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Why Did I Ever
After a ten-year silence, Mary Robison has emerged with a novel so beguiling and funny that it has brought critics and her live-reading audiences to their feet. Why Did I Ever takes us along on the darkest of private journeys. The story, told by a woman named Money Breton, is submitted like a furious and persuasive diary—a tale as fierce and taut as its fictional teller.
224 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2001
196 people are currently reading
6215 people want to read
About the author
Mary Robison
26 books114 followersMary Robison is an American short story writer and novelist. She has published four collections of stories, and four novels, including her 2001 novel Why Did I Ever, winner of the 2001 Los Angeles Times Book Prize for fiction. Her most recent novel, released in 2009, is One D.O.A., One on the Way. She has been categorized as a founding "minimalist" writer along with authors such as Amy Hempel, Frederick Barthelme, and Raymond Carver. In 2009, she won the Rea Award for the Short Story.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 299 reviews
December 13, 2012
This is not like reading Alfred Lord Tennyson, but neither is it like inhaling from a bag of glue.
May 3, 2021
This is not my usual cup of tea. But then again, I don't drink tea so I really ought to say this is not my usual cup. But then again, a cup is topologically equivalent to a doughnut and I do like doughnuts so I thought, meh why not have a bite. Folks, let me warn you binge reading on the basis of capriciously formed excuses is as caustic as binge eating, and this is not a rabbit hole you want to be falling into.
Also, the recommendation for this book came from an unreliable source (my boyfriend) who is infamous for picking books on a whim without sufficient research (I abhor that. Who was the wise soul who proclaimed 'so many books, so little time' ? Nevermind, it's the truth of the statement that matters.), so the title of the book is the very question I expected to be asking myself while reading it. Well, here I am with my four stars rating surprising nobody.
And, I thought I deserved a break from the heavy literature of war, death and grief I've been reading lately (The Enlightenment of the Greengage Tree and Apeirogon) and although I find both of them thoroughly engrossing, there's only so much I can take at a time before the morbidity gets to me. And it turns out that I was right. This book was a chuckle riot. And I learnt a new word: thingamabob. Honestly now that I know of it, that's all I aspire to be. How could you be hiding from me for all these years, oh aim of my life!
The protagonist of this book, Money, has to deal with a missing cat, a drug addict daughter and a son who is in police custody as part of a witness protection program all while working as a Hollywood scriptwriter, a job she is steadily growing wary of. So she resorts to talking to herself and rearranging, painting and fixing various objects (that do not need any sort of alteration) around her house.
I say to myself, “You’re not thinking right, you’re not thinking clearly.”
I say, “You’re thinking, thinking, thinking, but most of it is gobbledygook.”
She also has a very interesting best friend who deems it appropriate to toot his insouciant little horn at all times while still pining for his ex-wife. Although as a character, he is a lovely addition to the plot, and strives his hardest to help keep Money sane.
Now he and I are watching as some charitable organization pleads away on the television. The spokesperson says that without our donations many Third World children will go blind.
“Where the fuck is my government?” asks Hollis. “Why should this be left up to me?”
He says, “Suppose I don’t have any money to contribute?”
I don’t want to hurt his feelings or make things worse but I have to say, “That, is not too big a suppose.”
While it has its dark moments, this book mainly functions as feminist story, with a strong, outspoken, flawed, hilarious protagonist.
This is not like reading Alfred Lord Tennyson but neither is it like inhaling from a bag of glue.
You know, I guess binge reading is actually fine. So if you decide to indulge in this delectable, absurd, hilarious little book, far be it from me to deter you.
Revised rating May 2021(Originally rated and reviewed in August 2020): I still think of this book and I have now realised that it's one of my favorites, absolute favorites even. So five stars.
Also, the recommendation for this book came from an unreliable source (my boyfriend) who is infamous for picking books on a whim without sufficient research (I abhor that. Who was the wise soul who proclaimed 'so many books, so little time' ? Nevermind, it's the truth of the statement that matters.), so the title of the book is the very question I expected to be asking myself while reading it. Well, here I am with my four stars rating surprising nobody.
