BOOKS @ VOLUME #264 (28.1.22)
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Today a Woman Went Mad in the Supermarket by Hilma Wolitzer {Reviewed by STELLA} A short story entitled 'Today A Woman Went Mad in the Supermarket' seems more prescient than ever. Initially published in the mid-60s this is classic housewife syndrome. A woman, two small children clutching her legs, is stopped stock-still blocking the aisle. “She turned slowly, and the two small children clinging to her skirt held on and tightened the cloth across her hips.” Hilma Wolitzer, the author of five novels and numerous short stories, gets the pitch just right. You can see this desperate mother frozen in her weariness, pocketbook clutched under her arm, unable to respond to her son’s quiet pee-pee plea nor the soon-to-be heavily pregnant narrator attempting to help. Mr A, the supermarket owner, seems to be at a loss also. As the narrator and Mr A. vie for the position of rescuer, a crowd of women gather at the end of the aisle, curious, judgemental, wanting their story too, but not wanting to get too close to the action. “..a tall, raw-boned woman in a Girl Scout leader uniform walked closer. “'I don’t know her .. but I know who she is … her name is Shirley Lewis. Mrs Harold Lewis,' she whispered, and then fell back into the crowd of women, like a guilty informer.” These brief descriptions and snippets of conversation reveal layers of social hierarchy, nuanced gender politics and darkly humourous tragedy. Wolitzer sets up the scenes with panache, spiky emotions fizz on the page alongside both ridiculous situations and everyday loss and love. These stories, predominantly written through the 60s and 70s, are as relevant now as then, and many of the stories float in and out of the lives of a couple, from their youthful sexual explorations (the classic shotgun wedding), family life, and middle-age, culminating in a freshly penned story set in 2020. Paulette's and Harold’s lives are narrated through the witty voice and observant eye of Paulette, as she negotiates childbirth, affairs and boredom. Wolitzer’s lightness of touch is anything but superficial — each quotidian moment reveals a little more about the complexities of relationships and life’s unavoidable contradictions. The wonderful story, 'Mrs X', has Paulie reaching for the children’s binoculars so she is able to spy on her husband down in the apartment building playground. She is unable to see the expression on his face, but her observations reward her with much knowledge. Of course, when he returns indoors, children wrapped around him, the conversation between husband and wife is as ordinary as ever. Boredom and fantasy come into their own in 'The Sex Maniac'. “Everybody said there was a sex maniac on the loose in the complex and I thought — it’s about time. It had been a long asexual winter.” That he is never seen, merely a figment of gossip, makes it all the more exciting for the bored housewives and the local men flexing their protective muscles. The stories, while episodic in nature, build to envelop issues that sit at the heart of close relationships: between lovers, of family members and the impact of childhood on adult behaviour. Delightful to read, this newly published collection is a gem and a great introduction to Hilma Wolitzer’s writing. |
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Essayism by Brian Dillon {Reviewed by THOMAS} An essay is at once a wound and an act of piercing. An essay is not only about (‘about’) its subject but also, whether the writer is aware of this or not, about (‘about’) writing about the subject (and also, by extension, about (‘about’) reading about the subject (although Brian Dillon in his excellent and thoughtful book Essayism is interested primarily the writing of essays (or rather in what he terms ‘essayism’: “not the practice of the form but an attitude to the form — to its spirit of adventure and unfinished nature — and towards much else. Essayism is tentative and hypothetical, and yet it is also a habit of thinking, writing and living that has definite boundaries.” (note here, incidentally, the introduction of the subject of this review within (closer to the surface, though, than this observation) two levels of parentheses)))). An essay is a transparent barrier, a means of focus at once providing intimacy with and distance from its subject, or, better metaphor (if any metaphor can be better than another (and better by what criteria, we might ask (though that is another matter))), an essay is a stick at once both joining and separating the writer and the subject, a tool by which the writer can lever weight upon the subject, which, although never able to be wrenched free from its context (what we might call the hypersubject), a context innately amorphous, unwieldable and inconceivable, provides a point of leverage from which the writer may rearrange the disposition of that grab-bag (or “immense aggregate” (William Gass)) of feelings, thoughts and impressions that is, out of convenience and little more, referred to as the self. To write is to continually and simultaneously pull apart and remake the ‘I’ that writes. An essay is, in Dillon’s words, “a combination of exactitude and evasion,” an eschewing of the compulsion for, or the belief in the possibility of, completion or absolutism, an affirming instead of the fragmentary, the transitory, the subjective. The operating principle of the essay is style, the advancing of the text “through the simultaneous struggle and agreement between fragments,” the production of “spines or quills whose owner evades and attacks at the same time.” Style is the application of form to content, or, rather, form results from the application of style to content. Style can be applied to any subject with equivalent results. Essayism is an essay about essays, or a set of essays about essays, about the reading and, more devotedly, the writing of essays, about the approaches to, reasons for, and functions of essays. Dillon especially examines the connection, for him at least, between the essay and depression: “Writing had become a matter of distracting myself from the urge to destroy myself” (even though “away from my desk it was possible to suppress or ignore the sense of onrushing disaster” (suggesting perhaps that it was only writing itself that presents the void from which it must then rescue the writer (always at the risk of failure))). Is the essay a cure or palliative for depression, or a contributor to, or ‘styler’ of, depression? “What if the ruinous and rescuing affinity between depression and the essay is what got you into this predicament in the first place? Will a description of how you made your way along the dry riverbeds of prose and self-pity provide any clues as to how to get out of the gulch again? How to connect once more, if in fact you have ever really known it, with the main stream of human experience? Such questions seem too large, too embarrassing even though they have never been too grand for the essay. Or they may seem too small, too personal. Same answer.” As the best essays do, Essayism provides understanding without answers and leaves the reader with a habit of thinking, writing and living which will help them to ask just the sorts of unanswerable questions about their own experience, so to call it, that will increase both their intimacy with and detachment from it. |
