This Is How You Lose Her
  • This Is How You Lose Her
  • This Is How You Lose Her

This Is How You Lose Her

3.5 161
by Junot Díaz

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Pulitzer Prize-winner Junot Díaz’s first book, Drown, established him as a major new writer with “the dispassionate eye of a journalist and the tongue of a poet” (Newsweek). His first novel, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, was named #1 Fiction Book of the Year” by Time magazine and spent more than 100

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Pulitzer Prize-winner Junot Díaz’s first book, Drown, established him as a major new writer with “the dispassionate eye of a journalist and the tongue of a poet” (Newsweek). His first novel, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, was named #1 Fiction Book of the Year” by Time magazine and spent more than 100 weeks on the New York Times bestseller list, establishing itself – with more than a million copies in print – as a modern classic. In addition to the Pulitzer, Díaz has won a host of major awards and prizes, including the National Book Critic’s Circle Award, the PEN/Malamud Award, the PEN/O. Henry Prize, the Dayton Literary Peace Prize, and the Anisfield-Wolf Award.

Now Díaz turns his remarkable talent to the haunting, impossible power of love – obsessive love, illicit love, fading love, maternal love. On a beach in the Dominican Republic, a doomed relationship flounders. In the heat of a hospital laundry room in New Jersey, a woman does her lover’s washing and thinks about his wife. In Boston, a man buys his love child, his only son, a first baseball bat and glove. At the heart of these stories is the irrepressible, irresistible Yunior, a young hardhead whose longing for love is equaled only by his recklessness—and by the extraordinary women he loves and loses: artistic Alma; the aging Miss Lora; Magdalena, who thinks all Dominican men are cheaters; and the love of his life, whose heartbreak ultimately becomes his own. In prose that is endlessly energetic, inventive, tender, and funny, the stories in the New York Times-Bestselling This Is How You Lose Her lay bare the infinite longing and inevitable weakness of the human heart. They remind us that passion always triumphs over experience, and that “the half-life of love is forever.”

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Editorial Reviews

As a critic, I've come to appreciate less-prolific writers whose books gestate over years and aren't released until they're fully cooked. In Mae West's words, Junot Díaz is "a guy what takes his time." After the 1996 publication of his highly acclaimed debut collection of stories, Drown, he took eleven years to complete The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, which won both the NBCC and Pulitzer prizes. Now, five years later, he's produced a second book of stories, This Is How You Lose Her, which will have to tide us over until his next novel.

I am not going to make the case that Díaz's stories are as wondrous as his novel, but few books are. If you haven't read Oscar Wao, Díaz's vibrant, Spanglish-spangled epic about a cursed, overweight Dominican-American nerd growing up in the industrial wastelands of New Jersey who's obsessed with unattainable women and apocalyptic science fiction, go for it. It's not necessary to tackle the novel before his stories — but it is essential reading. What elevates Oscar Wao from really good to truly great is that it works on both the intimate, personal level and the broader, historical, political level: In much the way that the burning of Smyrna and the Detroit riots underpin Jeffrey Eugenides' tale of mixed sexual identity in Middlesex, and the Soviet revolution forms a backdrop to Boris Pasternak's tragic story of thwarted love in Dr. Zhivago, the Dominican Republic's devastating twentieth-century history under Trujillo's dictatorship reverberates through Oscar Wao's multigenerational saga.

The stories in This Is How You Lose Her, however appealing, can't compete with that sweeping historical resonance, but they do offer a fresh hit of Diáz's loose- limbed, inventive, profane, hip-hopping prose — plus his wise and witty slant on what he has referred to as a generation of hypereducated poor kids of color. You can hardly ask for a better story collection for those who complain that short fiction thwarts their yearning for immersive reading experiences. This Is How You Lose Her pivots around a single character, Yunior, Díaz's charming, roguish, literary, lovesick, cheating alter ego, who will already be familiar to readers of his earlier books — lending a quasi-novelistic continuity to this collection. Even more alluring, Díaz's subject is well-nigh irresistible: the devastating power of love in its many incarnations, whether romantic, reciprocated, rebuffed, maternal, passionate, deceitful, obdurate, illicit, or inappropriate.

