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Mess: One Man's Struggle to Clean Up His House and His Act
Hilarious and poignant, a glimpse into the mind of someone who is both a sufferer from and an investigator of clutter. Millions of Americans struggle with severe clutter and hoarding. New York writer and bohemian Barry Yourgrau is one of them. Behind the door of his Queens apartment, Yourgrau’s life is, quite literally, chaos. Confronted by his exasperated girlfriend, a globe-trotting food critic, he embarks on a heartfelt, wide-ranging, and too often uproarious project―part Larry David, part Janet Malcolm―to take control of his crammed, disorderly apartment and life, and to explore the wider world of collecting, clutter, and extreme hoarding. Encounters with a professional declutterer, a Lacanian shrink, and Clutterers Anonymous―not to mention England’s most excessive hoarder―as well as explorations of the bewildering universe of new therapies and brain science, help Yourgrau navigate uncharted territory: clearing shelves, boxes, and bags; throwing out a nostalgic cracked pasta bowl; and sorting through a lifetime of messy relationships. Mess is the story of one man’s efforts to learn to let go, to clean up his space (physical and emotional), and to save his relationship.
288 pages, Paperback
First published August 10, 2015
80 people are currently reading
1507 people want to read
About the author
Barry Yourgrau
27 books69 followersWriter-performer Barry Yourgrau is author of "A Man Jumps Out of an Airplane: Stories" (new edition, May '17). His other books of surreal brief tales include "Wearing Dad's Head," "Haunted Traveller," and "The Sadness of Sex," in whose movie version he starred.
Audio of story, "Honky-Tonk,"" from "A Man Jumps Out of an Airplane" is on youtube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KKPPj...
Barry is also the author of a memoir, "Mess." He has appeared on MTV and NPR, and workshopped at Sundance Theatre Lab.
Born in South Africa, he lives in New York and Istanbul and travels widely.
Audio of story, "Honky-Tonk,"" from "A Man Jumps Out of an Airplane" is on youtube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KKPPj...
Barry is also the author of a memoir, "Mess." He has appeared on MTV and NPR, and workshopped at Sundance Theatre Lab.
Born in South Africa, he lives in New York and Istanbul and travels widely.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 148 reviews
August 25, 2015
Number of visible cardboard boxes in my place, empty or full: 45
Number of shopping bags with handles, large and small, in visible use: 22
Well . . . this one hit home.
The book begins with Yourgrau's girlfriend begging for admittance to his 700-square foot apartment. He is too ashamed of the way it looks to let her in. And when he mentions that he is embarrassed to allow repairmen through the door, it all came flooding back to me.
That's how I used to live.
My mother was an animal collector. I grew up surrounded by dozens of dogs, cats and a possum. NO ONE was allowed to visit. My best friend was permitted to play in the basement, but in the thirteen years we lived near one another, she never saw the upstairs of my house. Things got even worse when we moved to a sprawling farmhouse, as my mother began collecting parrots. Soon fifteen large cages filled our living room. (My dad, excited at the prospect of watching syndicated M*A*S*H* reruns never got the chance. The theme song set the birds off into an hour-long squawk-fest!) The menagerie generated an astonishing amount of dirt, and my mother was not a good housekeeper. She thought sweeping the kitchen floor once a day was enough. Magazines and catalogs piled up and were never tossed. Everything in the house became dotted with fly specks.
My father was not a hoarder, but he did generate his own messes. His den, as we called it, was the biggest bedroom in the house. A large kitchen table in the center of the room held books and piles and piles of paper - articles he was writing, reading or researching. Though the room contained floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, stacks of books teetered on the floor. A small pathway led from the door to his typewriter. It might sound like a nightmare to some, but I loved spending time in that room. (Hmm . . . maybe he was a hoarder. Or am I just more forgiving of people who hoard books?)
When something broke in my parents' house, it stayed broken. After the kitchen sink became clogged beyond my dad's meager plumbing abilities, my mother started doing the dishes in the adjacent bathroom sink. The inconvenience was preferable to letting a stranger see how she kept house. It's good the furnace never needed repair. I assume we would have just bundled up and carried on grimly with chattering teeth.
So I worry and I wonder - could this happen to me? And I am fascinated by others with the same concerns. It's the main reason I bought this book.
After being denied admission that fateful day, Yourgrau's sweetie is appalled by the way he lives and issues an ultimatum - "You have to clean up. And I don't mean just your house. I mean your act." And for the first time, he makes a serious attempt to do so . . . in his own particular way. When asked if he had started cleaning yet, his response was:
"I found this great encyclopedic guide to cleaning," I informed her, chuckling. "It's called Home Comforts: The Art and Science of Keeping House. It weighs almost three pounds! I weighed it on the bathroom scale."
"Why are you weighing books when you should be vacuuming and throwing out all your crap!" she demanded.
Much of Yourgrau's book concerns his coming to grips with whether or not he HAS a serious problem - is he a hoarder, a clutterbug or a collector? He attends meetings, and interviews professional de-clutterers. He delves into the psychological reasons why he has trouble parting with his possessions. And he takes strides towards cleaning his home, his "place of disarray."
Cosima/Medea/Prunella, as Yourgrau names and renames his lady-love, occasionally comes off as a shrew, but we procrastinators NEED people like that in our lives. People with artistic temperaments have a tendency to save things - for sentimental reasons and "just in case." (For years, I've been saving those tiny springs that come on clothespins, "just in case" I ever want to make steampunk-inspired jewelry. It's been fifteen years now and I haven't made ANY jewelry, but, you never know . . .) Someone needs to step in and say "Enough!" Just by being present, my husband is my Cosima. I often joke that where he grew up, you could eat off the floors, and where I grew up. the floors went crunch when you walked on them. Knowing that he was not raised the way I was is enough to keep mesane from letting things get out of hand.
I've come to the conclusion that I am a clutterer/collector. The last time we moved, the man who came to do the estimate described my home as "a very FULL house." I have a lot of stuff. I think it is well organized, and much of it is rotated through the seasons. People are allowed in my house, and most of them seem to enjoy looking at my collections. Occasionally a visitor will say something like "I could stay here a month and not see everything!" And then I start to wonder. I find myself using some of the same phases Yourgrau used, like "At least I'm not as bad as . . ." or "What is WRONG with me?" And what if I had to live in his 700 square feet?
I'd be screwed.
For now, and hopefully for always, I do all I can to not become my mother. When it comes to dusting and dog fur, I'm fairly lax, but I draw the line at piles of stuff. Every now and then my husband asks if I wouldn't like a second dog. And it's tempting. I would LOVE a second dog. But two can so easily lead to three and before you know it, there are possums and parrots.
Nope. Not on my watch.
For most readers this is probably a four star book. But for me, it's led to soul-searching, deep introspection and, for better and for worse, a trip down Memory Lane. For that, I award piles and piles of stars. Now you have to dust them, Yourgrau.
Number of shopping bags with handles, large and small, in visible use: 22
Well . . . this one hit home.
The book begins with Yourgrau's girlfriend begging for admittance to his 700-square foot apartment. He is too ashamed of the way it looks to let her in. And when he mentions that he is embarrassed to allow repairmen through the door, it all came flooding back to me.
That's how I used to live.
My mother was an animal collector. I grew up surrounded by dozens of dogs, cats and a possum. NO ONE was allowed to visit. My best friend was permitted to play in the basement, but in the thirteen years we lived near one another, she never saw the upstairs of my house. Things got even worse when we moved to a sprawling farmhouse, as my mother began collecting parrots. Soon fifteen large cages filled our living room. (My dad, excited at the prospect of watching syndicated M*A*S*H* reruns never got the chance. The theme song set the birds off into an hour-long squawk-fest!) The menagerie generated an astonishing amount of dirt, and my mother was not a good housekeeper. She thought sweeping the kitchen floor once a day was enough. Magazines and catalogs piled up and were never tossed. Everything in the house became dotted with fly specks.
