“Bold, virtuosic, addictive, erotic – there is nothing like The Pisces. I have no idea how Broder does it, but I loved every dark and sublime page of it.” —Stephanie Danler, author of Sweetbitter
Lucy has been writing her dissertation on Sappho for nine years when she and her boyfriend break up in a dramatic flameout. After she bottoms out in Phoenix, her sister in Los Angeles insists Lucy dog-sit for the summer. Annika's home is a gorgeous glass cube on Venice Beach, but Lucy can find little relief from her anxiety — not in the Greek chorus of women in her love addiction therapy group, not in her frequent Tinder excursions, not even in Dominic the foxhound's easy affection.
Everything changes when Lucy becomes entranced by an eerily attractive swimmer while sitting alone on the beach rocks one night. But when Lucy learns the truth about his identity, their relationship, and Lucy’s understanding of what love should look like, take a very unexpected turn. A masterful blend of vivid realism and giddy fantasy, pairing hilarious frankness with pulse-racing eroticism, THE PISCES is a story about falling in obsessive love with a merman: a figure of Sirenic fantasy whose very existence pushes Lucy to question everything she thought she knew about love, lust, and meaning in the one life we have.
|Publisher:||Random House Publishing Group|
|Product dimensions:||5.10(w) x 7.90(h) x 0.80(d)|
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
I was no longer lonely but I was. I had Dominic, my sister’s diabetic foxhound, who followed me from room to room, lumbering onto my lap, unaware of his bulk. I liked the smell of his meaty breath, which he didn’t know was rancid. I liked the warmth of his fat belly, the primal way he crouched when he took a shit. It felt so intimate scooping his gigantic shits, the big hot bags of them. I thought, This is the proper use of my love, this is the man for me, this is the way.
The beach house was a contemporary glass fortress, sparse enough to remind me nothing of my life back home. I could disappear in a good way: as if never having existed, unlike the way I felt I was disappearing all fall, winter, and spring in my hot, cluttered apartment in Phoenix, surrounded by reminders of myself and Jamie, suffocating in what was mine. There are good and bad ways of vanishing. I wanted no more belongings.
On the second-story deck of the beach house I escaped the hell of my own smelly bathrobe, wearing one of the silk kimonos my sister had left behind. I fell asleep out there every night, tipsy on white wine, under the Venice stars, with my feet tucked under Dominic’s gut, belonging to nothing familiar. I felt no pressure to fall asleep, and so, after nine months of insomnia, I was finally able to drift off easily every night. Then at three a.m. I would wake gently and traipse to the bed with the Egyptian cotton sheets, kicking my legs all over them in celebration, rolling around and touching my own skin as though I were a stranger touching someone foreign, or cradling the big back of the dog to my front to die to the world for another eight hours. I might have even been happy.
And yet, walking on Abbot Kinney Boulevard one night at the end of my first week there, passing the windows of the yuppie shops—each their own white cube gallery—I saw two people, a man and a woman, early twenties maybe, definitely on a first or second date, and I knew I still wasn’t okay. They were discussing intently where they should go to eat and drink, as though it really mattered. He had an accent, German, I think, and was handsome and fuckable: hair close-cropped and boyish, strong arms, an Adam’s apple that protruded and made me think of sucking on it.
The woman was, as the undergrads at the Arizona university where I worked as a librarian might say, a butterface.
For nine years I had been at Southwest State in the dual lit and classics PhD program. Somehow, miraculously, despite having not yet turned in my thesis, they hadn’t withdrawn my funding. In exchange for thirty hours of work per week in the library, I was housed in a below-market-rent apartment off-campus and received a yearly stipend of $33,000. I was supposed to be working on a book-length project entitled “The Accentual Gap: Sappho’s Spaces as Essence.” This year, as a result of my tardiness, I’d been appointed a new advisory committee, comprised of both the classics and English department chairpersons, and I was no longer flying under the radar.
