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The Idiot: A Novel Kindle Edition
“Easily the funniest book I’ve read this year.” —GQ
“Masterly funny debut novel . . . Erudite but never pretentious, The Idiot will make you crave more books by Batuman.” —Sloane Crosley, Vanity Fair
A portrait of the artist as a young woman. A novel about not just discovering but inventing oneself.
The year is 1995, and email is new. Selin, the daughter of Turkish immigrants, arrives for her freshman year at Harvard. She signs up for classes in subjects she has never heard of, befriends her charismatic and worldly Serbian classmate, Svetlana, and, almost by accident, begins corresponding with Ivan, an older mathematics student from Hungary. Selin may have barely spoken to Ivan, but with each email they exchange, the act of writing seems to take on new and increasingly mysterious meanings.
At the end of the school year, Ivan goes to Budapest for the summer, and Selin heads to the Hungarian countryside, to teach English in a program run by one of Ivan's friends. On the way, she spends two weeks visiting Paris with Svetlana. Selin's summer in Europe does not resonate with anything she has previously heard about the typical experiences of American college students, or indeed of any other kinds of people. For Selin, this is a journey further inside herself: a coming to grips with the ineffable and exhilarating confusion of first love, and with the growing consciousness that she is doomed to become a writer.
With superlative emotional and intellectual sensitivity, mordant wit, and pitch-perfect style, Batuman dramatizes the uncertainty of life on the cusp of adulthood. Her prose is a rare and inimitable combination of tenderness and wisdom; its logic as natural and inscrutable as that of memory itself. The Idiot is a heroic yet self-effacing reckoning with the terror and joy of becoming a person in a world that is as intoxicating as it is disquieting. Batuman's fiction is unguarded against both life's affronts and its beauty--and has at its command the complete range of thinking and feeling which they entail.
Named one the best books of the year by Refinery29 • Mashable One • Elle Magazine • The New York Times • Bookpage • Vogue • NPR • Buzzfeed •The Millions
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherPenguin Books
- Publication dateMarch 14, 2017
- File size2343 KB
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Editorial Reviews
Review
“Masterly funny debut novel . . . Erudite but never pretentious, The Idiot will make you crave more books by Batuman.” —Sloane Crosley, Vanity Fair
“Batuman wittily and wisely captures the tribulations of a shy, cerebral teenager struggling with love, friendship, and whether to take psycholinguistics or philosophy of language . . . Batuman’s writing is funny and deadpan, and Selin’s observations tease out many relatable human quandaries surrounding friendship, social niceties and first love. The result: a novel that may not keep readers up late turning pages feverishly, but that will quietly amuse and provoke thought.” —Huffington Post
“Batuman’s brainy novel is leavened with humor and a heroine incapable of artifice.” —People
“Batuman has won a Paris Review Terry Southern Prize for humor, and her book is consistently hilarious. If this is a sentimental education, it’s one leavened by a great deal of mordant and delightful humor. . . . At once a cutting satire of academia, a fresh take on the epistolary novel, a poignant bildungsroman, and compelling travel literature, The Idiot’ is also a touching and spirited portrait of the artist as a hugely appealing young woman.” —Boston Globe
“The Idiot is an impressive debut with a ridiculous amount of charm and a protagonist so relatable she’s almost impossible to forget.” —A.V. Club
“The Idiot is wonderful. Batuman, a staff writer at the New Yorker and the author of the sparkling autobiographical essay collection The Possessed (2010), has brave and original ideas about what a 'novel' might mean and no qualms about flouting literary convention. She is endlessly beguiled by the possibilities and shortcomings of language . . . . It is a pleasure to watch Batuman render this process with the wit, sensitivity, and relish of someone who’s successfully emerged on the other side of it. For all of her fascination with linguistic puzzle boxes, the author tempers her protagonist’s intellectual vertigo with maturity and common sense.” —Slate
“Beautifully written first novel . . . Batuman, a staff writer for the New Yorker, has an extraordinarily deft touch when it comes to sketching character . . . The novel fairly brims with provocative ideas about language, literature and culture.” —The Associated Press
“A vibrant novel of ideas . . . Like her essays, Batuman’s Bildungsroman is a succession of droll misadventures built around chance encounters, peculiar conversations and sharp-eyed observations. Both on campus and abroad, she brings the ever-fresh perspective of a perpetual stranger in a strange land. Her deceptively simple declarative sentences are underpinned by a poker-faced sense of absurdity and humor so dry it calls for olives.” —San Francisco Chronicle
“With her smart and deliciously comic 2010 debut, the essay collection The Possessed, Elif Batuman wrote one of the 21st century’s great love letters to reading . . . It was a tour de force intellectual comedy encasing an apologia for literary obsession . . . A different—though no less tenuous—variety of possession is explored in The Idiot, Batuman’s first novel . . . The book’s pleasures come not from the 400-page, low-and-slow smolder of its central relationship, which can at times feel like nothing more than two repressions circling one another; rather, it is Selin herself. Acutely self-conscious but fiercely intelligent, she consistently renders a strange, mordantly funny and precisely observed world . . . Selin’s is a consciousness one does not want to part with; by the end of the book, I felt as if I were in the presence of a strange, slightly detached, utterly brilliant friend. 'I kept thinking about the uneven quality of time,' she writes, 'the way it was almost always so empty, and then with no warning came a few days that felt so dense and alive and real that it seemed indisputable that that was what life was, that its real nature had finally been revealed.' Batuman articulates those little moments—of revelation and of emptiness—as well as anyone writing today. The book’s legacy seems destined to be one of observation, not character—though when the observer is this gifted, is that really any wonder?” —LA Times
“No one writes funnier or more stylishly about higher education. Nothing written about grad school is as entertaining as her 2010 collection of dispatches from Stanford's comparative-literature department, The Possessed, and her studied satire of Harvard in The Idiot is nearly its equal.” —Village Voice