My father was not a hoarder, but he did generate his own messes. His den, as we called it, was the biggest bedroom in the house. A large kitchen table in the center of the room held books and piles and piles of paper - articles he was writing, reading or researching. Though the room contained floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, stacks of books teetered on the floor. A small pathway led from the door to his typewriter. It might sound like a nightmare to some, but I loved spending time in that room. (Hmm . . . maybe he was a hoarder. Or am I just more forgiving of people who hoard books?)
When something broke in my parents' house, it stayed broken. After the kitchen sink became clogged beyond my dad's meager plumbing abilities, my mother started doing the dishes in the adjacent bathroom sink. The inconvenience was preferable to letting a stranger see how she kept house. It's good the furnace never needed repair. I assume we would have just bundled up and carried on grimly with chattering teeth.
So I worry and I wonder - could this happen to me? And I am fascinated by others with the same concerns. It's the main reason I bought this book.
After being denied admission that fateful day, Yourgrau's sweetie is appalled by the way he lives and issues an ultimatum - "You have to clean up. And I don't mean just your house. I mean your act." And for the first time, he makes a serious attempt to do so . . . in his own particular way. When asked if he had started cleaning yet, his response was:
"I found this great encyclopedic guide to cleaning," I informed her, chuckling. "It's called Home Comforts: The Art and Science of Keeping House. It weighs almost three pounds! I weighed it on the bathroom scale."
"Why are you weighing books when you should be vacuuming and throwing out all your crap!" she demanded.
Much of Yourgrau's book concerns his coming to grips with whether or not he HAS a serious problem - is he a hoarder, a clutterbug or a collector? He attends meetings, and interviews professional de-clutterers. He delves into the psychological reasons why he has trouble parting with his possessions. And he takes strides towards cleaning his home, his "place of disarray."
Cosima/Medea/Prunella, as Yourgrau names and renames his lady-love, occasionally comes off as a shrew, but we procrastinators NEED people like that in our lives. People with artistic temperaments have a tendency to save things - for sentimental reasons and "just in case." (For years, I've been saving those tiny springs that come on clothespins, "just in case" I ever want to make steampunk-inspired jewelry. It's been fifteen years now and I haven't made ANY jewelry, but, you never know . . .) Someone needs to step in and say "Enough!" Just by being present, my husband is my Cosima. I often joke that where he grew up, you could eat off the floors, and where I grew up. the floors went crunch when you walked on them. Knowing that he was not raised the way I was is enough to keep me
I've come to the conclusion that I am a clutterer/collector. The last time we moved, the man who came to do the estimate described my home as "a very FULL house." I have a lot of stuff. I think it is well organized, and much of it is rotated through the seasons. People are allowed in my house, and most of them seem to enjoy looking at my collections. Occasionally a visitor will say something like "I could stay here a month and not see everything!" And then I start to wonder. I find myself using some of the same phases Yourgrau used, like "At least I'm not as bad as . . ." or "What is WRONG with me?" And what if I had to live in his 700 square feet?
I'd be screwed.
For now, and hopefully for always, I do all I can to not become my mother. When it comes to dusting and dog fur, I'm fairly lax, but I draw the line at piles of stuff. Every now and then my husband asks if I wouldn't like a second dog. And it's tempting. I would LOVE a second dog. But two can so easily lead to three and before you know it, there are possums and parrots.
Nope. Not on my watch.
For most readers this is probably a four star book. But for me, it's led to soul-searching, deep introspection and, for better and for worse, a trip down Memory Lane. For that, I award piles and piles of stars. Now you have to dust them, Yourgrau.
May 26, 2017
Personal struggle memoirs (though "Mess" is classified as mental health - hoarding book), like personal travel writing, are very hard to get the correct balance and tone. Talking about oneself is in itself not insightful or interesting. The world of social media proves that over and over. Likewise, traveling across the globe and sitting at the Taj Mahal while reflecting on roads not taken back in Kansas, or the author moaning over their continuing struggles with baggage claims, does an injustice to the exotic location.
Whether revealing a familiar place like a cluttered hoarders apartment, or an exotic place like India, the writer's goal is to transport the reader to the location and immerse them in the experience, without drifting into some narcissistic monologue. You know the type, where the niggling issues of other people/places are a sign of a real flaw at which they might take a jab (perhaps couched as irony), while their own issues are merely misunderstood endearing eccentricities, often humorous, certainly harmless. Yet it is equally important to identify with the writer, quirks and all, because a dry recitation of time and place facts is not entertaining either.
The New York author here does not strike that balance well and often seems too full of himself. It is written with self-deprecating humor (which feels too clever and contrived, at times) but to his credit he has moments where he reflects on the real grief behind the facade and his hard efforts to solve his problems. Unfortunately, much of his intellectual ruminating seeks to transport the reader from his hoarder's home to anyplace else. Much like he does with his real life visitors.
I'm looking at random pages, on page 62, it is about his travels to Rome and Hong Kong, on page 78, he is at the Lincoln Center, on page 86, he is at the New York Public Library, on page page 138, he is out having Greek dinner with Melissa. It is as if, by associating his junk with places of reputation, he can elevate his bric-a-brac and his act of acquiring it to a higher plane. The book is full the proper nouns, name and place dropping, Andy Warhol comes up, of course. It reads like procrastination and diversion.
In fairness, this could be a matter of pacing. Who wants to listen to an otherwise anonymous stranger ruminate about their stuff for 273 pages. In fiction, character is king. I think in this kind of personal struggle memoir the author needs to establish a connection as well. I never developed that connection, I could not identify with his pretentiousness. Maybe a hoarder might benefit from his story and research that a casual reader might miss. Maybe I just needed a great before/after picture. Ultimately, I never felt what the point of where the story was going. I read ending so I could have a better idea Of course, it ends with his place clean ... and a trip to Miami. Maybe he should try travel writing.
Whether revealing a familiar place like a cluttered hoarders apartment, or an exotic place like India, the writer's goal is to transport the reader to the location and immerse them in the experience, without drifting into some narcissistic monologue. You know the type, where the niggling issues of other people/places are a sign of a real flaw at which they might take a jab (perhaps couched as irony), while their own issues are merely misunderstood endearing eccentricities, often humorous, certainly harmless. Yet it is equally important to identify with the writer, quirks and all, because a dry recitation of time and place facts is not entertaining either.
The New York author here does not strike that balance well and often seems too full of himself. It is written with self-deprecating humor (which feels too clever and contrived, at times) but to his credit he has moments where he reflects on the real grief behind the facade and his hard efforts to solve his problems. Unfortunately, much of his intellectual ruminating seeks to transport the reader from his hoarder's home to anyplace else. Much like he does with his real life visitors.
I'm looking at random pages, on page 62, it is about his travels to Rome and Hong Kong, on page 78, he is at the Lincoln Center, on page 86, he is at the New York Public Library, on page page 138, he is out having Greek dinner with Melissa. It is as if, by associating his junk with places of reputation, he can elevate his bric-a-brac and his act of acquiring it to a higher plane. The book is full the proper nouns, name and place dropping, Andy Warhol comes up, of course. It reads like procrastination and diversion.
In fairness, this could be a matter of pacing. Who wants to listen to an otherwise anonymous stranger ruminate about their stuff for 273 pages. In fiction, character is king. I think in this kind of personal struggle memoir the author needs to establish a connection as well. I never developed that connection, I could not identify with his pretentiousness. Maybe a hoarder might benefit from his story and research that a casual reader might miss. Maybe I just needed a great before/after picture. Ultimately, I never felt what the point of where the story was going. I read ending so I could have a better idea Of course, it ends with his place clean ... and a trip to Miami. Maybe he should try travel writing.
April 25, 2016
What a mix of emotions I felt while reading this memoir of an extreme clutterer and how he, as the subtitle says, cleans up his house and his act.
First, I felt sympathy. After all, I know what my guest room currently looks like. It has become a dumping ground for unmade decisions and it’s one of my projects for February—get it fit to receive guests once again. It’s very hard in a society such as ours, which pushes consumerism and acquisition as the route to salvation, to keep clutter under control.