And, I thought I deserved a break from the heavy literature of war, death and grief I've been reading lately (The Enlightenment of the Greengage Tree and Apeirogon) and although I find both of them thoroughly engrossing, there's only so much I can take at a time before the morbidity gets to me. And it turns out that I was right. This book was a chuckle riot. And I learnt a new word: thingamabob. Honestly now that I know of it, that's all I aspire to be. How could you be hiding from me for all these years, oh aim of my life!
The protagonist of this book, Money, has to deal with a missing cat, a drug addict daughter and a son who is in police custody as part of a witness protection program all while working as a Hollywood scriptwriter, a job she is steadily growing wary of. So she resorts to talking to herself and rearranging, painting and fixing various objects (that do not need any sort of alteration) around her house.
I say to myself, “You’re not thinking right, you’re not thinking clearly.”
I say, “You’re thinking, thinking, thinking, but most of it is gobbledygook.”
She also has a very interesting best friend who deems it appropriate to toot his insouciant little horn at all times while still pining for his ex-wife. Although as a character, he is a lovely addition to the plot, and strives his hardest to help keep Money sane.
Now he and I are watching as some charitable organization pleads away on the television. The spokesperson says that without our donations many Third World children will go blind.
“Where the fuck is my government?” asks Hollis. “Why should this be left up to me?”
He says, “Suppose I don’t have any money to contribute?”
I don’t want to hurt his feelings or make things worse but I have to say, “That, is not too big a suppose.”
While it has its dark moments, this book mainly functions as feminist story, with a strong, outspoken, flawed, hilarious protagonist.
This is not like reading Alfred Lord Tennyson but neither is it like inhaling from a bag of glue.
You know, I guess binge reading is actually fine. So if you decide to indulge in this delectable, absurd, hilarious little book, far be it from me to deter you.
Revised rating May 2021(Originally rated and reviewed in August 2020): I still think of this book and I have now realised that it's one of my favorites, absolute favorites even. So five stars.
October 31, 2013
This reading experience was like no other. Robison's main character invites/swallows(?) the reader far into her everyday life. One moment she is reading her to-do list, another she is speeding down the highway blasting music, out-racing the cops. One time she threw her sunglasses out her car window, then proceeded to run over them 37 times. The details of our world--fabrics, rugs, paint, pets, phones, litter, drugs, gifts, laundry, cigarettes, radios, chairs, clothes, drawers, newspapers--are in the forefront here, they vividly populate the disarray and livelihood of the narrator. At one point a chair in the laundromat is described as a "shrimp-colored scoop chair" or something close to that. The narrator is the irrational, misguided, well-meaning, clumsy, nostalgic, lazy, inspired, reckless loon inside us all. It is a joy to follow her fleeting moods and deft eye document these odd moments of life. I have never felt this way reading a book--but any time the plot was close to getting started, I wanted to get back to the thoughts and stray moments, back to life and away from the story.
October 27, 2018
I almost stopped reading this because it felt like it wasn’t going anywhere. I kept reading because it made me laugh out loud. I’m glad I persisted because I wound up loving it and wanting to go back and highlight all the clever lines
November 22, 2023
First novel I read from Mary Robison's works, and it was cool!
OK, after rereading it for the fourth time, I have to say this novel is more than just cool; it's AWESOME!
More to say in the future ;)
OK, after rereading it for the fourth time, I have to say this novel is more than just cool; it's AWESOME!
More to say in the future ;)
May 22, 2007
I like this book. It has many little sections. This book is funny and calm.
August 26, 2014
Before I get going, it's worth pointing out that I read this almost entirely because a friend of mine, who is a writer, was very influenced by this book. Left to my own devices, I likely wouldn't have picked it up. So be aware that I'm not Robison's audience.
That said, I'm concerned that there are very serious things wrong with me, and that this book brought them all out.
