yolk
I have always judged a book by its cover. Not in any abstract sense, but I think covers tell a lot about the book. And if a cover is eye-catching, I will choose to buy it almost every time over a book with Colleen Hoover-esque graphic design.
A couple months ago I walked into a Book Warehouse and noticed the simple grace and beauty of Yolk. I didn’t know what it was about, I didn’t need to. It was pretty (and I guess to my brain, that’s all that matters -- I am shallow) but I didn’t buy it. Instead, I went home and checked Scrib-D for a copy and started to read. It was good, I read a few chapters.
A couple months passed, and I found a gift card at the bottom of my sock drawer (15$), went back to the store, and scored the last copy of yolk. I continued to read, kept it in my bag for the daily commute to and from school. Maybe it's some melodramatic instinct all teenagers secretly withhold from the general public; to listen to Pheobe Bridgers’ version of That Funny Feeling while reading young adult fiction. Maybe I’m isolated in that experience in which case, please don’t tell me, a little bit of delusion is healthy, I think.
I have a weird relationship with reading too; I was that kid in elementary school who just sat at recess obsessively re-reading the harry potter books, it’s a feature of my adhd I haven't decided how I feel about yet. Hyperfocus is nice but also has a tendency to isolate the one doing the hyperfocusing. Books were essentially my way of making sense of the world, but I soon realized that tv was easier to be absorbed into, and it also drowned out any assortment of background noise that was ringing in my ears on any particular moment. So, I basically didn’t read any novels for a couple years. I listened to audiobooks, podcasts, read short stories, but never really completed books. I missed it.
This goddamn book is so good. I read around 300 of the 400 pages in one day, curled up on a weekend completely and utterly transfixed by how mass-produced little ink splotches on cheaply made paper could cause this much emotion in me. How it could create people who felt so intensely real.
From the Jaynes perspective, her older sister is purposeful, bossy, analytical and clumsy. June sees her younger sister as an emotionally stunted crybaby with no sense of personal responsibility. They haven't spoken in years. Until June gets cancer, and everything goes to shit.
The entirety of the novel is told from the perspective of the younger sibling, something so entirely foreign to me it actually took adjusting to. I relate so heavily to June and see so much of my younger sister reflected in Jayne; it scares me a little. I guess all the memes about “eldest daughter syndrome” have some truth to them (which I resent).
The book chronicles Jaynes relationships and deeply dysfunctional methods of coping with existence. It is unsettling in a way that only a story that feels familiar can be. When you can see yourself reflected so clearly, it becomes uncanny (I'm in this picture and I don’t like it).
It depicts eating disorders in a way that film cannot, standing in staunch opposition to glamorized portrayals of beautiful skinny white girls eating rice crackers and crying (but in a hot way). Self-disgust is an endless cycle of shame and hatred, followed by a disgust at shame and hatred themselves. Yolk captures this compellingly, expressing the rapid-fire nature of what is essentially an addiction.
Choi’s writing is incredible too. It feels vivd and fresh, uniquely self-aware; somehow perfectly walking the line of authenticity and over-indulgence of the ruminating thoughts of the narrator. The flashbacks to childhood feel natural, yet so present. No detail is unintentional, yet it still clings to a tone that feels closer to a diary entry than plot, and I like it that way.
If you need an incentive to read it; the cover is pretty and you will look cool in public.