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fern_moonlit's review against another edition
sad
tense
2.0
Kinda alienating tbh
It was ok… I had so much trouble relating honestly. I would say it’s a collection of facts about crying and sadness. The historical gleanings feel very telling about the author, sorta trapped in a cis, straight, got-a-book-deal, white femme perspective, even when she’s acknowledging it. I felt that it reinforced a lot of oppressive, imagination-less paradigms, as it cycled between stifling, removed, rationalist Protestant detachment and a sort of suggestive (but unexpressed) sentimentality. Like, the personal vignettes, in the beginning at least, are only really sad because they are in a book about crying?
Both the experimental and connective potential of this book fell short, as a lot of the ideas and departures were under-developed and under-analyzed, but I didn’t feel the existential “whoomf” or liberatory experience I do with other under-stated texts. I did enjoy it enough to finish it. A lot of her personal stories felt oddly voyeuristic to listen to, which was perhaps an extension of the detachment in the book.
I felt a lot of anxiety around her constant fighting with her partner, like “the cis are not ok” kinda extended panic. Overall it was pretty boring, and I felt more alone after reading it, like I’d fallen for some promise of answers, and even questions, I didn’t get. It felt more like I was listening to NPR. I struggled a lot with who and how the author other-izes certain of her “subjects” in the book, like why she invoked diagnosis, treatment, and institutionalization in certain historical and family stories, but doesn’t speak directly to her experience with diagnosis and mental health labels. I was also surprised she went the entire book without talking about certain conditions and neurodivergences that make crying hard.
The book ramps up suddenly in its weight, but also seemed to reinforce and naturalize threads of suicidal, tortured artists, like we have to carry this terrible emotional burden and the clock is always ticking on our survival and eventual demise by suicide. Like, one minute crying is an intellectual exercise that may or be not connected with the many meanings of sadness and then bam! we’re in a long fight for our lives now— strap in everyone, good luck! It felt pretty dismal by the end like “why am I trying to write poetry even?”
I could see the book more as a set of writing prompts, like writing or reflecting from this collection? Idk, maybe I had high expectations as I love crying and was looking forward to a whole book on it, but I felt oddly vacant after reading it (and not in a peaceful or more enlightened way).
It was ok… I had so much trouble relating honestly. I would say it’s a collection of facts about crying and sadness. The historical gleanings feel very telling about the author, sorta trapped in a cis, straight, got-a-book-deal, white femme perspective, even when she’s acknowledging it. I felt that it reinforced a lot of oppressive, imagination-less paradigms, as it cycled between stifling, removed, rationalist Protestant detachment and a sort of suggestive (but unexpressed) sentimentality. Like, the personal vignettes, in the beginning at least, are only really sad because they are in a book about crying?
Both the experimental and connective potential of this book fell short, as a lot of the ideas and departures were under-developed and under-analyzed, but I didn’t feel the existential “whoomf” or liberatory experience I do with other under-stated texts. I did enjoy it enough to finish it. A lot of her personal stories felt oddly voyeuristic to listen to, which was perhaps an extension of the detachment in the book.
I felt a lot of anxiety around her constant fighting with her partner, like “the cis are not ok” kinda extended panic. Overall it was pretty boring, and I felt more alone after reading it, like I’d fallen for some promise of answers, and even questions, I didn’t get. It felt more like I was listening to NPR. I struggled a lot with who and how the author other-izes certain of her “subjects” in the book, like why she invoked diagnosis, treatment, and institutionalization in certain historical and family stories, but doesn’t speak directly to her experience with diagnosis and mental health labels. I was also surprised she went the entire book without talking about certain conditions and neurodivergences that make crying hard.
The book ramps up suddenly in its weight, but also seemed to reinforce and naturalize threads of suicidal, tortured artists, like we have to carry this terrible emotional burden and the clock is always ticking on our survival and eventual demise by suicide. Like, one minute crying is an intellectual exercise that may or be not connected with the many meanings of sadness and then bam! we’re in a long fight for our lives now— strap in everyone, good luck! It felt pretty dismal by the end like “why am I trying to write poetry even?”
I could see the book more as a set of writing prompts, like writing or reflecting from this collection? Idk, maybe I had high expectations as I love crying and was looking forward to a whole book on it, but I felt oddly vacant after reading it (and not in a peaceful or more enlightened way).
Content Warnings
Graphic: Ableism, Misogyny, and Medical trauma
Moderate: Suicide
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