You are so tired! I can tell because I’m tired too. In a couple of days, tens of millions of Americans will get on planes or trains or highways, crunching our limbs in godless ways for hours on end, worrying if we left the stove on or packed enough layers. We will fight the crowds, brave the chaos, pay the money. And then we will get to wherever we’re going, and we’ll eat. It will probably be lovely, or maybe it will be bad, but either way, it will be a little nuts because we will then (then!), in less than the time it takes a carton of half-and-half to go bad, do it all again.

Or at least many of us, those who are gluttons for punishment, will. We’ll move our bodies and our belongings around the country during precisely the time of year when the climate becomes, in many places, dark, wet, icy, and freezing—again. We’ll contemplate togetherness, and family, and potatoes—again. Maybe we’ll watch football—again. Many of us will eat turkey—again. We’ll pack all our traveling and relative-wrangling and big-mealing into one overstuffed, exhausting month, and for no extrinsic reason.

There’s a better way to do things, and in fact another country already does it. That country is Canada, and it celebrates Thanksgiving in October. We should too.

Canadian Thanksgiving is the second Monday of October, though many people observe it over the weekend. To preserve some tradition, I propose we reschedule ours to fall on the Thursday before Canada’s holiday. Superfans of the calendar may notice that this is the same long weekend as Indigenous Peoples’ Day/Columbus Day, which seems fine—they’d each have their own days, and besides, you can probably appreciate that there’s some thematic overlap here. So we’d have Thanksgiving Thursday and another holiday Monday, creating one mega-long weekend, and then roll gently into Halloween. After that, we’d have a whole month to avoid interstate travel and its attendant costs, spiritual and financial. We’d get our blood sugar in order before the holiday-party season begins in earnest.

[Read: The no-drama Thanksgiving]

Halloween and Thanksgiving decorations can easily commingle if we want them to—a squash is a squash—and we’d get to celebrate the bounty of the harvest during the actual harvest. In the parts of the country where the leaves turn, they would be beautiful. Everywhere, it would be a little warmer, a little easier to schlep around. We’d let the holiday season stretch out long and easy, making time for Thanksgiving on its own terms, rather than treating it like the dress rehearsal for Christmas. We could still eat the same stuff, still have a parade, and still, I’m sure, go shopping the next day. The only difference is the timing, which will now have been made rational.

We tend to think of Thanksgiving as something fixed—part of our national topography, like Mount Rushmore. A major feature of holidays is, after all, that they are pretty much the same every year. But another major feature is that they are social constructs, and Thanksgiving has been changing basically since it was invented. The first Thanksgiving—the one many of us learned about in school, the one with the Pilgrims—is believed by historians to have taken place sometime between September and November, and aside from being a meal, it had almost nothing to do with our modern celebration.

In 1789, George Washington and the first Congress did declare Thursday, November 26, a “Day of public Thanksgiving,” but this wasn’t enshrined anywhere in perpetuity: For decades, the holiday was just observed ad hoc by individual governments and families when events warranted giving thanks, which meant not necessarily in the same way, or on the same day, or even in same month, or at all. Not until the 19th century did the Thanksgiving we now know come to be, in part because Sarah Hale, the editor of an influential women’s magazine, decided America needed a holiday that honored the domestic sphere—that is, the topics her magazine covered—and celebrated Protestant values. For years, she “badgered” the government about this, according to the historian Anne Blue Wills, and in 1863, Abraham Lincoln, hoping to unite the nation while war cleaved it apart, acquiesced: Thanksgiving was now a federal holiday, celebrated permanently on the last Thursday of November.

