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Resumen
The New York Times Bestseller
National Book Critics Circle Award Finalist
Lambda Literary Award winner
From Roxane Gay, the New York Times bestselling author of Bad Feminist, a memoir in weight about eating healthier, finding a tolerable form of exercise, and exploring what it means to learn, in the middle of your life, how to take care of yourself and how to feed your hunger.
New York Times bestselling author Roxane Gay has written with intimacy and sensitivity about food and bodies, using her own emotional and psychological struggles as a means of exploring our shared anxieties over pleasure, consumption, appearance, and health. As a woman who describes her own body as "wildly undisciplined," Roxane understands the tension between desire and denial, between self-comfort and self-care. In Hunger, she casts an insightful and critical eye on her childhood, teens, and twenties--including the devastating act of violence that acted as a turning point in her young life--and brings readers into the present and the realities, pains, and joys of her daily life.
With the bracing candor, vulnerability, and authority that have made her one of the most admired voices of her generation, Roxane explores what it means to be overweight in a time when the bigger you are, the less you are seen. Hunger is a deeply personal memoir from one of our finest writers, and tells a story that hasn't yet been told but needs to be.
Notas del autor
Roxane Gay is the New York Times bestselling author of Bad Feminist: Essays, the novel An Untamed State, the story collection Ayiti, and her memoir, Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body. Her work has also appeared in Glamour, Best American Short Stories, and the New York Times Book Review. She won the PEN Center USA's 2015 Freedom to Write Award. The annual award is presented to individuals or organisations for 'producing notable work in the face of extreme adversity' or showing 'exceptional courage in the defense of free expression. In 2018, she was presented the Trustee Award for Excellence in Literature by the Lambda Literery Awards. She also won the Bisexual Nonfiction award for her memoir Hunger.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reseñas (6)
Reseña de Publisher's Weekly
Novelist and cultural critic Gay (Bad Feminist) writes of being morbidly obese in this absorbing and authentic memoir of her life as "a woman of size." Born in l974 in Omaha, Neb., to Haitian immigrant parents, Gay initially lived a comfortable life in a loving family. After a group of boys raped her when she was 12 years old, Gay's world began to unravel, and she turned to overeating as a way of making her violated body into a safe "fortress." Ashamed to tell her Catholic parents what had occurred, she harbored her secret for more than 25 years. In the course of this memoir, Gay shares how her weight and size shade many topics, including relationships, fashion, food, family, the medical profession, and travel (the bigger her body became, the author notes, the smaller her world became). She suffered profound shame and self-loathing, and boldly confronts society's cruelty toward and denigration of larger individuals (particularly women), its fear of "unruly bodies," and the myth that equates happiness with thinness. This raw and graceful memoir digs deeply into what it means to be comfortable in one's body. Gay denies that hers is a story of "triumph," but readers will be hard pressed to find a better word. Agent: Maria Massie, LMQLit. (June) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.
Guardian Review
The writer whose radical honesty has won fans across the globe talks about writing as a cry for help, using books to fight racism and why she rejects 'identity politics' There is a story in Roxane Gay's second collection of short fiction, Difficult Women, in which a big, strong man who works in a quarry goes for a walk on the beach and, seeing an extra glint in the sand, discovers a woman made of glass. He falls in love, marries her, they have a glass child. At meals, he marvels, watching the food travel through their bodies. When he holds her he does so gently, and not just because he must. A quirk of nature - that lightning striking sand can make glass - becomes an inspired vehicle for preoccupations that recur throughout Gay's work: that love means not being seen through, but seen, and heard for yourself; that bodies are both breakable and a possible source of redemption. Gay's stories often take the form of fable although, on her first visit to London, she is quick to reject that as any appeal to universality. "In fact, it's the opposite," she says. "As a black woman, as a black queer woman, specificity is incredibly important, because diverse experiences are rarely seen in literature." She agrees that fairytale "informs all of my fiction work" - there is the woman married to an identical twin whose brother takes turns coming to her bed in the belief she doesn't notice, or the woman who is also a knife, or the miner so despairing of his life underground that he projects himself into the sun and puts it out - "because in the original fairytales there's oftentimes a lot of suffering before you get to any kind of resolution or solace". But details ground the stories, in the rural midwest, for example, or a gated community in Florida, or a strip club in Baltimore. "What we tend to forget is that we all deal with a lot of the same things," she says. "We all deal with complicated relationships, with children, with the loss of children, with love and suffering. We have a lot in common, and I do think literature allows us to have some sort of shared empathy." Since Gay arrived in London she has appeared at the Royal Festival Hall