Second, I felt just a touch of panic. Could I end up in the same situation as the author? Not wanting to allow people in my house. Not being willing to have maintenance people in to fix malfunctioning plumbing or to paint or repair windows.
Third, I felt anxiety. I couldn’t help it, sometimes it just twisted off the page and wrapped itself around me. The tremendous anxiety that Mr. Yourgrau felt while trying to sort out his life was palpable. As a somewhat anxious person myself, I could identify with this feeling very strongly.
Fourth, I felt relief. I was happy for him that he managed to get his life under his own control again, that he was comfortable to have people in, and that he was enjoying his surroundings. Plus, I went to my paper nightmare and proceeded to purge, sort, and file like a boss and felt some relief of my own.
I find it interesting that many creative people have problems with “stuff.” I don’t consider myself to be in the creative category, but one of my sisters definitely is and her clutter problem is somewhat worse than mine. Just as for Mr. Yourgrau, she feels an emotional attachment to every article of detritus in her home and finds it wrenching to let go. Although she does not feel the need to destroy things, as he does, so that no one else will ever be able to use them.
On a final note, if I ever end up with a landlord again, I am going to steal his nickname for his: The Bubonic Weasel.
First, I felt sympathy. After all, I know what my guest room currently looks like. It has become a dumping ground for unmade decisions and it’s one of my projects for February—get it fit to receive guests once again. It’s very hard in a society such as ours, which pushes consumerism and acquisition as the route to salvation, to keep clutter under control.
Second, I felt just a touch of panic. Could I end up in the same situation as the author? Not wanting to allow people in my house. Not being willing to have maintenance people in to fix malfunctioning plumbing or to paint or repair windows.
Third, I felt anxiety. I couldn’t help it, sometimes it just twisted off the page and wrapped itself around me. The tremendous anxiety that Mr. Yourgrau felt while trying to sort out his life was palpable. As a somewhat anxious person myself, I could identify with this feeling very strongly.
Fourth, I felt relief. I was happy for him that he managed to get his life under his own control again, that he was comfortable to have people in, and that he was enjoying his surroundings. Plus, I went to my paper nightmare and proceeded to purge, sort, and file like a boss and felt some relief of my own.
I find it interesting that many creative people have problems with “stuff.” I don’t consider myself to be in the creative category, but one of my sisters definitely is and her clutter problem is somewhat worse than mine. Just as for Mr. Yourgrau, she feels an emotional attachment to every article of detritus in her home and finds it wrenching to let go. Although she does not feel the need to destroy things, as he does, so that no one else will ever be able to use them.
On a final note, if I ever end up with a landlord again, I am going to steal his nickname for his: The Bubonic Weasel.
February 6, 2016
Ugh. Whiny, self-absorbed New Yorker sponges off of his girlfriend and procrastinates cleaning up his messy apartment. I admit I gave up on this one. I just didn't care about his thoughts and feelings, or about his clutter, or about his reliance on psychobabble over action.
August 10, 2015
This book is trying way too hard to defend the author's lifestyle habits with quasi-intellectual references and illusions to literature/history/romanticized views of why he is....a hoarder. It's not good. I couldn't even finish it even though this is the type of subject matter I'm interested in.
February 6, 2016
By the time I finished this book – skipping through much of the last section – I really didn’t like this Mess or the author.
He is a kept man – intellectual arm-candy with a British accent for a successful woman who feeds him and takes him with her on round-the-world trips. Otherwise Yourgrau sits in his small apartment – not a house – and dabbles at writing and surfing the Web. The apartment is a hand-me-down from his girlfriend who moved into a bigger apartment where he goes for food and entertainment.
At one point his girlfriend, who has a pseudonym in the book, asks him what she is getting out of the relationship. What, indeed.
He is surrounded by stuff – his stuff, his dead parents’ stuff, his girlfriend’s stuff (including a piano) and, amazingly, his girlfriend’s ex-boyfriend’s stuff.
What I think is Yourgrau is a lazy slobbola, not someone with a psychological disorder. The only amazing thing about him is that his mess embarrasses him. The mess in his apartment not the mess in his life. He is oblivious to that.
He cobbles together this book – the other amazing thing is what gets published these days – from research about scholarly writings about packrats, sensational stories about packrats, two visits to a Clutterers Anonymous meeting and a couple of interviews with people who make their living helping people get organized.
There was a passage about what I’m going to call The War on Books. That is becoming a “thing.” Ron, one of the organizers for hire, allowed Yourgrau to come with him on a job. “The client and I were brothers against Ron. I’d heard him and Ron differing about the books on these shelves – about books in general. The client and I were brothers against Ron. ‘I haven’t read a book in fifteen years!’ he’d boasted at the Jackson Diner. Collecting books of ‘value’ (that word again – meaning monetary value) was one thing. But the old paperbacks and such on the shelves here were simply disposophobia, he argued. Though he wasn’t going to twist anyone’s arm.” (Page 137.)
Back to Yourgrau’s mess. He throws or recycles away some stuff – like plastic grocery bags. His girlfriend buys him some super-big plastic storage bins and lets him store those in her apartment building’s basement. Problem solved. Book published.
The saving grace about Mess is that I didn’t buy it. It will go back to the library on my next trip.
To be fair, the man has his fans. From an Amazon review about “The Sadness of Sex,” another book by Yourgrau: “From the man The New York Times Book Review called ‘an uncommon diagnostician of the curiosities of the human heart’ and hailed on NPR (National Public Radio) as ‘the stand-up comedian of the unconscious…’”
Whatever.
He is a kept man – intellectual arm-candy with a British accent for a successful woman who feeds him and takes him with her on round-the-world trips. Otherwise Yourgrau sits in his small apartment – not a house – and dabbles at writing and surfing the Web. The apartment is a hand-me-down from his girlfriend who moved into a bigger apartment where he goes for food and entertainment.
At one point his girlfriend, who has a pseudonym in the book, asks him what she is getting out of the relationship. What, indeed.
He is surrounded by stuff – his stuff, his dead parents’ stuff, his girlfriend’s stuff (including a piano) and, amazingly, his girlfriend’s ex-boyfriend’s stuff.
What I think is Yourgrau is a lazy slobbola, not someone with a psychological disorder. The only amazing thing about him is that his mess embarrasses him. The mess in his apartment not the mess in his life. He is oblivious to that.
He cobbles together this book – the other amazing thing is what gets published these days – from research about scholarly writings about packrats, sensational stories about packrats, two visits to a Clutterers Anonymous meeting and a couple of interviews with people who make their living helping people get organized.
There was a passage about what I’m going to call The War on Books. That is becoming a “thing.” Ron, one of the organizers for hire, allowed Yourgrau to come with him on a job. “The client and I were brothers against Ron. I’d heard him and Ron differing about the books on these shelves – about books in general. The client and I were brothers against Ron. ‘I haven’t read a book in fifteen years!’ he’d boasted at the Jackson Diner. Collecting books of ‘value’ (that word again – meaning monetary value) was one thing. But the old paperbacks and such on the shelves here were simply disposophobia, he argued. Though he wasn’t going to twist anyone’s arm.” (Page 137.)
Back to Yourgrau’s mess. He throws or recycles away some stuff – like plastic grocery bags. His girlfriend buys him some super-big plastic storage bins and lets him store those in her apartment building’s basement. Problem solved. Book published.
The saving grace about Mess is that I didn’t buy it. It will go back to the library on my next trip.
To be fair, the man has his fans. From an Amazon review about “The Sadness of Sex,” another book by Yourgrau: “From the man The New York Times Book Review called ‘an uncommon diagnostician of the curiosities of the human heart’ and hailed on NPR (National Public Radio) as ‘the stand-up comedian of the unconscious…’”
Whatever.