Not that permanently, though, because 76 years later, we moved it. In 1939, Thanksgiving fell on the last day of the month, and retailers worried that a late start to the Christmas-shopping season would depress sales. Fred Lazarus Jr., the chairman of the company that would later become Macy’s, lobbied President Franklin D. Roosevelt to move Thanksgiving a week earlier, to the second-to-last Thursday of the month. Lazarus was successful, though the whole thing did not go over super well. Football coaches were enraged, having seen their big-ticket games suddenly moved from a major holiday to a random Thursday. A political rival of Roosevelt’s accused him of acting with “the omnipotence of Hitler.” The Three Stooges mocked the change in a short film. Only 23 of the 48 states honored the new date, and until 1941 we had two Thanksgivings, a week apart. Finally, Congress passed a resolution declaring Thanksgiving the fourth Thursday of November, where it has remained ever since.

My point is that we as a society are pretty resilient. I think we can handle changing Thanksgiving again. It seems unlikely that retailers will mind much, and I’m sure that if given enough notice, the football coaches can prepare. And Thanksgiving, as many Americans’ favorite secular celebration, deserves better. At its best, the holiday welcomes people regardless of religion or relationship status, and it doesn’t even require them to bring a gift. It pulls us together with the people we love and honors one of the highest art forms of human existence: gratitude, though on Thanksgiving the more apt word is the one Buddhists use—katannuta, “to have a sense of what was done.”

[Read: How to be thankful when you don’t feel thankful]

Thanksgiving has changed along with the country. We started celebrating it in November because of, “basically, one woman’s understanding of the national calendar,” as Wills told me, and then we moved it because some guy named Fred asked the president to. We have made and remade it to serve the needs of nationalism, business, politics. What’s stopping us from remaking it again?

In his tenth novel, Lazarus Man, Richard Price is, to borrow one of his own lines, on a “hunt for moments”—snapshots in time, chance encounters, fleeting interactions that reveal someone or something in a startling new light. “I’ve got like X-ray eyes for the little gestures that go right by everybody,” he explained in a profile timed to the publication of his 1992 novel, Clockers. “I don’t go for the big picture so much as a lot of little big pictures.” Mary Roe, a detective and one of the characters in his new book, shares that instinct. At the scene of a “larger horror,” what hits her most forcefully is not the dead bodies but a crushed USPS mail cart, “an everyday object so violently deformed.” It beckons her toward “an unasked-for comprehension of the whole.”

The currency that Lazarus Man—a patchwork of scenes from urban working-class life, set in the spring of 2008—trades in is the micro-epiphany. Price’s four interlaced East Harlem protagonists are big-souled people navigating narrow, “negotiated life.” What they want for themselves—someone to lie beside, a little more money, work that doesn’t involve selling something—rarely outpaces what is possible. They do not ask for much more of the world, or New York City, than it is ready to give. Each one of them is decent.

Felix Pearl is a 20-something photographer with a gig taking video footage of a playground and basketball courts for the parks department (to monitor safety protocols) and a habit of getting bamboozled by a pretty junkie. Mary, a respected member of the police department, is also the daughter of a prizefighter tormented by a mistake he made as a young man. Anthony Carter, a middle-aged divorcé, is a former salesman, former teacher, and former cokehead hoping to stumble onto a metaphysical truth that will mend the broken parts of his life. Royal Davis, a failed NBA hopeful, runs a funeral home and wishes he didn’t. When a tenement building collapses in Harlem, their paths become entangled and they reexamine their lives.

This disaster, which leaves six dead, is ostensibly the big event that sets the novel in motion, but it also feels almost beside the point. No one, including Price, shows much curiosity about what caused the collapse. In fact, Lazarus Man seems deeply uninterested in the idea of cause at all. The characters we encounter live a challenging existence; they are not quite on the cliff’s edge, but they are close enough to peer into the canyon without craning their neck. The novel has all the trappings of fiction as gritty urban social portraiture—the kind of enterprise that Price is associated with as the author of the drug-trade-steeped novel Clockers and a writer for HBO’s The Wire. Yet it isn’t.

[From the September 2024 issue: A satire of America’s obsession with identity]

Nor has Price written a gentrification novel about a changing Harlem, even as its Harlem is changing. Or a novel of proletarian discontent, though it is about discontented proletarians. Lazarus Man isn’t about structural racism either, despite being populated with minorities down on their luck and harangued by the police. What Price has given us is a retrograde novel. It is animated by unreconstructed, unembarrassed humanism.

His pages offer no fictional repackaging of uplift or pessimism or low-wattage Marxist theory. They depict no working-class heroes or Dickensian scoundrels. The characters are not pawns in some philosophical or political or cultural proxy war for which the novel is simply a vehicle. You would be forgiven for overlooking that the story is set amid the heat of Barack Obama’s historic presidential campaign, because this never comes up. Price’s characters are strapped but not completely stuck, battered by social structures but not paralyzed by them.

In his 1945 lecture “Existentialism Is a Humanism,” Jean-Paul Sartre observed that European existentialism had developed an undeserved reputation for being “gloomy,” denigrated as a philosophical movement obsessed with death, absurdity, anxiety, and the like. Sartre rejected this appraisal: Existentialism turned on the conviction that people can—in the face of history’s sweep, dehumanizing societal institutions, and unrestrained economic and technological development—choose how to live. Speaking before a sizable crowd at Paris’s Club Maintenant, Sartre addressed his critics. “Their excessive protests make me suspect that what is annoying them is not so much our pessimism,” the philosopher wryly observed, “but, much more likely, our optimism. For at bottom, what is alarming in the doctrine that I am about to try to explain to you is—is it not?—that it confronts man with a possibility of choice.”

Lazarus Man’s protagonists, confronted with exceptional circumstances they had no hand in generating, must nonetheless contend with the discomfiting reality of their own agency. This leaves Price walking a tightrope. His novel at once invites and undercuts the polarized attitudes toward social crisis that have recently become familiar—either fatalistic acceptance or righteous denunciation. Lazarus Man is about a traumatic event that defies a reflexive victim-culture response, as well as the lazy buck-up bromides favored by that culture’s critics.

Put a different way, it is a trauma novel without a trauma plot—pushing back against the formulaic storyline, so thoroughly skewered by The New Yorker’s Parul Sehgal, that reduces characters to predictable symptoms after some fateful event. The book’s author, too, isn’t readily fazed: Price, a white novelist writing yet again about Black urban life, betrays no signs of racial anxiety. “Northern white writers sometimes see black people as another species,” he noted in 2006. “I think the white writer sometimes says, ‘No, no, that’s a hornet’s nest.’ ” He’s still poking it.

The possibility that Price might have adopted the identitarian conventions of the previous decade or so—the last novel he wrote under his own name was Lush Life (2008), which unfolds on New York City’s Lower East Side—is swiftly ruled out by Anthony, the novel’s anchoring character. A half-Black, half–Italian Irish Ivy League screwup—years ago, he lost a full ride to Columbia for dealing drugs—he has been on a downward trajectory ever since. In his sober and unemployed middle age, he has been living in his dead parents’ tenement apartment and resists any attempt to frame himself as a victim. “A therapist suggested that as a Black student he might have subconsciously felt pressure to act out the role expected of him by the white students,” he reflects. Then he adds, “But that was bullshit.”

When Anthony is pulled out of the soot-gray rubble a third of the way through the novel—the reborn Lazarus of the book’s title—he is a changed man. Or, more accurately, he is a man desperately trying to play the part of a changed man. It is never quite clear, even as Lazarus Man rushes toward its devastating denouement, whom exactly Anthony is trying to convince of his redemption: the audiences who eventually come to hear him speak at community events, enchanted by the wisdom he has wrung from brute survival, or the man he sees in the mirror. To the extent that Price’s novel has a message, it is that epiphanies are a kind of theater we perform for ourselves. Faced with disaster or a momentous encounter, we are not gripped by revelation or metamorphosed in the fire of circumstance. Events do not transform us against our will. We decide, always retroactively, that some unexpected joy or undeserved blow is the stuff out of which a new life is made.

