The thing is this: this is not a book about Patricia Lockwood's father, who is a Catholic priest. This is a book where Lockwood sets out to write a book about her father and ends up primarily writing about herself and her family and the way they are haunted by her father (who is very much alive) and the Catholic Church in general. He remains opaque, unclear, frequently ridiculous, Rush-Limbaugh-misogynistic, and deeply devoted to the practice of ministry, all at once. Toward the end of the book she turns to him and asks, explicitly, for him to reveal himself to her. But she only does so in the pages of this book she's written around herself/out of herself/between them. She doesn't, and maybe can't, face-to-face. I don't fault her for that, or the book. It remains an extraordinary book, especially when looking at the effects of the deeply patriarchal structures she (and women in general) grow up in, are shaped by, sometimes wriggle out of and can't entirely escape. I came to Lockwood via her poem "Rape Joke," which made me feel so entirely seen that lines from it echoed though my head for months after, at a time in my life when I desperately needed that poem, exactly. Reading more of her writing on gender, on trauma, on dealing with that poem going viral while living in her parents' home was incredible. It also does have a chapter tiled the "Cum Queens of Hyatt Place." It is hilarious and brilliant and made me weep and made me think. I can't ask for more than that. ( )

I jibe with Patricia Lockwood really well and love her writing. Part of that is she writes the most incisive and poetic sentences and scenes; the passage from [b:No One Is Talking About This|53733106|No One Is Talking About This|Patricia Lockwood|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1601474686l/53733106._SY75_.jpg|84057345] when the doctor chokes up after her niece's death, with cream cheese from a bagel stuck in his mustache, for instance, is perfectly amazing. Priestdaddy is said to be funnier, but humor isn't what sticks out to me. It's writing like this:

"All my life I have overheard, all my life I have listened to what people will let slip when they think you are part of their we. A we is so powerful. It is the most corrupt and formidable institution on earth. Its hands are full of the crispest and most persuasive currency. Its mouth is full of received, repeating language. The we closes its ranks to protect the space inside it, where the air is different. It does not protect people. It protects its own shape."

Does that not just nail tribalist in-group dynamics... ( )

Patricia Lockwood is a master wordsmith. The prose in this comic memoir is often exquisite. Ms. Lockwood grew up under unusual circumstances: her father is a Catholic priest. Her mother was a good Catholic girl who married a man who later became a Lutheran minister, but then converted to Catholicism, and through some quirky rule, was able to be ordained and keep his wife and family. He seems quite the character, although he is certainly someone whose politics put me off. As much as I enjoyed Ms. Lockwood's descriptions and colorful language, I found the book somewhat disjointed, almost like a collection of essays rather than a book-length memoir. At times the story did not hold my attention, but overall I enjoyed it. ( )

Lockwood’s writing style overwhelmed me in not a good way ... I almost put the book down early on but I’m glad I stuck with it to the end. She’s certainly a good storyteller and she has a hell of a story to tell re. her life. Maybe I just don’t care for her aesthetic (manic pixie plus constant pointless sexual references) so all the more kudos that I enjoyed the whole book. She demystifies both the midwest and Catholicism, quite a feat. ( )

Started off very promising, then just slowed to a crawl. It appears the author had a good 200 page in her but decided to stretch it a bit. She should have stopped at 200. I got bored and just stop caring about her father, mother and even her. ( )