What do you think?
Rate this book
Backbends
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews
July 16, 2026
Part of the joy of reading Tim Dyke’s memoir is that it feels as though you’re sitting with him in a café, listening to him talk. Does he ramble? Absolutely. There were moments when I wanted to get up, stretch my legs, and come back later—which, fortunately, is exactly what you can do with a book.
Dyke tells us from the opening pages that he is an unusual character, and that self-awareness becomes part of the memoir’s charm. He shares everything: his reactions to the pandemic, his asexuality and what it means to him, childhood trauma, movies, family, and the complicated relationship he has with his father—loving him deeply while struggling to understand him. At times it feels like too much information. Yet that's also the book's greatest strength. We aren't simply reading about Tim; we feel as though we're spending time with him.
At one point Dyke writes about the shocking ending of Flannery O'Connor's "A Good Man Is Hard to Find," in which the Misfit shoots the grandmother because she won't stop talking. The comparison made me laugh. I never wanted to shoot Tim—I could always close the book—but the image is strangely apt. Let him talk. Let him wander. Let him double back. Somewhere in those digressions, often funny and frequently poetic, an unforgettable personality emerges.
I don't read many memoirs. I've never made it through Proust, and stream-of-consciousness writing isn't usually my favorite form. I tend to prefer novels with strong plots, careful organization, and a clear sense of movement. Tim's memoir is almost the opposite. Yet I found it riveting.
What surprised me most was how the book affected my own thinking. Tim notices everything. He questions, meditates, jokes, circles back, searches for meaning. Before long, I found myself doing the same.
Last night, driving home after a wonderful dinner with friends, I nearly hit an elderly man dressed entirely in dark clothing. He was pulling a large suitcase across the street without ever looking for traffic. I didn't simply tap the brakes—I slammed them. My Prius let out a screech I'd never heard before, an almost human cry.
I was grateful I hadn't hit him. It probably wouldn't have been legally my fault, but that hardly mattered. Someone's husband, father, or grandfather might have died. My husband and I talked about it for the next fifteen minutes. Then, that night, I dreamed I'd forgotten to pay off a credit-card bill.
What did that dream have to do with the man in the street? Probably nothing. Or perhaps everything.
That's what Tim Dyke's memoir captures so beautifully. Our minds don't move in straight lines. They wander, connect unrelated moments, replay old conversations, invent new ones, worry, laugh, and search for meaning where there may be none. His book reminded me that consciousness itself is a kind of story—messy, repetitive, surprising, and deeply human.
I finished the memoir feeling as though I'd spent several days in the company of an endlessly curious, eccentric, thoughtful friend. That's a rare accomplishment.
Dyke tells us from the opening pages that he is an unusual character, and that self-awareness becomes part of the memoir’s charm. He shares everything: his reactions to the pandemic, his asexuality and what it means to him, childhood trauma, movies, family, and the complicated relationship he has with his father—loving him deeply while struggling to understand him. At times it feels like too much information. Yet that's also the book's greatest strength. We aren't simply reading about Tim; we feel as though we're spending time with him.
At one point Dyke writes about the shocking ending of Flannery O'Connor's "A Good Man Is Hard to Find," in which the Misfit shoots the grandmother because she won't stop talking. The comparison made me laugh. I never wanted to shoot Tim—I could always close the book—but the image is strangely apt. Let him talk. Let him wander. Let him double back. Somewhere in those digressions, often funny and frequently poetic, an unforgettable personality emerges.
I don't read many memoirs. I've never made it through Proust, and stream-of-consciousness writing isn't usually my favorite form. I tend to prefer novels with strong plots, careful organization, and a clear sense of movement. Tim's memoir is almost the opposite. Yet I found it riveting.
What surprised me most was how the book affected my own thinking. Tim notices everything. He questions, meditates, jokes, circles back, searches for meaning. Before long, I found myself doing the same.
Last night, driving home after a wonderful dinner with friends, I nearly hit an elderly man dressed entirely in dark clothing. He was pulling a large suitcase across the street without ever looking for traffic. I didn't simply tap the brakes—I slammed them. My Prius let out a screech I'd never heard before, an almost human cry.
I was grateful I hadn't hit him. It probably wouldn't have been legally my fault, but that hardly mattered. Someone's husband, father, or grandfather might have died. My husband and I talked about it for the next fifteen minutes. Then, that night, I dreamed I'd forgotten to pay off a credit-card bill.
What did that dream have to do with the man in the street? Probably nothing. Or perhaps everything.
That's what Tim Dyke's memoir captures so beautifully. Our minds don't move in straight lines. They wander, connect unrelated moments, replay old conversations, invent new ones, worry, laugh, and search for meaning where there may be none. His book reminded me that consciousness itself is a kind of story—messy, repetitive, surprising, and deeply human.
I finished the memoir feeling as though I'd spent several days in the company of an endlessly curious, eccentric, thoughtful friend. That's a rare accomplishment.
August 11, 2025
I am also a teacher, and one of my favorite things about teaching is the questions. The kids' constant questions, my constant questions to help answer their questions, questions about my own constant impostor syndrome (don't all teachers suffer from this?) ... anyway, this a haunting, beautiful, funny, book of questions. Queer, experimental, memoir -- yes, and, heartbreaking. But, funny. Very funny. Laughter is how the hope gets in and all that ... just read it. It has a pace, I -- teacher of middle schoolers who have tripped my nervous system and stolen my focus -- read it in just a few hours and then wanted to read it again.
August 19, 2025
Really enjoyed this! Honest, thoughtful, funny, insightful and at times lyrical. Like having a great conversation with a good friend. Thanks, Tim!
Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews