This Is How You Lose Her

by Junot Diaz

This Is How You Lose Her

Paperback, 217 pages, Riverhead Trade, List Price: $16 | purchase

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This Is How You Lose Her
Junot Diaz

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Hardcover, 213 pages, Riverhead Hardcover, $26.95, published September 11 2012 | purchase

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This Is How You Lose Her
Junot Diaz

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Book Summary

Junot Diaz tracks protagonist Yunior's struggles with fidelity, beginning with his cheating on his girlfriend and ending with his cheating on his fiancee with 50 different women.

Read an excerpt of this book


Awards and Recognition

13 weeks on NPR Paperback Fiction Bestseller List

23 weeks on NPR Hardcover Fiction Bestseller List

NPR stories about This Is How You Lose Her

Best Books Of 2012

10 Books To Help You Recover From A Tense 2012

Nobody does scrappy, sassy, twice-the-speed-of-sound dialogue better than Junot Diaz. His exuberant short-story collection This Is How You Lose Her charts the lives of Dominican immigrants for whom the promise of America comes down to a minimum-wage paycheck, an occasional walk to a movie in a mall, and the momentary escape of a grappling in bed. The nine stories in this collection focus almost exclusively on Yunior, Oscar Wao's wired friend who narrated the eponymous The Brief

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Junot Diaz's latest book of short stories, This is How You Lose Her, revolves around a colorful collective of philanderers. In his unique street style of Spanglish and slang, Diaz explores the infidelities, inconsistencies and indescribable joys of love. As Fresh Air's Maureen Corrigan writes, "A good man is hard to find in these stories, and when you do

Junot Diaz won a Pulitzer Prize in 2008 for his novel The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. Nina Subin/Penguin Group hide caption

itoggle caption Nina Subin/Penguin Group

Junot Diaz's new book is titled This Is How You Lose Her. Courtesy of the artist hide caption

itoggle caption Courtesy of the artist

Note: Book excerpts are provided by the publisher and may contain language some find offensive.

Excerpt: This Is How You Lose Her

I'm not a bad guy. I know how that sounds — defensive, unscrupulous — but it's true. I'm like everybody else: weak, full of mistakes, but basically good. Magdalena disagrees though. She considers me a typical Dominican man: a sucio, an asshole. See, many months ago, when Magda was still my girl, when I didn't have to be careful about almost anything, I cheated on her with this chick who had tons of eighties freestyle hair. Didn't tell Magda about it, either. You know how it is. A smelly bone like that, better off buried in the backyard of your life. Magda only found out because homegirl wrote her a fucking letter. And the letter had details. Shit you wouldn't even tell your boys drunk.

The thing is, that particular bit of stupidity had been over for months. Me and Magda were on an upswing. We weren't as distant as we'd been the winter I was cheating. The freeze was over. She was coming over to my place and instead of us hanging with my knucklehead boys — me smoking, her bored out of her skull — we were seeing movies. Driving out to different places to eat. Even caught a play at the Crossroads and I took her picture with some bigwig black playwrights, pictures where she's smiling so much you'd think her wide- ass mouth was going to unhinge. We were a couple again. Visiting each other's family on the weekends. Eating breakfast at diners hours before anybody else was up, rummaging through the New Brunswick library together, the one Carnegie built with his guilt money. A nice rhythm we had going. But then the Letter hits like a Star Trek grenade and detonates everything, past, present, future. Suddenly her folks want to kill me. It don't matter that I helped them with their taxes two years running or that I mow their lawn. Her father, who used to treat me like his hijo, calls me an asshole on the phone, sounds like he's strangling himself with the cord. You no deserve I speak to you in Spanish, he says. I see one of Magda's girlfriends at the Woodbridge mall — Claribel, the ecuatoriana with the biology degree and the chinita eyes — and she treats me like I ate somebody's favorite kid.

You don't even want to hear how it went down with Magda. Like a five-train collision. She threw Cassandra's letter at me — it missed and landed under a Volvo — and then she sat down on the curb and started hyperventilating. Oh, God, she wailed. Oh, my God.

This is when my boys claim they would have pulled a Total Fucking Denial. Cassandra who? I was too sick to my stomach even to try. I sat down next to her, grabbed her flailing arms, and said some dumb shit like You have to listen to me, Magda. Or you won't understand.


Let me tell you about Magda. She's a Bergenline original: short with a big mouth and big hips and dark curly hair you could lose a hand in. Her father's a baker, her mother sells kids' clothes door to door. She might be nobody's pendeja but she's also a forgiving soul. A Catholic. Dragged me into church every Sunday for Spanish Mass, and when one of her relatives is sick, especially the ones in Cuba, she writes letters to some nuns in Pennsylvania, asks the sisters to pray for her family. She's the nerd every librarian in town knows, a teacher whose students love her. Always cutting shit out for me from the newspapers, Dominican shit. I see her like, what, every week, and she still sends me corny little notes in the mail: So you won't forget me. You couldn't think of anybody worse to screw than Magda.

Anyway I won't bore you with what happens after she finds out. The begging, the crawling over glass, the crying. Let's just say that after two weeks of this, of my driving out to her house, sending her letters, and calling her at all hours of the night, we put it back together. Didn't mean I ever ate with her family again or that her girlfriends were celebrating. Those cabronas, they were like, No, jamás, never. Even Magda wasn't too hot on the rapprochement at first, but I had the momentum of the past on my side. When she asked me, Why don't you leave me alone? I told her the truth: It's because I love you, mami. I know this sounds like a load of doo-doo, but it's true: Magda's my heart. I didn't want her to leave me; I wasn't about to start looking for a girlfriend because I'd fucked up one lousy time.

From This Is How You Lose Her by Junot Díaz. Copyright © 2012 by Junot Díaz. Excerpted by arrangement with Riverhead Books, a member of Penguin Group (USA), Inc.

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