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A review by thelizabeth
How Should a Person Be? by Sheila Heti
5.0
2014: I thought of this book again today, because I saw a man reading it across from me on the subway, and I got so excited. I held myself in, and timed it so that I would pass him when I got up at my stop, and I had enough time to say, "That is one of my very favorite books," and I smiled and thumbs-upped. He was about a quarter through. He looked surprised and said, "Yeah, I know, I love it!" Looking serious. And then I left. And that was perfect, but I wish I were like Sheila Heti and could turn this tiny contact into a perfect story to tell you, so you would know, too.
.
2013: First of all, this book is weird, and hard to explain. It's really not a novel, but it is like one anyway. The characters in it are the people in the author's life. The conflicts in it are the conflicts in the author's life. It is not-fiction and it is inscrutable. It is on purpose.
Probably the best thing I can do is point people at the article that made me want to read it. It's described really well there, and is situated in its difficult critical reception, and it links to a bunch of other relevant things that will help explain what this actually is like.
This book is polarizing, and that's interesting to me. I can try to explain what I noticed about my own reading. There's a lot of things in this book that, technically, I don't like, because Sheila Heti and I are really, really, really, really really different. The author is putting her honesty on the page, and almost every single thing that she says or does or believes or thinks, it is the opposite of how I act or think. So, for me, loving this book does not come from the phenomenon of, "It's like someone is speaking my own mind, right on the page!" No. That is a special feeling to get from a book, but instead, this book was a reminder to me that there is immense power in drawing love from something that does not reflect you. This author — who is the entire medium of the book — does not reflect me. And yet, she speaks to me. On every page. I loved it.
I am not a reader who likes to guess at or critique other readers' readings — I just enjoy reading! — but if I had to say something about the people who hate this book, I suppose it would be: I believed that the author was giving me lots and lots of information between the lines, lots of commentary hidden in blunt declarations or quotations. I heard it all, it was very clear to me, but sure, maybe it was projection. Maybe all reading is projection! But judging from, for instance, this book's top Goodreads review, that seems to be what is different between loving and hating. Is there more to the words than meets the eye? It's opinion.
This book has also gained a reputation for being beloved by women (when it is beloved) and hated by men (especially the powerful literary kind). I have nothing to conjecture about that because I don't want to start. And what do I know about powerful literary men? They are pretty different from me. For one thing, they think their opinions matter.
I will say something now that may prick up the ears of some people: this book reminded me of Wild.
It is also REALLY DIFFERENT! Okay? I'm telling you it's really different. But still, okay. People who liked Wild, think it over.
Mainly, in Wild, the meditations come along a literal path the author is taking from beginning to end. That's the story there. There is no such structure in this book, and no "one foot in front of the other" ethos. In the sympathetic view, I would say that's because Sheila is not so lucky as to have a journey that she understands. Her journey is that of the bum paper airplane that flips around and hits you in the face. What do you do when you don't "get" a journey? Can you wait for one, resentful, not going anywhere? Are you still a person if you aren't using your journey?
I will say something else now that disappoints me, but is honest: there is rather vulgar sex in this book, and because of it I don't feel as open about handing it out to everyone I know as I do with Cheryl Strayed. To, for instance, my boyfriend's mom. It's hard to imagine your friend or mom reading a lot about cocks and mouths filled with cum. Sorry for repeating that. Maybe I will delete that line, but I'm trying to be clear: I recommend this book! To nearly everyone! But Oprah is probably not calling today.
Unlike with some other books that inspire and heal me (Wild, seriously!), the rawness in this book is less of a bonfire to gather your friends around for strength and warmth and courage, and more of a broken, half-dead bird that you huddle with quietly over a shoebox. I still feel strength and warmth and courage from this book, but it is more like the kind you feel when you come into the house after being soaked in a pounding rainstorm.
There is something interesting and impressive to me about the way that the author does address ugly subjects. It is not the same as other authors who emphasize the badness of themselves or their characters or their bodies. Sheila Heti is open in a way that is really important — she isn't regurgitating, she is thinking. So, for instance, in the horrible, super hard to read chapter with all the degrading sex, so much, SO MUCH is going on. She is writing it all in the style of, and then I fell into this relationship where I was obsessed with sex; how come you have not experienced amazing sex like I have? Which is gross, and superior and offensive. BUT ALSO, she is telling you more. More is there, in all of the lines:
(This is paraphrase.) I was a writer, but it didn't work out and now my art form is blowjobs. I wasn't doing a good job at being a person, so I deserve to have this sadist control me. I will let him make unfair rules. Sure, teach me a lesson. It hurts a lot and I only enjoyed it three times. I don't even want my identity back. I told everyone that this would happen to me if I said yes to him, and still I couldn't stop myself, so now you have to watch how bad it is, how big my failure is, what a bad person I am. That is all I deserve to be.
