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A review by millennial_dandy
The Book of Delights: Essays by Ross Gay
3.0
2.5 rounded up to 3
I listened to the audiobook version, which, based on what I've heard, is the right way to go with Ross Gay's collection of 'delights.' And I can well understand this. Even just listening to his narration I could tell that his sensibilities as a poet were bleeding into his prose style in a way I imagine could make it hard to follow on a page (long sentence fragments with a tangent thrown in the middle, wavering over word choice, etc.).
As a narrator, Gay imbues the essay-ettes with a breezy tone that doesn't always manage to hide the odd moment of condescension when he breaks the third wall to say 'I know, I know...' (literally, he uses this exact phrase of exasperation whenever he knows a metaphor has gotten away from him or he's gone off-topic or he's being just a little too hyperbolic).
And that was my biggest problem with 'The Book of Delights': whenever he veered off-topic, it stopped being delightful and became oddly condescending and cynical. When he finally addressed something that had been sticking in my craw from basically the beginning (the fact that many of his 'delights' hinge on him being a successful, comfortably middle to upper-middle class poet) he skated over it as quickly as possible, mentioning his privileged background (even using the word 'privileged') so defensively before quickly moving on that I'm convinced it's a personal sticking point.
That all being said, when he stuck to business and actually wrote out vignettes of slice of life moments that brought him delight, it was fabulous. Using that keen eye of a poet, he presents us with a wide range of things that could conceivably bring delight to someone: making eye contact with a woman feeding the birds and sharing a little smile, a TSA agent exclaiming over the flowers on his socks, being called 'honey' by a stranger, a barista remembering that he doesn't like getting a saucer with his coffee because he's afraid he'll drop it, happening upon a porta-potty in a public park right when you thought all hope was lost. Little mundane things he, by presenting them wrapped in beautiful joyous prose, encourages the reader to seek out in their own lives.
This is, quite on purpose (as in, he says so), a very Black-centric collection, and he talks at one point about the need for that. About how far too often Black-centric narratives (especially those produced for primarily white audiences) center tragedy rather than joy (think: 12 Years a Slave, The Help, Roots...you get the idea). Consequently, this is a collection bursting with moments of delighting in the Black experience from discussions of the subtle greeting between Black strangers that proclaims 'I see your innocence', to anecdotes about Black folks in his life, both friends and strangers, just being happy and content.
There is some bitterness in these sections too, and defensiveness of that bitterness (at one point he's telling a story about how tickled he was when a young girl tells him he reminds her of a specific Black character from a movie. He's quick to add in an aside that this wouldn't have delighted him had the comment come from a white person). But frankly, unless the reader was spoiling to take this personally, that bitterness comes across as sympathetic; certainly, anyone paying attention to the history of race relations in America would have compassion for where he's coming from even if that bitterness taints somewhat the overall tone. I think to a degree that was kind of the point.
But though he goes to great lengths to ground 'The Book of Delights' in socio-philosophy (early on he cites Zadie Smith's ideas about joy and where it stems from, and how it's different than other seemingly similar emotions like happiness), there is a roughness to the presentation of the final product that feels almost arrogant.
At the beginning, he explains that the book started as a personal challenge to himself to write every day for a year of something that delighted him. It's fine if that's where the idea started, but he goes out of his way to flaunt the lack of editing between sitting at one of the tables in one of the many New York coffee shops he apparently haunts and the completed, published project, leaving in his own uncertainties about word choice (e.g., 'The flower was a pale chartreuse (marigold? Are those even close?') or facts (e.g., 'Yesterday at breakfast (or was it technically brunch? When does brunch start? Who decides that?').
I understand that it's supposed to get across that the text is authentic and borne of spontaneity, but since it so obviously must have gone through at least one editor it just feels disingenuous and irritating. And, yeah, arrogant. Like, my guy, do you really think you're such a good writer that I want to be let in on your stream of consciousness editing?
Very mixed feelings on this overall. I really like the premise and I adored many of the anecdotes, but the stuff that grated really grated, dragging the entire reading experience down to mere mediocrity. And with so much to be read in the world (including by many of the authors he cites) I refuse to accept mediocrity as an acceptable standard, and neither should you.