February 7, 2016
I have to be honest: I did not enjoy this book. I wanted to, I really did. But Yourgrau is at his best when engaging with others, and this book is largely about him. His writing is most engaging when others are in the scene; when we, the readers, are alone with him and his thoughts, he becomes harder to tolerate. I wanted to find something likeable in him, but found him frustrating, annoying and sometimes just obnoxious. Admittedly, I am more like his Cosima: I don't understand clutter, hoarding, messes; I can just throw it away. But her patience far exceeds mine, because I found myself almost quitting on this book more than once. I ultimately finished it, but couldn't wait to start my next one.
Edit: It's been a few weeks since I wrote this review, and I will confess I feel a bit like a bully. It's not easy to make ourselves vulnerable, which the author did. So while I'm still not a fan of the book, I respect his willingness to open himself up to exactly this sort of criticism.
Edit: It's been a few weeks since I wrote this review, and I will confess I feel a bit like a bully. It's not easy to make ourselves vulnerable, which the author did. So while I'm still not a fan of the book, I respect his willingness to open himself up to exactly this sort of criticism.
October 26, 2015
I save books. I always save books. I have a lot of books. I don't plan on saving this book.
This is a self-deprecating story that, at times, tries to be poignant. Sometimes, it almost succeeds. It's really a story about trying to tell a story, and I never get the sense he actually got to the point...but he does change his girlfriend's name 3 times.
This is a self-deprecating story that, at times, tries to be poignant. Sometimes, it almost succeeds. It's really a story about trying to tell a story, and I never get the sense he actually got to the point...but he does change his girlfriend's name 3 times.
April 2, 2017
It's hard to even explain how bad this book is. The ramblings of a spoiled, immature person who refuses to accept any facet of his situation. He is enabled by those around him to his continued delight. He constantly is looking for validation of his various mental health issues as if he desperately wants to be labeled with a diagnosis he can trot out as yet another excuse.
March 9, 2018
This is a quirky book, from an admittedly quirky author. It’s about Barry Yourgrau's attempt to clean up his apartment. He isn't sure if he's a hoarder or not, he likes to think he's just a messy collector, but when his girlfriend comes to visit and can't get into the door because of all the stuff, well something has to be done. So begins The Project. Yourgrau has a tendency to desperately try connecting himself to almost anything, which is an unnecessary part of the narrative. Like the Collyer brothers, famous hoarders that lived in New York City until their demise in 1947. And there are more fleeting aspects than they both live in New York.
The girlfriend's name changes several times throughout the book, and her mother's as well near the end. It's just a distraction. There are bits of extraneous information everywhere. Most of the parts with the girlfriend aren’t necessary to the story, but if you think of the book as a memoir, then it works better. Yourgrau early on talks about how distracted he gets, so this extra fluff is really part of who he is ultimately.
Yourgrau visits therapists and support groups, like Clutterers Anonymous and investigates other places of hoarders and the people who help them clear their stuff. Of course the television shows of hoarders are mentioned, how could it not? Yourgrau is particularly bent on comparing his problem of stuff with others, often pictures are mentioned but none are provided in the book. Yourgrau definitely has emotional issues tied to his things, and most particularly Father issues, which is explored in the book, as part of The Project.
Overall it is very readable, and interesting to a degree. The writing style and approach is cutesy and a can be annoying at times. Near the end the point of view changes, jarring, unnecessary, but I suppose adds to the quirky distracting nature of the overall book. This is not a book to read to try to fix your own problem, no, it's more just one man's tale of what his experience with his stuff and his life, or how his life affected him to accumulate stuff. And how he de-cluttered, cleaned up. The subtitle really does explain what the book is about. If you want a book to help you declutter your life look elsewhere, but if you're fascinated by the topic this is a good enough read.
One of the most poignant quotes gleaned from the book, a quote from someone else, Susan Pearce an "expert on collecting", she said: "Souvenirs are lost youth, lost friends, lost past happiness; they are the tears of things."
Book rating: 3.5 stars
Update - May 3, 2017: I received a free copy of this book from the publisher. I was not required to write a review, but felt like it and, of course, the above opinions are my own.
The girlfriend's name changes several times throughout the book, and her mother's as well near the end. It's just a distraction. There are bits of extraneous information everywhere. Most of the parts with the girlfriend aren’t necessary to the story, but if you think of the book as a memoir, then it works better. Yourgrau early on talks about how distracted he gets, so this extra fluff is really part of who he is ultimately.
Yourgrau visits therapists and support groups, like Clutterers Anonymous and investigates other places of hoarders and the people who help them clear their stuff. Of course the television shows of hoarders are mentioned, how could it not? Yourgrau is particularly bent on comparing his problem of stuff with others, often pictures are mentioned but none are provided in the book. Yourgrau definitely has emotional issues tied to his things, and most particularly Father issues, which is explored in the book, as part of The Project.
Overall it is very readable, and interesting to a degree. The writing style and approach is cutesy and a can be annoying at times. Near the end the point of view changes, jarring, unnecessary, but I suppose adds to the quirky distracting nature of the overall book. This is not a book to read to try to fix your own problem, no, it's more just one man's tale of what his experience with his stuff and his life, or how his life affected him to accumulate stuff. And how he de-cluttered, cleaned up. The subtitle really does explain what the book is about. If you want a book to help you declutter your life look elsewhere, but if you're fascinated by the topic this is a good enough read.
One of the most poignant quotes gleaned from the book, a quote from someone else, Susan Pearce an "expert on collecting", she said: "Souvenirs are lost youth, lost friends, lost past happiness; they are the tears of things."
Book rating: 3.5 stars
Update - May 3, 2017: I received a free copy of this book from the publisher. I was not required to write a review, but felt like it and, of course, the above opinions are my own.
September 13, 2015
I'm conflicted about this book. On the one hand I think the more stories we have about mental disorders, the better equipped we are to blast apart stereotypes and stigma about those illnesses. I have no doubt that someone will recognize themselves in this book, and perhaps be moved to begin the tough job of healing. If so, this book has done a service to those who are often disenfranchised and isolated, and should be commended.
That said, this was not a book I particularly enjoyed. It could have been far more concise - the author spent a great deal of the book telling the reader what he was going to do, rather than actually telling us the story of him doing it - and his urge to paint his condition as a product of his creativity, his cultural sensitivity, his appreciation of art . . . ugh.
Still, there were some genuinely moving moments, such as when the author finally confronts his father's books. I wish there had been more of that honesty in the book, and fewer attempts to look at the problem, in retrospect, as one of a too-cultured mind.
That said, this was not a book I particularly enjoyed. It could have been far more concise - the author spent a great deal of the book telling the reader what he was going to do, rather than actually telling us the story of him doing it - and his urge to paint his condition as a product of his creativity, his cultural sensitivity, his appreciation of art . . . ugh.
Still, there were some genuinely moving moments, such as when the author finally confronts his father's books. I wish there had been more of that honesty in the book, and fewer attempts to look at the problem, in retrospect, as one of a too-cultured mind.
October 19, 2019
This is another book I thought was well-written but by a fairly loathsome author. Honestly, my biggest question throughout was why the hell his girlfriend stayed with him.
Hoarding caused by early loss, depression, anxiety - whatever the root cause he seemed remarkably resistant to owning up to what a slacker he is. While she funds his extravagant dining and world-traveling, he spends his time philosophizing about the dust and surfing the net. And then getting angry with her for not being happy about that! I’d have left him in his mess a long time ago.
Hoarding caused by early loss, depression, anxiety - whatever the root cause he seemed remarkably resistant to owning up to what a slacker he is. While she funds his extravagant dining and world-traveling, he spends his time philosophizing about the dust and surfing the net. And then getting angry with her for not being happy about that! I’d have left him in his mess a long time ago.