I don't care very much about 'consistent characters' or verisimilitude or realism or whatever. That said, this book seems to be reaching for verisimilitude at least, and I'm more than a little confused about the main character, who was married to a Latin Professor, has read Melville's 'Pierre,' and often makes off-the-cuff references to John Ashbery, but apparently does not know what the word 'tort' means.
ii) That doesn't matter at all, provided you get something else from the book, and I should be able to get something from this, since our narrator is very flippant and I like flippancy. But I'm not sure what I was meant to get out of this: there's a woman. She's writing a script for Hollywood big-wigs (this is clearly meant to be satire). She's got a new boyfriend who is rich and a moron. She's trying to deal with the fact that her son has been raped and tortured, and the criminal is coming up for trial. Also, her daughter is overcoming heroin addiction. But I don't care about any of these things, and I suspect many readers will feel the same way. All of the events are reported in the same voice, whether it's someone looking up the word 'tort' or the horrific assault.
iii) There's a nice level of reflexivity early on: our narrator has painted a fake Rothko. Her friend complains that there's no "focal point. Something for our eyes to fix on, finally, and rest upon. Something we end up gazing at." The narrator responds, "It's! A! Copy!" Of course, the same can be said about this book; it lacks a focal point, lacks anything for us to fix on, finally. The implication here is that we shouldn't look for that one thing to fix on, finally. That's a good point.
So this book gives me at least two of the things I really value in fiction, but also makes me complain about things I don't really care about. That's an odd mix.
So, the content being more or less boring, the most important aspect of the book is its fragmentary form (the part of the book that has most influenced my friend). And it is nicely done, and a nice way to stick to garden variety realism while avoiding some of that mode's worst flaws (most obviously, Robison doesn't need to join everything together, so the book is compact and engaging). On the other hand, the brevity of the fragments forces the author to restrict herself, I fear, for the worse. There's not all that much that can be said in half a dozen lines to one page, and although there are few dud fragments here, there's also very little that sticks in my mind. A lot of people are writing like this now. The form is in a pretty obviously dialectical relationship, the other tendency being very, very long sentences, an absence of paragraph or chapter breaks, and, at the most extreme, books comprising only one sentence (Vanessa Place; Laszlo Krasznahorkai). We can all learn from both forms; the best books of the next generation will, I hope, take the best of the minimalist, fragmentary approach and the best of the maximalist.
That said, I'm concerned that there are very serious things wrong with me, and that this book brought them all out.
I don't care very much about 'consistent characters' or verisimilitude or realism or whatever. That said, this book seems to be reaching for verisimilitude at least, and I'm more than a little confused about the main character, who was married to a Latin Professor, has read Melville's 'Pierre,' and often makes off-the-cuff references to John Ashbery, but apparently does not know what the word 'tort' means.
ii) That doesn't matter at all, provided you get something else from the book, and I should be able to get something from this, since our narrator is very flippant and I like flippancy. But I'm not sure what I was meant to get out of this: there's a woman. She's writing a script for Hollywood big-wigs (this is clearly meant to be satire). She's got a new boyfriend who is rich and a moron. She's trying to deal with the fact that her son has been raped and tortured, and the criminal is coming up for trial. Also, her daughter is overcoming heroin addiction. But I don't care about any of these things, and I suspect many readers will feel the same way. All of the events are reported in the same voice, whether it's someone looking up the word 'tort' or the horrific assault.
iii) There's a nice level of reflexivity early on: our narrator has painted a fake Rothko. Her friend complains that there's no "focal point. Something for our eyes to fix on, finally, and rest upon. Something we end up gazing at." The narrator responds, "It's! A! Copy!" Of course, the same can be said about this book; it lacks a focal point, lacks anything for us to fix on, finally. The implication here is that we shouldn't look for that one thing to fix on, finally. That's a good point.
So this book gives me at least two of the things I really value in fiction, but also makes me complain about things I don't really care about. That's an odd mix.
