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Molly
10 hours and 22 minutes
A gripping, unforgettable memoir from one of the best, most original writers of the 21st century.
Blake Butler and Molly Brodak instantly connected, fell in love, married and built a life together. Both writers with deep roots in contemporary American literature, their union was an iconic joining of forces between two major and beloved talents.
Nearly three years into their marriage, grappling with mental illness and a lifetime of trauma, Molly took her own life. In the days and weeks after Molly’s death, Blake discovered shocking secrets she had held back from the world, fundamentally altering his view of their relationship and who she was.
A masterpiece of autobiography, Molly is a riveting journey into the darkest and most unthinkable parts of the human heart, emerging with a hard-won, unsurpassedly beautiful understanding that expands the possibilities of language to comprehend and express true love.
Unrelentingly clear, honest and concise, Molly approaches the impossible directly, with a total empathy that has no parallel or precedent. A supremely important work that will be taught, loved, relied on and passed around for years to come, Blake Butler affirms now beyond question his position at the very top rank of writers.
A gripping, unforgettable memoir from one of the best, most original writers of the 21st century.
Blake Butler and Molly Brodak instantly connected, fell in love, married and built a life together. Both writers with deep roots in contemporary American literature, their union was an iconic joining of forces between two major and beloved talents.
Nearly three years into their marriage, grappling with mental illness and a lifetime of trauma, Molly took her own life. In the days and weeks after Molly’s death, Blake discovered shocking secrets she had held back from the world, fundamentally altering his view of their relationship and who she was.
A masterpiece of autobiography, Molly is a riveting journey into the darkest and most unthinkable parts of the human heart, emerging with a hard-won, unsurpassedly beautiful understanding that expands the possibilities of language to comprehend and express true love.
Unrelentingly clear, honest and concise, Molly approaches the impossible directly, with a total empathy that has no parallel or precedent. A supremely important work that will be taught, loved, relied on and passed around for years to come, Blake Butler affirms now beyond question his position at the very top rank of writers.
11 pages, Audible Audio
First published December 5, 2023
371 people are currently reading
8957 people want to read
About the author
Blake Butler
73 books454 followersBlake Butler is the author of EVER, Scorch Atlas, and two books forthcoming in 2011 and 2012 from Harper Perennial. He edits 'the internet literature magazine blog of the future' HTML Giant. His other writing have appeared in The Believer, Unsaid, Fence, Dzanc's Best of the Web 2009. He lives in Atlanta.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 744 reviews
February 18, 2024
A long winded “am I the asshole” Reddit post.
August 18, 2023
TW: suicide + suicidal ideation
A few months ago, my partner came home from work and said, “Wanna read a book about some guy whose wife killed herself?”
“Is it any good?” I said.
They shrugged. My partner had requested an ARC of “Molly” because they like Archway Editions, and the book seemed interesting. Neither of us had heard of Butler, but my partner offered to pass the ARC along to me.
I was lying on the couch, where I spent most of my days save for brief trips to the kitchen and the bathroom when absolutely necessary. I was the most depressed I had ever been in my life, and my partner and I were suffering through it together. I tried to drag them into the orbit of my own self-hatred, as their love for me was an affront to my own wretchedness, the only thing that felt real and true. I had given up on myself, and wanted them to give up on me. In fact, in my worst moments I viewed my relationship with them, like all of my relationships, as an inconvenience, because they would not allow me to die. My partner was more desperate for my recovery than I was. From my depressive haze, it seemed like my partner, familiar with the growing seriousness of my own suicidal ideations, recommended Molly with an ulterior motive, one I bristled at. Nevertheless, I gave Molly a try.
Molly was beautiful, it was brutal, it was brilliant, you should read it. I cried my way through it, reading the whole thing in a single sitting, then I read it again a couple of months later. It was jarring to see the experience of loving someone who is mired so deeply in her own self-hatred reflected back at me. So much of Molly’s behavior emerges from a desire to confirm that the worst of her is true, or to numb her ruthless internal monologue with a new flirtation or a lie or a joke. The most heartbreaking parts of the book are when Molly turns her self-castigating voice outwards, especially at Blake. Most heartbreaking of all is when Blake internalizes it.
I’d hate to portray this book as cloying or diaristic when it is anything but. Blake writes about Molly with what I can only describe as unsparing attention. He presents Molly’s obsessions, dreams, flaws, flights of fancy, artistic ambitions, insecurities, and traumas without attempting to reconcile her contradictions, much less his own. As the book got gnarlier, and Molly’s behavior got more harrowing and nasty, I found myself longing for a comforting authorial bang of the gavel, assurance that Molly was gaslighting or manipulative even abusive. But these assurances never came. I think the book is better for it.
Molly is also a strange book. It has these opaque, lyrical passages, as if a supernatural force is slithering somewhere beneath the surface of the prose. It gives a mythic significance to the betrayals of everyday life. Never have I cried so much about someone quitting Skyrim or the cancellation of the Great American Baking Show.
I went back and forth about whether or not to mention myself in my review of “Molly,” or whether to review it at all. I’m wary of a kind of depressive narcissism that transforms all art into self-help. A lot of people respond to art about mental health or suicide with their own stories, a tendency I find endearing, embarrassing, and kind of distasteful, depending on the day. I suppose artists are moved by seeing the impacts of their work firsthand, even in these clumsy, nakedly sincere ways. On the other hand, it also seems overwhelming to be confronted with, to put it most uncharitably, so much trauma dumping.
But here I am, a rando making a Goodreads account to write a too-long, too-personal review of this book months before it comes out and there will be other, saner reviews that can bury it. “Molly” was a gift. Blake’s insistence on Molly’s complexity, and refusal to slot her into some convenient, totalizing narrative is the ultimate refusal of her distorted all-or-nothing logic, an act of love that’s rigorous and unsentimental, but deeply kind. True love is a place where you cannot hide. I wish Molly didn’t feel like she had to hide, and I wish I didn’t, either. This book gave me a bit more strength to try to let myself be seen.
A few months ago, my partner came home from work and said, “Wanna read a book about some guy whose wife killed herself?”
“Is it any good?” I said.
They shrugged. My partner had requested an ARC of “Molly” because they like Archway Editions, and the book seemed interesting. Neither of us had heard of Butler, but my partner offered to pass the ARC along to me.
