Her words can have volcanic force, pure raw power, sheer glare.
It seemed appropriate to read it there, and yet almost entirely wrong at the same time. It is a book about being fat, about being a survivor of sexual trauma, about losing control and taking control and losing it again in a cycle of anger, shame, regret, and pride. Once I’d reached a level of contortion I thought I might be able to handle for several hours, I picked up Hunger. A few weeks back, after a stint working on a cold and lonely East Coast, I squeezed into my seat on the plane, wedged myself in a spot between my neighbor and the window, and started creaking my way across America. You have to keep quiet, stay still, bear it out to the end. In Roxane Gay’s Hunger, she points out that social convention-that is, the eyes and minds of other passengers-means you have to fold yourself into whatever space you’re given and then pretend it doesn’t cause you discomfort. Planes, when you’re tall and fat, present an interesting challenge.