So, the content being more or less boring, the most important aspect of the book is its fragmentary form (the part of the book that has most influenced my friend). And it is nicely done, and a nice way to stick to garden variety realism while avoiding some of that mode's worst flaws (most obviously, Robison doesn't need to join everything together, so the book is compact and engaging). On the other hand, the brevity of the fragments forces the author to restrict herself, I fear, for the worse. There's not all that much that can be said in half a dozen lines to one page, and although there are few dud fragments here, there's also very little that sticks in my mind. A lot of people are writing like this now. The form is in a pretty obviously dialectical relationship, the other tendency being very, very long sentences, an absence of paragraph or chapter breaks, and, at the most extreme, books comprising only one sentence (Vanessa Place; Laszlo Krasznahorkai). We can all learn from both forms; the best books of the next generation will, I hope, take the best of the minimalist, fragmentary approach and the best of the maximalist.
June 2, 2020
This wild ride of a woman with a scrambled brain, a wacky career doctoring film scripts, and two grown children in terrible trouble reads like a series of Booth cartoon captions, if Booth were a woman who worked in Hollywood. Or it might also be written like a series of disconnected numbered scenes in a Hollywood shooting script. Or, or, or . . . who knows? I don't. It is funny and sad and completely unhinged. I enjoyed it.
December 2, 2015
Holy hell that was fucking fantastic.
February 28, 2023
hell yeah i love this weird little book
June 26, 2025
"Are you alone?" I ask myself.
"All alone," I say.
So deeply mired in another woman's head, disconnected paragraphs had me playing leapfrog. Left me laughing, sometimes spinning. By the end I wanted to haul out my old diaries and read them. Luckily, I remembered what happened last time I tried that. I always wonder if anyone found the multiple journals I threw out one hotheaded afternoon.
*Yes, and down there is Sunset Boulevard, and no, I don't care about that either. *
"All alone," I say.
So deeply mired in another woman's head, disconnected paragraphs had me playing leapfrog. Left me laughing, sometimes spinning. By the end I wanted to haul out my old diaries and read them. Luckily, I remembered what happened last time I tried that. I always wonder if anyone found the multiple journals I threw out one hotheaded afternoon.
*Yes, and down there is Sunset Boulevard, and no, I don't care about that either. *
February 28, 2020
Do you remember the first time you felt old- that moment you were in a shoe store and you’re looking for a pair of sneakers. Just a plain pair of shoes- black or white, monotone; absolutely nothing flashy. You know, the kind you wore in high school.
But instead you’re surrounded by all these neon monstrosities. There’s tie dye, electric green, leopard print, wild Rubik’s cube patterned running shoes. Everything is loud and instagramable and there are colors that match your hipster wardrobe, your lululemon $90 dollars yoga pants that you never yoga in. They don’t even make shoes in solid black or white anymore- that’s absolutely archaic.
This book made me feel the same. It is a cringe-worthy attempt at postmodern stream-of-consciousness. “Why Did I Ever” tries desperately to produce meaning by pointedly not including meaning (and no, that is not a meta understated compliment). Joyce, Faulkner or hell, even Burroughs, who I don’t particularly enjoy but can at least acknowledge his brilliance, effectively included the mundane and the banal. Unlike the banana attached to the wall with duct-tape fetching 120k at auction, simultaneously decrying the hypocrisy of the art establishment and challenging our definition in and of itself, like a Duchamp Ready-Made, this novel trys and fails to make one feel more than understand. Imagine subtracting every word from William Carlos Williams poem “Red Wheelbarrow” except “wheel barrow” and expecting the poem to have the same depth.
But instead you’re surrounded by all these neon monstrosities. There’s tie dye, electric green, leopard print, wild Rubik’s cube patterned running shoes. Everything is loud and instagramable and there are colors that match your hipster wardrobe, your lululemon $90 dollars yoga pants that you never yoga in. They don’t even make shoes in solid black or white anymore- that’s absolutely archaic.