As for those who disdain short stories as little more than training wheels for novelists, the truth is that at their best — Chekhov, Cheever, Munro, Díaz — short stories pack more bang per word than just about anything but a sonnet or a telegram. Their more manageable size also makes them ideal for book club discussion. Focusing on just one or two stories in greater detail could be a real boon to members chronically unable to make it through the month's selection in time for the next meeting — as so often happens in my group.

Of the nine stories, most of which first appeared in The New Yorker, several return to themes from Yunior's childhood, including the difficult death of his sexually smoldering older brother after landing "on cancer planet." (In fact, Díaz's own brother beat the odds to survive a similar cancer.) "Invierno" is a sobering tale about arriving in New Jersey from the Dominican Republic at nine (Díaz arrived in late 1974, at age six), to a wintry world that's frozen solid and harshly ruled by a dictatorial, cheating father whose punishments include making Yunior and his brother Rafa kneel on the cutting side of a coconut grater until they bleed and whimper. "Otravida, Otravez," an exercise in literary empathy written from the perspective of his father's other woman, provides a refreshing break from Yunior's point of view.

But the dominant theme of this collection is the aftermath of infidelity — usually from the cheater's perspective — and how love and longing so often outlive the relationships on which they were founded. "The Sun, the Moon, the Stars" channels Yunior's winsome voice: "I'm not a bad guy. I know how that sounds — defensive, unscrupulous — but it's true. I'm like everybody else: weak, full of mistakes, but basically good. Magdalena disagrees though. She considers me a typical Dominican man: a sucio, an asshole." Magda discovers Yunior's perfidy in a letter from his "homegirl." Yunior continues: "Anyway, I won't bore you with what happens after she finds out. The begging, the crawling over glass, the crying. Let's just say that after two weeks of this, of my driving out to her house, sending her letters, and calling her at all hours of the night, we put it back together." Alas, broken trust is like Humpty Dumpty. Even a vacation in Yunior's beloved Santo Domingo can't repair the damage. But what this rueful tale is really about is Yunior's blockheaded inability to recognize this, blinded not so much by desire as by his implacable yearning for unconditional love.

Alma is another girlfriend who tires of Yunior's cheating ways, leaving him heartsick and baffled. Her tale is narrated in the tricky second person, which can be a gimmicky way to involve a reader but which Díaz handles with aplomb. The story opens, "You, Yunior, have a girlfriend named Alma, who has a long tender horse neck and a big Dominican ass that seems to exist in a fourth dimension beyond jeans. An ass that could drag the moon out of orbit. An ass she never liked until she met you." So, Yunior objectifies women outrageously — as unapologetic in his lusty machismo as Jim Harrison's roguish, horny half-Chippewa free spirit in his Brown Dog stories. Everything is hunky-dory until, eight months into the relationship, Alma reads about "this beautiful freshman girl named Laxmi" in Yunior's journal. And "Instead of lowering your head and copping to it like a man," Yunior dissembles: "Baby, you say, baby, this is part of my novel." Díaz breaks to a new paragraph for the clincher, which also gives his collection its title: "This is how you lose her."

The question, you may well ask, is why is Yunior so beguiling? How does he attract all these smart women, and why doesn't he lose us in his rake's progress? In the first story, Yunior owns up to his infidelity, and he loses Magda. Perhaps older but no wiser, he lies to Alma about Laxmi, and then loses her, too. What's a fellow to do? Fidelity appears not to be a serious option. Both stories recall Yunior's incorrigible, ultimately relationship-ending infidelities to Oscar's beloved sister Lola in Díaz's novel. Is Yunior a sympathetic cad because he never gets away with it, or because he acknowledges his caddish behavior and is as hurt by his shenanigans as his girlfriends? And how does Díaz manage to keep returning to the same narrative track without trying our patience? The answer, in brief, lies in his energetic, tender, funny, ever-insightful prose.

