Though we have only made it through the first section, I personally believe that Cheryl Strayed’s Wild has exceeded all of our expectations. While I know that many of us began with the assumption and mindset that Wild was a stereotypical “mom” book, designed for book club meetings (I’ll admit, I was one of those culprits), it has proved to be both a human and literary triumph. I honestly found it difficult to set the novel down and bring myself to write this post, as I wanted to genuinely do nothing but to continue reading.
Nonetheless, we must begin the blog posting process somewhere, and I would like to start by focusing primarily on Strayed’s voice throughout the novel (obviously, your posts can be about whatever you wish). I discovered her style to be remarkably intriguing, as she writes with both humor, bitterness, and a kind of twinging literary aspect that is difficult to grasp. She weaves odd symbols into her words so effortlessly that story feels as though it is fiction, and these scenes were merely placed by a wise author. Instead, these metaphors-the note that her mother’s chest was still warm despite her being dead, the horse her mother had so desperately wanted to ride but could not when she got cancer, the “Volkswagen” sized weight of her backpack that made it a burden even for her to stand up, the bull that is only steered away by “the worlds loudest whistle”-all of these genuinely occurred, and Strayed manages to find her own symbolism within real events. When the novel begins, she states that “the trees were tall, but I was taller.” Right away, the reader is introduced to the kind of novel this will be; heart wrenching, and desperately meaningful. Cheryl stands above the towering trees, set apart, different, but not better. Not special. Only higher.