This book made me feel the same. It is a cringe-worthy attempt at postmodern stream-of-consciousness. “Why Did I Ever” tries desperately to produce meaning by pointedly not including meaning (and no, that is not a meta understated compliment). Joyce, Faulkner or hell, even Burroughs, who I don’t particularly enjoy but can at least acknowledge his brilliance, effectively included the mundane and the banal. Unlike the banana attached to the wall with duct-tape fetching 120k at auction, simultaneously decrying the hypocrisy of the art establishment and challenging our definition in and of itself, like a Duchamp Ready-Made, this novel trys and fails to make one feel more than understand. Imagine subtracting every word from William Carlos Williams poem “Red Wheelbarrow” except “wheel barrow” and expecting the poem to have the same depth.
April 17, 2021
I requested this from my library because it was featured on one of those "10 best books" lists and I was trying to be more literary and not just read Percy Jackson and Discworld novels all of the time. I periodically have a spasm of guilt and try to vary my diet. I got it home from the library and then it sat, ignored for two and a half weeks. It has an impressively uninspiring cover.
The due date was approaching and I had finished rereading The House of Hades (nice job Riordan, loved it!) so I figured I'd read a page or two of Why Did I Ever, in order to justify requesting it. It turns out that you cannot just read a page or two of this book, because it is compulsively readable. It is the perfect mix of really funny and tragic. The narrator is a mess, her life is a mess, everybody else's lives also seem to be a mess. But she keeps on trying and somehow seems to be succeeding, at least kind of.
A great book, diary/stream of consciousness style. This gets to go on my weird-in-a-good-way shelf. Those aren't always my favorite books, but they are the ones that I remember the longest.
The due date was approaching and I had finished rereading The House of Hades (nice job Riordan, loved it!) so I figured I'd read a page or two of Why Did I Ever, in order to justify requesting it. It turns out that you cannot just read a page or two of this book, because it is compulsively readable. It is the perfect mix of really funny and tragic. The narrator is a mess, her life is a mess, everybody else's lives also seem to be a mess. But she keeps on trying and somehow seems to be succeeding, at least kind of.
A great book, diary/stream of consciousness style. This gets to go on my weird-in-a-good-way shelf. Those aren't always my favorite books, but they are the ones that I remember the longest.
July 14, 2012
Launched on a minimalist female authors kick (thanks Amy Hempel!) I set out looking for Mary Robison. This is her most recent novel (2001), as I haven't found anything earlier yet. It forms a loose narrative out of hundreds of tiny segments (word is, she wrote it on notecards!). It's funny, sharp, sweet, honest - an often less than flattering, but always bold and affectionate portrait of a woman, somewhere past her thirties, dating an "idiot" who falls into the category of men who are "over thirty and less than a hundred." Her fridge is full of her daughter's methadone, her only friend is a pretentious driver's ed instructor. She's happiest when driving fast and popping Ritalins. Kind of like "Play It as It Lays" without the glamour and melodrama.
I kept wanting to read it aloud to who ever was around. The tiny chapters stand on their own: "Each and every tire squeal reminds me that I lost my cat." They do make up a novel... but not a great one. I almost wanted to lose the narration, just concentrate on the vignettes. As someone who's pretty into storylines, that's saying a lot. I stopped trying to find the plot, and figure out what's going on; let the narration be a backdrop to beautiful sentences and evocations. And really enjoyed myself.
I kept wanting to read it aloud to who ever was around. The tiny chapters stand on their own: "Each and every tire squeal reminds me that I lost my cat." They do make up a novel... but not a great one. I almost wanted to lose the narration, just concentrate on the vignettes. As someone who's pretty into storylines, that's saying a lot. I stopped trying to find the plot, and figure out what's going on; let the narration be a backdrop to beautiful sentences and evocations. And really enjoyed myself.