Yunior is just as baffled and miserable years later in the wonderful final story, "The Cheater's Guide to Love" — a twisted sort of how-to and a fitting sequel to the conniving, "How to Date a Browngirl, Blackgirl, Whitegirl, or Halfie" from Drown, also written in the second person. ("She'll say, I like Spanish guys, and even though you've never been to Spain say, I like you. You'll sound smooth.")

"The Cheater's Guide to Love" could well have provided another apt title for this book. It opens with yet another cover blown: "Your girl catches you cheating. (Well, actually, she's your fiancée, but hey, in a bit it so won't matter.)" This time, Yunior's email has given him away — fifty different girls over the course of six years. "Maybe if you'd been engaged to a super open-minded blanquita you could have survived," the barely repentant rough comments. But no such luck. "She'll stick around for a few months because you dated for a long long time. Because you went through much together — her father's death, your tenure madness, her bar exam (passed on the third attempt)." Right. But here's the real reason, which explains why Yunior monitors the vicissitudes of his heartbreak over five years: "because love, real love, is not so easily shed." Put differently: "The half-life of love is forever."

It takes Yunior years, but it's a major epiphany, enough to fuel his writing — including the very stories we're reading: "In the months that follow you bend to the work, because it feels like hope, like grace — and because you know in your lying cheater's heart that sometimes a start is all we ever get." The half-life of prose like this, prose that explores and transcends human weakness, should be forever, too.

Heller McAlpin is a New York–based critic who reviews books for, The Los Angeles Times, Washington Post, San Francisco Chronicle, Christian Science Monitor, and other publications.

Reviewer: Heller McAlpin

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Product Details

Penguin Publishing Group
Publication date:
Sales rank:
Product dimensions:
5.60(w) x 8.30(h) x 1.00(d)
Age Range:
18 Years

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Year 0

       Your girl catches you cheating. (Well, actually she’s your fiancée, but hey, in a bit it so won’t matter.) She could have caught you with one sucia, she could have caught you with two, but as you’re a totally batshit cuero who didn’t ever empty his e­mail trash can, she caught you with fifty! Sure, over a six­-year period, but still. Fifty fucking girls? Goddamn. Maybe if you’d been engaged to a super open-minded blanquita you could have survived it—but you’re not engaged to a super open­minded blanquita. Your girl is a bad­ass salcedeña who doesn’t believe in open anything; in fact the one thing she warned you about, that she swore she would never forgive, was cheating. I’ll put a machete in you, she promised. And of course you swore you wouldn’t do it. You swore you wouldn’t. You swore you wouldn’t.

       And you did.

       She’ll stick around for a few months because you dated for a long long time. Because you went through much together—her father’s death, your tenure madness, her bar exam (passed on the third attempt). And because love, real love, is not so easily shed. Over a tortured six-­month period you will fly to the DR, to Mexico (for the funeral of a friend), to New Zealand. You will walk the beach where they filmed The Piano, something she’s always wanted to do, and now, in penitent desperation, you give it to her. She is immensely sad on that beach and she walks up and down the shining sand alone, bare feet in the freezing water, and when you try to hug her she says, Don’t. She stares at the rocks jutting out of the water, the wind taking her hair straight back. On the ride back to the hotel, up through those wild steeps, you pick up a pair of hitchhikers, a couple, so mixed it’s ridiculous, and so giddy with love that you almost throw them out the car. She says nothing. Later, in the hotel, she will cry.

       You try every trick in the book to keep her. You write her letters. You drive her to work. You quote Neruda. You compose a mass e-mail disowning all your sucias. You block their e-mails. You change your phone number. You stop drinking. You stop smoking. You claim you’re a sex addict and start attending meetings. You blame your father. You blame your mother. You blame the patriarchy. You blame Santo Domingo. You find a therapist. You cancel your Facebook. You give her the passwords to all your e­mail accounts. You start taking salsa classes like you always swore you would so that the two of you could dance together. You claim that you were sick, you claim that you were weak—­It was the book! It was the pressure!—­and every hour like clockwork you say that you’re so so sorry. You try it all, but one day she will simply sit up in bed and say, No more, and, Ya, and you will have to move from the Harlem apartment that you two have shared. You consider not going. You consider a squat protest. In fact, you say won’t go. But in the end you do.

       For a while you haunt the city, like a two­-bit ballplayer dreaming of a call-­up. You phone her every day and leave messages, which she doesn’t answer. You write her long sensitive letters, which she returns unopened. You even show up at her apartment at odd hours and at her job downtown until finally her little sister calls you, the one who was always on your side, and she makes it plain: If you try to contact my sister again she’s going to put a restraining order on you.

       For some Negroes that wouldn’t mean shit.

       But you ain’t that kind of Negro.

       You stop. You move back to Boston. You never see her again.

Year 1

       At first you pretend it don’t matter. You harbored a lot of grievances against her anyway. Yes you did! She didn’t give good head, you hated the fuzz on her cheeks, she never waxed her pussy, she never cleaned up around the apartment, etc. For a few weeks you almost believe it. Of course you go back to smoking, to drinking, you drop the therapist and the sex addict groups and you run around with the sluts like it’s the good old days, like nothing has happened.

       I’m back, you say to your boys.

       Elvis laughs. It’s almost like you never left.

       You’re good for like a week. Then your moods become erratic. One minute you have to stop yourself from jumping in the car and driving to see her and the next you’re calling a sucia and saying, You’re the one I always wanted. You start losing your temper with friends, with students, with colleagues. You cry every time you hear Monchy and Alexandra, her favorite.

       Boston, where you never wanted to live, where you feel you’ve been exiled to, becomes a serious problem. You have trouble adjusting to it full­time; to its trains that stop running at midnight, to the glumness of its inhabitants, to its startling lack of Sichuan food. Almost on cue a lot of racist shit starts happening. Maybe it was always there, maybe you’ve become more sensitive after all your time in NYC. White people pull up at traffic lights and scream at you with a hideous rage, like you nearly ran over their mothers. It’s fucking scary. Before you can figure out what the fuck is going on they flip you the bird and peel out. It happens again and again. Security follows you in stores and every time you step on Harvard property you’re asked for ID. Three times, drunk whitedudes try to pick fights with you in different parts of the city.

       You take it all very personally. I hope someone drops a fucking bomb on this city, you rant. This is why no people of color want to live here. Why all my black and Latino students leave as soon as they can.

       Elvis says nothing. He was born and raised in Jamaica Plain, knows that trying to defend Boston from uncool is like blocking a bullet with a slice of bread. Are you OK? he asks finally.

       I’m dandy, you say. Mejor que nunca.

       Except you’re not. You’ve lost all the mutual friends you had in NYC (they went to her), your mother won’t speak to you after what happened (she liked the fiancée better than she liked you), and you’re feeling terribly guilty and terribly alone. You keep writing letters to her, waiting for the day that you can hand them to her. You also keep fucking everything that moves. Thanksgiving you end up having to spend in your apartment because you can’t face your mom and the idea of other people’s charity makes you furious. The ex, as you’re now calling her, always cooked: a turkey, a chicken, a pernil. Set aside all the wings for you. That night you drink yourself into a stupor, spend two days recovering.

       You figure that’s as bad as it gets. You figure wrong. During finals a depression rolls over you, so profound you doubt there is a name for it. It feels like you’re being slowly pincered apart, atom by atom.