This is what she's saying when she's writing cocks and cum. It is like the kind of depression where you watch your actions from outside your body, and you have both the urge to spit on yourself in disgust, and the urge to tell someone how disgusting you are so you will be hated even more. Look at me, I have fallen so far. Is it funny? Is it scary? (Is it spiders?)
That is the ugliest part of the book. Weirdly, it may belong in spoiler tags. I can't really figure that out, with this one. But I wanted to explain, that it is the saddest, saddest thing. I reread that chapter this morning, to see if I was crazy. It was only sadder. To me it is so clear.
"Vulnerable" is not really what she is, though. Oddly, the word that most comes to mind is "wrong," is what she often is. Other people, too, whom she is documenting. But this book is not an indulgent parade of her mistakes (like, maybe, it would be if a man wrote it?). It is more like evidence. I understand what I did. Now, what do I do? She learns very, very simple lessons that you dismissively think a child should know, but then you must sheepishly admit are harder than that. Honoring our friends is harder than that; sharing self-respect with honesty is harder than that. Making ourselves do our jobs — AND WHAT IS OUR WORK? — is harder than that.
There is so much I am not talking about! Why am I talking about these things?! I'm somehow not talking about the playwriting format, or the Jewish themes or pointing out how the boyfriend's named Israel. I'm not talking about female friendship, or the truth and falseness of a belief that you are a null person. I didn't mention the copy shop or the hotel spider or the trip to Atlantic City, that trip, that trip. Or paintings! Guys, this is basically a book about paintings. At least half of it's about paintings. What am I even telling you about! What kind of a recommendation is this.
I guess this kind: while it's true that this author and I don't have a lot of surface traits in common, what she shared here did link up with my life in some very important ways. While I read this, I nailed down the details of a new life plan that has been holding me up for years — YEARS!— and gave notice, of a sort, at my job of seven years. These things are, probably, unlikely to also happen to you while you read this book! I understand that! It wasn't an accident, anyway; I chose it to cover these two weeks because I hoped that it would be a liferaft to those emotions. I even slowed down my reading so it would last through my unburdening-day. I came in from the rainstorm a little shaky, but. It didn't let me down.
Books are alchemy sometimes. Those are the ones that will go to your grave with you.
.
2013: First of all, this book is weird, and hard to explain. It's really not a novel, but it is like one anyway. The characters in it are the people in the author's life. The conflicts in it are the conflicts in the author's life. It is not-fiction and it is inscrutable. It is on purpose.
Probably the best thing I can do is point people at the article that made me want to read it. It's described really well there, and is situated in its difficult critical reception, and it links to a bunch of other relevant things that will help explain what this actually is like.
This book is polarizing, and that's interesting to me. I can try to explain what I noticed about my own reading. There's a lot of things in this book that, technically, I don't like, because Sheila Heti and I are really, really, really, really really different. The author is putting her honesty on the page, and almost every single thing that she says or does or believes or thinks, it is the opposite of how I act or think. So, for me, loving this book does not come from the phenomenon of, "It's like someone is speaking my own mind, right on the page!" No. That is a special feeling to get from a book, but instead, this book was a reminder to me that there is immense power in drawing love from something that does not reflect you. This author — who is the entire medium of the book — does not reflect me. And yet, she speaks to me. On every page. I loved it.
I am not a reader who likes to guess at or critique other readers' readings — I just enjoy reading! — but if I had to say something about the people who hate this book, I suppose it would be: I believed that the author was giving me lots and lots of information between the lines, lots of commentary hidden in blunt declarations or quotations. I heard it all, it was very clear to me, but sure, maybe it was projection. Maybe all reading is projection! But judging from, for instance, this book's top Goodreads review, that seems to be what is different between loving and hating. Is there more to the words than meets the eye? It's opinion.
This book has also gained a reputation for being beloved by women (when it is beloved) and hated by men (especially the powerful literary kind). I have nothing to conjecture about that because I don't want to start. And what do I know about powerful literary men? They are pretty different from me. For one thing, they think their opinions matter.
I will say something now that may prick up the ears of some people: this book reminded me of Wild.
It is also REALLY DIFFERENT! Okay? I'm telling you it's really different. But still, okay. People who liked Wild, think it over.
