Reading Emmanuel Carrère’s 'Yoga': A Tentative, Grateful Journey Into Honesty

I’m halfway through Emmanuel Carrère’s Yoga, and I feel compelled to write about it—not as a critic or expert, but as a reader quietly mesmerized by its voice. The book is not about postures or peace. Carrère, in his signature way, defies simplicity: It’s a raw, meandering conversation with oneself—the kind that feels uncomfortably relatable, even when his experiences are far from my own.

Carrère begins by claiming he wanted to write a “light, uplifting book about yoga.” But life, as he admits, got in the way. What unfolds instead is something messier: a blend of memoir, self-interrogation, and fragments of his life—mental health struggles. I’m still piecing together how these threads connect, but there’s something deeply human in their dissonance. His tone isn’t polished or prescriptive; it’s introspective, almost like he’s thinking aloud, and I find myself leaning in to listen.

I like Carrère’s willingness to lay bare his flaws. He writes about depression, manic episodes, and the shaky grip we all have on our sense of self. There’s no pretense of wisdom here—only a man trying (and often failing) to understand his own mind. As someone who’s dabbled in yoga, I’m moved by how he twists the practice into a metaphor for this struggle: the pursuit of balance in a world that feels anything but steady. I’ve underlined and noted pages where he admits, “I wanted serenity, but what I got was a mirror.” It’s humbling, how much his honesty mirrors my own quiet battles.

I’m not far enough into the book to know where Carrère lands, but I’m starting to think that’s the point. He doesn’t offer tidy lessons. Instead, he asks questions that linger. Can we ever truly “fix” ourselves? Is vulnerability a strength or a trap? His writing feels like a shared act of curiosity—one that doesn’t shy away from discomfort.

Carrère’s prose is conversational, even when he veers into philosophy or politics. He interrupts himself, revises thoughts, and admits when he’s rambling. As a reader, it feels intimate, like he’s letting me see the rough edges of his mind. I’ve heard his work described as “autofiction,” but this feels more like a diary—one where the author forgets you’re reading and just… thinks. It’s not always easy to follow, but I’m learning to embrace the messiness.

Yoga is deeply introspective. There’s a strange comfort in Carrère’s refusal to perform. He doesn’t pretend to have life figured out, and that permission to be imperfect is a gift. It’s the kind of book that stays with you, not because it shouts, but because it whispers truths you didn’t know you needed to hear.

For now, I’ll keep reading—slowly, savoring the questions more than racing for answers. I’m grateful to have found this book.

Emmanuel Carrère - Yoga