       You stop hitting the gym or going out for drinks; you stop shaving or washing your clothes; in fact, you stop doing almost everything. Your friends begin to worry about you, and they are not exactly the worrying types. I’m OK, you tell them, but with each passing week the depression darkens. You try to describe it. Like someone flew a plane into your soul. Like someone flew two planes into your soul. Elvis sits shivah with you in the apartment; he pats you on the shoulder, tells you to take it easy. Four years earlier Elvis had a Humvee blow up on him on a highway outside of Baghdad. The burning wreckage pinned him for what felt like a week, so he knows a little about pain. His back and buttocks and right arm so scarred up that even you, Mr. Hard Nose, can’t look at them. Breathe, he tells you. You breathe nonstop, like a marathon runner, but it doesn’t help. Your little letters become more and more pathetic. Please, you write. Please come back. You have dreams where she’s talking to you like in the old days—­in that sweet Spanish of the Cibao, no sign of rage, of disappointment. And then you wake up.

       You stop sleeping, and some night when you’re drunk and alone you have a wacky impulse to open the window of your ­fifth-­floor apartment and leap down to the street. If it wasn’t for a couple of things you probably would have done it, too. But (a) you ain’t the killing­yourself type; (b) your boy Elvis keeps a strong eye on you—­he’s over all the time, stands by the window as if he knows what you’re thinking. And (c) you have this ridiculous hope that maybe one day she will forgive you.

       She doesn’t.

From This is How You Lose Her © September 2012 by Junot Diaz, published by Riverhead Books, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., all rights reserved, reprinted with permission from the publisher.

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What People are saying about this

From the Publisher

Finalist for the 2012 National Book Award
Winner of the Sunday Times Short Story Award
Time and People Top 10 Book of 2012
Finalist for the 2012 Story Prize
Chosen as a notable or best book of the year by The New York Times, Entertainment WeeklyThe LA Times, Newsday, Barnes & Noble, Amazon, the iTunes bookstore, and many more...

Junot Díaz writes in an idiom so electrifying and distinct it’s practically an act of aggression, at once enthralling, even erotic in its assertion of sudden intimacy… [It is] a syncopated swagger-step between opacity and transparency, exclusion and inclusion, defiance and desire… His prose style is so irresistible, so sheerly entertaining, it risks blinding readers to its larger offerings. Yet he weds form so ideally to content that instead of blinding us, it becomes the very lens through which we can see the joy and suffering of the signature Díaz subject: what it means to belong to a diaspora, to live out the possibilities and ambiguities of perpetual insider/outsider status.” –The New York Times Book Review

"Nobody does scrappy, sassy, twice-the-speed of sound dialogue better than Junot Díaz. His exuberant short story collection, called This Is How You Lose Her, charts the lives of Dominican immigrants for whom the promise of America comes down to a minimum-wage paycheck, an occasional walk to a movie in a mall and the momentary escape of a grappling in bed." –Maureen Corrigan, NPR

Exhibits the potent blend of literary eloquence and street cred that earned him a Pulitzer Prize… Díaz’s prose is vulgar, brave, and poetic.” –O Magazine

Searing, irresistible new stories… It’s a harsh world Díaz conjures but one filled also with beauty and humor and buoyed by the stubborn resilience of the human spirit.” –People

Junot Díaz has one of the most distinctive and magnetic voices in contemporary fiction: limber, streetwise, caffeinated and wonderfully eclectic… The strongest tales are those fueled by the verbal energy and magpie language that made Brief Wondrous Life so memorable and that capture Yunior’s efforts to commute between two cultures, Dominican and American, while always remaining an outsider.” –Michiko Kakutani, The New York Times 

These stories… are virtuosic, command performances that mine the deceptive, lovelorn hearts of men with the blend of tenderness, comedy and vulgarity of early Philip Roth. It's Díaz's voice that's such a delight, and it is every bit his own, a melting-pot pastiche of Spanglish and street slang, pop culture and Dominican culture, and just devastating descriptive power, sometimes all in the same sentence.” –USA Today 

