I first became aware of Molly via Twitter. (It was probably after it changed its name to X, but I digress.) I had never heard of Blake Butler before, but somehow he showed up in my feed. Maybe it was from another writer re-tweeting something about this book, or maybe it was the "magic" of the algorithm. (Actually, the first chapter was published by The Paris Review, which promoted it in a tweet--so an "organic follow" - Ed.) Whatever the case, for whatever reason, though I am not often drawn to read chapter-length excerpts of books online, I read the first few sentences. I didn't read it fluidly and without interruption, but I kept the window open, and returned to it at various points throughout that morning and afternoon (probably in late 2023). I followed Blake Butler.
As more press and materials and reviews and news stories came out about the book, Butler would often share or retweet them, offering some wry commentary of his own. (Just today, he posted this unhelpful piece of random feedback, a letter from a reader; I will try to do better than that.) The book quickly sold out its first printing. I received several books for Christmas and so have not been reserving any from CPL, but I made an exception for this, and anyways, the waiting list was so long, I would have a few months to catch up.
Perhaps five months later or so, it was finally my turn. I expected to "devour" this book, and for the first 50-100 pages, that was the case. Ultimately it is not a perfect 5-star book, but we know from experience that perfection is in itself a cipher, and I tend to question whether any book can truly be "perfect"--a perfect short story is more common. You need to glorify an author, like Hemingway or Salinger for example, to say a book like The Sun Also Rises or The Catcher in the Rye is perfect (and it is hard to attach perfection to still-living authors). Fiction, moreover, can only become perfect through artistry. This is a memoir, necessarily an imperfect genre, with the messiness of life arguably foreshortened, depending on the reader's conception of the author and their depth of self-examination. Here, there is absolutely no mistaking that the depth of self-examination is sufficient, and going as deep as Socrates considered when he mused that an unexamined life was not worth living.
*
This book spoke to me. I felt "seen." And while the irony is not perfect (there is one review in between this one and that previous unique album review/tribute), it felt rather prescient:
"Despite her outward wrath toward most people, she still kept heroes, idolized mostly for their singularity against the odds: the wit and depth of Herman Melville, her favorite writer, whom she'd lament for how misunderstood he'd been throughout his life; the rhapsodic detail of Paolo Uccello's paintings, which she described feeling unable to breathe in front of when she got to see one in person and up close; the cryptic acumen of Anne Carson, whom she idolized both for her bravery and brilliance, and whose Float she loved to teach to undergrads to show them the endless possibilities of form; the funny fractious gaze of Jean-Luc Godard, especially Week-End, the jubilant insanity of which put stars in her eyes; the mathematical meticulousness of Agnes Martin, whose lines reminded me of the peculiar, layered drawings Molly had filled her sketchbooks with in college, thinking someday she'd become an illustrator; the no-fucks-given of Lou Barlow, who she insisted as with a chip on her shoulder was the real genius, not J. Mascis; the artisan work ethic of Steve Albini, spurred by a six month period where Shellac became the only band she'd listen to, on endless loop, mournful for artists who recognized the value of good hard work; the magic logic of Wittgenstein....."(58, emphasis mine)
I could keep going (for the observations about romanticizing Cat Power's early 2000's stage-fright episodes, or blasting Dead Kennedys, Black Flag and Minor Threat when she went on runs), but I am getting ahead of myself. Suffice to say, I sort of feel like I am Molly, or Molly is me.
*
Molly has a trigger warning, which most books historically have not had, and it is warranted. So too with this review:
"This memoir contains graphic descriptions of suicide, self-harm and suicidal ideation.
If you are contemplating self-destruction, please tell someone you trust. Immediate counseling is available 24/7 by dialing 1-800-SUICIDE or 988." (7)
*
In that first chapter, Butler describes the last time he saw Molly alive, on March 8, 2020, shortly before he leaves for a run that morning, as she works from bed. He notices a notification on his phone while out on the run, for an email from her, just saying "I love you" with the attachment of a manuscript of poems she had been working on. He runs back and talks to her, trying to find out if anything is wrong, and they make tentative plans for the day, to go to Whole Foods and make dinner together and watch a movie, which sounds about as nice a night as couples can have. He goes back to his run, decides to extend it by an extra half-mile, and returns home to find an envelope taped to the door with his name on it, and her two-page suicide note inside.