July 14, 2015
Catalyzed by the shame and ‘hypersensitive intimacy” of his girlfriend seeing all the crap he’s living amid, Yourgrau begins to slowly dig himself out. The process, while quite honest, is fairly mundane; less an Updikean excavation than it is simply making a decision to make decisions. Unfortunately the author’s grandiosity streak is a bit much. He decides to “chronicle” his ordeal, to “descend into the existential bowels of my beleaguered self” and “be a questing pilgrim slob, on a twelve-stations-of-the-Cross trail of transformation.” Yourgrau also has the ability to wax about his pathology ad nauseam; four closets are “…stuffed to the gills, in good part with the unworn, the broken. Crummy mini-caves of an anti-Ali Baba.” Really, he’s just some dude who can’t get rid of certain things. He learns that it has to do with his past wounds and hurts; that one’s emotions can form attachments to things and make them part of the hoarder’s identity. The root is when he dropped a repurposed bottle his mom gave him when he was a kid. It’s an accessible book, just boring. Yourgrau might be interesting to sit next to at a clambake, but his narrative is simply wearisome. Soon, you’ll just want him to stop: Wah wah wah, clean up your crap. He’ll feel elated after pitching a “chewed-up trolley” or an office chair, then spend an hour picking out a goddamn screensaver. Perhaps if the crap he was deciding on was different, but this is old suitcases, broken laptops, ancient typewriters. VERDICT It’s easy to overlook the author’s good writing when we’re too busy judging him on his time-management skills.
Find reviews of books for men at Books for Dudes, Books for Dudes, the online reader's advisory column for men from Library Journal. Copyright Library Journal.
Find reviews of books for men at Books for Dudes, Books for Dudes, the online reader's advisory column for men from Library Journal. Copyright Library Journal.
August 14, 2015
I'm just starting the audiobook but already not sure about this reader who, by his tones and diction and pacing, simply sounds too organized and 'together'....
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I'm going to stop listening at 25%. I retract my accusation that the audiobook reader sounded too disciplined - I guess I thought the book was about a "messy" guy and so I expected more rough edges in voice and approach. But the book is actually about OCD and one man's psychological reasons for clutter, so a crisp, clipped diction is not inappropriate. I just didn't become terribly interested in his particular life-story and was looking for excuses to do something other than listen to him when I went for my run and dog-walks. It was time to move on.
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I'm going to stop listening at 25%. I retract my accusation that the audiobook reader sounded too disciplined - I guess I thought the book was about a "messy" guy and so I expected more rough edges in voice and approach. But the book is actually about OCD and one man's psychological reasons for clutter, so a crisp, clipped diction is not inappropriate. I just didn't become terribly interested in his particular life-story and was looking for excuses to do something other than listen to him when I went for my run and dog-walks. It was time to move on.
November 12, 2019
Too much struggle and not enough cleaning. I haven't mastered the clutter in my home, so I'm not judging the author's messiness—just the way he has written about it. Actually, now that I think about it, maybe the inertia he evoked so accurately mirrors my own situation that that's what made me uncomfortable? Or...maybe not. He could have cost out several chapters in the middle and brought us to the (happy?) ending much more expeditiously.
October 4, 2015
I don't think the author is quite as funny and clever as he thinks he is. But then, I was never sure how often he was in on the joke.
Take all the times he mentions some remarkable coincidence he discovers while he's procrastinating from decluttering by surfing the internet, and these barely qualify as coincidences, like discovering someone lived in Berlin while his father also lived in Berlin: he does mention once that his partner is unimpressed with these, but I'm not sure if he's acknowledging that they're unimpressive or whining about how unperceptive and uninteresting his partner is for not being interested.
He mentions several times different people who think that hoarders are "special", that they're somehow more in touch with the physical world than the rest of us. Does he really think this, or is he laughing about it?
Since the author starts out by saying he isn't really a hoarder, just a collector/clutterer, which is exactly the opening scene of every episode of Hoarders ever, I kept expecting him to have some realization--but no, he stays in denial the whole time, and is always looking for people to validate him. Whenever he finds out someone else has a clutter problem (long dead famous author, cleanup expert, Roy Rogers, etc) he also seems to find that somehow validating. And his desperation to prove that the Collyer brothers weren't REALLY hoarders is just sad. Actually I was left thinking that maybe he doesn't think hoarding is real at all, just an acceptable lifestyle variation. It often seems like he doesn't think he has a problem at all; it's his partner who thinks he has a problem.
After he had already done a lot of work, supposedly, someone comes to his home and suggests he throw away just one of many disposable shoe-polish sticks he's brought home from hotels and he says he's UNABLE TO DO IT. How can anyone acknowledge that and not see it as a serious problem?
And as the book is ending, the author says casually, with a tone of amusement, that he still continues to bring home garbage from his international travels: receipts, brochures, used train tickets. What the hell? Get a new therapist, and Cosima, aim higher.
Take all the times he mentions some remarkable coincidence he discovers while he's procrastinating from decluttering by surfing the internet, and these barely qualify as coincidences, like discovering someone lived in Berlin while his father also lived in Berlin: he does mention once that his partner is unimpressed with these, but I'm not sure if he's acknowledging that they're unimpressive or whining about how unperceptive and uninteresting his partner is for not being interested.
He mentions several times different people who think that hoarders are "special", that they're somehow more in touch with the physical world than the rest of us. Does he really think this, or is he laughing about it?
Since the author starts out by saying he isn't really a hoarder, just a collector/clutterer, which is exactly the opening scene of every episode of Hoarders ever, I kept expecting him to have some realization--but no, he stays in denial the whole time, and is always looking for people to validate him. Whenever he finds out someone else has a clutter problem (long dead famous author, cleanup expert, Roy Rogers, etc) he also seems to find that somehow validating. And his desperation to prove that the Collyer brothers weren't REALLY hoarders is just sad. Actually I was left thinking that maybe he doesn't think hoarding is real at all, just an acceptable lifestyle variation. It often seems like he doesn't think he has a problem at all; it's his partner who thinks he has a problem.
After he had already done a lot of work, supposedly, someone comes to his home and suggests he throw away just one of many disposable shoe-polish sticks he's brought home from hotels and he says he's UNABLE TO DO IT. How can anyone acknowledge that and not see it as a serious problem?
And as the book is ending, the author says casually, with a tone of amusement, that he still continues to bring home garbage from his international travels: receipts, brochures, used train tickets. What the hell? Get a new therapist, and Cosima, aim higher.
August 1, 2016
In this memoir a hoarder systematically works to discover all he can about the source of his affliction, and the book makes for some interesting reading. The author tells his story via a number of sidetracks: visits to homes of pathological hoarders, sessions on various psychiatrists’ couches, and interviews with hoarder counselors who work to free their clients from odious treasures of trash. The reader becomes a voyeur, peeking into the lives of those tortured souls who simply cannot let go of their stuff. But there is also a good deal of thoughtful writing here.
In a jokey, self-deprecating voice Barry Youngrau presents himself as a struggler against moderate hoarding tendencies (deemed so by a self-administered personality test) that are interfering with his life, causing him considerable anxiety and fear. In order to hold onto the woman he loves, the lively, sensible, and talented Cosima, he becomes determined to beat his obsession. The reader can truly sympathize with his dilemma and feel the angst associated with indecisiveness and hoarding (I trust many of us tend to have “collections” of seemingly valueless objects ourselves). What keeps this book animated are the characters: the author, his girlfriend, the girlfriend’s wise-cracking mother, the various hoarders, counselors, therapists and other colorful personalities the author encounters on his journey to get to the bottom of his hoarding.
Though it bogged down in the middle with a discussion of various off-beat psychotherapies, I enjoyed Mess. It is the story of a true human struggle (hoarding has been associated with OCD, PTSD, and various other maladies) and could potentially offer insight to any reader dealing with their own hoarding tendencies or those of loved ones. Plus, it’s an entertaining read. 3.5 would be a more accurate Goodreads rating.
In a jokey, self-deprecating voice Barry Youngrau presents himself as a struggler against moderate hoarding tendencies (deemed so by a self-administered personality test) that are interfering with his life, causing him considerable anxiety and fear. In order to hold onto the woman he loves, the lively, sensible, and talented Cosima, he becomes determined to beat his obsession. The reader can truly sympathize with his dilemma and feel the angst associated with indecisiveness and hoarding (I trust many of us tend to have “collections” of seemingly valueless objects ourselves). What keeps this book animated are the characters: the author, his girlfriend, the girlfriend’s wise-cracking mother, the various hoarders, counselors, therapists and other colorful personalities the author encounters on his journey to get to the bottom of his hoarding.