“Impressive… comic in its mopiness, charming in its madness and irresistible in its heartfelt yearning.” –The Washington Post

"The dark ferocity of each of these stories and the types of love it portrays is reason enough to celebrate this book. But the collection is also a major contribution to the short story form... It is an engrossing, ambitious book for readers who demand of their fiction both emotional precision and linguistic daring." –NPR

“The centripetal force of Díaz’s sensibility and the slangy bar-stool confidentiality of his voice that he makes this hybridization feel not only natural and irresistible, but inevitable, the voice of the future… [This is How You Lose Her] manages to be achingly sad and joyful at the same time. Its heart is true, even if Yunior’s isn’t.” –Salon

“[A] propulsive new collection… [that] succeeds not only because of the author's gift for exploring the nuances of the male… but because of a writing style that moves with the rhythm and grace of a well-danced merengue.” –Seattle Times 

“In Díaz’s magisterial voice, the trials and tribulations of sex-obsessed objectifiers become a revelation.” –The Boston Globe

Scooch over, Nathan Zuckerman. New Jersey has bred a new literary bad boy… A.” –Entertainment Weekly

Ribald, streetwise, and stunningly moving—a testament, like most of his work, to the yearning, clumsy ways young men come of age.” Vogue

“[An] excellent new collection of stories… [Díaz is] an energetic stylist who expertly moves between high-literary storytelling and fizzy pop, between geek culture and immigrant life, between romance and high drama.” –IndieBound

“Taken together, [these stories’] braggadocio softens into something much more vulnerable and devastating. The intimacy and immediacy… is not just seductive but downright conspiratorial… A heartbreaker.” –The Daily Beast

"Díaz manages a seamless blend of high diction and low, of poetry and vulgarity… Look no further for home truths on sex and heartbreak." –The Economist

“This collection of stories, like everything else [Díaz has] written, feels vital in the literal sense of the word. Tough, smart, unflinching, and exposed, This is How You Lose Her is the perfect reminder of why Junot Díaz won the Pulitzer Prize… [He] writes better about the rapid heartbeat of urban life than pretty much anyone else." –The Christian Science Monitor

“Filled with Díaz’s signature searing voice, loveable/despicable characters and so-true-it-hurts goodness.” –Flavorwire

Díaz writes with subtle and sharp brilliance… He dazzles us with his language skills and his story-making talents, bringing us a narrative that is starkly vernacular and sophisticated, stylistically complex and direct… A spectacular read.” –Minneapolis Star-Tribune

"[This is How You Lose Her] has maturity in content, if not in ethical behavior… Díaz’s ability to be both conversational and formal, eloquent and plainspoken, to say brilliant things Trojan-horsed in slang and self-deprecation, has a way of making you put your guard completely down and be effected in surprising and powerful ways." –The Rumpus

“As tales of relationship redemption go, each of the nine relatable short stories in Junot Díaz's consummate collection This Is How You Lose Her triumphs… Through interrogative second-person narration and colloquial language peppered with Spanish, the Pulitzer Prize-winning author authentically captures Junior's cultural and emotional dualities.” –Metro

“Searing, sometimes hilarious, and always disarming… Readers will remember why everyone wants to write like Díaz, bring him home, or both. Raw and honest, these stories pulsate with raspy ghetto hip-hop and the subtler yet more vital echo of the human heart.” –Publishers Weekly (starred review)

“Díaz’s standout fiction remains pinpoint, sinuous, gutsy, and imaginative… Each taut tale of unrequited and betrayed love and family crises is electric with passionate observations and off-the-charts emotional and social intelligence… Fast-paced, unflinching, complexly funny, street-talking tough, perfectly made, and deeply sensitive, Díaz’s gripping stories unveil lives shadowed by prejudice and poverty and bereft of reliable love and trust. These are precarious, unappreciated, precious lives in which intimacy is a lost art, masculinity a parody, and kindness, reason, and hope struggle to survive like seedlings in a war zone.” –Booklist (starred review)