In March, I had met with them at a Panera Bread, where they delivered the news over paninis—Napa almond chicken salad for the English chair in her coffee-stained Easter sweater and tuna salad for the classics chair, his nose swollen with rosacea—that I was to have a full draft completed by the fall semester or my funding would be pulled and I would be out. So far, this had not made me hustle any faster.
It wasn’t that I no longer felt impassioned by Sappho. I did, or sort of did, as much as you can feel impassioned by anyone you have lived with for nine years. But it had dawned on me around year six that the thesis of my thesis, its whole raison d’être, was faulty. In fact, it was not just faulty. It was total bullshit. But I didn’t know how to fix it. So I’d just been riding it out.
The book operated under the notion that scholars always assumed a first-person speaker when reading Sappho’s poetry. Scholars were kind of assholes and they actually hated mystery—they detested any inability to fill in the blanks. They were victims, like the rest of us, of the way their brains worked: trying to compartmentalize every fragment of information into a pattern. They wanted the world to make sense. Who didn’t? So when reading Sappho’s work, they took details that they already knew, or thought they knew, of Sappho’s life, and used them to fill in the blanks. But they did so erroneously, like a psychologist who, after learning three extraneous things about a person’s childhood, believes they know the whole person.
My book presented the argument that one should read the vast number of erasures in Sappho’s work as intentional. True, Sappho had not included these herself. They were created by the passage of time and dirt since 600 BCE. Most of her work was actually missing, with only 650 lines of 10,000 surviving. But I argued that to reimagine these blanks as created by Sappho herself was far less of a co-option than filling in the gaps with what little we know of her life, creating our own meanings for them out of a desire to make history our own, and above all, projecting a first-person speaker upon them. I felt that the only way we would cease projecting was if the blanks were read as intentional text themselves. Forget whether she was a lesbian, preferred younger men, was hypersexual, bisexual, or had multiple male lovers. If we were going to ascribe meaning, let’s do it with what was there rather than what was not there.
Unfortunately this was a total garbage proposition. I, myself, had a very complicated relationship with emptiness, blankness, nothingness. Sometimes I wanted only to fill it, frightened that if I didn’t it would eat me alive or kill me. But sometimes I longed for total annihilation in it—a beautiful, silent erasure. A desire to be vanished. And so I was most guilty of all in projecting an agenda. I knew it, which was why I had not really pressed ahead. I wasn’t sure if my advisory committee knew it. But I was about to be cut off and I figured that a shitty book was probably better than no book at all.
So I continued to trudge, not wanting to quit and get a “real” job, not really knowing what I could do anyway. Most of my time in public was spent in the library, amidst the undergrads, and that was where I had heard them use the words butterface and brown bagger. They used these words to describe women of attractive body and unattractive face, and this woman on Abbot Kinney was, in my opinion, definitely one. I moved quickly behind her to observe her further.
Her visage, when she turned her head to talk to the man, was hard and pronounced, with a jutting nose and chin, but she had good hair and a hot body to save her. She wore a pair of tiny navy silk shorts from which the very bottom of her ass cheeks protruded ever so slightly. You almost felt compelled to touch them. Everything she said was filtered through her own awareness of how good her ass looked, the words she spoke merely an afterthought compared to the glory at the bottom of those shorts. She was almost like a vehicle for shorts and an ass. She sort of danced a little down the sidewalk and flicked her hair.
He was no better. He asked stupid questions—“So how long have you lived here?” and “Do you like it?”—but every question was a chance to put his own hotness into action. Why were they even bothering to speak? Who had time for all of this? Why weren’t they just fucking, right there, out in the open? The entire performance was merely a vessel for something else. It was nothingness.
Sure, compared to the greater nothingness—the void, the lack of explicit meaning in life, the fact that none of us knows what is going on here—it was at least something. Their engagement in this dance of elevating a stupid restaurant to high levels of importance, discussing kombucha, making the fleeting matter, the shorts: all of these were a fuck-you to emptiness. Or perhaps these details were symptomatic of their ignorance of nothingness. Was nothingness so imperceptible to them that these things could matter?