Though it bogged down in the middle with a discussion of various off-beat psychotherapies, I enjoyed Mess. It is the story of a true human struggle (hoarding has been associated with OCD, PTSD, and various other maladies) and could potentially offer insight to any reader dealing with their own hoarding tendencies or those of loved ones. Plus, it’s an entertaining read. 3.5 would be a more accurate Goodreads rating.
February 19, 2016
I LOVE shows like Hoarders and I've read other books about hoarding that were really good, so I was excited to read this one. Barry Yourgrau realizes he has a problem when his long-time girlfriend locks herself out and shows up at his house - but he won't let her inside and she hasn't been inside for over 5 years because of his clutter/hoarding. After that she gives him an ultimatum about cleaning up, which he recounts in this book. Reading this book must be what it feels like to be inside a hoarders mind because it was kind of all over the place and he is CONSTANTLY getting derailed anytime he attempts to clean. But, after 2 years he finally has his place cleaned up and can finally have people over again.
I found Yourgrau VERY hard to relate to - I'm not a hoarder, but he seemed very neurotic and scattered. I'm glad he finally got motivated to clean up, but the book was very slow and meandering. I didn't love it. I'd recommend Coming Clean by Kimberly Miller or Stuff by Randy Frost as much better books about hoarding - or just watch the TV show Hoarders.
I found Yourgrau VERY hard to relate to - I'm not a hoarder, but he seemed very neurotic and scattered. I'm glad he finally got motivated to clean up, but the book was very slow and meandering. I didn't love it. I'd recommend Coming Clean by Kimberly Miller or Stuff by Randy Frost as much better books about hoarding - or just watch the TV show Hoarders.
March 27, 2018
I'm not a hoarder, but I definitely have clutter in my house. Barry Yourgrau tells his story about exploring what category he falls in (hoarder? clutterer? just messy?), figuring out why, and trying to fix it. His writing is witty, and he tells a good story, but it's a touch disorganized (see what I did there?) as it goes from one thought to the next. It does come around nicely in the end. I liked reading his thoughts, I just struggled to relate to them sometimes. I wouldn't have any trouble throwing out the 2011 calendars or the napkins from famous hotels, but I'm scared to think what I myself am still holding on to. I will say that in the course of reading this book I have quite a bit around the house that I'm eyeing for the trash or goodwill.
August 29, 2015
A terrific and unique memoir on hoarding, though in fairness Yourgrau is more a self-described "clutterbug," than a full-fledged hoarder. The author's humor and sentiment shines throughout, bolstered by his thorough research into the psychology and history of hoarding. Though personally I'm a neat freak, I enjoyed every moment of the book, and identified strongly with his struggles. "Mess" is really moving, smart, and funny, recommended for everyone who's ever had to wrestle with "keep" and "toss" piles.
June 12, 2017
A revealing, frequently amusing, sometimes touching, absorbing look at one man's struggle to free himself from his penchant for hoarding while also examining the psychology and culture of hoarders.
August 20, 2022
You would think that Barry Yourgrau’s Mess: One Man’s Struggle to Clean Up His House and His Act, what one reviewer called “an autobiography by way of neurosis,” would have made me feel better about my own “minor” problem with “clutter.” Unfortunately (but hoping to turn that into “Fortunately,”), his story hit me as more of a cautionary tale. Like me, he may not have had “goat trails,” those Byzantine labyrinths of precarious piles that have to be navigated almost as carefully as a surgeon probing into a delicate organ, but he had similar problems cutting his psychological connections with objects. He couldn’t let go of boxes, shopping bags, hotel stationary, beer coasters, or notebooks in which he had never written.
[Confession: I put all this personal stuff in bold type so you can skip it if you don’t care and just want to learn about the book. My problem is a walk-in closet of games which, even in retirement, I may never play. Unpainted miniatures that I can’t afford (either in time or cash) to finish collecting, painting, and mounting for rule sets that no one plays anymore; hundreds of extra handouts from classes I’ll never teach again; old church bulletins with worship ideas that I wanted to keep but don’t know where they are filed; paperback novels that I’ll never read again but keep around in case I ever need that one quotation I underlined; and programming books with outdated code that I’ll never use but think might have the answer to a future problem as improbable as that would be, are all indicators that I have a problem I don’t want to face. Throwing stuff away is like going to a funeral.]
Early on, Yourgrau refers to Dante’s relegation of hoarders to the fourth circle of hell (p. 9). That may be a more existentialist version of hell than he realizes. Instead of Sartre’s “Hell is—other people!” it would be “Hell is—indecision.” You see, he hits on our problem with two insights which I cannot possibly refute: 1) people like us feel a psychological connection to objects” and 2) people like us keep things because we can’t decide what to do with them. That latter means indecision. Every person who has ever looked at a junk mail solicitation for services you don’t actually need at the time and worried over whether to toss the flyer because you “might need it someday,” Mess: One Man’s Struggle to Clean Up His House and His Act will resonate with more deep vibrations than a gong in a Buddhist monastery.
And if you want a few tantalizing literary references, this book has them, too. For example, Krook the hoarder in Dickens’ Bleak House (p. 94) and a hapless character in Gogol’s Dead Souls (p. 95) are cited during one digression. My favorite was probably his invocation of a famous character from stage and film when he describes an argument with his girlfriend: “Gee, I don’t know, Martha-from-Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf, …” (p. 144). I also liked his description of another hoarder. “He was tethered to an oxygen tank and leaned on a cane, even while seated. He was portly and bald, and made me think of the Caterpillar from Alice in Wonderland reimagined by William Burroughs--…” (p. 135).
The power of objects is eloquently described when Yourgrau writes: “Objects become the genius of their affiliations—invasive spell-casters. … even friends’ artworks I stacked in a closet. So they couldn’t impact me with their vibes, their connections.” (p. 29). [Confession:I have the opposite problem. It’s because of the connections that I want to keep them around: my grandpa’s hat that doesn’t fit me, my father’s coffee cup and ties (that at least I use), my notes for books I’ll never finish or that will never be worth publishing, programs from plays, concerts, or church services, the cassette tape of my grandma’s audio letter from decades ago that barely plays, or the Bible with my least favorite English translation that my grandmother gave me.] So, I really understood what he described the rationale for keeping postcards as being “…like bonsai-scale memory orgasms, forever delayed?” (p. 60) Unfortunately, those who don’t go through their travel photographs after a trip are in essentially the same boat.
For me, it seemed like the author’s distinction between collectors and hoarders (although sometimes overlapping) made solid sense. Collectors, he observes, “…engage with their acquisitions—handling them, admiring them, researching their histories. They will let go of something to acquire another that better serves the theme, and needs, of their collection.” (p. 196) He goes on to say, “Hoarders amass, without sharp selectivity. They have no compunction about owning multiples of the same thing, as opposed to unique items to complete a set. They don’t take public pride in what they have, are generally burdened and shamed.” (p. 196) In a later anecdote, we discover that Sigmund Freud was a “collector,” not a “hoarder,” since “He traded for pieces.” (p. 214)
If I ever knew, I had forgotten that both art historian Simon Schama and anthropologist Mary Douglas had seen housecleaning/housekeeping as a morality tale in keeping with Calvinist puritanism. (pp. 164-165). The expunging of dirt and disorder was akin to purging the soul of sin. Of course, Yourgrau also touched on the Nazi hygiene philosophy where “dirt was intertwined with ‘racial impurity.’” (p. 220)
Also, having recently read Stuff: Compulsive Hoarding and the Meaning of Things, it was fascinating to see this author interact with Randy Frost, the author of the earlier book (pp. 184-192). Not that he really got anything out of his interview except an interesting experience! However, it was only slightly more than a dozen pages before a case study of Richard Wallace, an extreme compulsive hoarder in the U.K., who had lived all his life in the same bungalow (p. 201). Of course, this was a perfect counter-example ironically undercutting the part of the interview with Frost where he said most hoarders seemed to be people who had moved around a lot as a child. Perhaps, the most illuminating thing about Richard Wallace was his obsession with broken things. As Yourgrau notes: “Richard’s busted objects functioned as embodiments of his intentions. They operated in the realm of symbols—not just never used, but effectively beyond use.” (p. 223) An English researcher offered Yourgrau an intriguing statistic, telling him, “an estimated 30 percent of adults in the U.K. were collectors of some kind, whereas only 2 percent met the strict diagnostic requirements for hoarding disorder.” (p. 218)
Late in the book, the author finally deals with his “boxes,” the ones in which he has stored, but kept taped and hidden because they were relics of his father. It touched me emotionally when he wrote: “…it dawned on me that I’d buried his things away not just to keep his presence at bay, but because I couldn’t bear that he’d died. I wanted to hang on to him. I couldn’t let me father go.” (p. 249) As I noted earlier, that’s not my experience. I keep my ancestral relics close at hand. But I deeply felt what he was saying.