May 18, 2020
“Why Did I Ever?” by Mary Robison, was top on a list of “50 Great Reads Under 200 Pages” on Lit Hub for recommended reading during the current COVID 19 Lockdown. I immediately remembered that I’d loved it when it came out in 2001, and went to my bookshelf to retrieve it to read again, and turning the flyleaf remembered that I had first re-read it in 2014 when I saw it on a list of “50 Cult Classics”! So this was my third read. I also found my old review of it and it still holds! I even knew then that I’d be reading it again and again.
Initial Review:
“Don't be fooled by the short sequences and the fast pace of Mary Robison's wry and tragic novel, "Why Did I Ever", into thinking that this is a "light" or an "easy" book. Quite the contrary; each section, however brief, is finely crafted and perfectly in tune. The pathos that runs through the story - and we get it in increasing doses as the novel unfolds - is as heartbreaking as the humor is "laugh out loud" funny. This novel is a gem, and one that I will certainly read a second and third time in case I missed anything as I was gulping it down.
Brava, Ms. Robison.”
Initial Review:
“Don't be fooled by the short sequences and the fast pace of Mary Robison's wry and tragic novel, "Why Did I Ever", into thinking that this is a "light" or an "easy" book. Quite the contrary; each section, however brief, is finely crafted and perfectly in tune. The pathos that runs through the story - and we get it in increasing doses as the novel unfolds - is as heartbreaking as the humor is "laugh out loud" funny. This novel is a gem, and one that I will certainly read a second and third time in case I missed anything as I was gulping it down.
Brava, Ms. Robison.”
December 16, 2024
The plot wasn’t so strong imo, but the writing is so clever! There were many little lines that made me laugh. Here’s one from the beginning that I related to:
“I’m making a new rule: No one is to touch me. Unless and until I feel different about things. Then, I’ll call off the rule.”
Idk there are funnier ones but I don’t remember where they are.
Like all microfiction, it’s pretty exhausting to read. Best consumed 5 pages at a time, I think.
“I’m making a new rule: No one is to touch me. Unless and until I feel different about things. Then, I’ll call off the rule.”
Idk there are funnier ones but I don’t remember where they are.
Like all microfiction, it’s pretty exhausting to read. Best consumed 5 pages at a time, I think.
August 4, 2024
"Hollis no es mi exnada ni mi novio. Es un amigo. Puede que no sea el mejor amigo que tengo en el mundo. Pero es el único".
"Intento que el momento no se me escape, pero tengo restos de algo en una mano y en la otra restos de otra cosa".
"El exceso de confianza es uno de mis fallos. No es de los grandes, pero abre de una patada la puerta a otros varios".
"Intento que el momento no se me escape, pero tengo restos de algo en una mano y en la otra restos de otra cosa".
"El exceso de confianza es uno de mis fallos. No es de los grandes, pero abre de una patada la puerta a otros varios".
May 28, 2022
I didn’t enjoy this book at ALL. I’ve definitely never read another book like it…and I don’t plan to.
Basically, think stream-of-consciousness (which is a literary genre I already despise), but the “stream” changes wildly from one scene/topic to another every 2 or 3 sentences. For 200 straight pages.
So yeah, I could see MFAs liking this simply for its experimental nature, but for the average reader (me), this book was just a chore - definitely would have DNF’d if a friend hadn’t lent it to me (hopefully he doesn’t see this review 😬😬)
Basically, think stream-of-consciousness (which is a literary genre I already despise), but the “stream” changes wildly from one scene/topic to another every 2 or 3 sentences. For 200 straight pages.
So yeah, I could see MFAs liking this simply for its experimental nature, but for the average reader (me), this book was just a chore - definitely would have DNF’d if a friend hadn’t lent it to me (hopefully he doesn’t see this review 😬😬)
March 11, 2015
I was given this book by the same lovely creature who bequeathed Dept Of Speculation to me. I have just turned the last page and am a bit overwhelmed by the serious reality that IT IS OVER. Robison's erratic prose and staccato chapters puzzled together GORGEOUSLY complicated characters and an often hysterical plot. She has this staggering cut up style. Echoes of Burroughs and Bowie. Traditional, laborious fiction seems painful now. I will forever crave the structure of her mind in instances such as this beautiful genius:
"Now with this couple here in the gold Ford Taurus I sense strain. Her chin's tipped up and she's looking to see if he's mad and if maybe she should say something, and he's shaking his head, no, there's nothing wrong, although his face is a sour mask of regret.