Could anyone be totally ignorant of the void? Didn’t all of us have an awareness of it, a brush with it—perhaps only once or twice, like at a funeral for someone very close to you, when you walked out of the funeral home and it stopped making sense for just a blip that you existed. Or perhaps a bad mushroom trip where one’s fellow trippers looked like plastic. Could there be people on this Earth who never stopped for a moment, not once, to say: What is everything?
Whether these were those people or not, I knew that in this moment neither of them was asking that question. If they had tasted the nausea of not knowing why we are here or who we are, or if they had not, now they were willfully and successfully ignoring it. Or maybe they were just stupid. Oh, the sweet gift of stupidity. I envied them.
But really, I knew that everything came down to her shorts. All of the answers were in that ass line—the reduction of all fear, all unknown, all nothingness, eclipsed by the ass line. It was holding its own in all of this. It was just existing as though living was easy. The ass line didn’t really have to do anything, but it was running the whole show. All dialogue began and ended at that ass line. The direction of their evening, their dialogue, and in a way, the universe ended there. I hated them.
I hated their ease with everything. I hated their lack of loneliness, their sense of time stretching out languidly like something to be toyed with, as though it were never going to get too late tonight or in their lives. I didn’t know who I resented more: the man or the woman.
I have always felt that it would be good to be a man. Not only have I always wanted to have my own dick—just to walk around feeling that weight between my legs, that power—but I have longed to escape the time pressures that my body has put on me. I hated the German man on Abbot Kinney for having that, no time pressure. I hated the woman too, for being so young, for having so much time left to be hot and maybe someday have a baby.
I had never wanted a baby. I never felt the desire so many women describe that suddenly hits them. Having just turned thirty-eight, I had been waiting and waiting for that desire to overtake me, but it didn’t. So I always looked on it casually, like something mildly distasteful: a piece of onion I would prefer not to put on my plate.
But I loved having the option of having a baby if I still wanted one. I liked having the future ahead of me. People say that youth is wasted on the young and I agree in so many respects that it was wasted on me, but in one way I had appreciated it. I always had a sense of my privilege with time. Part of my casualness with the question of having children was that I sensed how lucky I was that I could one day have the choice if I wanted. I liked that that day was very far off. The distance felt luxurious.
I had secretly judged women who regretted never having children and were now no longer of the age at which they could have them. I judged them, perhaps, because I feared becoming them. But now at thirty-eight, my time was beginning to run out. I still didn’t want a child. I didn’t know what I would do with a child if I had one. But I missed having that open space before me in which to decide. And if that ass-cheeks woman had been paying attention to me, I knew she would have judged me as I had judged others my age.
She might have also judged me for being unmarried. When Jamie and I first met, I told him that marriage was an archaic declaration of ownership and it wasn’t for me. He said “good,” because it wasn’t his thing either. But four years into the relationship I wanted desperately for Jamie to ask me to marry him, if only because he wouldn’t. I’d never been a jewelry person, but something inside me longed for that ring. Outwardly I shit-talked blood diamonds, while quietly I studied other women’s rings, learning the names of the various diamond cuts: cushion, emerald, princess. I swore that married women used their left hands more than their right when they spoke, gestured, or wiped a stray hair out of their eyes, just to rub it in. They seemed to be saying, Look, someone wants me this much. I have safely made it to the other shore.
But what would I have even done as a married person? What would I have done with Jamie in my space or me in his? Choosing Jamie to love for so many years was perhaps more of a symbol of my own fear of intimacy than it was of his. He was intoxicating when we first met: a geologist, 6’2”, handsome in an L.L.Bean travel vest sort of way, golden brown and unshaven with sandy-brown hair, ten years my senior. He made me feel like a special little pea. Through his work in the desert with the university, he had received a grant from the American Geological Fund to make documentaries on the national parks. He always directed and edited the docs himself, and the grant gave him the power to travel, be free, and always be producing. Even though the documentaries aired at two a.m. on limited cable channels, he could never be accused of failing. “I’m more with the scientists than the artists,” he said. But he had the allure of an artist.
