Scan barcode
forgereads17's review against another edition
challenging
reflective
tense
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? No
- Loveable characters? It's complicated
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
4.0
nonsensebookvoid's review against another edition
challenging
emotional
reflective
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? It's complicated
- Loveable characters? Yes
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
4.25
thebacklistborrower's review against another edition
dark
reflective
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? N/A
- Strong character development? N/A
- Loveable characters? N/A
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
4.5
This book follows the real person George Ticknor, heading out to his friend and (real) american historian William Prescott’s party in Boston in the early 1900s, and is completely in Ticknor’s head. If you have social anxiety, this book might feel too close to home as he wonders whether Precott even likes him, if he’s being invited out of pity, if his pie will be welcome, if he will know anybody, if we will make a favourable impression or be an awkward loner, if his suit will smell from the rain, if the pie will be accepted only out of pity, if he will be *too* late for the party (if only he’d left earlier!) or maybe he shouldn’t have left at all, is it too late to go home, he probably won’t really be missed…. (iykyk).
Amongst those thoughts is Ticknor reflecting on his friendship with Prescott, and the jealousy he has for Prescott’s success. Ticknor feels like a failure, and reflects on all the what-ifs that could have made him successful, even blaming Prescott’s success on societal pity of his visual impairment. It is a fascinating read because Ticknor is so unreliable. I couldn’t parse out whether his relationship with Prescott is toxic, and Prescott himself has curated Ticknor’s social unease and personal lack of faith, or whether Ticknor is just shy and lacks confidence. I couldn’t tell whether Ticknor was at all successful or a complete failure, whether he was truly awkward and unlikable or just thought he was. Of course, with all things in our own heads, do we ever really understand objective reality and our place in it (without therapy)?
This is a slow, painfully introspective book. Heti was particularly interesting as she pulled from real sources, including Florence Nightingale, throughout her book to inform the relationship between Ticknor and Prescott and their histories together. For a first introduction, I really enjoyed this book (beyond the constant cringing from secondhand anxiety) and am really excited to read more from her.
kairakaira's review against another edition
4.0
A very pleasant surprise. This book is like a really strange museum. You can read it in one sitting and you should.
litsirk's review against another edition
4.0
You have to be in the right mood for this one, that's for sure. When I first started it, was in the wrong mood, and couldn't manage more than a few pages of Heti's gauntlet-throwing variable second-person subjects (sometimes "you" for the narrator himself, talking to himself, sometimes "you" for the narrator speaking in his mind to the not-present subject of his obsession, Prescott).
Anyway, took it up again, started from beginning, was in the right mood somehow, and loved it. Loved. Ticknor is the worst in all of us, Prescott the kind of person you want to be, love, and tend to hate all at the same time.
Anyway, took it up again, started from beginning, was in the right mood somehow, and loved it. Loved. Ticknor is the worst in all of us, Prescott the kind of person you want to be, love, and tend to hate all at the same time.
sdefilippi89's review against another edition
4.0
A quick read that brings you inside the neurotic ramblings of a fictionalized version of a real American scholar.
ampersunder's review against another edition
3.0
‰ЫПI knew I was not as important as Claire, so returning after the funeral I just stood around, wanting to let him know I was there ‰ЫУ standing there with everyone else rushing about. I am not good at those sorts of arrangements, pouring drinks or holding out a hand to a woman to help her from her chair; even sitting in the corner of the parlour with the men, smoking and talking in appropriate ways. I had nothing to say in the appropriate ways. I could not help out because I no longer knew the house, not as some of the others did, or what was needed, or what they might have wanted from me. Several times, though perhaps as few as one or two, he did give me a direct, tired look, but I didn‰ЫЄt know what it meant, whether it was mostly incriminating or not. I cannot go to his house. I can tell he doesn‰ЫЄt see inside me or even care to anymore.‰Ыќ
‰ЫПExhausted and near tears, I went to the mirror. I often go to the mirror when crying, to see how I might look. I wonder whether I‰ЫЄd have any sympathy for a man such as myself. Sometimes I feel I would, and it makes me cry even harder; other times I do not and it fills me with despair ‰ЫУ well, then I weep more pitifully than before. In these ways I find I am able to enjoy myself. The pure times I spend alone are rare.‰Ыќ
‰ЫПExhausted and near tears, I went to the mirror. I often go to the mirror when crying, to see how I might look. I wonder whether I‰ЫЄd have any sympathy for a man such as myself. Sometimes I feel I would, and it makes me cry even harder; other times I do not and it fills me with despair ‰ЫУ well, then I weep more pitifully than before. In these ways I find I am able to enjoy myself. The pure times I spend alone are rare.‰Ыќ