This book has been called a lot of things – devastating, a tour de force, exceptional; but also generic treacle. Molly Young, who wrote one of two reviews of this book for the New York Times (published days apart; would love to know how this happened there) acknowledges the extreme opinions, and says that “If you don’t like Carrère now, you never will.” In the spirit of what Young calls Carrère’s “extreme candor,” I will tell you straight away that I don’t like him now, and (presumably) never will.

Saying this feels wrong. I don’t like “him”? I don’t know the man, though after reading this book, a 2017 New York Times profile, and several articles about the dissolution of his marriage, I feel pretty confident saying that I don’t like his whole deal: his approach to writing, his perspective on fiction, his smugness, and especially his mixture of mindfulness and obliviousness. 

Yoga is classified as nonfiction in North America, but as a novel in France. Maybe we can split the difference with autofiction, which is generally understood to be writing based on real life, with few attempts to conceal names, places, and dates, but written in the style of fiction, with some liberties taken to make a more coherent story, or emphasize a theme or two. In my opinion, Yoga goes beyond a few liberties into something more sinister and more annoying. Yoga is also written from an assumption that the reader is extremely interested in Carrère’s writing process, down to how fast he can type. Given his stature in French literature, that might be true for some readers. Not for me. 

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