In our earlier years together I traveled to see him on location often. I spent my holiday breaks in an Airstream at Acadia National Park, Glacier, Yosemite. He would go on shoots all day and I would go out exploring, bringing back little souvenirs. He loved hearing what I had seen, correcting my landscape terminology. My favorites were the lakes and oceans, the rivers and waterfalls, like nothing we had in the desert. The rushing water, and traveling in general, made me feel like my life was moving forward, in spite of my flagging thesis. I identified myself with his work. It felt adventurous.
Excerpted from "The Pisces"
Copyright © 2019 Melissa Broder.
Excerpted by permission of Crown/Archetype.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Reading Group Guide
The Pisces Reading Group Guide
1. Early on, Lucy’s reliance on hope manifests in an affinity for crystals, psychics, and other spiritual entities. How does this evolve throughout the book?
2. Why do you think Lucy overdosed? Was she trying to hurt herself?
3. What does Lucy’s uncertainty about her thesis reveal about her? Do you think finishing it would offer her a sense of closure?
4. After joining a therapy group, Lucy jokingly thinks that the meaning of loving yourself is being repellant to others. Do you agree with her? How do she and the other group members exhibit their self-love?
5. Did you find Lucy’s desire for closeness and fulfillment relatable? Are these feelings normal?
6. When Theo reveals that he is a merman, he assures Lucy that “you aren’t hallucinating . . . in a way you were hallucinating before you met me in the sense that there was only one part of life you could see” (p. 139). What part of life did Lucy see before understanding who and what Theo is, and what part of life does she see after?
7. Lucy wonders if it is possible to be used while using someone. Who is she using, and who is using her?
8. What does Theo symbolize within the context of Lucy’s life? Do you think there is a particular reason he entered her life when he did?
9. Do you think Lucy learns anything from her brief encounters with Adam, Garrett, and Chase?
10. Of the members of her therapy group, Lucy feels most connected to Diana and Claire. Are these friendships helpful or harmful?
11. Do you think the support group has helped Lucy? What do Dr. Jude and its members teach her about herself?
12. Why do you think Jamie tries to reconnect with Lucy? Does she have any remaining feelings for him?
13. Lucy describes many types of love: a feeling of sisterly love felt between her and her sister, Diana, and Claire, a pure form of love between herself and Dominic, and the love she shares with Theo. How do these different types of love and relationships compare? Which type of love is most present in her life, and which is most important?
14. Lucy hypothesizes that “the only way to maybe have satisfaction would be to accept the nothingness and try not to put anyone else in it” (p. 104). Is it possible for her to accept the empty spaces in her life without attempting to fill them?
15. Why do you think Annika is so invested in Dominic? What does her reaction to his death say about her relationship with Lucy?
16. Do you believe that Theo is really what and who he claims to be? Do any of his actions indicate otherwise?
17. Ultimately, Lucy decides to return to her sister’s home rather than living with Theo or returning to Phoenix. Do you think this was the right decision?
