I found this book compulsively readable, and even beautiful and touching at times, but I am a bit flummoxed by the ending. Like…what is the takeaway here? Was this genius, or trite?
Sleeping for a year was never going to solve the narrator’s problems. In fact, we even see her sub-conscious try to live a life for her. And yet, she never comes to this realization, or even experiences any true negative ramifications from her experiment. Physically, she’s fine. Financially, she’s fine. Mentally, she’s maybe even better off than before. At least she thinks she is. One could argue that she’s just kidding herself, but I’m not sure I buy that.
She loses Reva figuratively and literally, but I wasn’t convinced that the friendship would have logically fizzled out when it did. Reva put up with so much shit from the narrator, I honestly don’t believe a six month sojourn would have been the straw to break the camel’s back. Basically, she never did the work, never paid an actual price, but seemed to get what she needed. (Don’t get me started on the last page, I’m gonna pretend it doesn’t exist)
As an art history major and former gallery worker, the narrator minces no words about the meaningless, exploitative, and self-congratulatory indulgence of the art world. There’s this line about the artist Ping Xi towards the end:
“He wasn’t interested in understanding himself or evolving. He just wanted to shock people…His audience, of course, would never truly be shocked. People were only delighted at his concepts.”
Was this book about evolving? Or was it just a clever concept — style over substance? Or was it the author criticizing the narrator through her own words: she wasn’t actually interested in evolving, just drastic measures. I honestly can’t decide. I think a different ending would have elevated this to a five star read for me, though.
by IndigoBlueBird