That all happens in the first five pages, and the next twenty are spent recounting the following events of the day. I call that the first chapter, but it's not really right. There is just a clear transition with an extra page break. He opens the first chapter describing the last time he saw Molly, and he opens the second chapter describing the first time he saw her.
*
The book then proceeds to examine their entire relationship--from their first meeting, friendship, expressions of interest and backing away, reconnecting and becoming closer again, being together, a couple acts of infidelity, a break up, and then another reconnect--up to their betrothal. This is at least how I recall it, and I am not going to re-read to make sure I got the trajectory 100% accurate.
In any case, this is probably the most interesting section of the book, and it represents the majority of the content. It is also the part that is universally applicable, at least for anyone that has gone through multiple breakups and reconciliations. Being in a relationship with a person suffering from mental illness requires a special set of skills. But being in a relationship with anybody in these times requires many of the same skills. You can choose to rip it all up and ghost, or you can try to acknowledge the value the person brings to your life, be compassionate and willing to compromise (because there is a sacrificial element to relationships), and hope that they would show you the same respect. It is an act of trust, and it is fraught, and it is understandable why many people say, "People don't change." Cynicism is self-preservation. We don't want to be with someone that is taking advantage of us. And yet constantly being on the lookout for ways they are taking advantage of us is a rather depressing way to live. And yet, to achieve greater happiness, we sometimes have to experience an awful, toxic relationship to know what to avoid in the future, to know what "deserving better" means.
Is this book depressing? Yes. But it is very revealing. It is an act of bravery and courage to publish this book, and Butler has managed the consequences appropriately. The honesty in this section, and throughout the entire book, is on a different level than most of us will ever find in our daily lives. Butler is like a close friend, telling it all exactly like it was for him, and we don't often find friends willing to be so vulnerable. People interrupt you as you tell a story. They ask what you were thinking. You shorten or abbreviate it to be mindful of ADHD-addled attention spans. Whatever meaning could come out of the anecdote is diminished.
And yet what meaning comes out of this book? It is the entire mystery of life and death.
*
It is a not a mystery why Molly may have ended her own life. There are numerous reasons strewn throughout the book. The overarching tragedy is that she nurtured the darkness within her.
It is remarkably freeing, to be so honest about oneself, if one considers themselves a "black hole" or something similar, and voices such feelings--but they are destined to be seen as a cry for help, seeking reassurance that such negative feelings about oneself are useless to possess, unless one wishes to die. And she did wish to die, and she knew it would be a tragedy, but she did not find a way to overcome her sense of inferiority.
Therapy is the easy answer people give. I cannot recall if the book recounts her seeing a therapist, but I believe she suggested marriage counseling, and feel like she did talk to someone, but not very regularly, and I don't believe she was on any medication.
In any case, I was empathetic towards her character and the things she would say about herself:
"...Otherwise, there was often zero floor to Molly's loathing, aimed most of all straight at herself. 'Imposter syndrome,' she'd sometimes call it, when in a better mood, one step removed, and therefore able to turn the tables for just a second on her ire. This and other self-aware admissions like it, beyond the vortex that more often ran the show, would quickly become bitter logs laid into the fire when her logic-based attributions fell apart and sent her right back to being stranded in her trauma-ridden baseline for 'the truth': that she was irredeemable a fraud; cut from the same cloth, some twisted part of her insisted, as her father, and at the same time, unworthy of even the grace she'd offered him. 'I can't have imposter syndrome because I am aware that I'm an imposter,' she writes in her journal, already ready to fire back at any logic of relief. 'They just don't know me,' she'd explain in response to any praise, admonishing herself after the fact for even wishing it were true. 'If they actually knew me, they wouldn't say that.' As for me, her partner, trying to offer a positive opinion would only serve to turn her trust against me too, yet another fool who doesn't know what they're talking about. No matter how well something might go, it always failed to resemble what it should've been, and therefore no one could label her anything she didn't know. She'd simply gotten lucky early on, she insisted, when her master's thesis, A Little Middle of the Night, won the Iowa Poetry Prize right out of school, on her first attempt at publication. Her husband, Matt, had found her out in their backyard that afternoon, fresh off the phone, hitting herself in the head with a hammer over and over, crying and shrieking at the sky. The fact they'd chosen her meant that the prize was worthless, the judges morons, one big sham. 'No one is special,' she'd remind me many times throughout the years, as if it weren't only her opinion, but hard truth. 'No one deserves anything.'" (116-117, emphasis mine)
It's hard to remember the distinct events because the book washes over you in blocks of text. Each "mini-section" consists of one paragraph, generally 1-2 pages in length. The effect is not quite Dept of Speculation, but it informs the reading experience similarly. For all of its surface Ouilipo-esque formality, the story is told fairly conventionally, chronologically, with March 8, 2020 serving as in medias res. Personally, while I appreciate the charm of its structure, I would have simply labeled the sections by year. It seems Molly thrived on chaos, however, lived forever teetering on the edge of it and reveling in it at times, and so it makes sense that a book named for her and written in her honor necessarily wash over the reader and underline the frustration that loving her constantly seemed to involve. Just breaking it down into smaller paragraphs doesn't seem to capture her spirit. Of course, she was a poet, though I believe she practiced a certain degree of formlessness (or just free-verse) in her work.