I listened to the audiobook version, which, based on what I've heard, is the right way to go with Ross Gay's collection of 'delights.' And I can well understand this. Even just listening to his narration I could tell that his sensibilities as a poet were bleeding into his prose style in a way I imagine could make it hard to follow on a page (long sentence fragments with a tangent thrown in the middle, wavering over word choice, etc.).
As a narrator, Gay imbues the essay-ettes with a breezy tone that doesn't always manage to hide the odd moment of condescension when he breaks the third wall to say 'I know, I know...' (literally, he uses this exact phrase of exasperation whenever he knows a metaphor has gotten away from him or he's gone off-topic or he's being just a little too hyperbolic).
And that was my biggest problem with 'The Book of Delights': whenever he veered off-topic, it stopped being delightful and became oddly condescending and cynical. When he finally addressed something that had been sticking in my craw from basically the beginning (the fact that many of his 'delights' hinge on him being a successful, comfortably middle to upper-middle class poet) he skated over it as quickly as possible, mentioning his privileged background (even using the word 'privileged') so defensively before quickly moving on that I'm convinced it's a personal sticking point.
That all being said, when he stuck to business and actually wrote out vignettes of slice of life moments that brought him delight, it was fabulous. Using that keen eye of a poet, he presents us with a wide range of things that could conceivably bring delight to someone: making eye contact with a woman feeding the birds and sharing a little smile, a TSA agent exclaiming over the flowers on his socks, being called 'honey' by a stranger, a barista remembering that he doesn't like getting a saucer with his coffee because he's afraid he'll drop it, happening upon a porta-potty in a public park right when you thought all hope was lost. Little mundane things he, by presenting them wrapped in beautiful joyous prose, encourages the reader to seek out in their own lives.
This is, quite on purpose (as in, he says so), a very Black-centric collection, and he talks at one point about the need for that. About how far too often Black-centric narratives (especially those produced for primarily white audiences) center tragedy rather than joy (think: 12 Years a Slave, The Help, Roots...you get the idea). Consequently, this is a collection bursting with moments of delighting in the Black experience from discussions of the subtle greeting between Black strangers that proclaims 'I see your innocence', to anecdotes about Black folks in his life, both friends and strangers, just being happy and content.
There is some bitterness in these sections too, and defensiveness of that bitterness (at one point he's telling a story about how tickled he was when a young girl tells him he reminds her of a specific Black character from a movie. He's quick to add in an aside that this wouldn't have delighted him had the comment come from a white person). But frankly, unless the reader was spoiling to take this personally, that bitterness comes across as sympathetic; certainly, anyone paying attention to the history of race relations in America would have compassion for where he's coming from even if that bitterness taints somewhat the overall tone. I think to a degree that was kind of the point.
But though he goes to great lengths to ground 'The Book of Delights' in socio-philosophy (early on he cites Zadie Smith's ideas about joy and where it stems from, and how it's different than other seemingly similar emotions like happiness), there is a roughness to the presentation of the final product that feels almost arrogant.
At the beginning, he explains that the book started as a personal challenge to himself to write every day for a year of something that delighted him. It's fine if that's where the idea started, but he goes out of his way to flaunt the lack of editing between sitting at one of the tables in one of the many New York coffee shops he apparently haunts and the completed, published project, leaving in his own uncertainties about word choice (e.g., 'The flower was a pale chartreuse (marigold? Are those even close?') or facts (e.g., 'Yesterday at breakfast (or was it technically brunch? When does brunch start? Who decides that?').
I understand that it's supposed to get across that the text is authentic and borne of spontaneity, but since it so obviously must have gone through at least one editor it just feels disingenuous and irritating. And, yeah, arrogant. Like, my guy, do you really think you're such a good writer that I want to be let in on your stream of consciousness editing?
Very mixed feelings on this overall. I really like the premise and I adored many of the anecdotes, but the stuff that grated really grated, dragging the entire reading experience down to mere mediocrity. And with so much to be read in the world (including by many of the authors he cites) I refuse to accept mediocrity as an acceptable standard, and neither should you.