in front of an audience of 1,800 and tweeted her first impressions of the city to her 539,000 Twitter followers. "Still buzzing from seeing Roxane Gay speak last night at @southbankcentre," one fan tweeted. "She has a unique capacity to be inspirational yet completely relatable. I am thankful for her." They are drawn by her voice - direct, often funny, sometimes angry, always thoughtful - and her radical candidness about her own life and struggles, on display in her breakthrough collection of essays, Bad Feminist, as well as her memoir, Hunger, and her fiction. And they come out to bat for her when she feels impugned, especially by the press - so much so that they feel like invisible, judging witnesses to our conversation, conducted at the flashy riverfront offices of Gay's UK publisher. Meeting her is thus already overdetermined, and made more complicated by a presence that seems, on this cold bright morning, not much like the writing voice: Gay makes little eye contact. She waits for the tape to be turned on and answers questions dutifully. At the same time I know, from Twitter, that jetlag and newness have caused two days of insomnia. And I should have been prepared, from her writing, for the frequent split between a disembodied freedom on the page and an unease in the world; the way in which her fame and imposing 1.9 metres (6ft 3in) frame are undercut, as she put it in a recent essay about her decision to have weight-loss surgery, by the fact that "the moment I step outside the safety of my home, I hate how visible I am, how people treat me, how they stare and comment both loudly and under their breath ... I do not know how to carry myself with confidence when I go out into the world. Any sense of self I have is often shattered within minutes, and then I am all insecurities and fears, wishing myself into a more socially acceptable form." Gay is the oldest of three children born to Haitian parents who arrived in the US when they were still in their teens. "Everything good and strong about me starts with my parents," as Gay puts it in Hunger, her 2017 "Memoir of (My) Body". Her father was a successful and eventually very well off civil engineer, and her mother a home-maker. They moved a lot for his work, but spent summers in Haiti, and the stories in Gay's first collection, Ayiti (2011), are drenched both in a physical sense of that country, and of the small humiliations of recent immigrants. Gay had written stories since she was tiny, drawing villages on napkins and describing the inhabitants; she read and read - Little House on the Prairie, Nancy Drew and Sweet Valley High stories. She was "respectful, studious, hardworking". They went to church, she excelled at school. She was a good Haitian daughter. Gay is fascinating on the "goodness" of girls - as a societal requirement, as an often impossible standard; on how often being good is a matter of being "one who knows how to play by the rules and cares to be seen to be playing by the rules"; who knows how to be liked. (Philip Roth novels? Lauded, yet full of unlikable men, she has written. Woe betide the female novelist who tries the same thing.) Above all, on goodness as vulnerability, not least because she knows, in the most visceral way possible, what that can mean. One day, when she was 12, a handsome classmate took her on a bike ride to an abandoned shack in the woods where a pack of other boys, fuelled by drink, were waiting. "There is a before and an after," she writes, in Hunger. "In the after I was broken, shattered, and silent." At Yale, she was eating compulsively, defending herself by building her body into an impregnable fortress She returned home, where she performed "good", but could not shut the experience away. In high school, she says now, "I wrote a series of truly insane stories. Always about young girls being violated in terrible ways. It was a cry for help." Thankfully, she was heard by a teacher who both encouraged her to keep writing and walked her over to a counsellor. The experience still comes out in her stories, her essays, in her bestselling 2014 novel, An Untamed State ; vulnerabilities and terrible violations played through different scenarios, with different endings: husbands gentle, loving, preternaturally understanding; perpetrators found and jailed (which did not happen for her). She got into nearly every Ivy League college she applied for (and cried, overhearing her acceptance at Yale instantly dismissed by a classmate as affirmative action). She was also eating, compulsively, defending herself by building her body into an impregnable fortress that at its largest, she says in Hunger, weighed 577lbs (262kg). After a year she dropped out of Yale, unable to cope. She had met an older man on the internet, and went to be with him. For a year, until her parents tracked her down, she supported herself, working with other "lost girls" on phone sex lines, finding a community that accepted and understood her, beginning to blog, in those very early days of the internet. She was beginning, too, the long discovery that would sustain her, that "through writing, I was, finally, able to get respect for the content of my character". It is hard to read the abuse Gay gets for her size. If there is anything useful in the experience it is, she has said, in the way it engenders empathy, for other lives, for difficult lives, for different lives. Reading, she says now, does the same - fiction mostly, but also non-fiction, "because you just think, 'Oh my gosh, imagine if that were my life, imagine if that were my children, how would I feel?' A lot of times when we see narrow-mindedness, when we see racism, when we see xenophobia, these are people who are not well read." Perhaps we could prescribe fiction classes - "that would be great - give each and