“Batuman’s sardonic wit makes for a delectable unfolding of Selin’s experience of love, life and language.” —BBC.com
"Batuman’s novel is roaringly funny. It is also intellectually subtle, surprising, and enlightening. It is a book fueled by deadpan wonder." —New York Review of Books
“Charming, hilarious and wise debut novel . . . Batuman titled the book The Idiot (after Dostoevsky’s famous novel) but it isn't an excoriation of its heroine. Instead, it's a fond reflection. Oh, you poor, silly idiot, she seems to be saying. The Idiot, a novel of innocence and experience, is infused with the generous attitude that Dag Hammarskjöld expressed in his memoir Markings, 'For all that has been, Thank you. For all that is to come, Yes!'” —Dallas News
“The Idiot is half The Education of Henry Adams and half Innocents Abroad. Twain would have savored Selin's first international trip to Paris, Hungary and Turkey . . . Our first footsteps into adulthood are often memorable. Taking them in Selin's shoes is an entertaining, intellectual journey not to be missed." —Shelf Awareness
“Selin is entrancing—so smart, so clueless, so funny—and Batuman’s exceptional discernment,
comedic brilliance, and soulful inquisitiveness generate a charmingly incisive and resonant tale of themessy forging of a self.” —Booklist (starred review)
“Wonderful first novel . . . Batuman updates the grand tour travelogue just as she does the epistolary novel and the novel of ideas, in prose as deceptively light as it is ambitious. One character wonders whether it’s possible ‘to be sincere without sounding pretentious,’ and this long-awaited and engrossing novel delivers a resounding yes.” —Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Selin is delightful company. She's smart enough to know the ways in which she is dumb, and her off-kilter relationship to the world around her is revelatory and, often, mordantly hilarious. Readers who are willing to travel with Selin at her own contemplative pace will be grateful that they did. Self-aware, cerebral, and delightful.” —Kirkus Reviews (starred)
“Not since Don Quixote has a quest for love gone so hilariously and poignantly awry. In spare, unforgettable prose, Batuman the traveller (to Harvard, to mysterious Hungary) recreates for the reader the psychic state of being a child entering language. We marvel and tremble with her at the impossibility and mysterious necessity for human connection that both makes life worthwhile and yet so often strands us all in torment. This book is a bold, unforgettable, un-put-downable read by a new master stylist. Best novel I've read in years.” —Mary Karr, author of The Art of Memoir, Lit, and The Liars’ Club
“I’m not Turkish, I don’t have a Serbian best friend, I’m not in love with a Hungarian, I don’t go to Harvard. Or do I? For one wonderful week, I got to be this worldly and brilliant, this young and clumsy and in love. The Idiot is a hilariously mundane immersion into a world that has never before received the 19th Century Novel treatment. An addictive, sprawling epic; I wolfed it down.” —Miranda July, author of The First Bad Man and It Chooses You
“Elif Batuman’s novel not only captures the storms and mysteries and comedies of youth but, in its wonderfully sensitive portrait of a young woman adventuring across languages and cultures, it brilliantly draws to our attention a modern politics of friendship. This is a remarkable book.” —Joseph O’Neill, author of The Dog and Netherland
“Elif Batuman surely has one of the best senses of humour in American letters. The pleasure she takes in observing the eccentricities of each of her characters makes for a really refreshing and unique Bildungsroman: one more fascinated with what’s going on around and outside the bewildered protagonist, than what’s going on inside her.” —Sheila Heti, author of How Should a Person Be? and Ticknor
About the Author
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
I didn’t know what email was until I got to college. I had heard of email, and knew that in some sense I would “have” it. “You’ll be so fancy,” said my mother’s sister, who had married a computer scientist, “sending your e . . . mails.” She emphasized the “e” and paused before “mail.”
That summer, I heard email mentioned with increasing frequency. “Things are changing so fast,” my father said. “Today at work I surfed the World Wide Web. One second, I was in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. One second later, I was in Anıtkabir.” Anıtkabir, Atatürk’s mausoleum, was located in Ankara. I had no idea what my father was talking about, but I knew there was no meaningful sense in which he had been “in” Ankara that day, so I didn’t really pay attention.
On the first day of college, I stood in line behind a folding table and eventually received an email address and temporary password. The “address” had my last name in it—Karadağ, but all lowercase, and without the Turkish ğ, which was silent. From an early age I had understood that a silent g was funny. “The g is silent,” I would say in a weary voice, and it was always hilarious. I didn’t understand how the email address was an address, or what it was short for. “What do we do with this, hang ourselves?” I asked, holding up the Ethernet cable.
“You plug it into the wall,” said the girl behind the table.
Insofar as I’d had any idea about it at all, I had imagined that email would resemble faxing, and would involve a printer. But there was no printer. There was another world. You could access it from certain computers, which were scattered throughout the ordinary landscape, and looked no different from regular computers. Always there, unchanged, in a configuration nobody else could see, was a glowing list of messages from all the people you knew, and from people you didn’t know, all in the same letters, like the universal handwriting of thought or of the world. Some messages were formally epistolary, with “Dear” and “Sincerely”; others telegraphic, all in lowercase with missing punctuation, like they were being beamed straight from people’s brains. And each message contained the one that had come before, so your own words came back to you—all the words you threw out, they came back. It was like the story of your relations with others, the story of the intersection of your life with other lives, was constantly being recorded and updated, and you could check it at any time.
You had to wait in a lot of lines and collect a lot of printed materials, mostly instructions: how to respond to sexual harassment, report an eating disorder, register for student loans. They showed you a video about a recent college graduate who broke his leg and defaulted on his student loans, proving that the budget he drew up was no good: a good budget makes provisions for debilitating injury. The bank was a real bonanza, as far as lines and printed materials were concerned. They gave you a free dictionary. The dictionary didn’t include “ratatouille” or “Tasmanian devil.”
