Every human that I know and trust in my life has heard me rave about this book. I’m going to keep my lunatic love for Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body to a tight word count here, but please know that if we are sitting together for any length of time, and the opportunity to talk about it comes up, you won’t be allowed to get a word in edgewise for probably at least two hours.
I love it. I love Roxane Gay’s voice. I love her for being strong enough to share her truth. I love the context she provides for the universality of the experience women have in the world, and also the specificity of the absolutely warranted loneliness she feels as she moves through this world. I love that she is able to express all of the ways in which she is conflicted. I love that she forgives herself and also never forgives herself.
Roxane Gay gets it and she tells it like it is.
If you don’t know Roxane Gay’s story, that’s okay; this is a memoir, and she’ll tell you what you need to know. If you do know Roxane Gay’s story, you still must read this book, because there is a gutting version of reality that we all live with that I have never read or heard expressed as perfectly as she is able to do.
The need to disappear and also to scream and also to make mistakes and also to keep living has been earned by every single one of us. Someday, the world may be a better place that doesn’t break people or punish people for subsequently being broken. Maybe.