every racist in the world a syllabus. Beloved by Toni Morrison. Tony Judt on world war two." As for herself, "I read everything. The No 1 thing I tell my students" - until this autumn, when she announced she was quitting, she taught at Purdue University, Indiana - "is read diversely. And I'm not talking about demographics, though that's part of it. Aesthetic diversity, genre diversity. It matters because it just makes us better informed, and it protects us from our worst instincts." She reserves a particular ire for those who read only literary fiction. "Oh, but it exactly applies to them. Anybody who tells me, 'I only read literary fiction,' I'm just like, 'Well, you're an asshole. What are we going to talk about?' Literary fiction - a lot of it's not that good! I read good books. And they may not be the best written, but they tell a really good story. My favourite thing to read is spy thrillers, which I just love. I also read romance novels, because they are fun, and they are sweet, and they've got a happy ending, most of the time. The world is shit, so - I need that happy ending." When it comes to literary writers, Gay is drawn to those who have an acute social eye - Edith Wharton in The House of Mirth, Alice Walker 's Possessing the Secret of Joy ("It's not a perfect novel, but it's a perfect political novel, and it just showed me what you can accomplish with fiction"), Zadie Smith's NW. Gay writes the way she reads, she says, deliberately moving from genre to genre - short stories, a novel, essays, Marvel comics, movies and TV (she is adapting stories from Difficult Women for a TV anthology, and one has been optioned for a feature film). It is a concerted and self-aware bid not to be pigeonholed in any way. Not that it stops people from trying. Having written difficult, revealing things about herself, Gay largely refuses to discuss them further in interviews. "We rarely see men, even when they write memoir, having to bare themselves even further to get attention," she says. Nor are they assumed to be an authority only on the self. "When a lot of women try to write straight non-fiction, people say: 'Where's the personal? Why aren't you putting yourself into it?'" She is wonderfully cutting in Ayiti about the ways in which western readers insist on reading only through race, or background, requiring of writers from elsewhere a representation (of entire countries, or classes of people) that would never be required of a white man - and at the same time refusing to see them as capable of anything beyond that. "Yeah. People tend to have a very singular narrative of who someone is, and so people of colour, women of colour, queer people, are only expected to write about identity-based things, and the struggles of that identity. And when you write a narrative that challenges people's expectations of who you are and your subject's position, then all of a sudden they get confused and think, 'This isn't realistic,' because they don't understand that we contain multitudes." She rejects the very phrase "identity politics": "It's used like a weapon. What it means is, 'I don't want to think about your concerns. I don't want to have to extend my empathy.'" Instead, she argues, everyone, on all sides, has to try to understand and accept complication, fight against dichotomies, essentialism. "We have to think with nuance, and unfortunately public discourse rarely allows for nuance. And see where that has gotten us." If she rejects a responsibility to represent, she does take, very seriously, a responsibility to make opportunities for others like her. "Because oftentimes I'm the first or the only - so I cannot be the last." So she invites younger, up-and-coming writers on stage with her, or writes "specific things into my contracts, like you have to hire a black publicist. To make sure that publishing houses start to diversify." She has written about how rarely writers of colour get to speak at all - finding, for instance, that in 2012, 90% of the books reviewed in the New York Times were by white writers. Next year, her book of writing advice called, simply, How to Be Heard, will be published. Who does she want to hear her? Who does she write for? "I write the kinds of things I want to see in the world, that I would love to read. So, yeah - I write for myself" - Aida Edemariam.
Kirkus Review
A heart-rending debut memoir from the outspoken feminist and essayist.Gay (Bad Feminist, 2014, etc.) pulls no punches in declaring that her story is devoid of "any powerful insight into what it takes to overcome an unruly body and unruly appetites." Rather than a success story, it depicts the author, at 42, still in the throes of a lifelong struggle with the fallout from a harrowing violation in her youth. The author exposes the personal demons haunting her lifenamely weight and traumawhich she deems "the ugliest, weakest, barest parts of me." Much of her inner turmoil sprang from a devastating gang rape at age 12. "I ate and ate and ate in the hopes that if I made myself big, my body would be safe," she writes. Gay painfully recalls the "lost years" of her reckless 20s as a time when food, the anonymity of the internet, and creative writing became escapes and balms for loneliness. The author refers to her body as a "cage" in which she has become trapped, but her obesity also presents itself as a personal challenge to overcome the paralyzing psychological damage caused by rape. Broken into clipped, emotionally resonant chapters, Gay details a personal life spent grappling with the comfort of food, body hyperconsciousness, shame, and self-loathing. Throughout, the author is rightfully opinionated, sharply criticizing the media's stereotypical portrayal of obesity and Oprah Winfrey's contradictory dieting messages. She is just as engaging when discussing her bisexuality and her adoration for Ina Garten, who taught her "that a woman can be plump and pleasant and absolutely in love with food." Gay clearly understands the dynamics of dieting and exercise and the frustrations of eating disorders, but she also is keenly in touch with the fact that there are many who feel she is fine just as she is. The author continues her healing return from brokenness and offers hope for others struggling with weight, sexual trauma, or bodily shame. An intense, unsparingly honest portrait of childhood crisis and its enduring aftermath. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Reseña de Booklist