This idea, that we choose our own epiphanies, appears again and again. Mary, the worn-down detective, is especially epiphany-haunted, surrounded by people who have undergone sudden shifts of self. Her father, disturbed by his capacity for cruelty after a boxing opponent ended up permanently disabled, abruptly gave up the sweet science. Her husband is a reformed violent drunk whom Mary finds boring in his new meditative sobriety. And Mary herself lives in the long shadow of a halfway epiphany, restless in marriage and motherhood after a freak elevator accident two years earlier nearly killed her, leaving her searching for—and failing to find—new moorings. Mary spends much of the novel playing the role of dutiful detective, looking for a resident of the imploded building who hasn’t been seen since the day it crumbled. She tenuously connects the search to absolution for herself—guilt-ridden about being a distant mother—and for her father, convinced that discovering the missing man, dead or alive, will somehow land her on terra firma.

Lazarus Man possesses the same kind of telegenic quality that made Clockers an inspiration for The Wire. Some vignettes read like hilarious set pieces. When the tenement dissolves into a haze of white smog and rubble, Royal is dozing in one of his unsold coffins. Awoken by the noise, he pushes open the lid of his pine box and sits bolt upright, scaring witless the group of film-school students to whom he’s rented out his struggling funeral home so they can shoot a bad zombie movie. This slapstick gives way to something darker as Royal, knowing that the rumbling boom means bodies—and thus business—instructs his son to put on his best black suit and go hawk their services. Other moments give way to a gentle melancholy.

And as Anthony is slowly transformed into a minor New York celebrity—first thanks to a local-news appearance, and then through a series of speeches he is coaxed into giving—his ordeal gels into an earnest if squishy doctrine, one part self-help and one part call to duty. He proclaims again and again that his only goal is to “be of service.” His lectures are full of clichés and pseudo-profundities—“The street can be a brutal sculptor”—but his overwrought aphorisms also land, the kinds of phrases that audience members scribble down and later recite around the dinner table. Anthony’s underlying theme is always that change is possible, that the worst that comes to pass will end up being “the best thing that could possibly happen to you.” Personal catastrophe, Anthony preaches, is a gift. A sheep in wolf’s clothing.

[From the May 1976 issue: A review of Richard Price’s second novel, Bloodbrothers]

But in the end, Lazarus Man rejects its own Lazarus. Or at least Price subverts his post-traumatic gospel. When a woman approaches Anthony after one of his appearances, interrogating him about his mantra—“Whatever befalls you no matter how heartbreaking or onerous will turn out to be the best thing”—he finds himself, for the first time, at a loss for words. She tells him about a husband of two decades, newly dead. Three young kids at home and an ailing mother. An apartment slipping through her grasp. Plainly, no alchemy is forthcoming: The fragments of her life will not turn to gold if she just hopes hard enough. After Anthony mumbles something about God, she lets him have it.

When the novel at last gives up its final secret—who our Lazarus Man is, really—the big reveal does not hand over any certainty as to what lies in Anthony’s heart. The question that haunts the second half of the book is whether he is a con artist or a genuine street prophet. The answer ends up being neither. Or both. The simple truth is that one bad decision led to worse decisions, then to better ones. The same could be said of each character. As to the question of whether that building collapse truly made a new man, no one (including Anthony) is sure.

The genius of Price’s novel is that it rejects all mechanistic accounts of human existence—tragic or utopian, religious or otherwise—without downplaying the social forces that shape lives of labor. Price isn’t peddling a bootstraps humanism. Anthony, Felix, Royal, and Mary cannot pull themselves up into a more comfortable middle-class existence through sheer will, or by the thaumaturgic power of some hoped-for epiphany. They cannot be exactly who they want to be. But Price holds them accountable for who they are, and the choices they make within the world as it is given to them. Lazarus Man leaves us with four people still lurching toward an uncertain transformation. “I’m thinking a few things,” Royal muses. “All I know for sure is that I have to make a life that I can live with.”

This article appears in the December 2024 print edition with the headline “Richard Price’s Radical, Retrograde Novel.”