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
I'm not going to lie. The Pisces is one weird-ass book. I did not know what to expect when I first opened the novel, but I certainly was not expecting what I read. Ms. Broder actually found a way to make sex unappealing in so many ways, plus she created a character with whom it is difficult to find any sympathy. One might argue that the novel is satiric in nature, that it skewers the idea of relationships and the profession of therapy; yet, those are nuances that are challenging to observe because everything about the story is so in-your-face. Perhaps my feelings for the story would differ had I been able to look beyond the surface, but this is one novel where empathy completely fails me. There is so much I find wrong with this book. I struggle with reviewers who describe the story as hilarious because the novel is, frankly, depressing. Lucy is a mess, and reading about her insecurities, her ennui, and her dangerous behavior when it comes to men is not something I find particularly funny. She is abrupt and coarse in pretty much everything she does or says, a blatant coping mechanism that becomes tedious after a while. Her issues with her thesis piss me off because she openly acknowledges that she is taking advantage of the system. I cannot feel sorry for someone whose blatant disregard for a system set in place to enhance learning is a key point in trying to win our favor. That she has issues with relationships is very clear, but I did not need multiple explicit examples to prove the point. One time going home with the wrong man and putting herself into a situation that could have severe consequences is all it takes for me to understand that Lucy needs professional help. Then there is the idea that this novel is sexy. That is a resounding no. There is nothing sexy or erotic in Ms. Broder's descriptions. In fact, her overt crassness in such scenes is the opposite of erotic. It is the cold shower of erotic. As for the merman scenes, I have no words. Actually, I do. Ms. Broder ruined the idea of mermen for me with her depiction of sex with them. Everything about those scenes is wrong, creating visuals that I would rather forget but know I will not be able to do so. The thing is that it is not Lucy's bluntness that bothers me so much, although it certainly did its job in making me uncomfortable. It is not even the explicitness of the novel, although anyone who takes umbrage at the c word should stay far away from this one. Taken separately, those are a writer's prerogative that do not bother me. It is the combination of everything which is repellent to me. It is Lucy's unapologetic nature. It is the complete lack of sexiness in all of the sex scenes, even when they are supposed to be nurturing and loving. It is the lack of subtlety of the entire novel; I prefer my stories less obvious and aggressive in their lessons. Subtlety in writing is an art, and there is none to be found in The Pisces. While it is obvious Ms. Broder can tell a story which evokes feelings and makes a point, her storytelling methods are not something I enjoy. In fact, I am quite surprised others find this particular novel so impressive. To me, The Pisces has all the subtlety of being beaten over the head with a steel pole; you would not think so many people would enjoy that.
On May 1, The Pisces by Melissa Broder will be released into the world and everyone will be able to experience the bizarre potpourri of feelings that I encountered when reading this novel. I can't even quite describe this story to someone accurately: it's hilarious, salacious, disgusting, depressing, and pathetic all wrapped into one tale of a middle-aged woman trying (and failing) to finish her dissertation. Continue reading to see my attempt to untangle my emotions in my full The Pisces review. So let me try to break down my thoughts on The Pisces: This book was all over the place for me emotionally. When I first started reading it, I had flashbacks to the also-funny Where'd You Go, Bernadette. I was laughing out loud with almost every page turn. Our main character, Lucy, has just broken up with a long time boyfriend. Reeling from the emotional trauma, she's left her home in Arizona to stay at her sister's Venice Beach mansion to pet sit their dog while they travel for the summer. As part of her deal with her sister, she's going to a therapy group with a bunch of women to try to help her recover from the break up. These therapy sessions are HILARIOUS and occur regularly throughout the entire novel. Lucy's commentary of the other members in the group and their discussions is insightfully comic. You will recognize the caricatures Broder has created in the people you see on TV or interact with every day. It makes it all the funnier. With the help of a member from this group, Lucy decides to try online dating. These end up failing epically, but my goodness these awkward sexual encounters had me LOLing big time. This is where I should mention that this book is not for the sexually squeamish. There is a lot of stuff in this book that many call "erotic," however, I'd just say it's lewd. It's not like these are some steamy sex scenes that are romantic and swoon-worthy. They're really just about penises and vaginas and what happens with them. So prepare yourself. Because then book got a little weird. A little over halfway through the book, Lucy meets the merman. This is where things got bizarre AF for me. There are some strange scenes with the merman, and even thinking back to these parts of the book, I just feel a little dirty. If that makes sense? Lucy's story takes a nosedive around here, and so much of the humor I loved in the first half disappeared. This is where the novel veered away from the 5-star rating it was holding onto and turned into a 2-3 star rating. You get knee-deep in her depression, anxiety, and obsession with this merman, and it definitely makes you feel icky. She makes some very poor decisions, and it's hard to feel sorry for her at all. When I finished the story I was left with a myriad of feelings and am still confused how I felt about it. I LOVED the first half and bits and pieces of the second half. But there was also parts of the second half I could have done without. Final thoughts: Ultimately, I'll settle on a fairly good rating (3.5 stars). Despite all the weird, icky feelings I had when reading this book, it was a page-turner for me. So obviously I enjoyed it!