On the staircase approaching my room, I could hear tuneless singing and the slap of plastic slippers. My new roommate, Hannah, was standing on a chair, taping a sign that read Hannah Park’s Desk over her desk, chanting monotonously along with Blues Traveler on her Discman. When I came in, she turned in a pantomime of surprise, pitching to and fro, then jumped noisily to the floor and took off her headphones.
“Have you considered mime as a career?” I asked.
“Mime? No, my dear, I’m afraid my parents sent me to Harvard to become a surgeon, not a mime.” She blew her nose loudly. “Hey—my bank didn’t give me a dictionary!”
“It doesn’t have ‘Tasmanian devil,’ ” I said.
She took the dictionary from my hands, rifling the pages. “It has plenty of words.”
I told her she could have it. She put it on the shelf next to the dictionary she had gotten in high school, for being the valedictorian. “They look good together,” she said. I asked if her other dictionary had “Tasmanian devil.” It didn’t. “Isn’t the Tasmanian devil a cartoon character?” she asked, looking suspicious. I showed her the page in my other dictionary that had not just “Tasmanian devil,” but also “Tasmanian wolf,” with a picture of the wolf glancing, a bit sadly, over its left shoulder.
Hannah stood very close to me and stared at the page. Then she looked right and left and whispered hotly in my ear, “That music has been playing all day long.”
“What music?”
“Shhh—stand absolutely still.”
We stood absolutely still. Faint romantic strings drifted from under the door of our other roommate, Angela.
“It’s the sound track for The Last of the Mohicans,” whispered Hannah. “She’s been playing it all morning, since I got up. She’s just been sitting in there with the door shut, playing the tape over and over again. I knocked and asked her to turn it down but you can still hear it. I had to listen to my Discman to drown her out.”
“It’s not that loud,” I said.
“But it’s just weird that she sitsthere like that.”
Angela had gotten to our three-person, two-bedroom suite at seven the previous morning and taken the single bedroom, leaving Hannah and me to share the one with bunk beds. When I got there in the evening, I found Hannah storming around in a fury, moving furniture, sneezing, and shouting about Angela. “I never even saw her!” Hannah yelled from under her desk. She suddenly succeeded in detaching two things she had been pulling at, and banged her head. “OWW!” she yelled. She crawled out and pointed wrathfully at Angela’s desk. “These books? They’re fake!” She seized what looked like a stack of four leather-bound volumes, one with The Holy Bible printed on the spine, shook it under my nose, and slammed it down again. It was a wooden box. “What’s even in there?” She knocked on the Bible. “Her last testament?”
“Hannah, please be gentle with other people’s property,” said a soft voice, and I noticed two small Koreans, evidently Hannah’s parents, sitting in the window seat.
Angela came in. She had a sweet expression and was black, and was wearing a Harvard windbreaker and a Harvard backpack. Hannah immediately confronted her about the single room.
“Hmm, yeah,” Angela said. “It’s just I got here really early and I had so many suitcases.”
“I kind of noticed the suitcases,” said Hannah. She flung open the door to Angela’s room. A yellowed cloth and a garland of cloth roses had been draped over the one tiny window, and in the murk stood four or five human-sized suitcases.
I said maybe we could each have the single room for a third of the year, with Angela going first. Angela’s mother came in, dragging another suitcase. She stood in the doorway to Angela’s room. Her body filled the entire doorway. “It is what it is,” she said.
Hannah’s father stood up and took out a camera. “First college roommates! That’s an important relationship!” he said. He took several pictures of Hannah and me but none of Angela.
Hannah bought a refrigerator for the common room. She said I could use it if I bought something for the room, too, like a poster. I asked what kind of poster she had in mind.
“Psychedelic,” she said.
I didn’t know what a psychedelic poster was, so she showed me her psychedelic notebook. It had a fluorescent tie-dyed spiral, with purple lizards walking around the spiral and disappearing into the center.
“What if they don’t have that?” I asked.
“Then a photograph of Albert Einstein,” she said decisively, as if it were the obvious next choice.
“Albert Einstein?”
“Yeah, one of those black-and-white pictures. You know: Einstein.”
The campus bookstore turned out to have a huge selection of Albert Einstein posters. There was Einstein at a blackboard, Einstein in a car, Einstein sticking out his tongue, Einstein smoking a pipe. I didn’t totally understand why we had to have an image of Einstein on the wall. But it was better than buying my own refrigerator.
The poster I got was no better or worse than the other Einstein posters in any way that I could see, but Hannah seemed to dislike it. “Hmm,” she said. “I think it’ll look good there.” She pointed to the space over my bookshelf.
“But then you can’t see it.”
“That’s okay. It goes best there.”
From that day on, everyone who happened by our room—neighbors wanting to borrow stuff, residential computer staff, student council candidates, all kinds of people to whom my small enthusiasms should have been a source of little or no concern—went out of their way to disabuse me of my great admiration for Albert Einstein. Einstein had invented the atomic bomb, abused dogs, neglected his children. “There were many greater geniuses than Einstein,” said a guy from down the hall, who had stopped by to borrowmy copy of Dostoevsky’s The Double. “Alfred Nobel hated mathematics and didn’t give the Nobel Prize to any mathematicians. There were many who were more deserving.”
“Oh.” I handed him the book. “Well, see you around.”
“Thanks,” he said, glaring at the poster. “This is the man who beats his wife, forces her to solve his mathematical problems, to do the dirty work, and he denies her credit. And you put his picture on your wall.”
“Listen, leave me out of this,” I said. “It’s not really my poster. It’s a complicated situation.”
He wasn’t listening. “Einstein in this country is synonymous with genius, while many greater geniuses aren’t famous at all. Why is this? I am asking you.”