I was lying on the couch, where I spent most of my days save for brief trips to the kitchen and the bathroom when absolutely necessary. I was the most depressed I had ever been in my life, and my partner and I were suffering through it together. I tried to drag them into the orbit of my own self-hatred, as their love for me was an affront to my own wretchedness, the only thing that felt real and true. I had given up on myself, and wanted them to give up on me. In fact, in my worst moments I viewed my relationship with them, like all of my relationships, as an inconvenience, because they would not allow me to die. My partner was more desperate for my recovery than I was. From my depressive haze, it seemed like my partner, familiar with the growing seriousness of my own suicidal ideations, recommended Molly with an ulterior motive, one I bristled at. Nevertheless, I gave Molly a try.
Molly was beautiful, it was brutal, it was brilliant, you should read it. I cried my way through it, reading the whole thing in a single sitting, then I read it again a couple of months later. It was jarring to see the experience of loving someone who is mired so deeply in her own self-hatred reflected back at me. So much of Molly’s behavior emerges from a desire to confirm that the worst of her is true, or to numb her ruthless internal monologue with a new flirtation or a lie or a joke. The most heartbreaking parts of the book are when Molly turns her self-castigating voice outwards, especially at Blake. Most heartbreaking of all is when Blake internalizes it.
I’d hate to portray this book as cloying or diaristic when it is anything but. Blake writes about Molly with what I can only describe as unsparing attention. He presents Molly’s obsessions, dreams, flaws, flights of fancy, artistic ambitions, insecurities, and traumas without attempting to reconcile her contradictions, much less his own. As the book got gnarlier, and Molly’s behavior got more harrowing and nasty, I found myself longing for a comforting authorial bang of the gavel, assurance that Molly was gaslighting or manipulative even abusive. But these assurances never came. I think the book is better for it.
Molly is also a strange book. It has these opaque, lyrical passages, as if a supernatural force is slithering somewhere beneath the surface of the prose. It gives a mythic significance to the betrayals of everyday life. Never have I cried so much about someone quitting Skyrim or the cancellation of the Great American Baking Show.
I went back and forth about whether or not to mention myself in my review of “Molly,” or whether to review it at all. I’m wary of a kind of depressive narcissism that transforms all art into self-help. A lot of people respond to art about mental health or suicide with their own stories, a tendency I find endearing, embarrassing, and kind of distasteful, depending on the day. I suppose artists are moved by seeing the impacts of their work firsthand, even in these clumsy, nakedly sincere ways. On the other hand, it also seems overwhelming to be confronted with, to put it most uncharitably, so much trauma dumping.
But here I am, a rando making a Goodreads account to write a too-long, too-personal review of this book months before it comes out and there will be other, saner reviews that can bury it. “Molly” was a gift. Blake’s insistence on Molly’s complexity, and refusal to slot her into some convenient, totalizing narrative is the ultimate refusal of her distorted all-or-nothing logic, an act of love that’s rigorous and unsentimental, but deeply kind. True love is a place where you cannot hide. I wish Molly didn’t feel like she had to hide, and I wish I didn’t, either. This book gave me a bit more strength to try to let myself be seen.
December 27, 2023
Before we begin: yes, I actually read the book! I’m not one of Blake Butler’s illiterate “haters” that he loves compulsively posting about on Twitter!
I really don’t know what’s worse: a hateful and spiteful book written by a man who wanted to hurt his already dead wife one final time or the fact that he loves to go on rants on Twitter while his new (yes, new!) writer wife posts outrageously violent and misogynistic shit about a fellow woman writer who who expressed her displeasure towards the book and its publication.
Are we all really doing this for the sake of art? Or is it just a bunch of obnoxious indie lit darlings having meltdowns on their Twitters and Substacks? Is this book truly a literary example of looking at grief in the face and being brave enough to write it down? Or is it just an excuse for a man to reveal, in detail, his dead wife’s sexual desires and shameful acts because he was upset that she cheated on him numerous times with her students and this dude who was, according to Blake, a TOTAL loser who was definitely jealous of him?
Blake loves to talk about how little he knew about Molly while simultaneously being the only person who knew her. He constantly projects onto her, misunderstands, and miscalculates, until it’s convenient for him to be the only one who understands her.
The best parts of the book were when he was quoting Molly, taking bits from her own writing. Blake never missed an opportunity to use her words to underwrite his entire project.
I really don’t know what’s worse: a hateful and spiteful book written by a man who wanted to hurt his already dead wife one final time or the fact that he loves to go on rants on Twitter while his new (yes, new!) writer wife posts outrageously violent and misogynistic shit about a fellow woman writer who who expressed her displeasure towards the book and its publication.
Are we all really doing this for the sake of art? Or is it just a bunch of obnoxious indie lit darlings having meltdowns on their Twitters and Substacks? Is this book truly a literary example of looking at grief in the face and being brave enough to write it down? Or is it just an excuse for a man to reveal, in detail, his dead wife’s sexual desires and shameful acts because he was upset that she cheated on him numerous times with her students and this dude who was, according to Blake, a TOTAL loser who was definitely jealous of him?
Blake loves to talk about how little he knew about Molly while simultaneously being the only person who knew her. He constantly projects onto her, misunderstands, and miscalculates, until it’s convenient for him to be the only one who understands her.
The best parts of the book were when he was quoting Molly, taking bits from her own writing. Blake never missed an opportunity to use her words to underwrite his entire project.
January 27, 2024
There are some beautiful, tender moments in this book. I respect why the author felt the need to write it. I really don’t think he had a right to share Molly’s old journal entries. But my biggest lingering thought: did a SINGLE editor touch this book at any point?
July 2, 2024
Butler's controversial memoir about the suicide of his first wife Molly Brodak led to a rather outraged discussion whether it's valid to write about how a mentally ill person who took her own life pushed her loved ones to the psychological limit - and bless all those self-righteous people who think they take the moral high ground by condemning the author, you very obviously didn't spend years of your life trying to take care of a psychologically disturbed family member. The thing is: It's a taboo to talk about how the sickness of a loved one can destroy their caretakers, especially when these caretakers deeply love the afflicted person. And it's a common occurrence: Many people who tend to seriously (physically or mentally) ill family members over a longer period of time develop illnesses themselves, due to exhaustion, and, yes, moral pressure: "How dare you complain, you're not the one being sick!" They have to suffer in silence, or they are declared to be bad people.
And that's what at the root of the conversation here: Butler tries to understand Molly's mental disposition, which was likely bipolar disorder, he tries to get to terms with their toxic dynamic, and with the things he discovers about his dead wife after she shot herself. He aims to construct explanations related to her childhood, which is, of course, futile kitchen psychology, he will never truly know. At the same time, he loses both of his parents to dementia. It's pretty hard to maintain that this book is literary revenge, because Butler himself looks pretty bad in the text: Unfaithfulness, lots of alcohol, general edgelordery, problems with personal borders, a temper, giving a ton of psychedelic drugs to a mentally ill woman, the list goes on.