I pray, "God, hear my plea. May I please never have anything to do with anything like that ever and never participate in that type of thing again."
"Now with this couple here in the gold Ford Taurus I sense strain. Her chin's tipped up and she's looking to see if he's mad and if maybe she should say something, and he's shaking his head, no, there's nothing wrong, although his face is a sour mask of regret.
I pray, "God, hear my plea. May I please never have anything to do with anything like that ever and never participate in that type of thing again."
November 25, 2010
I loved this book. Robison has taken the little moments and distractions--no matter how mundane--that make up our existence, and crafted them into something meaningful and quite beautiful. The book was born in her effort to defeat a kind of 'writer's block', and for me it proves something I believe to be true about writing: you can only find the work by doing it.
Robison's sentences are like hard little gems, and her sense of humor and the telling detail are very fine. As a writer, this is a book I will read again and again; it feeds me with its heady mix of simplicity and complexity, with its solid and unsentimental rendering of life's struggles, big and small.
Robison's sentences are like hard little gems, and her sense of humor and the telling detail are very fine. As a writer, this is a book I will read again and again; it feeds me with its heady mix of simplicity and complexity, with its solid and unsentimental rendering of life's struggles, big and small.
October 25, 2023
It was not like reading Alfred Lord Tennyson, but neither was it like inhaling from a bag of glue.
To be honest, I did not finish this book- tapped out about halfway through. I imagine writing this book must have been an interesting experience, but the stream of consciousness style was not for me, and the plot wasn't written in a way that made me want to go back and keep reading to find out what happens next.
The sometimes amusing diary of an insane woman is how I would describe it.
The lines about Florida did make me laugh though: "I should turn back. Florida is a horrible toilet. There are a zillion snakes woven into this road and those clouds over there mean God's coming."
To be honest, I did not finish this book- tapped out about halfway through. I imagine writing this book must have been an interesting experience, but the stream of consciousness style was not for me, and the plot wasn't written in a way that made me want to go back and keep reading to find out what happens next.
The sometimes amusing diary of an insane woman is how I would describe it.
The lines about Florida did make me laugh though: "I should turn back. Florida is a horrible toilet. There are a zillion snakes woven into this road and those clouds over there mean God's coming."
April 12, 2013
An ex once said I was probably the only Mary Robison queen on earth and it's a title I wear proudly. Easily my favorite writer, I revisit her work often and my (already fanatic) love deepens with each reading. Why Did I Ever was always one of my least favorites, something that seems extremely foreign to me now, having giggled like a numskull princess on the train over the last few days. Her humor and precision are effortless and ineffable, qualities all too mishandle or altogether missing in contemporary literature.
July 27, 2019
This is a great example of minimalist fiction. Robison uses brief, diary-styled entries to tell this story of a screenwriter who appears to be going crazy.
The result is sparse but seemingly effortless prose imbued with sadness, anger and humor.
The result is sparse but seemingly effortless prose imbued with sadness, anger and humor.
August 10, 2021
One of those rare books that I like more and more each time I read it--first time around I thought it was merely clever and chic. By now I have favorite passages underlined that I read aloud to myself just for the fun of it. And yes, there's even a cat in it.
April 14, 2019
The voice holds this book together. A self destructive character with a razor sharp tongue is good, if often chaotic company. 'Strap in and hang on' might be the best approach to reading this, rather than looking for anything too linear.
February 18, 2021
Me ha gustado TANTO que ahora sólo quiero casarme con Mary Robison. Una barbaridad. No hay palabras para describir lo fascinante de estar dentro del cerebro de MONEY.