I sighed. “Maybe it’s because he’s really the best, and even jealous mudslingers can’t hide his star quality,” I said. “Nietzsche would say that such a great genius is entitled to beat his wife.”
That shut him up. After he left, I thought about taking down the poster. I wanted to be a courageous person, uncowed by other people’s dumb opinions. But what was the dumb opinion: thinking Einstein was so great, or thinking he was the worst? In the end, I left the poster up.
Hannah snored. Everything in the room that wasn’t a solid block of wood—the windowpanes, the bed girders, the mattress springs, my rib cage—vibrated in sympathy. It did no good to wake her up or roll her over. She just started again a minute later. If she was asleep, I was by definition awake, and vice versa.
I convinced Hannah that she had obstructive sleep apnea, which was depriving her brain cells of oxygen and compromising her chances of getting into a top-ten medical school. She went to the campus health center and came back with a box of adhesive strips that were supposed to prevent snoring by sticking to your nose. A photograph on the box showed a man and a woman gazing into the distance, wearing matching plastic nose strips, a breeze ruffling the woman’s hair.
Hannah pulled her nose up from the side, and I smoothed the strip in place with my thumbs. Her face felt so small and doll-like that I felt a wave of tenderness toward her. Then she started yelling about something, and the feeling passed. The nose strips actually worked, but they gave Hannah sinus headaches, so she stopped using them.
In the long days that stretched between even longer nights, I stumbled from room to room taking placement tests. You had to sit in a basement writing essays about whether it was better to be a Renaissance person or a specialist. There was a quantitative reasoning test full of melancholy word problems—“The graph models the hypothetical mass in grams of a broiler chicken up to eighty weeks of age”—and every evening was some big meeting where you sat on the floor and learned that you were now a little fish in a big sea, and were urged to view this circumstance as an exhilarating challenge rather than a source of anxiety. I tried not to give too much weight to the thing about the fish, but after a while it started to get me down anyway. It was hard to feel cheerful when someone kept telling you you were a little fish in a big sea.
My academic adviser, Carol, had a British accent and worked at the Office of Information Technologies. Twenty years ago, in the 1970s, she had received a master’s degree from Harvard in Old Norse. I knew that the Office of Information Technologies was where you mailed your telephone bill each month. Other than that, its sphere of activity was mysterious. How was Old Norse involved? On the subject of her work, Carol said only, “I wear many hats.”
Hannah and I both caught a terrible cold. We took turns buying cold medicine and knocked it back like shots from the little plastic cup.
When it came time to choose classes, everyone said it was of utmost importance to apply to freshman seminars, because otherwise it could be years before you had a chance to work with senior faculty. I applied to three literature seminars and got called in for one interview. I reported to the top floor of a cold white building, where I shivered for twenty minutes on a leather sofa under a skylight wondering if I was in the right place. There were some strange newspapers on the coffee table. That was the first time I saw the Times Literary Supplement. I couldn’t understand anything in the Times Literary Supplement.
A door opened and the professor called me in. He extended his hand—an enormous hand on an incredibly skinny, pale wrist, further dwarfed by a gigantic overcoat.
“I don’t think I should shake your hand,” I said. “I have this cold.” Then I had a violent fit of sneezing. The professor looked startled, but recovered quickly. “Gesundheit,” he said urbanely. “I’m sorry you aren’t feeling well. These first days of college can be rough on the immune system.”
“So I’m learning,” I said.
“Well, that’s what it’s all about,” he said. “Learning! Ha, ha.”
“Ha, ha,” I said.
“Well, let’s get down to business. From your application, you seem to be very creative. I enjoyed your creative application essay. My only concern is that you realize this seminar is an academic class, not a creative class.”
“Right,” I said, nodding energetically and trying to determine whether any of the rectangles in my peripheral vision was a box of tissues. Unfortunately, they were all books. The professor was talking about the differences between creative and academic writing. I kept nodding. I was thinking about the structural equivalences between a tissue box and a book: both consisted of slips of white paper in a cardboard case; yet—and this was ironic—there was very little functional equivalence, especially if the book wasn’t yours. These were the kinds of things I thought about all the time, even though they were neither pleasant nor useful. I had no idea what you were supposed to be thinking about.
Product details
- ASIN : B01HNJIJ3U
- Publisher : Penguin Books; Reprint edition (March 14, 2017)
- Publication date : March 14, 2017
- Language : English
- File size : 2343 KB
- Text-to-Speech : Enabled
- Screen Reader : Supported
- Enhanced typesetting : Enabled
- X-Ray : Not Enabled
- Word Wise : Enabled
- Print length : 427 pages
- Best Sellers Rank: #48,023 in Kindle Store (See Top 100 in Kindle Store)
- #5 in General Turkey Travel Guides
- #323 in Contemporary Literary Fiction
- #404 in Coming of Age Fiction (Kindle Store)
- Customer Reviews:
About the author

Elif Batuman has been a staff writer at the New Yorker since 2010. She is the author of The Possessed: Adventures with Russian Books and the People Who Read Them. The recipient of a Whiting Writers' Award, a Rona Jaffe Foundation Writers' Award, and a Paris Review Terry Southern Prize for Humor, she also holds a PhD in comparative literature from Stanford University.
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Customers find the book engaging, charming, and enjoyable. They also describe the humor as gently funny and quirky. Readers praise the writing quality as clever, simple, and literary. They find the insights fascinating and insightful. However, some find the plot all over the place and boring. They mention the pace is slow. Opinions are mixed on the character development.
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Customers find the book engaging, charming, and enjoyable. They describe it as brilliant, with great narratives. Readers mention it's one of the best fiction books they have read lately.