The dynamic between Molly and Butler is so toxic, you don't even know where to begin. But this is not the source of Molly's problems: Trying to find some kind of transactional cause-and-effect relation means blaming Butler for Molly's bipolar disorder, but the disorder adds to the situation, the illness itself is not Butler's fault. And there are limits to what Butler can do about it. Let that sink in, and ponder what that degree of helplessness means for him. The illness also doesn't take all personal responsibilty from Molly, she still has agency. The problems of course lie in determing where, when and how the illness affects her agency.
So is Blake Butler a great guy? Who knows, the rendition he shows us in the novel is a flawed guy struggling to be a husband to Molly, who herself struggles to be a wife. What's hard to maintain is that he is here to demean a dead person. The text has plenty of contra-arguments, and it's important to let family members of ill people talk without judging them so harshly and self-righteously. Also, the whole thing is very well-written, especially the beginning which takes us along when Butler discovers the body: It's devastating to read.
And that's what at the root of the conversation here: Butler tries to understand Molly's mental disposition, which was likely bipolar disorder, he tries to get to terms with their toxic dynamic, and with the things he discovers about his dead wife after she shot herself. He aims to construct explanations related to her childhood, which is, of course, futile kitchen psychology, he will never truly know. At the same time, he loses both of his parents to dementia. It's pretty hard to maintain that this book is literary revenge, because Butler himself looks pretty bad in the text: Unfaithfulness, lots of alcohol, general edgelordery, problems with personal borders, a temper, giving a ton of psychedelic drugs to a mentally ill woman, the list goes on.
The dynamic between Molly and Butler is so toxic, you don't even know where to begin. But this is not the source of Molly's problems: Trying to find some kind of transactional cause-and-effect relation means blaming Butler for Molly's bipolar disorder, but the disorder adds to the situation, the illness itself is not Butler's fault. And there are limits to what Butler can do about it. Let that sink in, and ponder what that degree of helplessness means for him. The illness also doesn't take all personal responsibilty from Molly, she still has agency. The problems of course lie in determing where, when and how the illness affects her agency.
So is Blake Butler a great guy? Who knows, the rendition he shows us in the novel is a flawed guy struggling to be a husband to Molly, who herself struggles to be a wife. What's hard to maintain is that he is here to demean a dead person. The text has plenty of contra-arguments, and it's important to let family members of ill people talk without judging them so harshly and self-righteously. Also, the whole thing is very well-written, especially the beginning which takes us along when Butler discovers the body: It's devastating to read.
Read
December 17, 2023After reading many reviews of Molly, I began wondering if I was reading the same book as everyone else. I began to wonder why this book needed to be written, why did Molly's story need to be told, other than what appears to be a payback, an 'I'll show you, I'll show the world who you really were', one final assault on her. The irony here for me is that throughout her life, her mental anguish, torment and pain at the hands of others as well as her own, it would be Blake who would ultimately betray her to the whole world. He has every right to be angry, confused and deeply hurt upon the discovery of her lies and cheating. I can't imagine the mental toll and torment of such a discovery after a partner's death, questioning every aspect of their lives together, trying to distinguish between what was real and what were lies, especially as she is no longer here for him to face her, question her, be angry with her. He will never get the answers he is so desperate for. However, to expose all those personal and quite graphic details of her betrayal, I feel were completely unnecessary, hurtful and extremely damaging to her memory. Will Molly be remembered as a gifted poet and writer, or will she now forever be known as Molly, the Liar, the Cheater, the Narcissist, and
I'm starting to wonder if maybe, just maybe that was the intention all along.
I'm starting to wonder if maybe, just maybe that was the intention all along.
July 19, 2024
an intimately dense and sensitively spiked body of work that makes the reader turn over the possibilities of could have/would have/should have in retrospect. the emotionally barbed relationship, like vines wrapping trees in spiritual restraint, takes quite a toll on the reader, while the author accepts his demons and discovers that truth can be stranger than fiction. deep, dark and insightful.
May 19, 2024
BookPrize read for 2024 Octofinals in Non-fiction. Did not make it beyond this first round. It came in last on my six read.
Oh my. Not sure what I can say about this book. For the most part I could appreciate the author's sentiments but the writing was like a tangled ball of string. There were only scattered moments when a clear line was pulled out.
This is a memoir written about his wife's suicide and the author's attempt to understand it. Their courtship/marriage is examined at length along with personal backgrounds and writings without any clear answers. I would say he circles around his feelings and their history without any clarity or closure. The writing is difficult at best and too often just lots and lots of "word salad" without any beginning and end just more words thrown at it hoping to get a point across. There were occasional sentences of that hit the mark well but too few for this reader.
Oh my. Not sure what I can say about this book. For the most part I could appreciate the author's sentiments but the writing was like a tangled ball of string. There were only scattered moments when a clear line was pulled out.
This is a memoir written about his wife's suicide and the author's attempt to understand it. Their courtship/marriage is examined at length along with personal backgrounds and writings without any clear answers. I would say he circles around his feelings and their history without any clarity or closure. The writing is difficult at best and too often just lots and lots of "word salad" without any beginning and end just more words thrown at it hoping to get a point across. There were occasional sentences of that hit the mark well but too few for this reader.
January 11, 2024
A polarizing memoir that left me feeling very uncomfortable and questioning if the author, Blake, had the authority to write about his dead wife in such graphic detail without consent. His wife, Molly, suffered from mental illness before ultimately ending her life after years of struggles. Although Blake also told details of his life/story, expressed much love and gratitude for his late wife Molly, and used excerpts from her book, “Bandit”, as to use her own words, he included intimate details about his wife that felt exploitative. The book was well written, but I would not recommend it to others.
December 20, 2023
Needed a better proofreader. I wish Butler had shown us more reasons why he loved Molly, more of her redeeming attributes, because I left this book with the feeling that she was cruel, manipulative, and callous, and that he was a victim of abuse to an extent he had yet to fully realize from even beyond the grave. Very hard to rate/view this from a critical lens as it is so deeply personal
February 24, 2024
god awful under-edited book that i regret buying. blake butler isn’t a writer, he just regurgitates better things that he’s read. the only good parts of this book were when he quotes his dead wife.
