A few years ago, while absent-mindedly scrolling through my social media feeds, I ran across an opinion piece in the New York Times titled “I Know What You Think of Me.” In the article, the author, Tim Kreider, lucidly describes the relationship between anxiety, vulnerability, and the terrifying prospect of being loved. Within a few short paragraphs, he excavates the complex inner machinations regarding our fear and paranoia of truly being known, despite all of our flaws. The final paragraph, however, particularly caught my eye, as he writes, 

Years ago a friend of mine had a dream about a strange invention; a staircase you could descend deep underground, in which you heard recordings of all the things anyone had ever said about you, both good and bad. The catch was, you had to pass through all the worst things people had said before you could get to the highest compliments at the very bottom. There is no way I would ever make it more than two and a half steps down such a staircase, but I understand its terrible logic: if we want the rewards of being loved we have to submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known.

Although I had never heard of the author or his work before, I found the essay so incisive and poignant, as it pulled at some strings that resonated deeply within my mind and heart. After enjoying this short article, I felt compelled to research the author’s bibliography, where I found a few volumes of his collected essays. Continuing this penchant for combining wonderfully vivid observations with insightful introspection, essayist and cartoonist Tim Kreider, in his 2012 book, We Learn Nothing, gives us a handful of snapshots of his life as he offers keen insights on what it means to be human

Overview:

Essentially, this book is a collection of autobiographical essays that utilize Kreider’s personal triumphs and foibles throughout his life to shed light on the human condition. Each chapter explores a different circumstance in Kreider’s colorful life, as they are centered around key questions: What’s it like to have a near-death experience and then for the impact of it to slowly lose its potency after you constantly retell the story? Why do we fall in love with people who are bad for us, and who we don’t even particularly like in the first place? How do you react when a long-time friend suddenly comes out and confides in you that they were born the wrong gender? What is it like to feel the acute despondency of slowly watching a friendship slip away, unable to do anything to salvage it? How do we deal with the fact that those who are closest to us, including family, might be “bad people?” How do we come to terms with the contingency of our own lives and prevent ourselves from judging the alternative choices of those around us? Through effective storytelling and keen insight, Krieder attempts to address these questions and more. 

Through all of these essays, Kreider answers with a healthy dose of sardonic wit and self-effacing humor. Ever self-aware of his own follies and shortcomings, Kreider balances humor with heartbreak as he shares his tragicomic perspective on the world and our relationships with one another. Throughout the book, Kreider juxtapositions bright flashes of intense experiences against the dull monotony of everyday life. The seemingly mundane experiences often take on a weight of extravagant symbolic meaning, while the wild, impassioned experiences fade in the wake of the drab and prosaic humdrum of everyday life. Throughout the essays, Kreider fills the pages with anecdotes and observations, dragging us alongside him through the streets of New York as he drinks with questionable friends, guiding us through a 2010 Tea Party rally (within which he was an obvious outlier), and taking us through the lonely halls of a hospital as he visits and reads books with his seriously ill mother. Through all of these snapshots of life, Kreider gives us observations on life, love, family, illness, and troubled friendships. Accompanying the myriad of stories, Krieder also includes several of his cartoons and illustrations scattered amidst the pages.

Commendations: 

In essence, this book is a series of essays, each one a story that is only loosely held together by a common thread: the tendency of human beings to fail gloriously. Each one holds lessons for us to learn, and they are all effective in drawing us into Kreider’s unique, quirky, and introspective mind. Whether he’s waxing philosophical about the mundaneness of life, tiredly resigning himself to the loss of a friendship, or unabashedly critical of his own actions and motivations, Kreider has a profound gift for weaving together a compelling and poignant narrative. One essay that I found particularly applicable, titled “Lazy: A Manifesto,” is a well-articulated lament at our current culture of busyness, and how we often use it as an excuse to ignore and repress our own anxieties and fears. As a remedy, he writes, 

I did make a conscious decision, a long time ago, to choose time over money, since you can always make more money. And I’ve always understood that the best investment of my limited time on earth is to spend it with the people I love. I suppose it's possible I’ll lie on my deathbed regretting that I didn’t work harder, write more, and say everything I had to say, but I think that I’ll really wish is that I could have one more round of Delancys with Nick, another long late-night talk with Lauren, one last good hard laugh with Harold. Life is too short to be busy. (83)

This is Kreider at his best; taking a small observation about the foolish ways in which we behave, holding it to the light, and then tenderly offering another way of living. 

Furthermore, Kreider, who rose to prominence for his political, polemical cartoons during the Bush presidency, is keenly and surprisingly empathetic and generous towards those with whom he differs, directing the bulk of his criticism toward himself. While he is clear in his disagreement with others (like the chapter about the Tea Party rally, for example), he is fair and gracious toward them while simultaneously reflecting on his own position with intellectual honesty and sardonic humor. This book seems like the product of someone who has matured in his attitudes toward the Other. However, as a centrist-Democrat type, Kreider admits his own shortsighted bias, writing, “My cruelest hope for the Tea Party is that one of their candidates wins the nomination for the presidency and they implode of their own hubristic stupidity” (73). It seems that, only four short years after writing this book, his cruelest hope actually came true, though not with the outcome he expected. 

