I’m not one for New Years resolutions, but after a year of missing meals and several dates–all in the name of work sweet work–I decided that this year I would devote more time to pleasure reading.
That is not to say that all reading isn’t capable of inducing a case of the shivers; but let’s get serious, some books knock your socks off just a little more than others. And most recently, Margaux Fragoso’s memoir Tiger, Tiger left me with a case of very cold and windblown feet.
I have always been a fan of narrative non-fiction, as it reinforces the notion that the truly funny, obscene and revelatory moments in life cannot be invented, only lived. Memoirists are brave, offering up the intimate details of their experiences for readers to dissect and discuss, and Fragoso is a leader of this elite and awe-inspiring pack.
In slightly over 300 pages, Fragoso attempts the impossible–to humanize a pedophile–and she succeeds. She chronicles her relationship with Peter, a man 44 years her senior, which began when she was seven and lasted until he committed suicide shortly after she turned twenty-two. The premise is enough to make a reader squeal–I got a sidelong glance from my roommate when I opened this book on Miami Beach–but from page one the prose is haunting and lyrical, the voice intoxicatingly charming and raw; I couldn’t help but get sucked in.
Tiger, Tiger has all of the fundamentals covered: the descriptions are lush, each individual is appropriately complex and interesting (if not downright infuriating), and the structure is designed to give the reader ample time to digest what is happening and why. I think the latter was what moved me most, how for the first time I was able to move beyond rattling my fist at the injustice of pedophilia and get inside of it, to understand. The best books (to me) are the ones that shake the foundations of my prejudices, forcing me into a conversation with myself where I wonder why I feel the way I feel and think the way I think. Tiger, Tiger did just that. I felt sympathy for a pedophile, enraged with helpless bystanders, a kinship with a girl in love with her abuser.
I emerged from reading Tiger, Tiger a different person than the one who first opened its cover. In the epilogue, she explains that what happened to her is (in part) a byproduct of former generations’ inability to acknowledge sexual abuse, but her book puts a final and necessary end to the silence. Tiger, Tiger is made of the stuff that changes and possibly saves lives. Read it.