December 9, 2023
I travel across two freeways everyday and, on occasion, imagine what it would be like to be obliterated by a head-on collision with an Anthem Axle Back mack truck. If this is how you die then your brief life takes on a special significance. Everything you have ever done has led you to the moment where your body was vaporized by getting a little too close to the global supply chain in motion. This is what happens with any untimely death: heart attacks, random acts of violence, suicides. They recontextualize and paraphrase an entire life. I don't necessarily want to wade into the (frankly disappointing) twitter discourse around this book because I don't think it is constructive. I believe that in marriage certain aspects of private lives merge and Molly's story in many ways is Blake's story, and Blake's story about how little a person can really know another person is also Molly's. The ethics of, say, publishing a suicide note, or "receipts" of infidelity, are perhaps shaky but that doesn't make a book bad. I, an apologist of Knausgaard, think the honesty of Blake's project here to be quite moving.
I do not like the prose, however, and must harden my heart to say: this needed a harsher editor. Comma splicing on every page, abusing the em dash, some occasionally tortured syntax, and at least one typo to boot. Examples of free indirect speech on every page, which in short bursts can give the impression of flexibility but when overused leaves the whole thing feeling a bit too elastic. Bad similes on nearly every page, belabouring and more often than not obscuring whatever heft there was to the declarative phrase. Imprecision in about half of the metaphorical language. A structure with tabloid-style "you won't believe what I found out later" tidbits which produces a kind of emotional falseness in the text.
Writing about grief is one of the harder things to write about. Most of us are reduced to cliche in the face of the unknowable. I give credit where it is due and the book is "brave", and I'm sure it was quite therapeutic for Blake Butler to get this out there (though I do suggest he get off twitter)
I do not like the prose, however, and must harden my heart to say: this needed a harsher editor. Comma splicing on every page, abusing the em dash, some occasionally tortured syntax, and at least one typo to boot. Examples of free indirect speech on every page, which in short bursts can give the impression of flexibility but when overused leaves the whole thing feeling a bit too elastic. Bad similes on nearly every page, belabouring and more often than not obscuring whatever heft there was to the declarative phrase. Imprecision in about half of the metaphorical language. A structure with tabloid-style "you won't believe what I found out later" tidbits which produces a kind of emotional falseness in the text.
Writing about grief is one of the harder things to write about. Most of us are reduced to cliche in the face of the unknowable. I give credit where it is due and the book is "brave", and I'm sure it was quite therapeutic for Blake Butler to get this out there (though I do suggest he get off twitter)
July 15, 2023
This is one of the most beautiful, wounded, sincere and loving things I've ever read.
I can't imagine how difficult it was to offer your departed loved one to the judgement of strangers with all her qualities, but also all her flaws and wounds and yet despite being quite wounded himself, Blake Butler stands behind Molly without any fear or reservation. His love is stronger than the demons that pushed his wife to end her life. Being a long-time Blake Butler fan, I can appreciate how much courage it must've taken to abandon momentarily his stream-of-consciousness writing style and be so unflinchingly present in order to honor his late wife.
Molly is the best thing he's ever written alongside 300 000 000 and that says a lot because the guy is really freaking good. These two book are also inextricably linked.
I can't imagine how difficult it was to offer your departed loved one to the judgement of strangers with all her qualities, but also all her flaws and wounds and yet despite being quite wounded himself, Blake Butler stands behind Molly without any fear or reservation. His love is stronger than the demons that pushed his wife to end her life. Being a long-time Blake Butler fan, I can appreciate how much courage it must've taken to abandon momentarily his stream-of-consciousness writing style and be so unflinchingly present in order to honor his late wife.
Molly is the best thing he's ever written alongside 300 000 000 and that says a lot because the guy is really freaking good. These two book are also inextricably linked.
February 22, 2024
DNF at page 150 because I truly felt I was contributing to abuse against a dead woman who had already suffered enough in life. I don't know who Blake Butler is, but I love Molly Brodak's poetry, which is why I decided to give this one a shot. Not only is this book bitter, exploitative emotional revenge porn, it's also poorly written and seemingly completely unedited? Full of typos, run-on sentences, paragraphs of word salad. It's not even about Molly as a human being outside of her relationship with this total turd of a man. The fact that it was published and is getting any press at all is proof that the patriarchy is alive and well. If you're interested in learning about her life, please read her memoir Bandit instead. Don't waste or your time or your money on this absolute slop.
May 26, 2025
this is a vile book, in premise and execution. i thought often about that op-ed with the title “we know too much about each other;” it makes me wonder why butler feels compelled to share so much, and makes me question his intentions. why, i genuinely want to know, did he write this? why is it necessary for readers to know specifics of a dead woman’s damage? butler insists on including every grim disgusting freakish horrible detail, every sour note, like some sick inventory of his trauma. it feels distinctly and uncomfortably pathological, with a weird spiritualist dimension (more likely psychedelic-induced psychosis) to try and make the book something bigger than a catalogue of shock. as the book goes on, molly becomes flatter and flatter, less and less worthy of redemption.
it bears noting that the ethics of writing a work such as this one are complicated by the fact that the dead cannot respond; that we have no choice but to accept butler’s account as the true one, his voice as that of reason. for better or for worse, and i suspect in this case for worse, the bereft always get the last word.
the text is also rife with mistakes; at one point full sentences are duplicated and intercut in a different paragraph on the same page. Butler repeats himself, using the same “higher highs fund lower lows” over and over. sentences get tangled up and murky leaving me unsure of where they’re going, which feels like too exact of a metaphor for this book’s intentions/lack thereof. the section where he begins going to therapy feels like it was written with AI, and I don’t know what more i can say except that it all feels deeply, incorrigibly oily and rotten at a central level. there are some genuinely brilliant sections, beautifully written and full of insight on loss, forgiveness, and the nature of reality, but it is not enough for me to forgive the rest
in sum this book is utterly unbearable; the events described therein clearly ruined molly and butler’s lives and now the book is ruining mine as well
it bears noting that the ethics of writing a work such as this one are complicated by the fact that the dead cannot respond; that we have no choice but to accept butler’s account as the true one, his voice as that of reason. for better or for worse, and i suspect in this case for worse, the bereft always get the last word.
