The introduction of a new love interest bursts across the first chapter of Catherine Fatima’s new, Auto-Fictional book, Sludge Utopia. He fills the narration with sticky rapture, but still: he is the least interesting thing about the book. The narrator’s euphoria, however, is remarkably familiar, because to come upon Sludge Utopia is to fall in love. Deeply affecting, hilariously clever, and always self-aware, Fatima’s prose is a breath of fresh (intellectual, sly, sexy) air.

Written in a series of loose journal entries, Fatima’s book succeeds as an energetic and startlingly persuasive read. I habitually write in the books I read, underlining and commenting on things I like. I could not have anticipated how blackened and graffitied my copy of Sludge Utopia would be by the time I finished it. I had marked up every page with the love I felt for it. In the 90s, Chris Kraus brought us the burning, bitter confessions of I Love Dick — Sludge Utopia is the answering cry. Breathless, smart, and at times grammatically strenuous, Sludge Utopia captures the slow erosion of the mind when living fast in the city. 

The book is divided into six chapters: Stimulation, Depression, Utopia, Family, Love, and Sludge.  The narrator, Catherine, begins in her fast-paced, academic comfort zone of Toronto and casual sex. She then travels through the utopic, couch-surfing expanse of France, before staying with extended family in the peaceful and isolated islands of Portugal, finally returning to her life in Canada. Catherine’s musings are sometimes medicated and always introspective. The reader slowly learns of the real anxiety lurking in the shadows as Catherine begins to move through a series of prescribed medications. Fatima’s writing truly shines in its flexibility; as Catherine changes medication and changes environments, the prose changes texture. As she slows down and speeds up, so does the reader, who is quickly roped in. If I wanted to be technical and miss the point, I would say that the narrator is a navel-gazing narcissist — but the beauty of the work is in its interiority. Catherine Fatima takes loss, desire, stimulation, and pain to philosophical lengths without losing her reader in the muddy depths of her character’s mind. In the chapter entitled “Family”, Fatima writes that, “to concern oneself first with the emotional and affective is still true philosophy.” With this phrase she perfectly summarizes her novel. The intimacy of philosophy and the philosophy of intimacy are the central principles around which it orbits. 

Fatima’s narrator, Catherine, and I have a great deal in common, but the novel’s strength stretches beyond merely my relationship with it. Catherine confesses, obsesses, and theorizes in delightfully irreverent prose. She asks questions and draws conclusions in universal ways. Even if you’ve never felt overworked, never experienced depression or anxiety, never felt a little slutty and a little alone, the humanity of Fatima’s writing (as well as its humour) makes it relatable everywhere. Fatima’s narrator takes a critical lens with her into every space, every relationship she inhabits. You don’t need to be a woman in your twenties living in Toronto to appreciate how acutely, how intensely, how thoroughly and with what curiosity Catherine works through the dynamics of each relationship she has — romantic, familial, sexual, or academic. The sheer beauty of some of the character descriptions (and in some cases the take-downs) is enough to sustain the interest of any reader. At times, piggybacking on Fatima’s insight is sustenance enough, and watching her narrator talk herself through the nebulous anxieties of everyday life is hilarious: “The most idiotic, privileged, childish anxiety: ‘Will I continue to want this?’ If you’re in a good mood, probably!” 

Young femininity in North America is generally given a hard time for basically everything it does. Enthusiasm (for musicians, friendships, beverages) is belittled and mocked. Cultural productions that undermine the construction of ‘the girl’ as a politically-ignorant, mindless consumer and a bad friend are crucial, and Fatima’s novel does so beautifully. The narrator’s analytical, loving, insightful prose is brimming over with attention and care. No more of the mindlessness of femininity, please!

In tone, the book is the lovechild of Phoebe Bridgers’ scathing breakup anthem, Motion Sickness, and Ida Maria’s hectic punk song, Oh My God. In Motion Sickness, Bridgers layers scorching lyrics about her breakup overtop of a floating, falsetto melody. Ida Maria’s Oh My God is contrastingly frantic, with lyrics like “Oh my god, you think I’m in control,” shouted and repeated at high speed. Sludge Utopia exemplifies the same rawness of emotion, the same honesty, and the same sardonic humour. For those who know what it’s like to wade through academia, to feel detached from a room full of people one week and joyful the next, for those invested in emotional self-diagnoses, and who feel profound uncertainty every day — Sludge Utopia is a tonic, a hand holding yours in the darkness. Fatima puts into words the nebulous, nagging feelings that dance just beyond our vocabulary and presents it to her reader as a friend. 

The energy of Fatima’s writing at times is unprecedented. I have great respect for the english language but even more for those who can take it in stride while ignoring the rules. Sludge Utopia gives you voice above all. You aren’t reading; you’re listening. Almost reminiscent of Gertrude Stein’s disregard for conventions of syntax, Catherine Fatima writes conversationally, increasing the reader’s intimacy with the text in every chapter. For instance: “I rush past: feeling secure; the right language; everything. Notable that one of the things I took to indicate my heart failure was that suddenly I felt the exhaustion caused by walking at twice the pace of everyone else.” The familiarity and quickness of her voice meant that reading it felt like I was texting my oldest and funniest friend. 

Journals are functional affairs; they organize and declutter a mess of emotions. Though Catherine is a clever and fastidious writer, her journal sometimes crumbles into lists and jotted notes. In homage to Fatima’s style, the following is a brief series of particularly enjoyable passages:

“I don’t understands what happens when I feel well. Keep living? Like this? My God.” 

“Lord, try to explain to a medical professional how strange it is that you were once an anxious person, but now you’re so calm, so how could it happen that now you’re having possibly life- threatening heart problems? Explain it with a straight face, in French.”  

“Ultimately the goal of my feminist praxis is to achieve orgasm in the presence of another, and we’ll see about the rest thereafter.” 

“Five Fs of securing lodgings: friendship, fucking, financial capital, family, political association?” 

Painting an insightful and, above all, honest picture of the blurry lines between anxiety and depression, between temporary solutions and feeling at home, Sludge Utopia treats its reader and its subject matter with patience, curiosity, and humour. 

Simply: delightful. It’s delightful to feel so understood, delightful to meet such a friend, and it’s definitely delightful to have to stifle your laughter when you’re reading a book this funny in public.