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My first thought in sitting down to write this review is this: it is an outrage how few men will read this book. Ratajkowski is a great writer. Her stories are as clear as their topics are complex, and she guides the reader through them with memorable imagery and admirable honesty.
There is something inherently defiant about a famously beautiful woman giving herself a voice. If asked directly whether all attractive women are stupid, most people would answer no. But it is a profound experience to be directly confronted by the living, breathing words of Emily Ratajkowski and to realize, with embarrassment, how surprised you are that there is a whole person behind her famous face.
In My Body, Ratajkowski doesn't really have answers, as she admits from the very beginning in her introduction. But it is so powerful to join her, this woman who by all cultural standards ought to have it all, in her questions—Can women really wield their beauty as power? Should they? How can women go about existing in bodies that are seen as mere vessels for male pleasure? What happens to women when their beauty fades? Why do we hate beautiful women? Why do we hate ourselves?—to name just a few.
Reading some of the other reviews, I agree that it would have been great to hear more from Ratajkowski on reckoning with the part that she and other models play in supporting an industry that thrives by stirring up mass self-loathing. It is a valid critique, but I honestly didn't think to miss it while I was reading. For better or worse, in My Body, Ratajkowski focuses on looking inward—after a decade of the whole world staring at her, Ratajkowski grants herself the chance to look at herself.
There is something inherently defiant about a famously beautiful woman giving herself a voice. If asked directly whether all attractive women are stupid, most people would answer no. But it is a profound experience to be directly confronted by the living, breathing words of Emily Ratajkowski and to realize, with embarrassment, how surprised you are that there is a whole person behind her famous face.
In My Body, Ratajkowski doesn't really have answers, as she admits from the very beginning in her introduction. But it is so powerful to join her, this woman who by all cultural standards ought to have it all, in her questions—Can women really wield their beauty as power? Should they? How can women go about existing in bodies that are seen as mere vessels for male pleasure? What happens to women when their beauty fades? Why do we hate beautiful women? Why do we hate ourselves?—to name just a few.
Reading some of the other reviews, I agree that it would have been great to hear more from Ratajkowski on reckoning with the part that she and other models play in supporting an industry that thrives by stirring up mass self-loathing. It is a valid critique, but I honestly didn't think to miss it while I was reading. For better or worse, in My Body, Ratajkowski focuses on looking inward—after a decade of the whole world staring at her, Ratajkowski grants herself the chance to look at herself.