Mainly, in Wild, the meditations come along a literal path the author is taking from beginning to end. That's the story there. There is no such structure in this book, and no "one foot in front of the other" ethos. In the sympathetic view, I would say that's because Sheila is not so lucky as to have a journey that she understands. Her journey is that of the bum paper airplane that flips around and hits you in the face. What do you do when you don't "get" a journey? Can you wait for one, resentful, not going anywhere? Are you still a person if you aren't using your journey?
I will say something else now that disappoints me, but is honest: there is rather vulgar sex in this book, and because of it I don't feel as open about handing it out to everyone I know as I do with Cheryl Strayed. To, for instance, my boyfriend's mom. It's hard to imagine your friend or mom reading a lot about cocks and mouths filled with cum. Sorry for repeating that. Maybe I will delete that line, but I'm trying to be clear: I recommend this book! To nearly everyone! But Oprah is probably not calling today.
Unlike with some other books that inspire and heal me (Wild, seriously!), the rawness in this book is less of a bonfire to gather your friends around for strength and warmth and courage, and more of a broken, half-dead bird that you huddle with quietly over a shoebox. I still feel strength and warmth and courage from this book, but it is more like the kind you feel when you come into the house after being soaked in a pounding rainstorm.
There is something interesting and impressive to me about the way that the author does address ugly subjects. It is not the same as other authors who emphasize the badness of themselves or their characters or their bodies. Sheila Heti is open in a way that is really important — she isn't regurgitating, she is thinking. So, for instance, in the horrible, super hard to read chapter with all the degrading sex, so much, SO MUCH is going on. She is writing it all in the style of, and then I fell into this relationship where I was obsessed with sex; how come you have not experienced amazing sex like I have? Which is gross, and superior and offensive. BUT ALSO, she is telling you more. More is there, in all of the lines:
(This is paraphrase.) I was a writer, but it didn't work out and now my art form is blowjobs. I wasn't doing a good job at being a person, so I deserve to have this sadist control me. I will let him make unfair rules. Sure, teach me a lesson. It hurts a lot and I only enjoyed it three times. I don't even want my identity back. I told everyone that this would happen to me if I said yes to him, and still I couldn't stop myself, so now you have to watch how bad it is, how big my failure is, what a bad person I am. That is all I deserve to be.
This is what she's saying when she's writing cocks and cum. It is like the kind of depression where you watch your actions from outside your body, and you have both the urge to spit on yourself in disgust, and the urge to tell someone how disgusting you are so you will be hated even more. Look at me, I have fallen so far. Is it funny? Is it scary? (Is it spiders?)
That is the ugliest part of the book. Weirdly, it may belong in spoiler tags. I can't really figure that out, with this one. But I wanted to explain, that it is the saddest, saddest thing. I reread that chapter this morning, to see if I was crazy. It was only sadder. To me it is so clear.
"Vulnerable" is not really what she is, though. Oddly, the word that most comes to mind is "wrong," is what she often is. Other people, too, whom she is documenting. But this book is not an indulgent parade of her mistakes (like, maybe, it would be if a man wrote it?). It is more like evidence. I understand what I did. Now, what do I do? She learns very, very simple lessons that you dismissively think a child should know, but then you must sheepishly admit are harder than that. Honoring our friends is harder than that; sharing self-respect with honesty is harder than that. Making ourselves do our jobs — AND WHAT IS OUR WORK? — is harder than that.
There is so much I am not talking about! Why am I talking about these things?! I'm somehow not talking about the playwriting format, or the Jewish themes or pointing out how the boyfriend's named Israel. I'm not talking about female friendship, or the truth and falseness of a belief that you are a null person. I didn't mention the copy shop or the hotel spider or the trip to Atlantic City, that trip, that trip. Or paintings! Guys, this is basically a book about paintings. At least half of it's about paintings. What am I even telling you about! What kind of a recommendation is this.
I guess this kind: while it's true that this author and I don't have a lot of surface traits in common, what she shared here did link up with my life in some very important ways. While I read this, I nailed down the details of a new life plan that has been holding me up for years — YEARS!— and gave notice, of a sort, at my job of seven years. These things are, probably, unlikely to also happen to you while you read this book! I understand that! It wasn't an accident, anyway; I chose it to cover these two weeks because I hoped that it would be a liferaft to those emotions. I even slowed down my reading so it would last through my unburdening-day. I came in from the rainstorm a little shaky, but. It didn't let me down.
Books are alchemy sometimes. Those are the ones that will go to your grave with you.