“Díaz’s third book is as stunning as its predecessors. These stories are hard and sad, but in Díaz’s hands they also crackle.” –Library Journal (starred review)

Magnificent… an exuberant rendering of the driving rhythms and juicy Spanglish vocabulary of immigrant speech… sharply observed and morally challenging.” –Kirkus

“A beautifully stirring look at ruined relationships and lost love—and a more than worthy follow-up to [Díaz’s] 2007 Pulitzer winner, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao.” –Bookpage

"In This Is How You Lose Her, Díaz writes with subtlety and grace, once again demonstrating his remarkable facility for developing fully-realized and authentic characters with an economical rawness... Díaz skillfully portrays his protagonist so vividly, and with so  much apparent honesty, that Yunior’s voice comes across with an immediacy that never once feels inauthentic." –California Literary Review

"Díaz continues to dazzle with his dynamite, street-bruised wit. The bass line of this collection is a thumpingly raw and sexual foray into lives that claw against poverty and racism. It is a wild rhythm that makes more vivid the collection’s heart-busted steadiness." –Dallas Morning News 

Donna Seaman
HIGH-DEMAND BACKSTORY: Díaz, as compelling in person as on the page, will connect with his large and loyal readership via a national author tour, extensive media interviews, and a social media campaign.—Donna Seaman