At the end, it seems that he finally achieved some balance in his life and with his stuff because of the help of his girlfriend (and her mother). There weren’t many evident tips and only a few insights in Mess: One Man’s Struggle to Clean Up His House and His Act, but it was entertaining and it touched on a few things that have and will help me. I also suggest that you read Frost’s Stuff: Compulsive Hoarding and the Meaning of Things before reading this. Frost’s book is more helpful but this one is a nice follow-up prod in the right direction.
[Confession: I put all this personal stuff in bold type so you can skip it if you don’t care and just want to learn about the book. My problem is a walk-in closet of games which, even in retirement, I may never play. Unpainted miniatures that I can’t afford (either in time or cash) to finish collecting, painting, and mounting for rule sets that no one plays anymore; hundreds of extra handouts from classes I’ll never teach again; old church bulletins with worship ideas that I wanted to keep but don’t know where they are filed; paperback novels that I’ll never read again but keep around in case I ever need that one quotation I underlined; and programming books with outdated code that I’ll never use but think might have the answer to a future problem as improbable as that would be, are all indicators that I have a problem I don’t want to face. Throwing stuff away is like going to a funeral.]
Early on, Yourgrau refers to Dante’s relegation of hoarders to the fourth circle of hell (p. 9). That may be a more existentialist version of hell than he realizes. Instead of Sartre’s “Hell is—other people!” it would be “Hell is—indecision.” You see, he hits on our problem with two insights which I cannot possibly refute: 1) people like us feel a psychological connection to objects” and 2) people like us keep things because we can’t decide what to do with them. That latter means indecision. Every person who has ever looked at a junk mail solicitation for services you don’t actually need at the time and worried over whether to toss the flyer because you “might need it someday,” Mess: One Man’s Struggle to Clean Up His House and His Act will resonate with more deep vibrations than a gong in a Buddhist monastery.
And if you want a few tantalizing literary references, this book has them, too. For example, Krook the hoarder in Dickens’ Bleak House (p. 94) and a hapless character in Gogol’s Dead Souls (p. 95) are cited during one digression. My favorite was probably his invocation of a famous character from stage and film when he describes an argument with his girlfriend: “Gee, I don’t know, Martha-from-Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf, …” (p. 144). I also liked his description of another hoarder. “He was tethered to an oxygen tank and leaned on a cane, even while seated. He was portly and bald, and made me think of the Caterpillar from Alice in Wonderland reimagined by William Burroughs--…” (p. 135).
The power of objects is eloquently described when Yourgrau writes: “Objects become the genius of their affiliations—invasive spell-casters. … even friends’ artworks I stacked in a closet. So they couldn’t impact me with their vibes, their connections.” (p. 29). [Confession:I have the opposite problem. It’s because of the connections that I want to keep them around: my grandpa’s hat that doesn’t fit me, my father’s coffee cup and ties (that at least I use), my notes for books I’ll never finish or that will never be worth publishing, programs from plays, concerts, or church services, the cassette tape of my grandma’s audio letter from decades ago that barely plays, or the Bible with my least favorite English translation that my grandmother gave me.] So, I really understood what he described the rationale for keeping postcards as being “…like bonsai-scale memory orgasms, forever delayed?” (p. 60) Unfortunately, those who don’t go through their travel photographs after a trip are in essentially the same boat.
For me, it seemed like the author’s distinction between collectors and hoarders (although sometimes overlapping) made solid sense. Collectors, he observes, “…engage with their acquisitions—handling them, admiring them, researching their histories. They will let go of something to acquire another that better serves the theme, and needs, of their collection.” (p. 196) He goes on to say, “Hoarders amass, without sharp selectivity. They have no compunction about owning multiples of the same thing, as opposed to unique items to complete a set. They don’t take public pride in what they have, are generally burdened and shamed.” (p. 196) In a later anecdote, we discover that Sigmund Freud was a “collector,” not a “hoarder,” since “He traded for pieces.” (p. 214)
If I ever knew, I had forgotten that both art historian Simon Schama and anthropologist Mary Douglas had seen housecleaning/housekeeping as a morality tale in keeping with Calvinist puritanism. (pp. 164-165). The expunging of dirt and disorder was akin to purging the soul of sin. Of course, Yourgrau also touched on the Nazi hygiene philosophy where “dirt was intertwined with ‘racial impurity.’” (p. 220)
Also, having recently read Stuff: Compulsive Hoarding and the Meaning of Things, it was fascinating to see this author interact with Randy Frost, the author of the earlier book (pp. 184-192). Not that he really got anything out of his interview except an interesting experience! However, it was only slightly more than a dozen pages before a case study of Richard Wallace, an extreme compulsive hoarder in the U.K., who had lived all his life in the same bungalow (p. 201). Of course, this was a perfect counter-example ironically undercutting the part of the interview with Frost where he said most hoarders seemed to be people who had moved around a lot as a child. Perhaps, the most illuminating thing about Richard Wallace was his obsession with broken things. As Yourgrau notes: “Richard’s busted objects functioned as embodiments of his intentions. They operated in the realm of symbols—not just never used, but effectively beyond use.” (p. 223) An English researcher offered Yourgrau an intriguing statistic, telling him, “an estimated 30 percent of adults in the U.K. were collectors of some kind, whereas only 2 percent met the strict diagnostic requirements for hoarding disorder.” (p. 218)
Late in the book, the author finally deals with his “boxes,” the ones in which he has stored, but kept taped and hidden because they were relics of his father. It touched me emotionally when he wrote: “…it dawned on me that I’d buried his things away not just to keep his presence at bay, but because I couldn’t bear that he’d died. I wanted to hang on to him. I couldn’t let me father go.” (p. 249) As I noted earlier, that’s not my experience. I keep my ancestral relics close at hand. But I deeply felt what he was saying.
At the end, it seems that he finally achieved some balance in his life and with his stuff because of the help of his girlfriend (and her mother). There weren’t many evident tips and only a few insights in Mess: One Man’s Struggle to Clean Up His House and His Act, but it was entertaining and it touched on a few things that have and will help me. I also suggest that you read Frost’s Stuff: Compulsive Hoarding and the Meaning of Things before reading this. Frost’s book is more helpful but this one is a nice follow-up prod in the right direction.
October 4, 2015
"Mess: One Man's Struggle To Clean Up His House and His Act" author Barry Yourgrau related the prompting of his girlfriend who chided him by saying he was the only male person she knew who collected hotel shopping bags, and gave him an ultimatum to clean up his 700 sq. ft. apartment or else! Yourgrau tells his story in an engaging comical way while exploring the more serious side of the new DSM classification of the "Hoarding Disorder."