the text is also rife with mistakes; at one point full sentences are duplicated and intercut in a different paragraph on the same page. Butler repeats himself, using the same “higher highs fund lower lows” over and over. sentences get tangled up and murky leaving me unsure of where they’re going, which feels like too exact of a metaphor for this book’s intentions/lack thereof. the section where he begins going to therapy feels like it was written with AI, and I don’t know what more i can say except that it all feels deeply, incorrigibly oily and rotten at a central level. there are some genuinely brilliant sections, beautifully written and full of insight on loss, forgiveness, and the nature of reality, but it is not enough for me to forgive the rest
in sum this book is utterly unbearable; the events described therein clearly ruined molly and butler’s lives and now the book is ruining mine as well
January 11, 2024
Blake Butler smeared his traumatized wife as a nutcase and has constructed his “narrative” from a mishmash of self-delusion, theft, censorship, and selective exposure of the marriage he purports to “illuminate”. His wife left behind a suicide note, which did NOT permit her husband to use her phone, journals, etc. for any of his future “writing” projects. His own phone, unpublished writing, etc. are unavailable for us to examine. And, he’s shut down replies from EVERYONE, including his followers, in tweets he’s posted that complain about HIS “victimization” by people (Daily Mail, friends of Molly Brodak, outraged readers, incredulous booksellers, etc.) who have held him accountable. Most damning of all may be his insistence that he “loves” this woman, whose agency he has violated, whose character he has impugned, and whose family of choice he has trolled. Mr. Butler is the D-list literary version of Johnny Depp.
December 7, 2023
This is beautifully written and impressively descriptive.
I found myself uncomfortable with the book even as I admired its writing. While the book is an autobiography, the author’s wife Molly ultimately remains the subject most laid bare by it. The inclusion of Molly’s suicide note was startling & made even more so by Butler’s dismissal of it as an inauthentic last work from Molly, among other reasons because she didn’t mention in it that she had been cheating on Butler. This portrayal of her last words felt tinged with bitterness, even if it is justifiable.
As a reader I felt that even mediated by the author’s clear love and affection for her, Molly becomes a villain— a complex villain, but a villain nonetheless. And she is dead now, so this becomes her legacy and her final portrait, not her poetry or her own writing, but the exhaustive description of the pain she inflicted upon herself and the author. Is this fair?
The best art is challenging. This book is no doubt a work of great artistic value, and I’m glad the author was able to process his grief through its creation. But its existence is also morally complex— to exhume someone’s worst deceptions, to show a suicide note then dismiss it, to reveal sexts sent by Molly that were never meant to meant to be seen by the author, let alone thousands of readers—that is something I’m grappling with despite my appreciation for the book’s artistic merit.
I found myself uncomfortable with the book even as I admired its writing. While the book is an autobiography, the author’s wife Molly ultimately remains the subject most laid bare by it. The inclusion of Molly’s suicide note was startling & made even more so by Butler’s dismissal of it as an inauthentic last work from Molly, among other reasons because she didn’t mention in it that she had been cheating on Butler. This portrayal of her last words felt tinged with bitterness, even if it is justifiable.
As a reader I felt that even mediated by the author’s clear love and affection for her, Molly becomes a villain— a complex villain, but a villain nonetheless. And she is dead now, so this becomes her legacy and her final portrait, not her poetry or her own writing, but the exhaustive description of the pain she inflicted upon herself and the author. Is this fair?
The best art is challenging. This book is no doubt a work of great artistic value, and I’m glad the author was able to process his grief through its creation. But its existence is also morally complex— to exhume someone’s worst deceptions, to show a suicide note then dismiss it, to reveal sexts sent by Molly that were never meant to meant to be seen by the author, let alone thousands of readers—that is something I’m grappling with despite my appreciation for the book’s artistic merit.
August 17, 2025
I imagine these memories and reflections were cathartic for Butler to get down, helping him to sort out his thoughts and feelings about Molly, their relationship, and life itself – and that’s a great use of writing.
It really didn’t speak to me, however. I mostly found it tedious and irritating because of its repetitiveness, its lack of standard paragraphing (making the physical act of reading it a chore…plus, as a professional writer, he should learn how to properly use "lay" vs. "lie"), and its melodramatic gloom-and-doom, poor-me ponderings on the meaning of it all.
I also can’t buy into a world-view that seems to suggest that trauma is what people should define themselves by and that having bad things happen to one excuses any kind of future reprehensible, irresponsible, nihilistic behavior.
The tone and ideas get a bit more optimistic in the end in a mystical kind of way, but even that is not satisfying because Butler continues to see Molly as he wants her to have been (sweet, loving, caring) rather than as the manipulative, lying, manic person she is mostly painted as being in his own earlier descriptions of her.
Hopefully Butler felt stronger and healthier after writing this.
It really didn’t speak to me, however. I mostly found it tedious and irritating because of its repetitiveness, its lack of standard paragraphing (making the physical act of reading it a chore…plus, as a professional writer, he should learn how to properly use "lay" vs. "lie"), and its melodramatic gloom-and-doom, poor-me ponderings on the meaning of it all.
I also can’t buy into a world-view that seems to suggest that trauma is what people should define themselves by and that having bad things happen to one excuses any kind of future reprehensible, irresponsible, nihilistic behavior.
The tone and ideas get a bit more optimistic in the end in a mystical kind of way, but even that is not satisfying because Butler continues to see Molly as he wants her to have been (sweet, loving, caring) rather than as the manipulative, lying, manic person she is mostly painted as being in his own earlier descriptions of her.
Hopefully Butler felt stronger and healthier after writing this.
January 19, 2024
i loved patricia lockwood's review of this book and unfortunately prefer it to the actual book. it's rich with the accumulated years of knowing someone abruptly gone, abruptly mythic- painstakingly recalled and reinterpreted memories, wavering- but it was poorly edited to the point of surprise. some of the prose was incomprehensible and read like a frantic first draft. i can appreciate the effort given the near impossible task of turning one's grief over interminably, searching for something unmistakable. in terms of the ethical debate, the author could have done without the misguided gesture at a diagnosis, as if that truly enriches a reader's understanding of who molly was. i also have mixed feelings about the inclusion of her childhood journals. i otherwise generally agree with stephen ira's assessment that people are allowed to write about the way you've treated them. my favorite section of this book is when blake asks molly to "show me your new face," i feel haunted by that still. molly brodak i love your poetry.
April 7, 2024
Nope, just no.
