data lie vital questions about how to be an artist, a partner, a parent, a subversive agent in a capitalistic world.
So what is, Little Data, then? How can we stand a chance against big data and algorithms that seek to absorb and engulf us? Is writing and reading about the human experience, portrayed in all its crumbs-in-the-backseat, melted mozzarella glory one way to fight back? That’s for you to decide as you read this wonderful book. Could a sandwich also be two pieces of paper with a plentitude of gorgeous essays between them? After all, who doesn’t like a good sandwich?