As I’ve said before, Kreider is clearly a gifted writer, combining observational humor with deep and incisive insights into the human condition, in all of its messy and awkward glory. Between some of the more prosaic narratives that shape the bulk of the book hide beautifully poetic gems of wisdom and insight. Kreider is gifted at crafting a cohesive, memorable story, turning small vignettes of his life into wonderful fragments of meaning and poignant beauty. Throughout the book, Kreider constantly pokes fun at himself, utilizing self-effacing humor, self-aware of his own flaws and selfish tendencies. Each essay, while differing in content, highlights his own difficulty with interpersonal relationships as he frames himself as somewhat of a cynic and misanthrope, yet with a romantic heart (for better or worse). Yet, Kreider is nothing if not genuine, and at the end of the day, he seems like a guy who would be great to sit down and have a few beers with, commiserating together about the absurd state of the world with laughter.

Critique:

While Krieder’s essays are well written, a few of them could have benefited from being shortened. During these chapters, I found myself losing interest as Kreider goes off in tangents on occasion, dragging the narratives out a bit longer than necessary. For those who have the patience to wade through some of the longer chapters, there are many great insights to be found. Yet, I found myself reading a few chapters at a time, putting the book down, picking it back up, and having to remember what the previous chapters were about. Some narratives are much more poignant and memorable than others, and I found some of the stories tended to fade quickly from my memory. As such, while Kreider is an exceptional writer, I did find the quality of the essays a bit uneven throughout the book.

Furthermore, while Kreider certainly is a unique and quirky individual, his personality can be a bit of an acquired taste for some. Kreider is incredibly introspective and self-aware of his own shortcomings, and it can be difficult to write about them in a way that doesn’t come off as being self-indulgent or narcissistic. There’s this certain intellectual disavowal within Kreider’s writing; he recognizes the traits that he doesn’t like about himself, comments on them and his silliness for being that way, and then resigns himself to a kind of cynical ennui about it. Don’t get me wrong, I have several close friends who remind me of Kreider, and I love them dearly, even in the midst of their navel-gazing. And while Kreider far from engages in this kind of self-absorption regularly throughout the work, his self-effacing tone and brand of humor might not be for everyone. 

Finally, in relation to Kreider’s utilization of language, there’s one more aspect of the work that must be commented upon: although Kreider is brutally honest and vulnerable about his thoughts on subjects, this honesty can occasionally come at the expense of tactfulness and prudence. This is especially true in regards to his essay on his old friend Jennifer Boylan, who undergoes a sex change, much to Kreider’s initial bewilderment and confusion. This is a touchy subject, to be sure, and there are many things that have changed about the general public’s awareness of transgender issues since the book’s publication. Much to his credit, Kreider is brutally honest about his own trouble with getting accustomed to his old friend’s new pronouns and name. Kreider utilizes incorrect pronouns (writing “he/she”), as he notes that his purposeful use of the double pronouns in the chapter reflected his insoluble trouble with such a mental transition for him at the time. Furthermore, he constantly refers to her as “trangendered,” in other spaces he mockingly refers to himself as “a fag,” and has some issues with understanding the nuances of sexuality and gender. 

To be fair, not only would Kreider probably agree with this assessment of his own stubbornness and trouble with understanding, but the overall narrative arc is ultimately affirming, as Jennifer trusts Kreider so much to not only come out to him but to also accompany her to her sex reassignment surgery. There’s obviously a deep sense of camaraderie and trust between the two of them, and I commend Kreider for being radically vulnerable and honest about his thoughts. Too many of us are too afraid to say, let alone publish, some of the less savory sides of our own thoughts, and I do commend Kreider for having the guts to be honest. While I do believe that some aspects of the chapter could have been handled with a little more thoughtfulness and grace and that this chapter is one of the most self-centered sections of the book (it is mostly focused on Kreider’s reaction and recalibration of his friendship rather than on Jennifer’s transition from her point of view),  it is enlightening to see the narrative arc of his own thoughts, as Kreider ultimately comes around to write, “It turned out that I had been asking the wrong question; it was never is she a woman or is he a man, but what is a friend” (180). 

Conclusion:

Overall, We Learn Nothing is an entertaining and insightful read, offering a wide range of options for the reader. Kreider’s writing style is breezy and easily accessible, if sometimes brash and a tad unrefined in a couple of places. Some stories will make you laugh. Others will take hold of you and stir some deep-seated emotions. And still, others will almost immediately be forgotten. Ultimately though, the book serves as an earnest reflection of the difficulty of being human and navigating the messy and complex relationships between one another. If you’re a fan of Kreider’s columns, then I heartily recommend picking up this one, if for no other reason than to gain a different perspective of the world.