A Review on The Man Who Folded Himself
I came across this book after my professor recommended it to me when I asked if there were any books he genuinely enjoyed or thought were worth reading. He simply said, “It messes up my brain.” I didn’t pay much attention to that at the time. Sci-fi and time travel stories are supposed to mess with your head — paradoxes, alternate timelines, cause and effect loops. I assumed that’s what he meant.
But I wasn’t prepared for the kind of “messed up” this book really is.
It’s not violent. Not disturbing in any obvious or grotesque way. It’s beautiful. Intimate. Isolating. Strange. And in that strangeness, it becomes something far more unsettling than any traditional sci-fi thriller. Not because of what happens, but because of what it asks.
To many readers, I imagine this book is disturbing, but to me, it felt personal. Quietly familiar. I felt close to the protagonist. I understood him. In some uncomfortable but undeniable way, I even related to him. The things he does — questionable, boundary-breaking, absurd — didn’t feel distant or foreign. They felt like things I might do, too, if I were in his place.
Because how could I not be allured by the idea of meeting another version of myself — even if he’s only fifteen minutes apart in time? If I saw him, I think I’d bond with him instantly. Because he’s me. I’m him. I know what I’m thinking. I know what I’m afraid of. I know what I long for. I wouldn’t need to speak a single word to him to understand it. No awkward introductions. No misunderstandings. Just an unspoken, immediate knowing.
How could I not fall for someone who understands me completely without ever having to say a word?
This is where The Man Who Folded Himself starts to shift from a story about time travel to something far more internal. Time travel becomes less of a device and more of a metaphor: when there’s no one left but you, what do you become?
At times, I found myself wondering: Is this a story about narcissism? About solipsism? About the consequences of unchecked freedom? But those labels fall short. Narcissism, after all, usually requires someone else to manipulate or harm — and there is no one else in Danny’s world. There’s just… Danny. In all his forms. Talking to himself. Loving himself. Losing himself. Folding himself.
The loop becomes his identity; the prerequisite for his existence. It’s heartbreaking in a quiet way. Not because anything dramatic happens, but because nothing else can.
This isn’t just a sci-fi novel. It’s philosophical. It's extreme. It messes with the idea of morality by removing context. It redefines intimacy. It makes you question the very nature of personhood. And by the end, it left me not just reflective, but grieving — though I still don’t fully understand what for.