March 18, 2024
3.75
i keep reading books that i’m ambivalent about, although maybe that’s a good thing??
rtc
i keep reading books that i’m ambivalent about, although maybe that’s a good thing??
rtc
May 8, 2024
Shockingly bad. I don’t have an ethical objection to this book per se; I think it is reasonable that aspects of Molly’s story become intrinsic to Blake’s life in the course of their relationship and his desire to get to the bottom of who she was is understandable. That said, Blake’s account of Mollys life reads as vindictive, one sided, and a cheap attempt to use her story as fodder for his really mediocre writing. To be clear, though Blake features in this book, it is a book primarily about deeply personal details of Molly’s life: the way she has sex, how she feels about her body, journal entries from childhood, conversations with her therapist, etc. We don’t get anything remotely as intimate about Blake who prefers to treat Molly’s private life as an opportunity to pontificate on the meaning of love and grief. I’m am curious not why Blake felt compelled to write this (he’s angry and grieving, I get it), but why he felt compelled to publish it. Why he is so eager to tarnish the public memory of someone he claims to love while sharing comparatively little about himself. It’s hard not to come to a cynical conclusion. Unfortunately for Blake, he’s not winning any points back with his writing which is TERRIBLE. The book is poorly structured, meandering, and repetitive often to the point of incoherence. For all the time Blake spends sharing his Deep Thoughts we are left with lackluster insights. My overwhelming take away was a feeling that Blake is extremely angry at Molly which makes me feel sad and also like I shouldn’t have spent $17 to read this.
January 13, 2024
this felt gross to read. it felt like this man journaled some very real trauma but it shouldn’t have been published. he carefully manipulated the image and reputation of his dead wife and published it in a way that is icky
July 20, 2025
Harrowing and blunt where it purports to be fluid and transcendent. Being enmeshed in a cauldron of self doubt, I’m likely not the ideal reader of this over-raw memoir about the author’s wife, their marriage and his subsequent grief.
Thus acknowledged, I did read the final two hundred pages without stirring. My wife has been giving me concerned looks. I don’t know how to respond to this work, I’m sure miasma will ensure in my subconscious, allowing archetypes and chemical trauma to lead the orchestra.
Thus acknowledged, I did read the final two hundred pages without stirring. My wife has been giving me concerned looks. I don’t know how to respond to this work, I’m sure miasma will ensure in my subconscious, allowing archetypes and chemical trauma to lead the orchestra.
Read
January 24, 2024No rating.
I shouldn't know any of this.
There's no argument from me on publishing this; this is between the maker and the motion, as they say. But I shouldn't have been able to read it. If I die and you have the notion to read my group chats, my text messages, my emails, my personal writings, learn from this book: stop reading. Delete. Wipe the phone. Burn the journal. Set yourself free. Let the ones you loved be the ones you loved.
Sure, some people have their illusions spoiled in real time, in the act(s), via video, by a concerned friend, by a jilted lover. But never read someone else's journal if you loved them. It can only cause pain, and, devoid of context, it can only be read in your voice and with your hurts.
If you want to know about Molly, read Patricia Lockwood's review of this book.
That said, this book does an incredibly beautiful and painful service to its readers: it shows you the act of "eliminating one's own map" as Wallace said, and the result of that act in a way I've never seen rendered before. And I've been in his shoes, or I've watched someone else tie them on, at least.
I shouldn't know any of this.
There's no argument from me on publishing this; this is between the maker and the motion, as they say. But I shouldn't have been able to read it. If I die and you have the notion to read my group chats, my text messages, my emails, my personal writings, learn from this book: stop reading. Delete. Wipe the phone. Burn the journal. Set yourself free. Let the ones you loved be the ones you loved.
Sure, some people have their illusions spoiled in real time, in the act(s), via video, by a concerned friend, by a jilted lover. But never read someone else's journal if you loved them. It can only cause pain, and, devoid of context, it can only be read in your voice and with your hurts.
If you want to know about Molly, read Patricia Lockwood's review of this book.
That said, this book does an incredibly beautiful and painful service to its readers: it shows you the act of "eliminating one's own map" as Wallace said, and the result of that act in a way I've never seen rendered before. And I've been in his shoes, or I've watched someone else tie them on, at least.
January 16, 2024
in early March, 2020, the writer Molly Brodak died by suicide. Blake Butler chooses to open his story of their marriage there. From there, he goes back to the beginning, through her death, and through the aftermath--where he discovers that throughout their marriage, she was unfaithful.
Some critics have called this book unfair and exploitative, taking advantage of a dead woman with mental illness who cannot answer back. I don't think it is. Butler turns it into a story of a marriage and how, and if, we know those we love. His portrait of Molly is complex and multidimensional. She's artistically talented, passionate, by turns loving and manipulative. The official revelations about her come late in the book and really aren't mined for prurient detail, no matter how the Daily Mail spun it.
But here's the rub: The entire time Butler talks about their relationship, even as he withholds the truth from the reader (presuming they haven't been spoiled), he's writing it knowing what comes next. All his memories are now reshaped by that, and even if he doesn't say so explicitly, it's clear from later in the book that he knows it. His artistic choices are entirely shaped by this knowledge. And so Molly becomes a story of how we know people, what we know, how we put them together in our minds. We think we can see the signs of Molly's self-destruction, because Blake can see them now. He even lists the DSM-V definition of borderline personality disorder. He doesn't diagnose her, and neither will I, but the criteria definitely fit with her behavior as described. Of course, we're getting that through Blake. I actually don't believe he's intentionally manipulative of the reader on that point, or of Molly's mental troubles, which are clear enough from her actions even without his contextualization. It's simply a reminder of how a memoir like this is a dance between writer and reader.
Butler probably polishes himself a touch, but he's honest about at least some of his own flaws, and overall, the impression is one of catharsis -- that he's spilled all his grief and love and anger and inability to comprehend either Molly or what she has done onto the page. Is it ethical? I don't entirely know. If anyone has the right to do this, it's her husband. People have criticized him for using her journals and suicide note. I certainly can't criticize him for using her own manuscripts that were either published or intended for publication. The impression that I got was not of a clear victim on either side. He's not just a victim of her manipulation, and she's not a victim of revenge from beyond the grave. The ethics are certainly complicated by her own willingness to use her trauma in writing.
Some critics have called this book unfair and exploitative, taking advantage of a dead woman with mental illness who cannot answer back. I don't think it is. Butler turns it into a story of a marriage and how, and if, we know those we love. His portrait of Molly is complex and multidimensional. She's artistically talented, passionate, by turns loving and manipulative. The official revelations about her come late in the book and really aren't mined for prurient detail, no matter how the Daily Mail spun it.
But here's the rub: The entire time Butler talks about their relationship, even as he withholds the truth from the reader (presuming they haven't been spoiled), he's writing it knowing what comes next. All his memories are now reshaped by that, and even if he doesn't say so explicitly, it's clear from later in the book that he knows it. His artistic choices are entirely shaped by this knowledge. And so Molly becomes a story of how we know people, what we know, how we put them together in our minds. We think we can see the signs of Molly's self-destruction, because Blake can see them now. He even lists the DSM-V definition of borderline personality disorder. He doesn't diagnose her, and neither will I, but the criteria definitely fit with her behavior as described. Of course, we're getting that through Blake. I actually don't believe he's intentionally manipulative of the reader on that point, or of Molly's mental troubles, which are clear enough from her actions even without his contextualization. It's simply a reminder of how a memoir like this is a dance between writer and reader.
