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A review by kelseydkim
Dear Friend, from My Life I Write to You in Your Life by Yiyun Li
5.0
Sporadic, changing, fluid, this memoir reflects the thoughts of Yiyun Li over two years, during which she battles suicidal depression. While she does discuss her thoughts on suicide, as well as her opinions on personal matters such as feelings and attachments, she also reveals her intrinsic connection to the literary realm, both through authors and their characters, and her desire to write her own stories. Li’s memoir is the most eye-opening literary work I’ve read regarding suicidal depression because she recounts these two years honestly and without any apologies. This was one of the hardest books to get through because it was often heartbreaking. She recalls a time when she recognizes that her son is comforting her by viewing the situation with an anthropologist’s perspective, and she yearns for a connection with her mother while avoiding her mother’s narrative.
BUT she consistently has such confidence in herself and her beliefs that is envious. Did I agree with everything she said? Did I like everything she said? Does it matter? This is Li’s memoir documenting a two year struggle with suicidal depression, and she does so by writing what she knows, what she wants, and what she wants to publish. I’m refreshed by her openness in this work, although it may be a while before I pick it up again. It also reminded me why I value the literary realm, and how it has weaved its way into my life. I’m thankful for such an honest memoir that was written in such a beautiful, brilliant, rare form. What can I really critique about this?
On a final note, this memoir brought to mind a recurring thought I often have while reading great works, which I’ve had since writing my thesis on Mrs. Dalloway. There’s something remarkably different between the minds of brilliant authors, like Woolf or Li, and my own mind. I can try to grapple with what they say, and experience moments of ecstasy when their brilliance makes its way off pages and into my own understanding, but I know I can’t create that brilliance myself. I can analyze and study it for years, but I can’t create it. I also know Woolf suffered in a way I’ve never known. There is a large difference between the mind of myself, an analytical reader, and the minds of brilliant writers. Why do the most brilliant literary minds suffer so greatly?
Reading this memoir, I felt like Li was often trying to uncover this secret, looking to authors and characters to discover what she values, what matters, what is selfish and what is truth. I still don’t know the answer, and I don’t have to, but I admire Li’s unapologetic literary journey to not only question her self-hood, but to put those questions into a public space. She is not afraid “that others will disagree or misread” her words, but she worries “that the nearer I get to what I want to say, the further I deviate from it” (134). Li writes not to defend herself, but to find her truth. She discusses at length her connections to authors and her “need… to find shelter from one’s uncertain self in other lives” (133). This was hard to read, but it was also refreshing to read a memoir from one who is so genuine about herself.
“My refusal to be defined by the will of others is my one and only political statement” (65)
Many thanks to Random House Publishing for this amazing book.
BUT she consistently has such confidence in herself and her beliefs that is envious. Did I agree with everything she said? Did I like everything she said? Does it matter? This is Li’s memoir documenting a two year struggle with suicidal depression, and she does so by writing what she knows, what she wants, and what she wants to publish. I’m refreshed by her openness in this work, although it may be a while before I pick it up again. It also reminded me why I value the literary realm, and how it has weaved its way into my life. I’m thankful for such an honest memoir that was written in such a beautiful, brilliant, rare form. What can I really critique about this?
On a final note, this memoir brought to mind a recurring thought I often have while reading great works, which I’ve had since writing my thesis on Mrs. Dalloway. There’s something remarkably different between the minds of brilliant authors, like Woolf or Li, and my own mind. I can try to grapple with what they say, and experience moments of ecstasy when their brilliance makes its way off pages and into my own understanding, but I know I can’t create that brilliance myself. I can analyze and study it for years, but I can’t create it. I also know Woolf suffered in a way I’ve never known. There is a large difference between the mind of myself, an analytical reader, and the minds of brilliant writers. Why do the most brilliant literary minds suffer so greatly?
Reading this memoir, I felt like Li was often trying to uncover this secret, looking to authors and characters to discover what she values, what matters, what is selfish and what is truth. I still don’t know the answer, and I don’t have to, but I admire Li’s unapologetic literary journey to not only question her self-hood, but to put those questions into a public space. She is not afraid “that others will disagree or misread” her words, but she worries “that the nearer I get to what I want to say, the further I deviate from it” (134). Li writes not to defend herself, but to find her truth. She discusses at length her connections to authors and her “need… to find shelter from one’s uncertain self in other lives” (133). This was hard to read, but it was also refreshing to read a memoir from one who is so genuine about herself.
“My refusal to be defined by the will of others is my one and only political statement” (65)
Many thanks to Random House Publishing for this amazing book.