By Lindy West
All Posts Contain Spoilers
Unfortunately, I’m going to have to rave about another book.
I apologize – I know that this has been happening a lot lately. I’m very suspicious of people that like everything, or only have nice things to say about the content they are consuming. To my mind, positivity is a sure sign of thoughtlessness.
A reader who loves every book they read is a reader who isn’t thinking very hard about books, and therefore has no business writing about them. But I would like to promise, before I get about the business of loving this book, that I hate plenty of books. I’m sure I’ll hate the very next book I read. I’ve just been on a lucky streak lately, batting way above my normal average (although, in fairness to myself, I do think I had some critical things to say about Jane Austen recently…).
And I will make one more small point in my own defense: I thought that I was going to hate ‘Shrill‘. I did not pick it – it was a gift – and it was chosen for reasons which were not persuasive to me. This happens not infrequently: someone will give me the work of a female author, usually a funny or acerbic one, with the explanation, “She’s sharp, and you’re sharp, so I thought that you might like her.” Unfortunately, that both Lindy West and I are a) female and b) smart, is not enough to make me like her book. So I picked up ‘Shrill’ anticipating a hate-read.
‘Shrill‘ is a collection of personal essays, and the personal essay is a difficult form. When it’s good, it’s sublime, but to work it needs an author who is a good writer with a distinct worldview, who has experience worth writing about (or a gift for making any experience into a story), and who possesses a basic humanity. This last attribute is the most important, and hard to define. To write an entire book about yourself is an act of narcissism; in order to avoid becoming insufferable, the author of that book must possess grace, must show more forgiveness of others than they do of themselves, must not grovel and play at false humility, but also must not brag. We must be able to trust them on their own strengths, and therefore they must show their weaknesses.
Lindy West is well-known at this point; if you’re a feminist, an active misogynist, or a reader of the New York Times, you’ve probably heard of her. She is most famous as a feminist writer: she has written about high-controversy issues such as whether or not rape jokes are funny, and what it’s like being a fat woman.
[An aside, West refers to herself as a fat woman, and since this one of the subjects on which she is the most moving and effective as a writer, I am going to use her terminology, and not employ any of the euphemisms which she decries in her own text.]
A lot of the writing in this book revolves around what it is like to be a fat woman, and to be a fat woman who lives in the public eye, who writes about being fat and rape jokes and about the treatment of women broadly. West records the volume and tenor of the abuse she receives, but she also writes about the less conspicuous humiliations and indifferences that she suffers, and has suffered her entire life.
And she writes about them well. ‘Shrill‘ isn’t a cri de coeur; it isn’t a harangue about the treatment of women, or fat people. It is a simple, effective plea for decency. Sometimes this plea takes the form of polemic, but mostly it takes the form of memoir: West shows you that she is a person, and leaves it to you to imagine what it might feel like for a person, say, to receive a message which said:
“No one would want to rape that fat, disgusting mess.” (p. 197)
“What a fucking cunt. Kill yourself, dumb bitch.” (p. 199)
“Holes like this make me want commit rape out of anger, I don’t even find her attractive, at all, she’s a fat idiot, I just want to rape her with a traffic cone” (p. 202)
[If you, like me, find this level of abuse frankly astonishing, it’s worth watching the video West filmed of herself simply reading the Twitter comments she gets: If Comedy Has No Lady Problem, Why Am I Getting So Many Rape Threats?]
Because her writing is clear, and her voice is so direct, you can’t, as her reader, avoid making an empathic connection with her. She is extremely reasonable, especially when she is presenting her own experience, and so you often end up suffering for her sake, with her, at the things which she has gone through:
“It felt alien to be confronted so vocally and so publicly (and for such an arbitrary reason), but it also felt familiar. People say the same kind of thing to me with their eyes on nearly every flight – this guy just chose to say it with his mouth.
This is the subtext of my life: “You’re bigger than I’d like you to be.” “I dread being near you.” “Your body itself is a breach of etiquette.” “You are clearly a fucking fool who thinks that cheesecake is a vegetable.” “I know that you will fart on me.”
No one wants to sit next to a fat person on a plane. Don’t think we don’t know. (p. 141)
That essay, ‘The Day I Didn’t Fit‘, was incredibly moving for me. It cut right to heart of me, made me think carefully about my own behavior and beliefs, made me ashamed. It’s an unusual essay which, all by itself, will be responsible for an entire reallignment of your moral priorities towards a whole group of people – that essay has done that for me.
But this book came to mean the most to me as woman. The simplicity of West’s declaration of her own humanity, and therefore of mine, felt profound to me. It wasn’t dense, or theory-laden; quite the opposite. It was the clear and unmistakable declaration: we are women, we are people, these are the things that hurt us, we wish not to be hurt. And, at a time in my own culture where feminism, femininity, masculinity, and power are all such complicated and murky topics, that declaration sounded to me like the ringing of a bell.
I really don’t want to make this book sound grim – it emphatically isn’t. It is extremely funny. I laughed loudly enough that I drew looks when I read it in public; I made a small scene on the subway on the way to the hair salon when I read this:
“What is the point of sexualizing a fish-person? It’s not like you could really have sex with King Triton, because FISH PENIS. I don’t think fish even have penises anyway. Don’t they just have, like, floppy anal fins that squirt out ambient sperms in the hope that lady-fishes will swim through their oops-cloud? Is that what you really want from your love-making, ladies!? To inadvertently swim through a miasma of fin-jizz and then call it a night? A merman is only a hottie with a naughty body if you are half attracted to fish. In conclusion, IT’S A FUCKING FISH-MAN TRYING TO DRAG YOU TO THE OCEAN FLOOR, WHERE IT PLANS TO USE YOUR DEAD BODY SEXUALLY. KILL IT. IT HAS A FORK.” (p. 8)
I made a small scene in my hair salon when I read this passage:
“Those two contradictory approaches (periods are the best! and we must never ever speak of them), made me feel like I was the only not-brainwashed one in a culty dystopian novel. ‘Oh, yes, you can’t imagine the joy readings in your subjectivity port when the Administration gifts you your woman’s flow! SPEAKING OF THE FLOW OUTSIDE OF THE MENARCHE BUNKER WILL RESULT IN DEACTIVATION.'” (p. 25)
West is merciful enough to break up even her most exposed, wrenching passages with humor; it is her most salient and excellent characteristic. It also heightens the impact of her rhetoric. Because she is so funny, because her humor seems so effortless and natural, when she tells you something seriously, you believe her. ‘Shrill‘ is a red-herring of a title: West is not shrill. She is measured, witty, reasonable, and convincing.
I don’t like to extol books. I don’t like full-throated praise; it makes me feel uncritical and unsophisticated. But, to be perfectly frank, this book moved me, and along more than one axis. It had tremendous meaning for me as a women: West’s writing about feminist issues is brave, and kind, and true. It will change, dramatically, how I think about issues of body weight going forward. And it made me laugh, a lot.
Mostly, though, I feel grateful to have gotten to know her a little. Lindy West, the author, was really fun to spend time with, and I’m better for it.