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A review by kaylyssa
An Extraordinary Theory of Objects: A Memoir of an Outsider in Paris by Stephanie LaCava
2.0
The two stars are for the look and feel of the book itself and for Matthew Nelson's lovely drawings.
I found this book impossible to relate to. The obsession with objects and the book-report-like footnotes served no purpose but to keep the reader at a distance by avoiding human emotion. There is no humor in the book; instead, LaCava takes herself and her experience so seriously that it's confusing. I wanted to laugh when she walked out of the dance and threw herself face-down into the dirt with loneliness and shame--not in a cruel way, but in an understanding, I've-been-there way. But LaCava does not let you say "I've been there" and she doesn not let you laugh. She wants to be "strange" and to describe a unique and unusual experience that is really anything but. Not only that, but she doesn't take you there with her either, she pushes you away and describes it to you from a distance.
The sections on her childhood in Paris, what tiny snippets we are allowed to read between the bloated, ridiculous footnotes, seem pretty typical to me, despite her repeated and repetitive insistance that she is "strange." Most people I know, myself included, had turbulent teenage years where they went through some dark shit. Maybe not everyone, but a lot of people. Yet the whole idea of the book seems to be that LaCava's turbulent teenage years are "crazy" in some special, elevated way. I can't help but wonder if this results from growing up filthy rich and not realizing that the rest of the world is actually just like you. To be fair, it does seem like LaCava is actually naive to the experience of the rest of the world. I don't think she would have written this book if she didn't truly believe she was very, very special. Ironically, if she realized she was not unique, I think she would have written a better book.
The extended pre-epilogue nature of the later sections, her big Return to France (she does realize some people never get to go to France, right? That some people can't afford to travel the world? Just wondering), seem to be mostly about how good she is at speaking French to taxi drivers. The fact that the book ends with her breaking away from her habit of eating only green beans to ordering a salad Nicoise is just a perfect way to sum up this ridiculous and self-absorbed memoir.
Also, just a side note, I found it hard not to barf around the 35th time she described herself as being thin and elf-like. For someone who is asking her readers for pity, she sure is full of herself.
If you want to glimpse into the fantastical world of the very rich and their completely out of touch worldviews, read this book. Otherwise, buy it and put it on your bookshelf for decoration, as it is very pretty.
I found this book impossible to relate to. The obsession with objects and the book-report-like footnotes served no purpose but to keep the reader at a distance by avoiding human emotion. There is no humor in the book; instead, LaCava takes herself and her experience so seriously that it's confusing. I wanted to laugh when she walked out of the dance and threw herself face-down into the dirt with loneliness and shame--not in a cruel way, but in an understanding, I've-been-there way. But LaCava does not let you say "I've been there" and she doesn not let you laugh. She wants to be "strange" and to describe a unique and unusual experience that is really anything but. Not only that, but she doesn't take you there with her either, she pushes you away and describes it to you from a distance.
The sections on her childhood in Paris, what tiny snippets we are allowed to read between the bloated, ridiculous footnotes, seem pretty typical to me, despite her repeated and repetitive insistance that she is "strange." Most people I know, myself included, had turbulent teenage years where they went through some dark shit. Maybe not everyone, but a lot of people. Yet the whole idea of the book seems to be that LaCava's turbulent teenage years are "crazy" in some special, elevated way. I can't help but wonder if this results from growing up filthy rich and not realizing that the rest of the world is actually just like you. To be fair, it does seem like LaCava is actually naive to the experience of the rest of the world. I don't think she would have written this book if she didn't truly believe she was very, very special. Ironically, if she realized she was not unique, I think she would have written a better book.
The extended pre-epilogue nature of the later sections, her big Return to France (she does realize some people never get to go to France, right? That some people can't afford to travel the world? Just wondering), seem to be mostly about how good she is at speaking French to taxi drivers. The fact that the book ends with her breaking away from her habit of eating only green beans to ordering a salad Nicoise is just a perfect way to sum up this ridiculous and self-absorbed memoir.
Also, just a side note, I found it hard not to barf around the 35th time she described herself as being thin and elf-like. For someone who is asking her readers for pity, she sure is full of herself.
If you want to glimpse into the fantastical world of the very rich and their completely out of touch worldviews, read this book. Otherwise, buy it and put it on your bookshelf for decoration, as it is very pretty.