Generally, I like memoir (despite all the hullabaloo lately for and against*). Not as much as I tend to like well-written biography, but still. It’s all right by me.
So I’m unsettled by the immediate dislike, and not just dislike, but revulsion, I feel upon starting Lidia Yuknavitch’s The Chronology of Water. I read a few pages and thought, “Oh, wow. What is my problem? I hate this. I HATE this.” So I thought maybe it would be better if I didn’t start with the nakedly manipulative opening and came back to that after I read some other pages further in. Nope. No good. Still hating it. My initial reaction, which so far is holding up, was, “I’m on to you, lady. I know what you’re trying to do here, and I’m not falling for it.” I mean, damn. What kind of bitch has that sort of reaction to an opening sequence featuring a stillborn daughter? The kind of bitch I am, I guess.
I don’t trust this sort of extreme reaction in myself. Something about this book repulses me, which means this might be more about me than about the book. So I’m going to have to examine that before I try to articulate my thoughts.
But not tonight, because seriously, it’s making me feel foul. Which means I need to find something else to read in the tub tonight… .
*I want to take a bath and go to bed, so I’m not going to rummage around and find the links to said hullabaloo.