*
The book may not be perfect but it will go onto the Best Books list. It just feels like this book was written for me, and I imagine many, many other readers will experience that similar, deeper sense of identification. It does not completely unmask the very idea of suicide, but it unmasks one suicide, and through that process uncovers the reasons, which are no doubt shared in many instances. Molly wanted it that way. Perhaps she believed, like Chuck Klosterman (and myself too, admittedly, and probably Morrissey and many others) that an early death enhances cultural impact, and elevates the import of the person (deifies them, in a way). She wrote in her note that she wanted Butler to make art, and she must have known what it would be about. And so it is that he has gone from relative obscurity into tabloid fodder, and the same for her as well. That is tragic in its own right, and yet their story will prove enormously helpful for many people for many years to come. Basically, the book succeeds on every level in my own estimation of what literature should be: honest, unvarnished, educational, and profound.
*
The book does have more structural definition than referenced above. "Chapter 1" is the precipitating event, the final memory. "Chapter 2" is the origin story, the first memory. "Chapter 3" is the story of the marriage, picking up right after the honeymoon. "Chapter 4" chronologically proceeds from the ending of "Chapter 1," i.e. the aftermath, and really represents whatever "twist" there is in the story. Each of these "sections" or "movements" are powerful in their own right, but this 4th one underscores the messiness of the narrative, and considers another potential factor that led to the tragedy.
"One night, while on the sofa watching TV, Molly announced she'd like to have a threesome. But it had to be with another man, she said, because she didn't like women. She asked if I'd be into that, and when I said I wasn't sure, that I wasn't against it entirely but also didn't think I'd want to watch her having sex with someone else, she asked if I thought men were attractive. Sure, I knew when men were good looking, I said, had explored fantasies. but I'd never been in a situation where I felt the impulse to act. She asked me to describe a time when I'd found a guy attractive, and I thought about it and told her there'd been a guy at the poker table in New Orleans on a recent trip I took alone to play some cards and visit friends, but again, just a passing observation, no big deal. 'The next time you find yourself in a spot like that,' she said, 'you have my permission.' I said OK, trying to imagine what she meant. 'You're probably bi,' she suggested. 'I think that's beautiful.' I wasn't sure what else to say, or how to codify what she was saying in a way that connected with how I actually felt. If we did decide to have a threesome, I said, how would we find a person we both liked? Molly was quiet in response to that, eyes on her lap." (195-196)
First of all, this is another example of the love I have for this person that I never knew, but feel like I knew, from bits and pieces of other people in a similar age cohort that I've known over the years. Truly, she was an astounding person, containing multitudes, with precocious and multifarious talents, and a consistent, logical vision of the universe, albeit not a clear-eyed one. She clearly had a big heart, and the tragedy is that it was twisted up like some broken machine. I can't recall if she attempted to communicate with Butler on the urges she felt, and I can't recall if there is any other conversation in the book concerning an open relationship or polyamory or anything that would allow either of them to step outside the bounds of a monogamy, but the guilt that might follow from hiding such parts of one's life could be one of the many small things that add up to overwhelm one's inner strength and catalyze a cycle of self-abnegation.