"...detail, literary smarts, and uninterrupted humor, as it memorably recreates the experience of a young woman working out the kind of adult person she..." Read more
"...It's a perfect commuting book, if you are often forced to pause, but it could also easily be breezed through in a week or two...." Read more
"...maybe you will, too. the idiot is funny and v, v clever...it is perfect to me. imo, you'd do well to ignore the grumbling one star-people...." Read more
"...There are parts of this novel that are outstanding, but others that I think could have used more or better editing, especially since Batuman seems..." Read more
Customers find the writing quality clever, beautiful, and engaging. They appreciate the author's style, insights, observations, and sense of humor. Readers also mention the prose seems simple and fresh. They enjoy the authentic narrative voice from a character who is trying.
"...the main selling points for this book are its engaging detail, literary smarts, and uninterrupted humor, as it memorably recreates the experience..." Read more
"...WHAT I LOVEDThis book was beautifully written and captures the angst of a young woman on her own for the first time, trying to figure out what..." Read more
"...there are no "events," you can purely enjoy a funny, authentic narrative voice from a character who is trying to find her place in the world...." Read more
"...maybe you will, too. the idiot is funny and v, v clever...it is perfect to me. imo, you'd do well to ignore the grumbling one star-people...." Read more
Customers find the humor in the book gentle, quirky, and true. They say the story makes them laugh a lot. Readers also mention the author has a fresh, philosophical undertone.
"...for this book are its engaging detail, literary smarts, and uninterrupted humor, as it memorably recreates the experience of a young woman working..." Read more
"...to readers coming from different backgrounds is a question: it is witty, funny without being hilarious, uneven, maybe too self-indulgent..." Read more
"...happen here and there are no "events," you can purely enjoy a funny, authentic narrative voice from a character who is trying to find her..." Read more
"...It is hysterical because you just know that what is being discussed has been felt by almost any human who has ever been a young adult, trying to..." Read more
Customers find the book fascinating and engaging. They say the character is intelligent and the thoughts and observations are insightful. Readers also mention the author captures the wonder and sense of intellectual connection.
"...But it is smartly and vividly observed, and very funny, and in fact it is this kind of extraneous content that is the secret to defeating some of..." Read more
"...Some of her thoughts and observations were very insightful and others were downright hilarious...." Read more
"...It reminded me of Catcher in the Rye with a much more insightful, mature, compassionate narrator...." Read more
"A great evocation of early adulthood when everybody but you seems to have figured life out and you are lacking any chill whatsoever...." Read more
Customers have mixed opinions about the character development in the book. Some mention the characters are great, quirky, and charming. Others say the characters are unsympathetic, aimless, and dislikeable.
"There is no plot or character development throughout this entire book. No one is relatable or enjoyable to read about." Read more
"...her quaint attempts at describing how she's feeling are all so beautifully human that if you resign yourself to the fact that nothing out of the..." Read more
"...Sad commentary on an insignificant set of characters. I’m sorry I wasted my time reading it." Read more
"...main character Selin's...point of view...she does a great job fleshing out her characters...." Read more
Customers find the plot of the book all over the place, boring, and meaningless. They say the ending has no meaningful relevance to the rest of the story. Readers also mention the book leaves them sad and confused.
"...And it wasn't a particularly interesting story. Several pages were dedicated to detailed descriptions of her language analysis classes...." Read more
"...Without these aspects, the story falls apart...." Read more
"...Only the ending falls flat, in my opinion. But that's a very short bit and doesn't keep the book from being five-star material." Read more
"...And everybody says there's not much of a plot. If there's nothing to look forward to, I think I'll pass on reading the rest...." Read more
Customers find the book boring, obtuse, and forgettable. They also dislike the characters and pretentiousness. Readers mention the story is repetitive and only a few parts are interesting.
"...question: it is witty, funny without being hilarious, uneven, maybe too self-indulgent (like its 19-year-old protagonist), and in my opinion longer..." Read more
"...The remaining 434 1/2 pages are mostly filled with inconsequential details...." Read more
"...I found the laundry list of “What I did at Yale” trite, boring, and mundane...." Read more
"...that comes off as utterly ridiculous and certainly not believable in its context...." Read more
Customers find the book slow, boring, and a painful reminder of teen angst. They say it has insightful lines but is not much worth the slow read.
"...But this coming of age novel moved a little slow for my taste and left me wanting more in the end." Read more
"...It's a very long book, and took me a very long time to read, as I just couldn't settle down into it and read for hours on end like I normally..." Read more
"I was surprised to give this book such a high rating. The build up is slow and quite frankly, mundane...." Read more
"Brilliant. HILARIOUS. i highly recommended this erudite novel. It is brisk yet full of depth and whip-smart humor centered around language, language..." Read more
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Less Plot than Emmerich; Funnier than Proust; 100% Lethal to Trump
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But, if you are not that into the world of a given story, then it is even less fun to engross yourself in the deepest dimensions of that experience. So why not check out the excerpt posted on newyorker.com as "Constructed Worlds" and decide for yourself? For me, the main selling points for this book are its engaging detail, literary smarts, and uninterrupted humor, as it memorably recreates the experience of a young woman working out the kind of adult person she will be, during her first year of college. Underlying the story, it is a pretty sophisticated novel technically, in some ways mirroring _In Search of Lost Time_. But, it is way shorter than a Proust volume, and it uses entertaining and witty descriptions to keep the flow running along while accomplishing similar goals to recreate a time and place. (It brings a smile to my face when one of the art professors keeps losing it over the degree of artifice--“Artifice!”--in art.)
