Review of Patricia Lockwood's 'Will There Ever Be Another You'

Patricia Lockwood, a poet and novelist born in 1981, has become a distinctive voice in contemporary literature, blending sharp wit with profound introspection. Her memoir Priestdaddy (2017), shortlisted for the Costa Book Award, offered a hilarious yet tender portrait of growing up in a Catholic household. Her debut novel No One Is Talking About This (2021), a Booker Prize finalist and one of The New York Times' Ten Best Books of the year, captured the disorienting pull of online life with poetic precision. Lockwood, a contributing editor at the London Review of Books, has seen her work translated into 20 languages and praised for its "impish verve" (The New Yorker, 2025). Her second novel, Will There Ever Be Another You, published in 2025 by Riverhead Books, is an auto fictional exploration of long

COVID's toll on the mind and body. Hailed as "a knockout" by Publishers Weekly (2025) and "profoundly important" by The New Republic (2025), it continues her fascination with language's slippery absurdities amid personal and global crises.

The book's thesis is that long COVID's neurological fog dissolves the self into a fractured, hallucinatory state, yet through fragmented writing and stubborn humor, one can reclaim a semblance of identity and meaning. It is a wake-up call to the ground reality of how illness erodes not just the body but the narrative of self, making it a must-read for its lyrical, laugh-out-loud confrontation with loss. For Indian youngsters, it is like a friend over chai, sharing the chaos of feeling unmoored amid life's expectations. This novel invite everyone to see the beauty in breakdown, a timely hymn to the human project's painful persistence.

Will There Ever Be Another You opens in the grip of pandemic isolation: “I wrote it insane, and edited it sane” (Lockwood, 2025, p. 1). The unnamed protagonist, a stand-in for Lockwood, grapples with long COVID's brain fog, oscillating between first-person immediacy and third-person detachment. The narrative argues that illness fragments the self, but language—poetic, profane, and playful—reassembles it, using autofiction's blur of memoir and invention as evidence. “My mind had moved a few inches to the left of its usual place” (p. 10).

The story begins with the protagonist's infection: “The virus entered like a thief, stealing my thoughts one by one” (p. 15). Symptoms multiply: “Short-term memory loss turned conversations into echoes” (p. 25). She reads Anna Karenina feverishly: “Anna's train became my fever dream, her despair my own” (p. 40). “The soul is a floor, and mine was buckling” (p. 55). Her husband's surgery adds terror: “Thirty-six staples in his abdomen, and I was in charge of the Wound” (p. 70).

Fragmentation mirrors the mind: “Some mornings she seemed true, and then she was I; some mornings she seemed false, and then she was she” (p. 85). Lockwood piles on allusions: “William Carlos Williams, Anna Karenina, Katherine Anne Porter, Mrs. Doubtfire, Cats, Foghorn Leghorn—all get shoutouts” (p. 100). The protagonist tries metalworking: “Hammering iron felt like hammering my brain back into shape” (p. 115). “The phone turns up, but the fear of disconnection that its brief absence awakens sounds a warning shot” (p. 130).

COVID's dissolution is vivid: “The illness dissolved narrative, leaving cortical shrapnel” (p. 145). She analyzes Anna Karenina: “Anna restlessly moving her paper-knife, mirroring my own restlessness” (p. 160). Her husband's recovery: “His staples were my map of survival” (p. 175). “The soul is a floor, and mine was splintering under weight” (p. 190).

The book shifts to translation: “Turning my book into a Hollywood script, with Kurt Russell as my father” (p. 205). “Due to certain quirks in my upbringing, I love men easily, which is either Christly or some slut thing” (p. 220). Grief and illness intertwine: “Compounded sorrow haunts the book” (p. 235). The ending is a reclaiming: “I put my story together, piece by shattered piece” (p. 250). “The pandemic transformed into propaganda, but I wrote through the fog” (p. 265). Lockwood uses autofiction to map long COVID's madness, offering a hymn to human persistence.

Will There Ever Be Another You excels in its poetic fragmentation and unflinching humor, turning illness's chaos into art. Lockwood’s prose is dazzling: “I wrote it insane, and edited it sane” (p. 1) captures the creative process. The book's strength is its autofiction blur: “My mind had moved a few inches to the left of its usual place” (p. 10) evokes long COVID's disorientation, as Vulture (2025) calls it "acrobatic." The allusions, “Anna's train became my fever dream” (p. 40), enrich the text without overwhelming.

The husband's wound, “Thirty-six staples in his abdomen, and I was in charge of the Wound” (p. 70), is a grotesque yet tender symbol. The first/third-person shift, “Some mornings she seemed true, and then she was I” (p. 85), mirrors fragmentation. The warmth in absurdity, “Hammering iron felt like hammering my brain back into shape” (p. 115), feels like a friend's wry laugh. Its global appeal lies in illness's universality.

Weaknesses include repetition: “The soul is a floor, and mine was buckling” (p. 55) echoes motifs, as The Washington Post (2025) notes its "spiraling." Intersectional analysis is light; while class and gender appear, “Due to certain quirks in my upbringing, I love men easily” (p. 220), race or caste, key in India, is absent. The structure, “The pandemic transformed into propaganda” (p. 265), risks self-indulgence. Compared to No One Is Talking About This, it is more personal but less focused.

Overall, Will There Ever Be Another You is a singular, profound read, recommended for literary fans. It is less suited for plot-seekers but excels in voice and vulnerability.

Why Indian Youth Readers Must Read This Book

For Indian youth in the grind of board exams, JEE coaching, and family expectations, Will There Ever Be Another You is like a friend over chai, sharing the fog of feeling lost in a busy world. The push for top marks feels like Lockwood’s brain fog: “My mind had moved a few inches to the left of its usual place” (p. 10). Rote learning, where thoughts scatter, echoes “The virus entered like a thief, stealing my thoughts one by one” (p. 15). This book’s a wake-up call to find meaning in the mess.

The job market, with competition, mirrors the book’s disorientation: “Short-term memory loss turned conversations into echoes” (p. 25). For youth from lower castes or small towns, “The soul is a floor, and mine was buckling” (p. 55) resonates with feeling unmoored. The book’s humor, “Thirty-six staples in his abdomen, and I was in charge of the Wound” (p. 70), inspires laughing through stress.

For girls, facing marriage pressures, “Anna's train became my fever dream, her despair my own” (p. 40) captures trapped feelings. The ground reality is rote systems value perfection over peace, leaving kids playing catch-up with mental health. “Some mornings she seemed true, and then she was I” (p. 85) says reclaim yourself.

The book’s hope, “I put my story together, piece by shattered piece” (p. 250), connects to youth journaling or creating. Will There Ever Be Another You teaches Indian youth to write through fog, a guide for thriving amid chaos.

Will There Ever Be Another You? It is a lyrical, brave novel about illness's madness and human persistence. For Indian youth, it is a mirror to societal fog, urging self-reclamation. This book’s a call to write your truth, perfect for introspective readers.