I loved the name of this book and also the cover. That is as far as the compliments go. Had to skim to complete this work and even that did not get me to the end quick enough. Lucy is a women who is failing at fulfilling the requirements of her thesis and continues on a depressive avenue when her boyfriend finds another lover. Going to her sister's house to watch over her dog also proves too much for Lucy. Therapy and the appearance of a merman cannot save this character. Way enough said. "A copy of this was provided by Crown Publishing via Netgalley with no requirements for a review. "Comments here are my honest opinion."
Good god, what a piece of crap.
I don't get how this is up for an award. I am beyond peeved that I read this book. The main character is repugnant, self centered, crass: pretty much like how things are currently in society. Sexy? Ah, no. Vulgar and gross said my stomach. Oh, and if you are a dog lover, do NOT read this book. I'm sad for this author, if she thinks this is good fiction. IF you have no empathy whatsoever, this IS the book for you. This isn't satire. This is ugly.
I bought this book because I'm a sucker for summer romances. This book did not disappoint, and put quite the twist on a typical summer romance. It does start slow, but after finishing it, I can see why the author did this. This is definitely worth reading, and you won't be disappointed!
Lucy is almost forty and somehow stuck in her life: she has been working on her thesis on Sappho for years now, but has lost track and doesn’t advance anymore. The same is true for her relationship with Jamie who cannot decide between moving together and founding a family and needing more space for himself. When the university threatens Lucy with throwing her out and when Jamie refuses to make a decision, they dramatically break up and Lucy flees to her sister Annika’s house in Venice Beach. Since Annika will be away for work for a couple of weeks, Lucy agrees to baby-sit her dog and stay there for a while. With the help of a love addiction therapy group and Tinder, Lucy tries to solve her problems and to figure out what she really wants in life. When she meets a cute swimmer on the beach one evening, this might be the sign she has been waiting for. The novel sounded quite enthralling to me since I thought that it would be easy to relate to the protagonist: being at a turning point in life, questioning her job and relationship, added to this an intellectual female character who might have an interesting approach to the whole love stuff. Moreover, “love addition therapy group” promised to be great fun to read since it sounds quite absurd. To sum up the novel, I am a bit disappointed which might be my own fault since I did not pay too close attention to the fact that the novel is rated as “Women’s fiction”. Thus, the protagonist wasn’t the intellectual character I had hoped for, but quite some dumb and brainless being who was only searching for men to spend her nights with and who devoted her days to browsing shops for clothes (which she bought for an incredible amount of money) and thinking about her make-up and waxing. Lucy is incredibly shallow which annoyed me a lot wasn’t in tune with the intellectual researcher we got to know in the beginning. Apart from this, there were by far too many explicit scenes over too long paragraphs. Some readers might like it, it’s just not my favourite type of novel, but as said before, I didn’t pay close attention to the genre. After the first half of the novel – which had some quite funny incidents and absurd dialogues that I really enjoyed – Lucy meets the swimmer. First of all, I thought that I had misunderstood something. Then I was waiting for the moment Lucy wakes up and realizes that she had quite some strange dream. Yet, this moment never came, the author simply implemented some utterly bizarre prop which didn’t work for me at all. I can understand why some readers truly enjoy to read the book, it just wasn’t one for me. Too strange and weird in the plot, the protagonist not really authentic and too many explicit passages.
Crossroads, advice, group therapy and figuring out love. What more can one look for? Set in LA Border offers a tour of this complex city and the sexploits hidden within its skirts. She underscores her protagonist's need for connection and the struggles to define just what kind of connection she requires. The voice in this work is gorgeous and the elements that generate it's speech are rich. Consumerism is challenged and the dichotomy of being sexy and a strong female are interplayed as main character Lucy dives deep into a passionate love affair with addiction. Coping with her feelings and flaws the world around her caves in and emerges anew. It is a work about love, sex, self and growth.