Knowing he would need assistance, he sought advice and interviewed the professionals. "Dave the De-clutter" was too judgmental: "hoarders are all kooks!" he declared. Yourgrau attended self-help meetings with fellow hoarders, and sought the helpful counsel of popular cleaning expert Ron Alford: who coined the impressive term "disposophobia". Alford never used the term hoarding, instead felt that the inability to let go of possessions was tied to emotional trauma that triggered symptoms related to fear and anxiety. He referred to his work with clients as a "Life Transition" instead of clearing out and cleaning up.
More painful memories are held in objects and not fully explored or considered. Yourgrau related Jane Graves " The Secret Lives of Objects" (2009) and recalled his own family history: his mother's painful death from cancer, his father's name change at age 30 from Heinrich Federman to Wolfgang Yourgrau in 1938. Having a twin brother, Yourgrau was able to connect with him and other members of his family on a more meaningful level, and eventually to a healthier and less cluttered lifestyle.
Knowing he would need assistance, he sought advice and interviewed the professionals. "Dave the De-clutter" was too judgmental: "hoarders are all kooks!" he declared. Yourgrau attended self-help meetings with fellow hoarders, and sought the helpful counsel of popular cleaning expert Ron Alford: who coined the impressive term "disposophobia". Alford never used the term hoarding, instead felt that the inability to let go of possessions was tied to emotional trauma that triggered symptoms related to fear and anxiety. He referred to his work with clients as a "Life Transition" instead of clearing out and cleaning up.
More painful memories are held in objects and not fully explored or considered. Yourgrau related Jane Graves " The Secret Lives of Objects" (2009) and recalled his own family history: his mother's painful death from cancer, his father's name change at age 30 from Heinrich Federman to Wolfgang Yourgrau in 1938. Having a twin brother, Yourgrau was able to connect with him and other members of his family on a more meaningful level, and eventually to a healthier and less cluttered lifestyle.
November 18, 2015
I like this book. It mentioned Poe & Baudelaire & Walter Benjamin. Walter Benjamin had a hoard of 2,000 books--excuse me--a library. Balzac was a glutton, and hoarder characters are in Gogol's Dead Souls and Bleak House. Krook dies of spontaneous combustion. Famous real life hoarders were Collyer Brothers. NY Fire Dept code for hoarder houses is Collyer Mansion. Author's GF is named Cosima, a foodie writer. His therapist is Lacanian, not Freudian, but is that a good thing? Can she really help with his condition, of which he doesn't so much want to be cured, as just to clear out the clutter in his apartment so his girlfriend doesn't dump him and he can have her and her mother over for dinner. She has issued an ultimatum. Clean up your apartment, and your act, or it's good-bye, Charlie. Or Barry. This book was interesting and brave, and I cringed with recognition, or sometimes told myself 'At least I am not that bad.' I do need to clean up my act and my house, but like the author, I tend to analyze the problem and read books about it, rather than just roll up my sleeves and jump in. Intellectual procrastination, when what I should be doing, is like Hercules, clean the Augean stables in a single day, even if I have to re-route the rivers Alpheus and Peneus through it in order to do it.
October 2, 2015
***I received this book for free as part of Goodreads First Reads Program***
I really enjoyed delving into the psychosis of hoarding along with Barry Yourgrau as he tackled his "Project".
When Barry realizes that not allowing his long-time girlfriend Cosima/Medea/Prunella into his apartment because of his "Mess" is a problem, he decides to clean it up. This clean-up morphs into a "Project", which as an intellectual and an author, he can't help but research and write about (and delay actually cleaning).
Along the way, he attends a 12-Step type program for hoarders, researches hoarding and famous early hoarders, travels to Europe to consult, and has a whole lot of trouble throwing away his paper and plastic bags, travel memorabilia and a lot of other useless junk. (Oh yeah, he eventually gets things cleaned up). Not least of all, he examines the connection his relationship with his father has to his hoarding, and lets some of that animosity go as well.
Barry Yourgrau has a very amusing writing style (and reminded me of my own Dad, to tell the truth). I really enjoyed it and would recommend it to anyone interested in the subject.
I really enjoyed delving into the psychosis of hoarding along with Barry Yourgrau as he tackled his "Project".
When Barry realizes that not allowing his long-time girlfriend Cosima/Medea/Prunella into his apartment because of his "Mess" is a problem, he decides to clean it up. This clean-up morphs into a "Project", which as an intellectual and an author, he can't help but research and write about (and delay actually cleaning).
Along the way, he attends a 12-Step type program for hoarders, researches hoarding and famous early hoarders, travels to Europe to consult, and has a whole lot of trouble throwing away his paper and plastic bags, travel memorabilia and a lot of other useless junk. (Oh yeah, he eventually gets things cleaned up). Not least of all, he examines the connection his relationship with his father has to his hoarding, and lets some of that animosity go as well.
Barry Yourgrau has a very amusing writing style (and reminded me of my own Dad, to tell the truth). I really enjoyed it and would recommend it to anyone interested in the subject.
January 10, 2020
What a whiny, annoying, navel gazing book (and author)! While some of the tid-bits that I gleaned about hoarding were interesting, the rest of this memoir was just boring and irritating. Barry was insufferable, came across as an ungrateful moocher, and was one of the most obnoxious people I've ever read about. I'm also not sure why this was made into a book, nothing revelatory, new, or interesting is really being said here, and it ended up feeling like all the interesting bits were from the sources that he gathered during his "research", which consisted of a lot of Googling. The subtitle of this memoir is also misleading "One Man's Struggle to Clean up His House and His Act". We barely get any of his process for cleaning up his cluttered apartment, and I'm not sure how much of the author's "act" was really altered. The subtitle also has an inspirational quality to it, that is not reflected throughout the book. In the end, I was left wondering what the point of this memoir even being written was, besides being narcissistic catharsis for the author.
April 7, 2018
I am quite interested in this topic and was initially rooting for the author, but by the time I was halfway through I disliked him so much I didn't care anymore. When Mr. Yourgrau isn't sponging off of his girlfriend or family he spends his time rationalizing his behaviors, whining, or casually dropping obscure literary references in an attempt to show us how smart he is. I was constantly surprised that the author would be ashamed of his physical mess, but not the bigger mess that was his life. I realize they are related, but to be obsessed with one and oblivious to the other confounded me. And I didn't quite understand how he was hopeless for 90% of the book, and then the problem was (more or less) solved - I didn't see the moment of change. The book had its moments (the reason for the second star) but they were too few and far between to be worth the time it took to read it. Give it a pass.
April 12, 2016
Meh. I thought it would be interesting to read about the personal struggle of someone with a hoarding, or at least a clutter problem. In truth this reads more like a memoir, chronicling both his efforts to clean up his flat over the course of two years and the psychological meanderings he goes through as he tries to unearth the root cause of his behavior. We learn a lot about his family, his foibles, his life choices and the things that eat at him. Unfortunately I didn't care very much. He sprinkles this narrative with research into famous hoarders and interviews with some of these, as well as scientists and organizational coaches who can offer their opinions on the behavior, but these are all included in a haphazard and disorganized fashion. Just not as compelling as I was hoping.
September 28, 2015
A funny and poignant look at hoarding,(although he never admits to more than a clutter problem). Also sums up the history of the research on the psychology of hoarding. The thing that I found absolutely fascinating was his inability to let anyone else use anything he managed to get rid of! I too frequently find myself thinking "Someone could use this!" when wanting to dispose of things. If I can find a place for them to go, I'm fine. Barry, on the other hand, destroyed things so they couldn't be re-used: cutting up clothing, for instance. He even had to destroy his collection of boxes he was saving so no one else could use them.
The changing pseudonyms for his girlfriend and her mother and hilarious. A really funny book.
The changing pseudonyms for his girlfriend and her mother and hilarious. A really funny book.
September 24, 2015
The book is both a memoir and research project on the history of hoarding. At first the author's procrastination was annoying, then his style grew on me and I enjoyed the ride. Is hoarding a medical condition, a mental syndrome? Can it be "cured" with medication or cognitive behavior therapy? These are all subjects the author researches in depth.
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