I think the unpopular aspects of the book might all be different manifestations of a single uncommon (at least in popular heroic literature) feature of the protagonist: at 18 years old she is intelligent and independent but not savvy in life--she doesn’t get the point of many trivial and non-trivial human conventions, but she is determined to do things her own way even as she is figuring out what that way is. So, even though she does not suffer from a neurological condition or an addiction of some sort, she almost never makes the most strategic decision for social positioning or peace of mind; the character (and reader) are definitely not showered by a parade of progressively extravagant victories and rewards based on her winning ways. Instead, the main character is stuck on a lot of intractable questions about linguistics and literature, or semiotics and life itself, and from the start it is pretty unlikely that she will ever have sex with her crush. So for instance, I was really frustrated when she kept creeping on some math class when she was not even a math major because she hoped it would help her understand some math guy’s world and his cryptic emails. But at the same time, have I never done something similar? (It takes some thought because as a manly guy I have censored many acts of awkwardness from my memory.)
Overall, I think almost everyone will get something from the book, between the humor and the high general quality of writing. For sure some people will enjoy this book more than others, most obviously those with an interest in literature and linguistics, bildungsromans, or life as a college freshman, and maybe those who live or are interested in the life of a woman in our historical era. But at the most general, I think that to gain the most from this story you will have to find patience and kindness for doubt and uncertainty; to cultivate empathy for ineptitude, charity for self-discovery, and sympathy for the pursuit of digression, exploration, and marginalia.
I will now argue conceptually that the more resistant you are to this mindset, the more you share a common mentality with widely-reviled U.S. president Donald Trump, even (especially?) if you yourself hate Trump. (Honestly I hate Trumpism so much that I am comprehensively fearful that I will become like Trump, because in my experience that’s how it always works out with persistent enmity, yuck.) And, I will argue that the more books like this our society can produce, the weaker Trumpism will be--both by cause, in that a world without Trump is one where this kind of book will flourish; and by effect, in that Trumpism and its shameless generalizations will wither away in the face of this kind of patience, kindness, and charity for honest personal stories.
First, a natural question: in our catastrophic age of constitutional crisis and military brinkmanship, with important questions of civil liberty and economic policy hanging in the balance, how can it be that the most powerful kind of story for restoring our culture is exemplified by some girl figuring things out in college in the 90s? First of all, consider who else is very likely not only to push this question forward, but also to immediately answer it in an eruption of self-important misinformed bombast ridiculing the characters, the author, girls, college, and figuring things out? Trump; obviously he will never show vulnerability or recount a story about a time when he didn’t understand something or didn’t know what to do, because he has never made a mistake and his life is in fact an uninterrupted parade of winning bigly.
Then, why not start a tweet storm, or hack Trump’s web page, or write a bestselling non-fiction book destroying his ideology, or punch a white nationalist on the streets of D.C.--why create a book of fiction with a pink cover that has a rock on it? The way I see it, you may be distinguishable from Trump by your ideas and the informedness of your bluster but when you argue with Trump and his fools, even if you take exactly the opposite position on every single issue, you are participating in the same system of editorialization and prioritization that trivializes marginal experiences and reestablishes the context of our dominant social discourse as one of strict focus on political policy and legal structures, on crisis and violence—no space for the issue of how I as an individual should live my life, but all about the actions of great and terrible leaders who run our world. Like, editors and pundits and bestselling authorities on authoritarianism can warn, “Visa Suspensions a Racially-Motivated Threat to Constitution” in response to an executive order but overall they are legitimizing the overall discourse with artificial gravity by treating it as valid question for rapid reaction and discussion; instead the most natural and appropriate prima facie attitude is really awe and bewilderment, like “Muslim ban WTF,” and then determined resistance. If you stripped this book down to the “important business” according to the editorial boards and the markets and to disengaged spectators demanding casual entertainment (all three are insatiable Trump profiteers and critical enablers) there would be nothing left at all; and that in itself is a repudiation of not just Trumpism but also anti-Trumpism and the horse they rode in on.
Some people get mad because the protagonist of this story keeps obsessing and going into detail about her mistakes, and failing to get what she wants. But do you know who is super decisive and can instantly understand any issue at an executive level, even for subjects where the so-called experts called him an ignoramus, and then he gets the right answer every time? I’m not even going to say because ugh you can only complain about a disgusting wretch so much before eventually sounding like the wretch—my own life strategy is to heal myself of wretchedness by processing this book and others like it into my mental world. (If you found some parts slow I am sorry for comparing you to Trump, I think it is only reasonable to have some differences in interest--overall though I am trying to argue that the work to get through the less engaging, or the infuriating parts, is work well spent for one's self and for society.) Relatedly in recently revealed lifelong felony, consider also the commercial master of eliminating the unnecessary and the extraneous from a story, of paring down the digressions and marginalia in order to get straight to the action…Harvey “Scissorhands” Weinstein, who incidentally _always_ has sex with his crush. Self-appointed arbiters of significance have no room in their 140-character stories to discuss mistakes or failures, or things they wanted but couldn’t get; they are repulsed by these stories. And a world of justice is not a world about turning the tables and taking power back from the predators, or ruling the rulers, or policing the police and bullying bullies. It is a world of stories where nobody is mastering anything or turning any tables—people are living their lives with dignity and individual resolution, where we have the strength, humility, and empathy to share long personal stories of bewilderment, doubt, and self-defeat.
Overall the protagonist of this story is actually the bigger hero, not Trump or the guy who conquers Trump in a debate or a duel—she doesn’t even want to be the thing that Trump pretends to be. Selin is determined to live her life a certain way even if it kills her, and she does, and it doesn’t even kill her, it just generates a lot of painful or awkward situations that the author wrote up and now we have an opportunity to benefit from this trajectory. In my own experience the greatest heroes are not the ones who go crazy on some special inspired day and win a decisive confrontation with some villains to the acclaim and panting admiration of all--those are the dreams of douches and little boys. The heroes I have known are doggedly persisting in their individual and small-scale goals, in defiance of what institutionally important people prescribe as winning, and it is they who will move the world.
In conclusion the author is pioneering a distinctive form of story that admits all sorts of digression and personal starts and stops at the expense of thrilling plot. But it is smartly and vividly observed, and very funny, and in fact it is this kind of extraneous content that is the secret to defeating some of the most hateful things in the world without becoming hateful yourself.
