As the book All Things Are Too Small concludes, Becca Rothfeld displays an unyielding commitment to maximalism. She quotes a phrase so embedded in her thoughts that it forms an integral part of her thinking process.
“I cherish a deciphered thing immensely.”
Instantly, I realised the underlying hiccup with this literary work – Rothfeld’s unending endeavour for exhaustive explanation leaves her subject matter depleted and sterile once she finishes.
However, this isn’t the case with every essay within the anthology. The collection begins on a hopeful and highly energetic note. Initially, the reader is likely to overlook Rothfeld’s evident knack for bold, yet incorrect, declarations such as: “Desire is an equally reliable compass to truth as anything else.” Her wordiness and imprecision are, in fact, endearing – she’s off base because she’s fervent. It felt as if I was sitting at a social gathering filled with loud, captivating conversation about an array of fascinating subjects: literature, semantics, awareness, female empowerment, intimacy, and more intimacy (a slight glimpse into the themes of these essays).
And yet, there was an overpowering desire for the gathering to conclude, to retire to a tranquil, meditative space, away from the incessant chatter of all this profound debunking. The constant sarcasm and wit eventually started to wane. Mocking Marie Kondo’s middle-class taste might provide humour (I chuckled at “the minimalist dreams of a house without copulation or defecation”), but by the end of the anthology, the frequent cynical remarks made the experience feel like a conversation with a moody, unapproachable teenager.
Furthermore, Rothfeld’s attempt at capturing love in her writing was truly cringe-worthy. She informs us that her husband has such a love for reading that he even reads in the shower, an image that is practically unfeasible, evoking continued annoyance.
However, the collection does house moments of lucidity and immense beauty. Rothfeld’s extensive terminology left me in complete awe and beautiful lines such as, “the shining innocence of a history” nearly compensated for the excruciating efforts at being poetic.
The evening was as refreshing as a mint leaf. He noticed the street lamp from afar, casting a glow likened to liquefied butter. His speech dripped of blandness, alike to the briny taste of saltwater taffy.
The ultimate shortcoming of Rothfeld’s anthology is, ironically, its existence as a single entity. I envisage the reader would find each individual piece delightful with its sprightly and satisfying tone, compensating for Rothfeld’s tendency towards excessive explanation and sweeping claims of doubtful validity. Sadly, the repetition of her views became draining as I progressed reading. By the time I reached the end, I craved escape, yearned to leave the social gathering, to dash into the decidedly less oppressive atmosphere of the night, seeking the solace of the unexplored and unknown.