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This Is How You Lose Her 3.5 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 162 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Author Junot Diaz has crafted a wonderful, intensely entertaining story about Yunior, a young Dominican immigrant who previously appeared as a side character in his Pulitzer Prize winning novel "The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao". In this book Yunior is the central figure, occupying a place in nearly all of the nine tales within. The main theme of the stories involves his search for love. Like with most of us, the search contains a myriad of ups and downs. Yunior grew up in the macho, Dominican world of his male role models, namely his father and brother. While learning from their ways with women, Yunior finds himself interested in other, less macho pursuits, such as comic books and science fiction. The book jumps from his first days in the U.S. as a young boy (learning to speak English from TV) to his teen years and through adulthood. Diaz's writing is infused with pop culture references (most of which I got), Spanish slang (some of which I got), and Dominican references. The tales run the gamut from funny to sad to uplifting. The chapter about the death of his older brother from cancer was particularly affecting and stayed with me. Overall, it's a fascinating pastiche of stories, all with the central theme of love, romance, and even sex. Diaz has crafted a tale worthy of the many comparisons to author Phillip Roth. His stories all intertwine together with a familiar voice, to make a read worthy of a Pulitzer Prize winning novelist. I highly recommend this book for anyone interested in the complexities of how the male psyche deals with love, culture, and finding oneself. If you enjoy this book, I highly recommend that you read Anthony Youn's "In Stitches." This immensely entertaining memoir follows the author, an Asian American, as he struggles with many of the same poignant relationship issues as Yunior, except with a completely different set of surroundings and upbringing. While reading Diaz's book, I was reminded many times of Youn's story, and the fact that our longing for love is universal, no matter our race, ethnicity, or personality. Youn's is a coming-of-age story that made me laugh, cry, and just overall feel. Isn't that what we all look for in a story, and, I suppose, life in general?
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I bought this book for a long plane ride. I love Junot Diaz, really. Like a Junot Diaz/Aaron McGruder slashfic? done. But this book just felt like there was no point. It tapered off at the end and then it was just done. It was certainly a page-turner and I enjoyed it for the duration of the trip, but I felt like it was lacking in completion somehow. For anyone contemplating this book and are wary of the reviewers who complained about the "over-use" of Dominican slang, check your white privilege at the door, please. POCs aren't writing to serve you. So, the use of Spanish is NOT particularly harmful, just as his highbrow lit references aren't meant to be alienating (I almost choked on airplane wine when I read the "she Bartlebys me" line) and even if you happen to be white, you won't feel like POCs are out having a great time without you. Unless you're just like that anyway. Really enjoyed reading this book, but I wish Diaz had delved more into intellectual discussions of his--sorry--YUNIOR's relationships. Entertaining, but I wouldn't read it again.
goodgirlheroineaddict More than 1 year ago
I bought this book because of the reviews and the catchy title. I didn't know the author. However, after reading This Is How You Lose Her, I will look for more books by this author. In a nutshell, this is an autobiography of a Dominican immigrant. It is a rags to riches, dirt poor to Ivy League professor story. Diaz tells you every sad, embarrassing detail which endears him to the reader. You follow him from elementary age immigration to the loss of his older brother - a strong influencing character - to leukemia during high school. Early disconnect from both his father, who left the family for another woman, and his brother hint at rationale for Diaz's emotional distance in future relationships. We watch him struggle to become a responsible man with no positive role models and discover quite the womanizer. The title of the book should tell you all you need to know about the results of his behaviors. He loses, over the course of his adult life several women he truly respected, possibly loved, and is left to ponder his own behavior.
Asiaelle More than 1 year ago
Junot Diaz never ceases to wow me. Seeing more of Yunior in this book and Rafa. A must read.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This is a story of how you can lose everything by being completely insensitive and impulsive. How you can lose everything you think you love because you don't really know what you love. Wonderfully absorbing.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I was initially put off by the narcissistic, womanizing protagonist, but soon the interconnecting stories became more intriguing and the reader comes to understand why Yunior acts the way he does. Diaz deserves his many accolades.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Although for an English audience this may be a little challenging because of the use of Dominican slang the overall concept is there. This book does not necessarily have your average plot of a developing story but rather a string of little novels that explain how Yunior was able to lose every female companion. Agreed it is probably not as adhesive as we are used to because there is not defined beginning, middle and end but that is what gives this book its character. Yes the book could come of as racist, but you have to see it from the point of view of the character and not the author. He came from another country and being raised by a father who was nothing less than ignorant then yes those views will most definitely embody the person Yunior turns out to be. But the gritty parts of the book: the romance or maybe lack thereof and the sex because there was no love making, were nothing but excellent depictions of what a lot of people frequently experience. Junot did an excellent job of letting us into this character's world and slowly revealing to us why Yunior turned out the way he did.
Mizmeeshell More than 1 year ago
I wish this book was longer! Junot Diaz once again intrigues the reader through various tales of lost loves in this quick read. It's raw, relatable, and impossible to put down.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
LOVE THIS BOOK! I have read the book "Drown" in my english class and liked it so much that I ordered this one. I found this to be even better. Im shocked that some people have given it one star. I guess people get upset by the bad language and such but the shock factor is one of the things that make it so great! Now I am waiting for "The brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao" to come in the mail!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I would never have finished this book if I hadn't bought it. I didn't like the characters and found it really hard to follow. If you don't know Spanish, you are in trouble as there will be a lot you can't read!
Anonymous 11 hours ago
This is the second collection of short fiction that I've read by Junot Diaz. Here Diaz explores various types of love (physical and romantic) through his protagonist Yunior. The writing is playful, fast paced, and full of references to popular culture. If your life is marked by being in and out of love, this collection could be a companion for your journey. Also recommended: "Jenna's Flaw"
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Not enough books for Latino men by Latino men in the world. This was great and I could relate with Yunior's life.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Good read
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MarlaneAR More than 1 year ago
I personally enjoyed this book. His humor made me laugh at times and it was really engaging. (I finished it in less than 24 hours) I also felt like I related to it, since I am of Hispanic origin. I would recommend this book to anyone. It's really an easy read.
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Manages to capture the male perspective about life and love.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago