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tangleroot_eli's review
informative
sad
slow-paced
I've been following Alison Bechdel's work since the late '90s. This is by leaps and bounds (see what I did there?) my least favorite of her works that I've read.
I read it all because it's relatively short, and I kept wanting to find out what the point was going to be. But engagementwise I checked out on page 24, when Bechdel refers to the modern day as "these lax and decadent times." Which, OK, we have more sneaker choices than you did as a kid. But saying we live in "lax and decadent times" feels disingenuous at best and willfully obtuse at worst when legislatures and courts strip our civil rights pretty much daily and people have to crowdfund everything from housing and food to healthcare and funerals.
Near the end there's a Spaceballs-esque moment where Bechdel-the-character starts writing this book. She describes it as a "lighthearted" look at her relationship with exercise. Later she acknowledges that she's having trouble figuring out how to end the book because she's still not sure what it's about. At that moment I finally understood this book: it never knew what it was about, and so tried to be about everything, and therefore ended up not really being about anything. (Except maybe an ad for L.L. Bean and Patagonia.)
The parts about the Romantics, the Beatniks, Adrienne Rich, and Buddhism are... okay, I guess. I learned a thing or two. But I couldn't help noticing that these parts are most likely to appear whenever Bechdel comes really close to expressing and processing actual emotions. Maybe it's the hifalutin equivalent of a fade-to-black in a sex scene; we don't need to see someone's personal emotional catharsis, so we get poets instead. But it also feels like a dodge: just when it feels like Bechdel's really getting somewhere in dealing with her various issues, we suddenly get a page of Margaret Fuller's or Jack Kerouac's issues, instead.
I also felt dismay that Bechdel never acknowledges, or even seems to notice. that exercise is every bit as much an addiction for her as alcohol and prescription meds are. She starts exercising less; she starts drinking more. She stops drinking; she ramps up her exercise to what seem like unhealthy levels. But because our society says "drugs bad, exercise good!" Bechdel never has to face the fact that she's trading one ill-advised coping mechanism for another, despite repeated references to exertion-induced tachycardia and other health concerns indicating that exercise is not a universal good for her, at least not the way she's doing it.
In the end, Bechdel's own words from the beginning of the book sum up my feelings about it:
"You might well ask what use another book about fitness by a white lady could possibly be.
…"
I read it all because it's relatively short, and I kept wanting to find out what the point was going to be. But engagementwise I checked out on page 24, when Bechdel refers to the modern day as "these lax and decadent times." Which, OK, we have more sneaker choices than you did as a kid. But saying we live in "lax and decadent times" feels disingenuous at best and willfully obtuse at worst when legislatures and courts strip our civil rights pretty much daily and people have to crowdfund everything from housing and food to healthcare and funerals.
Near the end there's a Spaceballs-esque moment where Bechdel-the-character starts writing this book. She describes it as a "lighthearted" look at her relationship with exercise. Later she acknowledges that she's having trouble figuring out how to end the book because she's still not sure what it's about. At that moment I finally understood this book: it never knew what it was about, and so tried to be about everything, and therefore ended up not really being about anything. (Except maybe an ad for L.L. Bean and Patagonia.)
The parts about the Romantics, the Beatniks, Adrienne Rich, and Buddhism are... okay, I guess. I learned a thing or two. But I couldn't help noticing that these parts are most likely to appear whenever Bechdel comes really close to expressing and processing actual emotions. Maybe it's the hifalutin equivalent of a fade-to-black in a sex scene; we don't need to see someone's personal emotional catharsis, so we get poets instead. But it also feels like a dodge: just when it feels like Bechdel's really getting somewhere in dealing with her various issues, we suddenly get a page of Margaret Fuller's or Jack Kerouac's issues, instead.
I also felt dismay that Bechdel never acknowledges, or even seems to notice. that exercise is every bit as much an addiction for her as alcohol and prescription meds are. She starts exercising less; she starts drinking more. She stops drinking; she ramps up her exercise to what seem like unhealthy levels. But because our society says "drugs bad, exercise good!" Bechdel never has to face the fact that she's trading one ill-advised coping mechanism for another, despite repeated references to exertion-induced tachycardia and other health concerns indicating that exercise is not a universal good for her, at least not the way she's doing it.
In the end, Bechdel's own words from the beginning of the book sum up my feelings about it:
"You might well ask what use another book about fitness by a white lady could possibly be.
…"
Content Warnings
Graphic: Drug abuse, Death of parent, Grief, Medical content, Alcohol, Mental illness, Self harm, Addiction, and Drug use
Moderate: Panic attacks/disorders, Homophobia, Injury/Injury detail, Misogyny, Toxic relationship, Cancer, Suicide, Terminal illness, and Animal death
Minor: Violence, Sexual harassment, Ableism, Car accident, and Infidelity
CN exercise addictionclarabooksit's review
funny
reflective
slow-paced
3.0
Content Warnings
Graphic: Addiction, Alcoholism, and Grief
Moderate: Infidelity and Death of parent
Minor: Suicide, Animal death, and Sexual harassment
doggamn's review
adventurous
emotional
funny
informative
inspiring
reflective
medium-paced
4.25
Approximately 10 years after reading Fun Home for the very first time, I discovered Bechdel had a new book and I picked it up from the library.
I read Are You My Mother? a few years back and loved it, relating to the interwovenness of Bechdel's life with her mother's. The Secret to Superhuman Strength was a bit less catered to me, being largely about exercise and learning about one's own strengths and limitations, but once I got past that, I started to really enjoy it.
Bechdel published this book as she neared 60, and I read it as I near 30 (a little over a year away for me). The book is part memoir, part biography, and part musings on Bechdel's place in the world and how she slots in with the rest of the planet's inhabitants/terrain. Superhuman Strength piqued my interest with its looks at athletic trends from the past decade, Buddhism and spirituality in general, discussion of the lives and vocations of famous writers, and--perhaps most of all--Bechdel's relationship with her own mortality.
As someone whose body has been at odds with themself, I related strongly to Bechdel lamenting losing the ability to perform some of her former activities due to physical strains and injuries. I recently accepted that I am disabled, with chronic pain and mental illness both contributing to many days of muddied thoughts. I've been trying lately to not resent my own body for failing me at times, keeping me couch-ridden with back pain and nausea. Raleigh and I recently started taking walks fairly regularly and I've commented to him a few times now about how frustrating it is to realize that exercise actually does help with a lot of issues. I feel inspired after reading Bechdel's book and seeing her illustrations (which still thrill me); I want to maintain a relationship to my body and nurture it by exploring. I want to spend more time outside of the city/suburbs and take in nature, allowing myself to feel small.
I want to feel more oneness with my self and the world around me, and to navigate life more thoughtfully.
Onward to the grave!
I read Are You My Mother? a few years back and loved it, relating to the interwovenness of Bechdel's life with her mother's. The Secret to Superhuman Strength was a bit less catered to me, being largely about exercise and learning about one's own strengths and limitations, but once I got past that, I started to really enjoy it.
Bechdel published this book as she neared 60, and I read it as I near 30 (a little over a year away for me). The book is part memoir, part biography, and part musings on Bechdel's place in the world and how she slots in with the rest of the planet's inhabitants/terrain. Superhuman Strength piqued my interest with its looks at athletic trends from the past decade, Buddhism and spirituality in general, discussion of the lives and vocations of famous writers, and--perhaps most of all--Bechdel's relationship with her own mortality.
As someone whose body has been at odds with themself, I related strongly to Bechdel lamenting losing the ability to perform some of her former activities due to physical strains and injuries. I recently accepted that I am disabled, with chronic pain and mental illness both contributing to many days of muddied thoughts. I've been trying lately to not resent my own body for failing me at times, keeping me couch-ridden with back pain and nausea. Raleigh and I recently started taking walks fairly regularly and I've commented to him a few times now about how frustrating it is to realize that exercise actually does help with a lot of issues. I feel inspired after reading Bechdel's book and seeing her illustrations (which still thrill me); I want to maintain a relationship to my body and nurture it by exploring. I want to spend more time outside of the city/suburbs and take in nature, allowing myself to feel small.
I want to feel more oneness with my self and the world around me, and to navigate life more thoughtfully.
Onward to the grave!
Content Warnings
Moderate: Death of parent, Addiction, Death, Alcohol, Suicide, Drug use, Terminal illness, and Grief
Minor: Sexual harassment and Mental illness
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