“All Fours” by Miranda July

REVIEW BY MEREDITH MCKINNIE

“Life didn’t just get better and better. You could actually miss out on something and that was that. That was your chance and now it was over.”

Miranda July’s romp of an autofiction novel is absurd, titillating, and for lack of a better term, off the rails. Needless to say, I absolutely loved it, but I caution those looking for reasons to hate a book. You will find a reason to hate this one. We open with our narrator, an unnamed 45-year-old mother  to Sam and wife to music producer Harris. Exhausted with the state of play, our narrator feels as if she is physically being dragged head first into menopause and desperate to escape her reality. Sound familiar? There’s just something about a woman-going-off-the-rails novel that makes us “normies” feel seen. After our narrator receives a nice bonus from a recent art project, she plans to drive cross country to NYC to stay alone in the Carlile before meeting up with friends. Though a typical setup, our narrator detours 30 miles into her sojourn to shack up in a little town off the interstate, obsesses over a 30-year-old rental car agency worker, and remodels (to the tune of thousands of dollars) a motel room she’s renting by the day. If that sounds crazy enough, it’s only the beginning. 

July’s literary tactics undergird this wild ride, namely the intriguingly dense commentary on everything from menopause to feminine rage, to the vitality of friendships and self-acceptance. Immersed in the madness of the plot are July’s sobering thoughts on the reality for the women society deems past their prime. While we may scoff at the narrator’s choices, as women we can relate to the impulses and sympathize with the unfairness of it all. It’s hard to tell if our heroine is really out of her mind, finally in it, or finally snapped awake. July’s depth in exploring the lunacy of womanhood through the vexing actions of her main character kept me turning pages. July leaves readers with more questions than answers. She trusts us to decide for ourselves. 

Because of the sheer force of this novel, I will reserve any further plot points. I will say, July does not care about your feelings. She willingly offends, and I believe that’s her point. She invites all the cultural criticism, and taps all the hot-button issues, and again, clearly does not care. She leans into describing erotic scenes, sordid details that are often downright nauseating – again, not one for the pearl clutchers. I found myself looking over my shoulder to make sure no one could see me reading this. But All Fours has stayed with me for months, not for the absurdity but for the sobriety – the hard look at the incomprehensible that gets fuzzier as we age. July doesn’t just pass by cultural puzzles; she grabs the box and tosses all the pieces in the air. This novel is what happens after those pieces crash to the floor. 

“It’s hard to be knocked down when you’re on all fours.”