Butler probably polishes himself a touch, but he's honest about at least some of his own flaws, and overall, the impression is one of catharsis -- that he's spilled all his grief and love and anger and inability to comprehend either Molly or what she has done onto the page. Is it ethical? I don't entirely know. If anyone has the right to do this, it's her husband. People have criticized him for using her journals and suicide note. I certainly can't criticize him for using her own manuscripts that were either published or intended for publication. The impression that I got was not of a clear victim on either side. He's not just a victim of her manipulation, and she's not a victim of revenge from beyond the grave. The ethics are certainly complicated by her own willingness to use her trauma in writing.
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August 30, 2024whew this is a tough book to find words for. this is not a book that i would casually recommend due to the content. the first 30 pages of this book, where butler describes in detail the end of his wife’s life, were so harrowing that i had to put the book down for a few days. he then examines the beginning of their relationship, its many ups and downs over the years, molly’s childhood and family life, and the complex grief he felt after she took her own life. i cried at the way blake describes everything he loves and admires about molly. it was tough to read about the way both of them struggled with their mental health. there is a level of honesty and rawness in this book that i don’t think i’ve encountered before.
many readers have pointed out the gray area that this book lives in, due to the things that butler has revealed about molly now that she is no longer here to tell her side of the story. i’m struggling to figure out where i stand on the issue. where is the line of demarcation between blake’s story and molly’s? is it right for him to divulge the affairs that she kept secret while she was alive, that he only found out about after her death? i’m not sure. i think he has a right to tell the story of his grief, but i’m not sure we as readers needed the intimate details of what molly was doing in private.
one other thing i will say is that i wish this book was edited a bit better. butler obviously has a way with words, but i found many of the sentences lost their clarity because they were overwritten. this might be petty but there were grammar and spelling issues that made it difficult to understand at times.
i don’t think i can really give this a rating. it is an immensely difficult read, so personal - making me understand why a lot of people choose not to rate nonfiction.
many readers have pointed out the gray area that this book lives in, due to the things that butler has revealed about molly now that she is no longer here to tell her side of the story. i’m struggling to figure out where i stand on the issue. where is the line of demarcation between blake’s story and molly’s? is it right for him to divulge the affairs that she kept secret while she was alive, that he only found out about after her death? i’m not sure. i think he has a right to tell the story of his grief, but i’m not sure we as readers needed the intimate details of what molly was doing in private.
one other thing i will say is that i wish this book was edited a bit better. butler obviously has a way with words, but i found many of the sentences lost their clarity because they were overwritten. this might be petty but there were grammar and spelling issues that made it difficult to understand at times.
i don’t think i can really give this a rating. it is an immensely difficult read, so personal - making me understand why a lot of people choose not to rate nonfiction.
September 28, 2025
This is the worst book I've ever read. Butler writes like the worst writer in your MFA program and has a personality like the worst person you knew in high school. I feel infected by his tortured syntax and his wretched soul. Reading Molly makes you want to take a long shower so you can scrub him off like pond scum.
But I can forgive Butler for writing a despicable book about his terrible life. What I can't forgive are the professional book reviewers at respected institutions--The Los Angeles Times, The New Yorker, The New York Times, The Telegraph, Slate--who gave this book rave reviews, all of whom have permanently lost credibility as critics. It's hard to imagine how anyone who knew anything about writing could find something to admire in a novel this morally and artistically bankrupt. It's like a doctor not being able to tell if their patient is dead or not. Maybe they have lots of other great qualities, but if they can't tell whether someone is dead, they probably shouldn't be a doctor.
If this sounds hyperbolic, it really isn't. Molly is a cursed, incompetent novel by a lost soul. Avoid it at all costs.
But I can forgive Butler for writing a despicable book about his terrible life. What I can't forgive are the professional book reviewers at respected institutions--The Los Angeles Times, The New Yorker, The New York Times, The Telegraph, Slate--who gave this book rave reviews, all of whom have permanently lost credibility as critics. It's hard to imagine how anyone who knew anything about writing could find something to admire in a novel this morally and artistically bankrupt. It's like a doctor not being able to tell if their patient is dead or not. Maybe they have lots of other great qualities, but if they can't tell whether someone is dead, they probably shouldn't be a doctor.
If this sounds hyperbolic, it really isn't. Molly is a cursed, incompetent novel by a lost soul. Avoid it at all costs.
December 11, 2023
“A girl grinning, golden hair, all limbs in casts.
A day made just for leeches.
I wrote many letters, never received.
Asound of a train as if understood.
An emblem.
A single black day behind, a single black day ahead.
A song sung so low it stays.
Clean cold soft sheets.
The full moon.
Pine in sun.
Images of planets from the right distance, this one too.”
A day made just for leeches.
I wrote many letters, never received.
Asound of a train as if understood.
An emblem.
A single black day behind, a single black day ahead.
A song sung so low it stays.
Clean cold soft sheets.
The full moon.
Pine in sun.
Images of planets from the right distance, this one too.”
September 5, 2025
The best thing I can say about this memoir is it is highly readable. I also thought the photographs were a nice touch.
I’m not of the opinion that Butler shouldn’t have written this because it airs dirty laundry: 1) Molly planned her death and so if she wanted to further hide her cheating she could have 2) She wrote her own memoir exposing her father’s secrets while he was still alive so her values don’t seem to contradict what Butler has done here 3) Marrying a writer often means you accept they’ll publish weird personal things about you at some point.
My problem is that the author is so selfish to the extent that even after her death, he still misses the point rather than using this memoir as an opportunity for learning, reflection, and growth.
Throughout his own characterization of their relationship, he paints himself as the reasonable authority and her as a delicate, depressed flower needing his care. He accuses her of having borderline personality disorder (and I’m happy to acknowledge her behavior is absolutely giving Cluster B), without pathologizing his own suicidal ideation, violent outbursts, substance abuse, cheating, and gambling problem.
When he stalks ex-girlfriends or smashes objects in anger those are one-off incidents, but for Molly it’s a personality disorder? He talks about Molly’s “continuous abuse of me and our relationship,” but seems to believe his own drinking and anger would not have a similarly strong, negative impact on their relationship. The entire vibe is that she’s the fuck up, he’s the savior.