February 19, 2023
Durante algo más de una década de bloqueo creativo, Robison va anotando en un cuaderno cada idea o pensamiento que se queda en su cabeza los segundos suficientes como para ser anotado. Why did I ever es una novela compuesta por 536 fragmentos por donde deambulan Money (una mujer con tres ex maridos y nuevo novio bastante garrulo), Hollis, mejor amigo de money, Mev y Paulie los hijos de money, una adicta a la heroína y otro víctima de secuestro y violación y flower girl , la gata de money. Esta novela es como anotar todo lo que piensas para ti, desde una conversación con tu vecina, la mierda que ponen en la radio o en la tele, lo que se pasa mientras conduces y adelantas un camión, mientras estás en la lavandería o en una reunión con tu jefe. Es una novela que casi que da igual por donde la empieces, la necesidad de seguir en la cabeza de money es mayor a cada fragmento.
Robison tiene un humor bastante acido y a veces patetico por las situaciones en las que se encuentra Money, me he reido por la brillantez de su escritura,de sus ocurrencias, tiene salida para todo, , con ese punto que lees algo y piensas joder que bueno ha sido eso.
260 A mi exmaridos les diría: -¿sabeis que he empezado a hacer? de todo! cantar, si me apetece, stormy weatherrr....
272 me gustaria preguntar a todos mis exmaridos, por si acaso tengo que rellenar un formulario -¿ a qué os dedicabais?
213 rebusco en mi bolso, extraigo algo, lo uso y lo vuelvo a meter. Puede que mas adelante necesite otra cosa. Esto es mi vida, de lo que está hecha de verdad mi vida.
356 Mev viene a verme después del trabajo y se sienta conmigo en la terraza acristalada. lleva gafas oscuras de ojo de gato y da sorbos a la limonada en un vaso de papel - no comas pollo nunca más- me dice , - en serio ?. Asiente. - en serio, en serio que no. Es muy perjudicial, dice: - la heroina también
496 he hecho una lista con las tres cosas que hollis me dice más a menudo.Son : <¿qué es lo que no entiendes?> y
Robison tiene un humor bastante acido y a veces patetico por las situaciones en las que se encuentra Money, me he reido por la brillantez de su escritura,de sus ocurrencias, tiene salida para todo, , con ese punto que lees algo y piensas joder que bueno ha sido eso.
260 A mi exmaridos les diría: -¿sabeis que he empezado a hacer? de todo! cantar, si me apetece, stormy weatherrr....
272 me gustaria preguntar a todos mis exmaridos, por si acaso tengo que rellenar un formulario -¿ a qué os dedicabais?
213 rebusco en mi bolso, extraigo algo, lo uso y lo vuelvo a meter. Puede que mas adelante necesite otra cosa. Esto es mi vida, de lo que está hecha de verdad mi vida.
356 Mev viene a verme después del trabajo y se sienta conmigo en la terraza acristalada. lleva gafas oscuras de ojo de gato y da sorbos a la limonada en un vaso de papel - no comas pollo nunca más- me dice , - en serio ?. Asiente. - en serio, en serio que no. Es muy perjudicial, dice: - la heroina también
496 he hecho una lista con las tres cosas que hollis me dice más a menudo.Son : <¿qué es lo que no entiendes?> y
March 16, 2025
renata adlers baby!
July 15, 2024
It's like when you shoot a gun, and an orange is sliced, because a knife sliced the orange, and there was no gun going off: it was just the pop pop pop of a Fanta can click, and there was never a gun nor an orange nor a knife, just a Fanta can amid a heatwave evening. Except it's about a neurotic woman named Money making do while not making do at all in (incomprehensibly) numbered fragments and intertitles.
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October 31, 2019Found this novel via Jane Alison's Meander, Spiral, Explode, which cited Why Did I Ever as an example of a radially-structured narrative. I loved this, loved the fragment form, and found it totally propulsive despite (because of?) the non-traditional structure.
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