*Starred Review* More than once, Gay, author of essays (Bad Feminist, 2014), short stories (Difficult Women, 2017), and crime fiction (An Untamed State, 2014), refers to writing this memoir as the hardest thing she's ever done. Readers will believe her; it's hard to imagine this electrifying book being more personal, candid, or confessional. At 12, Gay survived a devastating sexual assault, a point on her time line that would forever have a before and an after. She focused the trauma inward, and, as a frequent refrain goes, she doesn't know, or she does, how her body came to be unruly, undisciplined, and the kind of body whose story is ignored or dismissed or derided. The story of her body is, understandably, linked to the story of her life; she tells both, and plumbs discussions about both victims of sexual violence and people whose bodies don't adhere to the ideal of thinness. In 88 short, lucid chapters, Gay powerfully takes readers through realities that pain her, vex her, guide her, and inform her work. The result is a generous and empathic consideration of what it's like to be someone else: in itself something of a miracle. HIGH-DEMAND BACKSTORY: Buzz has long been building for Gay's memoir, with which she'll go on an extensive author tour.--Bostrom, Annie Copyright 2010 Booklist
Reseña de New York Review of Books
BLACK DETROIT: A People's History of Self-Determination, by Herb Boyd. (Amistad/HarperCollins, $16.99.) Boyd weaves the lives of standout African-American figures into this history of the city, tracing its evolution from a French trading post to a symbol of decline. From the country's first black auto dealer to Michigan's first black obstetrician, characters who might have otherwise remained on history's sidelines are the heart of Boyd's history. GOODBYE, VITAMIN, by Rachel Khong. (Picador, $16.) In the wake of a breakup, Ruth - 30, adrift and heartbroken - returns home to care for her father, who is in the early stages of Alzheimer's disease. The novel takes the form of Ruth's diary over that year, resulting in a poignant and even darkly comic exploration of adulthood, relationships and memory. THE WRITTEN WORLD: The Power of Stories to Shape People, History, and Civilization, by Martin Puchner. (Random House, $20.) Puchner, an English professor at Harvard, makes the case for literature's all-importance to societies and the shape of humanity's history. His research has taken him to every continent, in the search for sacred and foundational texts, and spans centuries, from Mesopotamia to Cervantes to Harry Potter. SEE WHAT I HAVE DONE, by Sarah Schmidt. (Grove, $16.) Schmidt revisits the unsolved Fall River murders at the center of Lizzie Borden's life: In Massachusetts in 1892, Lizzie's father and stepmother were hacked to death. Schmidt imagines the lead-up to the grisly crime, and Lizzie's possible madness. Our reviewer, Patrick McGrath, called the novel "a lurid and original work of horror," which evokes "the disintegrating character of this sweltering, unhygienic and claustrophobic household of locked doors and repressed emotions." HUNGER: A Memoir of (My) Body, by Roxane Gay. (Harper Perennial, $16.99.) Reflecting on her life through the lens of her body, Gay engages with questions about desire, nourishment and protection. As Carina Chocano wrote here, the memoir reads like Gay's "victorious, if not frictionless, journey back to herself, back into her body, from the splitting off of trauma. Is the responsibility for her body really hers alone?" THE MISFORTUNE OF MARION PALM, by Emily Culliton (Vintage, $15.95.) In this debut novel, a Brooklyn mother has embezzled a modest amount from her children's private school. When it faces an audit, she leaves her family behind and goes on the lam. As she tries to carve out a new place in the world, Marion turns out to be a delightful antiheroine and defies expectation at every turn.
Library Journal Review
For such a vulnerable, raw memoir, no one but the author could voice the breathtaking revelations, brutal truths, and profound knowledge contained here. "Every body has a story and a history," Gay (Bad Feminist, Difficult Women) begins. Gay stands 6'3"; at her heaviest, she weighed 577 pounds. The daughter of Haitian immigrants who was raised upper-middle-class, Gay was smart, privileged, loved, and thin, like the rest of her family. Until she wasn't: "What you need to know is that my life is split in two...there is the before and after. Before I gained weight. After I gained weight. Before I was raped. After I was raped." Weight protected her, until her corpulence became a "cage" from which Gay attempts to write herself free: "This is a book about learning...to allow myself to be seen and understood." -VERDICT Gay calls this work "the most difficult writing experience of [her] life"; audiences are likely to find Hunger a difficult-yet rewarding-experience, as well. ["Displays bravery, resilience, and naked honesty from the first to last page": LJ 6/1/17 starred review of the Harper hc.]-Terry Hong, Smithsonian BookDragon, Washington, DC © Copyright 2017. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
