Lidia Yuknavitch didn't write a cozy bedtime story. When The Book of Joan hit shelves in 2017, it felt like a fever dream birthed from the wreckage of a dying planet. It’s weird. It’s visceral. It’s kind of gross in parts, honestly, but it’s one of those rare pieces of speculative fiction that refuses to play by the rules. If you're looking for a standard "hero saves the world" trope, you're in the wrong place. This is a story about what happens after the world is already broken beyond repair, and humanity is just a bunch of pale, hairless ghosts floating in the sky.
The world is a disaster. Basically, we’ve scorched the Earth. Radioactive wars have turned the surface into a "charcoal planet," and the wealthy survivors have fled to CIEL, a suborbital platform that’s basically a high-tech coffin. But life on CIEL isn't a vacation. The people there have evolved—or devolved—into these asexual, translucent beings who have lost the ability to reproduce or even feel much of anything. To feel alive, they graft stories onto their skin. They burn "skin grafts" into their own flesh because, without art and pain, they’re literally nothing.
What Most People Get Wrong About The Book of Joan
A lot of readers go into this expecting a retelling of Joan of Arc. It isn't that. Well, it is, but it’s been put through a blender with Mad Max and a heavy dose of radical feminist theory. Joan of Folk isn't a saint in the Catholic sense; she’s a force of nature. She can manipulate matter. She’s a "child of the earth" who was burned alive but didn't stay dead. The misconception is that this is just another YA dystopian novel. It's not. It’s literary fiction wearing a sci-fi suit, and it’s much more interested in the philosophy of the body than it is in laser guns.
Yuknavitch is obsessed with the body. Her memoir, The Chronology of Water, proved that years ago. In The Book of Joan, she takes that obsession to the extreme. The villain, Jean de Men, is a terrifying, cult-like dictator who has turned CIEL into a police state. He’s obsessed with erasure. He wants to erase sex, erase history, and erase the Earth. Joan is his opposite. She is the messy, bloody, screaming reality of life.
The Power of the Skin Graft
Think about the way we consume content today. We scroll, we watch, we forget. On CIEL, stories are literal. Christine Pizan, the narrator and a "skingrafter," uses heat and chemicals to etch narratives into the bodies of the elite. This isn't just a cool sci-fi detail. It’s a biting critique of how we distance ourselves from reality. When the environment dies, we retreat into our screens (or in this case, our skin).
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The characters aren't just people; they're walking books. They’ve traded their hair and their genitals for "the gift" of living in the sky. It’s a trade-off that feels eerily familiar in 2026. We give up pieces of our humanity for convenience every single day.
The Weird, Beautiful Language of Lidia Yuknavitch
If you’ve ever read Yuknavitch before, you know she doesn't do "simple." Her prose is thick. It’s poetic. It’s sometimes hard to follow if you’re tired. But that’s the point. The language mirrors the environment—jagged and intense. She uses words like "lithic" and "viscera" like they’re candy.
One of the most striking things is how she describes the Earth. Most post-apocalyptic books treat the planet as a dead rock. To Joan, the Earth is screaming. There’s this idea of "geo-trauma"—the notion that the planet itself has a memory of the violence we've done to it. It’s not just a setting; it’s a character that’s actively trying to kick us off.
- The narrator: Christine Pizan is named after the real-life 14th-century writer Christine de Pizan.
- The stakes: This isn't just about survival; it's about whether humanity deserves to survive.
- The vibe: Think The Handmaid's Tale meets Dune, but with more body horror and a lot more anger.
Honestly, the middle of the book can feel a bit slow because it's so heavy on the philosophy. But then you hit the ending. The climax is a psychedelic explosion of matter and energy that honestly feels like a 70s sci-fi movie directed by someone on a very intense trip. It’s polarizing. Some people hate it. Others think it’s a masterpiece.
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Why Does This Story Matter Now?
We are living through a climate crisis. We are living through a time where bodily autonomy is a constant political battlefield. The Book of Joan takes those two anxieties and ties them into a knot. Jean de Men represents the ultimate expression of the patriarchy—a man who wants to own the sky because he destroyed the land. Joan represents the messy, uncontrollable rebellion of the natural world.
It’s a "re-birthing" story. But it’s not a clean birth. It’s a bloody, painful one.
There's a specific scene where Joan is being interrogated, and the way Yuknavitch writes about the physical sensation of her power—the way it hums in her bones—is incredible. It makes you feel like you have a little bit of that fire in your own ribs. That’s the "human-quality" of this writing. It’s not just data on a page; it’s a physical reaction.
The Real Expert Take on "The Book of Joan"
Critics like Roxane Gay and journals like The Paris Review have highlighted Yuknavitch's ability to "write through the body." This isn't just a marketing blurb. In literary circles, she’s known for "corporeal writing." This means the physical sensations of the characters are prioritized over the external plot. If you go into this expecting a tight, three-act structure with clear-cut motivations, you’re going to be frustrated. You have to let the book wash over you.
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The science is "soft." Let's be real. If you’re a hard sci-fi fan who wants to know exactly how the suborbital platform maintains its orbit using centrifugal force, you’ll find holes. But Yuknavitch isn't trying to be Isaac Asimov. She’s trying to be a punk rock poet.
Final Thoughts for the Skeptical Reader
If you're on the fence, ask yourself if you like books that make you feel slightly uncomfortable. Do you like stories where the hero isn't necessarily "good" but is "necessary"?
The Book of Joan is a reminder that art shouldn't always be comfortable. Sometimes it should be a warning. Sometimes it should be a scream. It’s a deeply weird, deeply moving exploration of what it means to be a woman, a creator, and a living thing on a planet that we’ve spent centuries trying to kill.
It’s messy. It’s loud. It’s essential.
Actionable Ways to Engage with the Text
- Read the Prequel Context: Before diving in, spend ten minutes reading about the real-life Christine de Pizan and the historical Joan of Arc. Understanding the "source material" makes Yuknavitch's subversions way more satisfying.
- Focus on the Sensory: When reading, pay attention to the descriptions of smell and touch. The book is designed to trigger a physical response. Notice when you feel a "cringe" or a "shiver"—that’s the author doing her job.
- Compare to Modern Dystopia: Contrast Jean de Men with current tech-billionaire archetypes. The parallels are actually pretty terrifying once you start looking for them.
- Listen to the Author: Find an interview with Lidia Yuknavitch. Her voice and her energy explain the "why" behind this book better than any review ever could. She writes from a place of survival, and you can hear it in her voice.