‘Solutions and Other Problems’ Vacillates Between Cynicism and Childhood Wonder

At some point, optimism becomes unbearable. On the cusp of adulthood, people often shed their naïveté for hardened cynicism, a transition aimed at reducing the potential for disappointment and harm. American writer and comic artist Allie Brosh is acutely aware of this progression, and leverages its complexities to illuminating effect in her new book “Solutions and Other Problems.” A combination of cartoons, meditative prose, and confessional essays, Brosh’s latest text challenges the formal conventions of literary and visual storytelling while providing a fresh — if at-times affected — perspective on loneliness, existential anxiety, and the disorienting absurdity of life.

Similar to her celebrated comic autobiography “Hyperbole and a Half: Unfortunate Situations, Flawed Coping Mechanisms, Mayhem, and Other Things That Happened” (2013), Brosh’s newest text is organized around eclectic personal experiences punctuated by philosophical introspection. Accompanying Brosh’s narration are whimsical cartoons — whose artistic style is consistent with that found in her former books and her blog “Hyperbole and a Half” — that make her fast-paced, at times disjointed musings immediately accessible. Brosh’s stylized illustration of her speaker, which can best be described as a humanoid stick figure, lends the text an endearing eccentricity as well as a universality: The strange avatar makes the speaker anonymous — it could easily represent anyone, even readers themselves.

At first glance, it is easy to dismiss Brosh’s text as mundane and perhaps even juvenile. A sweeping look at her profound chapter titles, which include “Bucket,” “Bananas,” “Cat,” and “Poop Mystery,” corroborates this initial judgement. The subversion of this initial impression, however, illuminates one of Brosh’s greatest strengths as a thinker: her capacity to draw out revelatory insights from the exceedingly ordinary. Through imbuing her retrospective gaze with philosophical wisdom, everything — even the most unassuming experiences, including a childhood run-in with a neighbor and a hike up a mountain — assumes allegorical significance.

In her first chapter “Bucket,” for instance, Brosh recounts the humorously pathetic experience of getting stuck in a bucket as a three-year-old. The absurd childhood memory expands into a thoughtful meditation on how a lack of control can trigger intense psychological discomfort, even a sense of existential anxiety. In the short prose that accompanies her illustrations, she writes, “And suddenly, there I was — sideways, four limbs deep in a plastic car-wash bucket — only three years old, already doomed to spend my life scooting like the world’s saddest upside-down hermit crab.” She continues, “That’s the scary thing about decisions: you don’t know what they are when you’re making them.”

Brosh’s escapades, however, are not solely light-hearted. She frequently uses humor to portray her nuanced experiences with shame, confusion, and insecurity. In “Daydreams,” she details her assorted fantasies: Brosh as a Napoleon-esque figure riding into combat, a chessmaster poised for a monumental victory, a tamer of dragons. Her bizarre visions — ones that provide her with a semblance of authority and self-importance — are coupled with a confessional intimacy that speaks to her abyssal dread that nothing she amounts to will ever be enough: “I’m a tragic, greedy animal,” she concedes, “with too many dreams to feel satisfied by reality.” There is a piercing candor to Brosh’s admission of her continual impulse for bigger and better things. She continues, “I want to know what everything cool feels like. I want to ride dragons into battle. I want to be important. I want to know what it would be like if everyone believed in me.” In the span of sentences, Brosh swiftly transitions from dragons to the deeply human impulse to be valued, a shift that encapsulates her narrative and intellectual flexibility.

Ironically, “Daydreams” also exemplifies a key drawback of the text: Brosh’s tendency to draw out ideas for intellectual or comedic effect, so much so that their initial impact thins. The vulnerable tone toward the beginning of the chapter is diluted by the unnecessary hypotheticals entertained in the following pages. Brosh occasionally becomes hyper-aware of her text’s irreverent, idiosyncratic bent and, in an attempt to underscore these qualities, burdens the organic rhythm of the text. Her self-conscious efforts make her writing — which draws its power from careless spontaneity — cumbersome and contrived.

At times, Brosh aims to convey quirky existential wisdom to dubious effect. Her attempts at a coy intellectual irony simply result in confusion. A two-page chapter titled “Potato,” for example, literally features a conversation between the speaker and a potato. After the latter introduces itself, it commences to ask, “you wouldn’t happen to be suggesting that vengeance is an appropriate response to how unfair the universe is, would you?” After the speaker denies the claim, the sentient vegetable replies, “good. i’m glad we talked about this.” The abrupt chapter, which was likely intended as a fresh, tongue-in-cheek philosophical punch, reads more as a contrived attempt at profundity.

Despite the occasional forced humor and aimless philosophizing of her stories, Brosh’s literary vision is nonetheless admirable. In offbeat, endearing prose, she alternates between existential dread and an embrace of the absurdity of life. Through her nuanced engagement of these seeming opposites, Brosh emphasizes that even the most antithetical ideas — dread and wonder, devastation and joy — necessarily coexist.