Heather Christle

The Crying Book

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«A poignant and piercing examination of the phenomenon of tears—exhaustive, yes, but also open-ended… A deeply felt, and genuinely touching, book.» —Esmé Weijun Wang, author of The Collected Schizophrenias

«Spellbinding and propulsive—the map of a luminous mind in conversation with books, songs, friends, scientific theories, literary histories, her own jagged joy, and despair. Heather Christle is a visionary writer.» —Leni Zumas, author of Red Clocks

Heather Christle has just lost a dear friend to suicide and now must reckon with her own depression and the birth of her first child. As she faces her grief and impending parenthood, she decides to research the act of crying: what it is and why people do it, even if they rarely talk about it. Along the way, she discovers an artist who designed a frozen-tear-shooting gun and a moth that feeds on the tears of other animals. She researches tear-collecting devices (lachrymatories) and explores the role white women’s tears play in racist violence.

Honest, intelligent, rapturous, and surprising, Christle’s investigations look through a mosaic of science, history, and her own lived experience to find new ways of understanding life, loss, and mental illness. The Crying Book is a deeply personal tribute to the fascinating strangeness of tears and the unexpected resilience of joy.
This book is currently unavailable
145 printed pages
Original publication
2019
Publication year
2019
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Quotes

  • Arina Koriandrhas quoted3 years ago
    When I am in the fog of despair I fear I cry too much to be a good partner or parent or person, that something within me is utterly broken, that any reprieve—a day of joy! a poem!—is temporary and somehow false. But that is the fog doing its work, making everything large and grotesque. When the fog lifts I can point up, say Look, it is a cloud.
  • Arina Koriandrhas quoted3 years ago
    I mistook myself for a researcher, when I am a weeping subject.
  • Arina Koriandrhas quoted3 years ago
    People talk about the fog of pregnancy, the forgetfulness, the book neatly put away in the refrigerator. The other week I tried to make a new friend, but became distracted before writing down my phone number’s last two digits.

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