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I picked I Fear My Pain Interests You, by Stephanie LaCava, looking for a literary-fiction story with strong psychological undertones. What I got instead was “the next Great American Novel“, but let me be upfront: I mean this in the worst possible manner, using it entirely ironically.

Indeed, my motivation behind writing a review for this novel was very simple: I absolutely loathed it. This is the kind of pointless drivel you’d expect from 15-year-old edgelords thinking they’re writing avant-garde literature. I know, I used to be one.

Another fun fact: I almost gave up on the novel at the 90% mark, which would’ve been an amazing thing to do, but I sadly had to finish it since I’d decided to write this review.

Of course, that I hated I Fear My Pain Interests You is not very… interesting to you. But why I hated it might be, because it reveals a lot about how and why literature is written nowadays – in the US (see earlier note) and places copying the US.

I Fear My Pain Interests You: Plot, Genre, Narrative

As I said in the introduction, I picked the book thinking it was literary fiction. The blurb seemed to support the idea, as it described in fairly ambiguous terms the dysfunctional relationships of Margot, a young woman coming from a complicated family of famous and wealthy musicians, and how she goes to live in a friend’s house in Montana to get away from it all.

What I actually got was “the next Great American Novel”, which is a term I use pejoratively to refer to vacuous, pompous dryness (Don DeLilo comes to mind) that thinks it’s high-brow literariness, whereas it’s – at best – a clinical, structured, workshop-like regurgitation of controlled, industrialized, false radicality.

In plain terms: The book talks about all sorts of supposedly controversial subjects, such as sex, abuse, violence, without any clear idea why or what it wants to say with it. It’s exactly, exactly like those modern art exhibitions that appear gory and violent without talking about the foundations behind their depictions; what drives them. It’s the complete and utter collapse of criteria, as Castoriadis put it.

The Collapse of Criteria and Narrative Cohesion

As I said, I almost gave up on the book at the 90% mark. I had mentally already given up earlier, when Margot meets a mysterious man in Montana. He’s described as a fairly older man who is a trauma surgeon, a director (highly convenient, since Margot – who is an actor – has just come out of an abusive relationship with The Director, another much older man), and – get this – can speak Czech. I suppose he could also fart rainbows, but that is my own guess.

The last 25% or so of the novel is basically descriptions of mental teeter-totter and sex in all sorts of weird instantiations. I have absolutely no problem with either, as long as they’re narratively justified and support cohesion. In the case of I Fear My Pain Interests You sex comes across as about as ludicrous as what you can see in “worst sex scenes in literature” awards.

I Fear My Pain Interests You: Characters

One reason why sex scenes come across as ludicrous is because there is no connection to the protagonist. When we hear about her wondering as to why her partner doesn’t have an orgasm, this would’ve been interesting and supportive of the narrative if we actually knew Margot’s inner world.

A perfect anti-example would be Hotel Iris, by Yōko Ogawa. In a somewhat similar setup in terms of dynamics, Ogawa’s novel follows a young (indeed, underaged) teenager who becomes infatuated with an older man and begins a disturbingly submissive sexual relationship with him. The descriptions in Ogawa’s novel are far more explicit and sickening, yet also fully justifiable by the narrative, which isn’t the case in I Fear My Pain Interests You.

The entire narrative preceding the last 25% is basically wasted on pointless descriptions of loosely based incidents, faux-controversial discussions with Margot’s grandmother, and overall little to create a realistic, relatable character. Things aren’t helped by the novel’s setup (it’s not easy to relate to a privileged brat coming from a wealthy and famous background), but instead of using this to show proper darkness – tangents where privilege and reality meet – the novel wastes 75% of its length on pointless dead-ends.

In other words, Margot (who is the only character with some literary space dedicated to) comes across as flat, unrealistic, unrelatable. Every other character is there as a prop for Margot, and if she is unrealistic, you can probably guess how badly written the rest of them are.

Obviously, any suggestion of narrative antagonism goes out the window. There is no sense of real tension in the novel. Margot faces no real obstacle (not even herself) because there is no narrative goal, either; only a pointless motion here and there.

I Fear My Pain Interests You: General Impression

There’s not much to add. As I said, the only reason I bothered writing this review is because it’s been a while since I read such a badly written novel.

I mean, of course we’re surrounded by unfathomable mediocrity, but it’s one thing to expect mediocrity that remains safely inside the noise pattern, and entirely another to see mediocrity that is so popular. That’s what earns it the “next Great American Novel” sarcastic tag of mine.

Quite honestly, I would even ask you to read the novel yourself. It’s short, you won’t waste much of your time. It’s truly an eye-opening experience – a teaching experience – regarding what not to do when writing a novel.

“I fear my pain interests you”. No, not in the slightest.