Clearly, this is not the only reason it happened. It happened for about a dozen others reason, too, but the ending to this book is probably the most intense part, because it comes to grips with this idea, but never says it out loud. I have to believe that if Molly had opened up and admitted the feelings she had been having for as long as she had known, Butler would have been understanding, eventually, and less secrets would be kept, and less guilt or shame would fester. It would not necessarily have saved her life, but one knows from experience, this is an extraordinarily powerful thing, and one that couples are sometimes toxically precious about.
Sometimes, someone that you may be dating may come up to you and ask, "Are you mine?" Of course, we all want belonging (see Maslow's hierarchy of needs). Some of us like being alone, but few people want to be alone 100% of the time. If we don't receive any affection, it can be borderline deadly, make us feel unattractive and worthless and untouchable and like a person to avoid, someone perhaps better six feet underground than above it. That is if one lacks self-confidence. No doubt there must be people that are both confident and suicidal, but it sounds somewhat oxymoronic.
Molly was, in fact, a great person, and this book is a paean to her. She was not a saint, but it elevates her into an avatar for anyone that has ever felt less than, or inadequate, or insufficient, or flawed or broken or unlovable or just miserable and sick and tired of the disappointments and endless frustrations of the writer's life, or any other challenging one.
Being possessed is a double-edged sword. We want belonging, but we don't want a "possessive" partner, someone that wants to examine our cell phone, that constantly questions where we actually are, or where we are actually going, what we did last night, or what kinds of friends we are allowed to have. People that don't want their partners to be friends with their exes, or people that don't want their partners to have friends of the opposite sex, or friends of the same sex if LGBTQ. Many of us recognize these as red flags, and yet, when you are involved with someone, and you have made a vow to love them in full, you may find yourself stuck in a position with someone that is cutthroat committed. And that feels less like "commitment" than a prison, to some of us.
This is not the environment that Butler created, but the two of them had previous experience with infidelity, and it took them to the breaking point, only later reconciling and marrying. And how many couples get divorced for this very reason? It is 100% obvious that any sane person would rather get a divorce than have their partner to commit suicide. Divorce can be a terrible thing, but it is not the end of all life, and it can lead to greater personal happiness and fulfillment.
Maybe this is what the two of them needed, or an open relationship, or more therapy, but it's just such a brutal tragedy. The date of her death, too, is a tragedy, and Butler's handling of the Covid-19 pandemic in this text is masterful. I have to believe that Molly, a person whose contempt for humanity loomed so large, like some of us, would have loved Staying Home for Months and Years. Did Covid-19 resolve some of my own suicidal tendencies? YES. Does life feel less arduous now, with less requirements for many of us to devote 1-2 hours of our day to simply get to an office? Did Covid-19 offer the space to make as much art as we wanted, to do as much baking as we wanted, to meditate, to do yoga, to nourish our inner spirituality, to assess our lives, to better help define our inner being, wants and needs? Did Covid-19 offer an opportunity to deepen our relationships with others, to properly acknowledge the value so many bring to our lives, to appreciate the ability to be with them in-person?
Covid-19 was a terrible tragedy for millions of people across the planet, but it was also an opportunity, and while our world is more divided than ever politically, I believe that all of us "feel ourselves" more deeply than we did before. The should have/could have/would have of this book is a foolish game to play, and yet that is another factor that makes it so very powerful and moving.
*
This book will save lives. It will improve lives. It may have caused troubles in Butler's own life, but that is his sacrifice for the rest of us. It is an act of generosity, and a beautiful gesture not only to Molly and those who loved her, but to anyone that is fighting their way through the gauntlets of modern relationships and mental illness. It is essential reading for almost everyone. It is probably in my top 5 or top 10 books of all-time. Perhaps I'm overselling it a little, but if you think you might get some small value out of it, take the plunge and reserve it or buy it, because there is so much to love and admire and learn from all of it. When coping with tragedy, writing about it can help, and reading about it can help; realizing that you are not alone, too, may be the thing that saves you.
Grade: A
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