Reviewed in the United States on January 2, 2018
But, if you are not that into the world of a given story, then it is even less fun to engross yourself in the deepest dimensions of that experience. So why not check out the excerpt posted on newyorker.com as "Constructed Worlds" and decide for yourself? For me, the main selling points for this book are its engaging detail, literary smarts, and uninterrupted humor, as it memorably recreates the experience of a young woman working out the kind of adult person she will be, during her first year of college. Underlying the story, it is a pretty sophisticated novel technically, in some ways mirroring _In Search of Lost Time_. But, it is way shorter than a Proust volume, and it uses entertaining and witty descriptions to keep the flow running along while accomplishing similar goals to recreate a time and place. (It brings a smile to my face when one of the art professors keeps losing it over the degree of artifice--“Artifice!”--in art.)
I think the unpopular aspects of the book might all be different manifestations of a single uncommon (at least in popular heroic literature) feature of the protagonist: at 18 years old she is intelligent and independent but not savvy in life--she doesn’t get the point of many trivial and non-trivial human conventions, but she is determined to do things her own way even as she is figuring out what that way is. So, even though she does not suffer from a neurological condition or an addiction of some sort, she almost never makes the most strategic decision for social positioning or peace of mind; the character (and reader) are definitely not showered by a parade of progressively extravagant victories and rewards based on her winning ways. Instead, the main character is stuck on a lot of intractable questions about linguistics and literature, or semiotics and life itself, and from the start it is pretty unlikely that she will ever have sex with her crush. So for instance, I was really frustrated when she kept creeping on some math class when she was not even a math major because she hoped it would help her understand some math guy’s world and his cryptic emails. But at the same time, have I never done something similar? (It takes some thought because as a manly guy I have censored many acts of awkwardness from my memory.)
Overall, I think almost everyone will get something from the book, between the humor and the high general quality of writing. For sure some people will enjoy this book more than others, most obviously those with an interest in literature and linguistics, bildungsromans, or life as a college freshman, and maybe those who live or are interested in the life of a woman in our historical era. But at the most general, I think that to gain the most from this story you will have to find patience and kindness for doubt and uncertainty; to cultivate empathy for ineptitude, charity for self-discovery, and sympathy for the pursuit of digression, exploration, and marginalia.
I will now argue conceptually that the more resistant you are to this mindset, the more you share a common mentality with widely-reviled U.S. president Donald Trump, even (especially?) if you yourself hate Trump. (Honestly I hate Trumpism so much that I am comprehensively fearful that I will become like Trump, because in my experience that’s how it always works out with persistent enmity, yuck.) And, I will argue that the more books like this our society can produce, the weaker Trumpism will be--both by cause, in that a world without Trump is one where this kind of book will flourish; and by effect, in that Trumpism and its shameless generalizations will wither away in the face of this kind of patience, kindness, and charity for honest personal stories.
First, a natural question: in our catastrophic age of constitutional crisis and military brinkmanship, with important questions of civil liberty and economic policy hanging in the balance, how can it be that the most powerful kind of story for restoring our culture is exemplified by some girl figuring things out in college in the 90s? First of all, consider who else is very likely not only to push this question forward, but also to immediately answer it in an eruption of self-important misinformed bombast ridiculing the characters, the author, girls, college, and figuring things out? Trump; obviously he will never show vulnerability or recount a story about a time when he didn’t understand something or didn’t know what to do, because he has never made a mistake and his life is in fact an uninterrupted parade of winning bigly.
Then, why not start a tweet storm, or hack Trump’s web page, or write a bestselling non-fiction book destroying his ideology, or punch a white nationalist on the streets of D.C.--why create a book of fiction with a pink cover that has a rock on it? The way I see it, you may be distinguishable from Trump by your ideas and the informedness of your bluster but when you argue with Trump and his fools, even if you take exactly the opposite position on every single issue, you are participating in the same system of editorialization and prioritization that trivializes marginal experiences and reestablishes the context of our dominant social discourse as one of strict focus on political policy and legal structures, on crisis and violence—no space for the issue of how I as an individual should live my life, but all about the actions of great and terrible leaders who run our world. Like, editors and pundits and bestselling authorities on authoritarianism can warn, “Visa Suspensions a Racially-Motivated Threat to Constitution” in response to an executive order but overall they are legitimizing the overall discourse with artificial gravity by treating it as valid question for rapid reaction and discussion; instead the most natural and appropriate prima facie attitude is really awe and bewilderment, like “Muslim ban WTF,” and then determined resistance. If you stripped this book down to the “important business” according to the editorial boards and the markets and to disengaged spectators demanding casual entertainment (all three are insatiable Trump profiteers and critical enablers) there would be nothing left at all; and that in itself is a repudiation of not just Trumpism but also anti-Trumpism and the horse they rode in on.
Some people get mad because the protagonist of this story keeps obsessing and going into detail about her mistakes, and failing to get what she wants. But do you know who is super decisive and can instantly understand any issue at an executive level, even for subjects where the so-called experts called him an ignoramus, and then he gets the right answer every time? I’m not even going to say because ugh you can only complain about a disgusting wretch so much before eventually sounding like the wretch—my own life strategy is to heal myself of wretchedness by processing this book and others like it into my mental world. (If you found some parts slow I am sorry for comparing you to Trump, I think it is only reasonable to have some differences in interest--overall though I am trying to argue that the work to get through the less engaging, or the infuriating parts, is work well spent for one's self and for society.) Relatedly in recently revealed lifelong felony, consider also the commercial master of eliminating the unnecessary and the extraneous from a story, of paring down the digressions and marginalia in order to get straight to the action…Harvey “Scissorhands” Weinstein, who incidentally _always_ has sex with his crush. Self-appointed arbiters of significance have no room in their 140-character stories to discuss mistakes or failures, or things they wanted but couldn’t get; they are repulsed by these stories. And a world of justice is not a world about turning the tables and taking power back from the predators, or ruling the rulers, or policing the police and bullying bullies. It is a world of stories where nobody is mastering anything or turning any tables—people are living their lives with dignity and individual resolution, where we have the strength, humility, and empathy to share long personal stories of bewilderment, doubt, and self-defeat.
