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A review by savaging
The Chronology of Water: A Memoir by Lidia Yuknavitch
3.0
I'm torn about this book.
For most of the book Yuknavitch's voice has the smart-ass guffaw of a frat boy. It makes sense to me that as she works out her childhood suffering she is going to hurt others. But her wild-crazy life -- look, here I am driving and drinking again and almost killing a pregnant woman of color! -- feels like a humble-brag. Like she thinks it's cute and fun that she got into such trouble. And then I feel like a jerk or a prude because I'm reading this all with a tsk-tsk when look, my father was a perfectly nice guy, so what would I know?
Her magic trick is to write gutty sentences that make you feel something. But essay after essay of this begins to feel unreal. How each sexual experience is The Most, each drunken spree is The Most, each experience of rage is The Most. I like this book best when Yuknavitch trusts her skill enough to write something less than the most.
At some moments she moves past her bad-girl literary trope and sees herself or others with real wisdom and compassion, and it is so beautiful. That section on collecting rocks to deal with grief? That is the most accurate description of my own grief I have ever found. I'm grateful for those small moments -- quiet bits, ambiguous forgiveness -- amid this bar fight of a book.
For most of the book Yuknavitch's voice has the smart-ass guffaw of a frat boy. It makes sense to me that as she works out her childhood suffering she is going to hurt others. But her wild-crazy life -- look, here I am driving and drinking again and almost killing a pregnant woman of color! -- feels like a humble-brag. Like she thinks it's cute and fun that she got into such trouble. And then I feel like a jerk or a prude because I'm reading this all with a tsk-tsk when look, my father was a perfectly nice guy, so what would I know?
Her magic trick is to write gutty sentences that make you feel something. But essay after essay of this begins to feel unreal. How each sexual experience is The Most, each drunken spree is The Most, each experience of rage is The Most. I like this book best when Yuknavitch trusts her skill enough to write something less than the most.
At some moments she moves past her bad-girl literary trope and sees herself or others with real wisdom and compassion, and it is so beautiful. That section on collecting rocks to deal with grief? That is the most accurate description of my own grief I have ever found. I'm grateful for those small moments -- quiet bits, ambiguous forgiveness -- amid this bar fight of a book.