It constantly feels like he’s only telling some of the story. In one episode, Molly gets a cat and accuses him of “forcing her to get rid of it.” The author never reveals his side of the conversation, only that they had little choice but to get rid of it due to his allergies. It sounds to me like perhaps he did force her to get rid of it, even though he frames this as one of her hysterical outbursts where she was unnecessarily aggressive.
He would refuse to buy weed for Molly because it was dangerous to drive around with, meanwhile he would regularly drive while blackout drunk and wouldn’t seek help for his addiction until Molly begged him to go to therapy. He can’t risk arrest for her comfort, but he can risk both arrest and other people’s lives for his Taco Bell whims. It’s very clear this dude sees mental illness as something that only afflicts those lesser than him (such as his wife).
He’s the kind of guy who says he didn’t understand trigger warnings until after Molly killed herself and then seeing suicide on screen would upset him. Did he also need to get a job as a waiter to understand servers rely on tips? How little empathy does this guy have?
We know it’s not much because he had a conversation with his mother in which he tells her about his vasectomy and how the worst thing someone can do for this planet is to have a child. Who says that shit out loud to any parents, let alone their own? Why are you guilt tripping your mom about climate change when you could have kept your medical procedure private?
Despite discussing with him her feelings of worthlessness and how the only reason she was published is because of him and her father and not her actual talent, he still in this memoir reduces both her life and her struggles to being a product of her father’s trauma.
When Molly texts him that she just wants to fuck, he talks about her as “half-unhinged and glad to deprecate herself for my unasked benefit” as though sex for Molly might not also be for her own benefit.
When he learns of her cheating, he says there is “nothing left on earth now I called sacred.” It’s not the loss of her that means there is nothing sacred, but the loss of her purity. The only thing sacred was his late wife’s monogamy? I’m certainly not going to defend cheating, but wow the misogyny underlying this text is incredible.
Molly exists in relation to Blake, to her father, and to the men she cheated with. Blake claims to have loved her, but does not show any actual understanding of her personhood independent of men.
Aside from the author’s atrocious personality, the memoir also really needed more rounds of editing. This could have been half the length to tell the same story. After the bulk of the memoir is sufficiently done, there are somehow still 30 pages left. With super important gems you definitely can’t find in any preteen diary, like:
As someone who has also been on the receiving end of someone’s suicide note, I was excited to read this memoir. And honestly, if this were a novel I might even give it 3 stars. I usually like a story with a shitty, selfish protagonist.
But this is not a novel, so we’re rounding down on this one.
TL;DR: If I married this insufferable, unreflective manchild I also would have bought a gun.
I’m not of the opinion that Butler shouldn’t have written this because it airs dirty laundry: 1) Molly planned her death and so if she wanted to further hide her cheating she could have 2) She wrote her own memoir exposing her father’s secrets while he was still alive so her values don’t seem to contradict what Butler has done here 3) Marrying a writer often means you accept they’ll publish weird personal things about you at some point.
My problem is that the author is so selfish to the extent that even after her death, he still misses the point rather than using this memoir as an opportunity for learning, reflection, and growth.
Throughout his own characterization of their relationship, he paints himself as the reasonable authority and her as a delicate, depressed flower needing his care. He accuses her of having borderline personality disorder (and I’m happy to acknowledge her behavior is absolutely giving Cluster B), without pathologizing his own suicidal ideation, violent outbursts, substance abuse, cheating, and gambling problem.
When he stalks ex-girlfriends or smashes objects in anger those are one-off incidents, but for Molly it’s a personality disorder? He talks about Molly’s “continuous abuse of me and our relationship,” but seems to believe his own drinking and anger would not have a similarly strong, negative impact on their relationship. The entire vibe is that she’s the fuck up, he’s the savior.
It constantly feels like he’s only telling some of the story. In one episode, Molly gets a cat and accuses him of “forcing her to get rid of it.” The author never reveals his side of the conversation, only that they had little choice but to get rid of it due to his allergies. It sounds to me like perhaps he did force her to get rid of it, even though he frames this as one of her hysterical outbursts where she was unnecessarily aggressive.
He would refuse to buy weed for Molly because it was dangerous to drive around with, meanwhile he would regularly drive while blackout drunk and wouldn’t seek help for his addiction until Molly begged him to go to therapy. He can’t risk arrest for her comfort, but he can risk both arrest and other people’s lives for his Taco Bell whims. It’s very clear this dude sees mental illness as something that only afflicts those lesser than him (such as his wife).
He’s the kind of guy who says he didn’t understand trigger warnings until after Molly killed herself and then seeing suicide on screen would upset him. Did he also need to get a job as a waiter to understand servers rely on tips? How little empathy does this guy have?
We know it’s not much because he had a conversation with his mother in which he tells her about his vasectomy and how the worst thing someone can do for this planet is to have a child. Who says that shit out loud to any parents, let alone their own? Why are you guilt tripping your mom about climate change when you could have kept your medical procedure private?
Despite discussing with him her feelings of worthlessness and how the only reason she was published is because of him and her father and not her actual talent, he still in this memoir reduces both her life and her struggles to being a product of her father’s trauma.
When Molly texts him that she just wants to fuck, he talks about her as “half-unhinged and glad to deprecate herself for my unasked benefit” as though sex for Molly might not also be for her own benefit.
When he learns of her cheating, he says there is “nothing left on earth now I called sacred.” It’s not the loss of her that means there is nothing sacred, but the loss of her purity. The only thing sacred was his late wife’s monogamy? I’m certainly not going to defend cheating, but wow the misogyny underlying this text is incredible.
Molly exists in relation to Blake, to her father, and to the men she cheated with. Blake claims to have loved her, but does not show any actual understanding of her personhood independent of men.
Aside from the author’s atrocious personality, the memoir also really needed more rounds of editing. This could have been half the length to tell the same story. After the bulk of the memoir is sufficiently done, there are somehow still 30 pages left. With super important gems you definitely can’t find in any preteen diary, like:
"Is death the end? No one really knows the answer, no matter what they'll try to sell you. You're not supposed to know yet, are you? Life is an experience. It just keeps happening. You change, then change again, just like the days."
As someone who has also been on the receiving end of someone’s suicide note, I was excited to read this memoir. And honestly, if this were a novel I might even give it 3 stars. I usually like a story with a shitty, selfish protagonist.
But this is not a novel, so we’re rounding down on this one.
TL;DR: If I married this insufferable, unreflective manchild I also would have bought a gun.
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