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Azadi: Freedom, fascism, fiction by Arundhati Roy {Reviewed by STELLA} Azadi is a cry for freedom. It’s a chant originating in the struggle for a self-determined Kashmir, and the title of a collection of nine essays from the perceptive and passionate pen of Arundhati Roy. Famous for winning the Booker Prize for The God of Small Things and then not writing another novel until twenty years later, Roy has never stopped voicing her views on India, its politics and social constraints or excesses, depending on where you fall in this hugely various society. And she has never shied from the criticism she has encountered from some quarters — including from the ruling elites. Being accused of sedition in 2010 has not silenced her one bit. In Azadi, the essays, some previously published as long-form essays, others originally lectures, are urgent, demanding of your attention, and incredibly informative. Here she addresses the continuing rise of Hindu nationalism, the fascist traits of Modi, and the treatment of Kashmir (where an estimated 70,000 individuals have been killed in this conflict). She looks at the tensions between Pakistan and India, and the threat of nuclear weapons escalation. The essays vary in approach and style. 'The Language of Literature and 'The Graveyard Talks Back' both draw on her fiction work, analysing the thematic content of her novels, explaining particular social and cultural contexts or expressing her thoughts on the power of words and story to reach readers and to express the views of those who are often disadvantaged or maligned by society. Other essays, 'Election Season in a Dangerous Democracy' and 'There is Fire in the Ducts, the System is Failing', are more urgent and specific to political situations. In her final essay, written during the first wave of Covid, Roy likens the pandemic to a portal — otherworldly but also an opportunity for change. A slightly hopeful take in ‘the early days'. Since this collection went to print, she has continued to comment on India’s response and much of this has been fraught with anger and dismay. Azadi is a door into 21st century India, a country which Roy describes as a continent rather than a country — a place of 780 languages, different religions and various cuisines. Yet this is the same place where Modi and his supporters push the doctrine of "One Nation, One Language, One Religion, One Constitution”. Whether you read her fiction or essays, all Arundhati Roy’s writing is urgent, thoughtful and forceful. This collection is a welcome addition and a great introduction to her non-fiction. |
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Nostalgia Has Ruined My Life by Zarah Butcher-McGunnigle {Reviewed by THOMAS} There is nothing funnier than depression, he thought, at least nothing funnier to me than my own depression. There is nothing more ludicrous than my inability to do even the simplest things, the kind of inability you would ordinarily expect to belong to the most difficult things, but really the simplest things are for me the most difficult, or at least indistinguishable from the most difficult, there is no difference between the simplest and the most difficult, but not in a way that would make the most difficult things achieveable, though really there is no reason why this should not be the case, other than my inability to imagine myself as the person who has achieved even the simplest, let alone the most difficult, things, he thought. There is nothing more ludicrous and perforce nothing funnier than that, he thought. There is a rupture of some kind, he thought, between me and my fortunate place in the world, making one of those self-obsessed, self-indulgent, grandiloquent statements that he found intolerable when others made them and so usually pretended not to hear them, which probably made him appear unsympathetic when he was in fact oversympathetic, which is just as useless. Is there any point in being oversympathetic to the self-revulsion of others, he wondered, no, this is just as pointless as my own self-revulsion, experience is disjoined from reality, neither revulsion is reasonable or appropriate, these revulsions are entirely ludicrous and perforce funny. That there is nothing funnier than my own self-revulsion should make my self-revulsion tolerable, but then it would hardly be self-revulsion and therefore not ludicrous enough to be funny, he thought. If I could find relief in this way from my suffering, he thought, recognising the self-obsession, self-indulgence and grandiloquence of this statement about suffering even as he made it, if I could find relief in this way from my suffering it wouldn’t be suffering and therefore wouldn’t be ludicrous enough to qualify as a relief. There is no relief, which only makes my suffering all the more ludicrous and perforce all the more funny. The more pathetic my suffering, the more inappropriate and ludicrous my suffering, the more self-obsessed and self-indulgent and grandiloquent and entirely pointless and unreasonable my suffering, the more I perforce suffer, and the funnier it is. Nothing funnier, he thought. Is this why I enjoyed this book, Nostalgia Has Ruined My Life, he wondered, this book he had read almost inadvertently, this book concerning a depressed young woman’s heroic efforts to achieve not very much and the degrees of shortness to which those efforts fall, this book concerning the disjunction between this young woman and her place in the world, this book at once funny and pathetic and, he supposed, terribly sad, written in the first person by Zarah Butcher-McGunnigle but, as it says on the front cover, fiction, just like what he is writing now. He could not decide if he was oversympathetic or undersympathetic when he found this supposedly fictional woman’s depression so funny, but, he thought with a ludicrously grandiose thought, the tragic is only more tragic for not existing in the context of a tragedy, and it is this disjunction, he thought, that makes depression so ludicrous. Taking it seriously would increase the disjunction and make it more ludicrous still. |
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