Overall the protagonist of this story is actually the bigger hero, not Trump or the guy who conquers Trump in a debate or a duel—she doesn’t even want to be the thing that Trump pretends to be. Selin is determined to live her life a certain way even if it kills her, and she does, and it doesn’t even kill her, it just generates a lot of painful or awkward situations that the author wrote up and now we have an opportunity to benefit from this trajectory. In my own experience the greatest heroes are not the ones who go crazy on some special inspired day and win a decisive confrontation with some villains to the acclaim and panting admiration of all--those are the dreams of douches and little boys. The heroes I have known are doggedly persisting in their individual and small-scale goals, in defiance of what institutionally important people prescribe as winning, and it is they who will move the world.
In conclusion the author is pioneering a distinctive form of story that admits all sorts of digression and personal starts and stops at the expense of thrilling plot. But it is smartly and vividly observed, and very funny, and in fact it is this kind of extraneous content that is the secret to defeating some of the most hateful things in the world without becoming hateful yourself.
As a retired English teacher with an interest in language and linguistics, I enjoyed Selin's perspective on college life, with its cast of eccentric characters met in and out of the classroom. The humor (and it's a pretty funny book) comes from Selin's take on roommates, friends, family, teachers, and a varied cast of rural Hungarians met during her summer adventure. Whether the book would be equally appealing to readers coming from different backgrounds is a question: it is witty, funny without being hilarious, uneven, maybe too self-indulgent (like its 19-year-old protagonist), and in my opinion longer than it needs to be. Inhabiting Selin's psyche is a bit like living with a teenager - it has its charms, but you find yourself wishing she'd grow up.
SYNOPSIS
The story opens with Selin, a Turkish-American girl, moving into her dorm the fall of her freshman year at Harvard and closes at the end of the summer right before she begins her sophomore year. During that time a lot happens, yet nothing happens.
Selin makes some friends and goes to class (some of which is recounted for the reader, making me think her major is terribly boring and Harvard has a lot of freshmen level classes designed for people who will never need to find a real job and /or earn an actual income).
Also importantly, Selin develops a crush on a boy who gives gives her some seriously mixed signals. She is so inexperienced with boys that there is no way she could have a relationship, even a semi- relationship, with a boy that would not be the definition of awkward. The book never says why she is so inexperienced; I was not sure if she is just very unattractive or so caught up in academia that she never noticed boys. It's hard to imagine a girl who grew up in America (in a typical suburban setting) and made it all the way through high school only being kissed once. I'm sure it happens that way for some people, but I don't know any of those people.
Selin ends up spending the summer teaching English as a volunteer in Hungary and the book closes at the end of her trip when she returns to Boston.
WHAT I LOVED
This book was beautifully written and captures the angst of a young woman on her own for the first time, trying to figure out what she wants, who she wants to be and what is happening in the world around her.
It captures the naivety and awkwardness a first crush. Selins crush felt very authentic and kind of annoying (remember listening to a friend go on and on about a boy she liked with whom she never had the nerve to speak???). Selin simultaneously wanted something to happened, yet was terrified that something would happen.
I really liked Selin and Svetlana's relationship. Svetlana added the spunk and interest the book needed. In fact, I think a book about Svetlana would have been more up my alley.
I liked how Selin was so smart in so many ways, yet so clueless in other ways. Some of her thoughts and observations were very insightful and others were downright hilarious.
During Selin's time in Hungary, her interactions with Rozsa were entertaining. Also the way people there were so open with their opinions was funny. For example; Rozsa was well aware that people found her to be an annoying know it all; she knew this, told Selin about it very matter of factly, yet didn't really care enough to make any changes in her personality which would have made her more fun to be around.
WHAT I DIDN'T LOVE
Really nothing happened. The story can, more or less, be recounted in about 5 sentences yet it's 424 pages long. The remaining 434 1/2 pages are mostly filled with inconsequential details. About 20 pages of the book were relegated to a direct quotes and summaries of a book Selin was required to read for her Russian class. And it wasn't a particularly interesting story. Several pages were dedicated to detailed descriptions of her language analysis classes. How it that make it into the book?? Zzz...
Selin lived inside her head so much it got annoying. She over thought almost everything which made her riddled with indecision and rendered her helpless and unable to act (mostly in relation to her crush but in other ways as well). Also, I have very little patience for people pining over unrequited crushes or wasting time on people who are either unavailable or are inappropriate choices for them. I know, not very generous of me, but seriously??? There are other fish in the sea, get a net and cast it!!!
Why do all the characters in 'thinky' books go to schools like Harvard, Yale, Princeton etc. Can't there be any intellectual people at schools like Michigan State or SMU? Just saying.
The ending was a bit disappointing. I don't want to say to much and spoil it, but I kind of couldn't believe I read the whole darn thing that was how it ended?!?
OVERALL
Although it wasn't my ideal book, I am willing to be that a lot of people would love it.
Top reviews from other countries
Reviewed in India on August 2, 2023
It's really, really funny.
In fairness, if you don't share the author's sense of humour, then I imagine this book *is* really boring. If you don't link thicket upon thicket of densely layered wry observations about people and everyday life, then this book won't do much for you. Batuman, and her protagonist Selin, have a rich sense of irony. There were countless times when I laughed out loud. The book is also steeped in literary allusions and cultural references, though I don't think to the extent that makes it inaccessible; there are no DFW-style footnotes.





