A review by cdlindwall
The Chronology of Water: A Memoir by Lidia Yuknavitch
4.0
I'm torn.
This is Lidia's memoir of childhood, growth, and rebirth, and her language does it justice. She has a gift for words; it's undeniable. Her prose is lyrical, strong, and wildly creative. Some of my favorite writing takes words that don't belong, that create strange images, that twist a common phrase and make you think. She does that beautifully.
Like here:
My belly grew too big for my clothes. Too big for my bath. My bed. Too big for my house. My former me and all her puny dramas. Bigger and bigger. My belly grew.
And each night Andy would put his hands on the mound of me and whisper secrets to the little boyfish any narrative but his own. Sweet hidden life in the water of me - the best thing I had to give. And he would suck the milkworld of me and our lovemaking rose and became enormous with my body, with our broken rules broken codes broken law love, every night our bodies making a songstory bigger than the lives we came from. The more my belly grew the more love we made.
How gorgeous is that? Her language held her story afloat. Her elongated metaphors about swimming and water were executed perfectly. The skilled shifts in time, moving back and forth between non-linear vignettes and memories, were great. On the writing alone, this book would be one of my favorites. (I also loved the emphasis she put on shared womanhood, but that's a separate conversation)
But on the other hand, the entire story was bursting with ego. I couldn't stand Lidia. I couldn't stand her famous-writer name dropping. I couldn't stand her drugs and indulgent dumbassery, especially when she reveled in its rebelliousness and counter culture. Breaking into other people's houses and fucking on their floor doesn't make you less beige. It doesn't make you interesting, either. And having a fucked up childhood doesn't forgive spending all of your 20s driving down the freeway blisteringly drunk. She talked so much about being in this special club of "others," this group of intellectually superior artists who created and fucked and tripped and destroyed everything around them. She talked about her brilliant artist friends who made brilliant "wordhouses" and lit up the sky with their intellectual energy.
But I wasn't inspired by her artist's story. I was just annoyed at how self-impressed she was. I understood it was about being reborn from that person she was, but I couldn't get past the way she exalted that person, at least in a way. Her childhood story was unendingly tragic, but the story of her 20s and early 30s just made me want to look away.
I will say, the last quarter of the book she regained my heart. A lot of her wisdom from experience finally came through, and I felt a connection with her that I hadn't in the beginning. This, alongside the gorgeous way she writes, is why I gave this book four stars.
This is Lidia's memoir of childhood, growth, and rebirth, and her language does it justice. She has a gift for words; it's undeniable. Her prose is lyrical, strong, and wildly creative. Some of my favorite writing takes words that don't belong, that create strange images, that twist a common phrase and make you think. She does that beautifully.
Like here:
My belly grew too big for my clothes. Too big for my bath. My bed. Too big for my house. My former me and all her puny dramas. Bigger and bigger. My belly grew.
And each night Andy would put his hands on the mound of me and whisper secrets to the little boyfish any narrative but his own. Sweet hidden life in the water of me - the best thing I had to give. And he would suck the milkworld of me and our lovemaking rose and became enormous with my body, with our broken rules broken codes broken law love, every night our bodies making a songstory bigger than the lives we came from. The more my belly grew the more love we made.
How gorgeous is that? Her language held her story afloat. Her elongated metaphors about swimming and water were executed perfectly. The skilled shifts in time, moving back and forth between non-linear vignettes and memories, were great. On the writing alone, this book would be one of my favorites. (I also loved the emphasis she put on shared womanhood, but that's a separate conversation)
But on the other hand, the entire story was bursting with ego. I couldn't stand Lidia. I couldn't stand her famous-writer name dropping. I couldn't stand her drugs and indulgent dumbassery, especially when she reveled in its rebelliousness and counter culture. Breaking into other people's houses and fucking on their floor doesn't make you less beige. It doesn't make you interesting, either. And having a fucked up childhood doesn't forgive spending all of your 20s driving down the freeway blisteringly drunk. She talked so much about being in this special club of "others," this group of intellectually superior artists who created and fucked and tripped and destroyed everything around them. She talked about her brilliant artist friends who made brilliant "wordhouses" and lit up the sky with their intellectual energy.
But I wasn't inspired by her artist's story. I was just annoyed at how self-impressed she was. I understood it was about being reborn from that person she was, but I couldn't get past the way she exalted that person, at least in a way. Her childhood story was unendingly tragic, but the story of her 20s and early 30s just made me want to look away.
I will say, the last quarter of the book she regained my heart. A lot of her wisdom from experience finally came through, and I felt a connection with her that I hadn't in the beginning. This, alongside the gorgeous way she writes, is why I gave this book four stars.