book review – ‘incest’ by christine angot

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I heard about this book on 20 July 2017 and immediately requested an ARC. I received it about 30 minutes later and began reading on my lunch break.

About the book (from Amazon): A daring novel that made Christine Angot one of the most controversial figures in contemporary France recounts the narrator’s incestuous relationship with her father. Tess Lewis’s forceful translation brings into English this audacious novel of taboo. The narrator is falling out from a torrential relationship with another woman. Delirious with love and yearning, her thoughts grow increasingly cyclical and wild, until exposing the trauma lying behind her pain. With the intimacy offered by a confession, the narrator embarks on a psychoanalysis of herself, giving the reader entry into her tangled experiences with homosexuality, paranoia, and, at the core of it all, incest. In a masterful translation from the French by Tess Lewis, Christine Angot’s Incest audaciously confronts its readers with one of our greatest taboos.

It took me about 20% of the novel to decide whether Angot was brilliant or a hack. After a parenthetical conversation with her editor, I knew – she’s a genius. She reminds me of Henry Miller this way, how it can be a bit difficult to discern exactly where she’s going, or even where she is, at any given moment in the text. It takes a bit of reading to catch on the style of this particular novel (I’ve not read her before, so I can’t comment on her other works or even make a comparison), both structurally and content-wise, but once I realized what was happening, I couldn’t put the book down. I read it in three short sittings.

The novel breaks down into about 4 distinct sections [not marked as such in the text, so perhaps it’s better to say that the novel logically separated into 4 sections in my reading], and I’d like to make a few comments on each.

  • 1st section – This portion of the book comprises about the first half of the text. The pace is frenetic and reminded me of listening to someone in the middle of a manic episode, or high on meth (don’t ask how I know), except every word was also beautiful. It was like the smartest person you’ve ever met trying to force out the solution to save humanity with their final breath – intense. Intense is the perfect word for the entire novel, most especially for the 1st and 4th sections (as I’m listing them here). Uncomfortable is another apt description, both for content and for concept. This half of the book is a cyclical narrative of a relationship continually ending but not ending but ending – it is thoughtful, compelling, painfully realistic thought patterns on full display. We’re nearly crazy at the end (of anything, really), complete with racing thoughts, jumbled ideas, paranoia, fear, anger, dismay, and confusion. Angot wonderfully captures the sense of an ending.
  • 2nd section – Here we have a distinct and intentional change, explained to us by the narrator herself. The structure and flow change entirely, though not the overall tone. We’re still watching a woman fall apart, but in a much more clearly diagrammed way. There’s no more cycling, rather a deliberately paced narrative, broken only a few times.
  • 3rd section – Section 3 is clearly unlike the rest of the novel, being a list of mostly (but not entirely) psychology and sociology terms, loosely defined through the narrator’s own understanding and story. It is part of her attempt to understand why she engages with her life in the peculiar way she does.
  • 4th section – The fourth and final section of the novel continues in the vein of part 2, but with more interjecting of the narrative style of part 1. The narrator always calms herself down, however, restates her point, and continues on with a mostly calm and direct accounting of what’s going on. Finally, at about 75% of totality, the narrator directly addresses the title of the novel – incest. She mentions it a few times throughout, but now she tells her story. It’s tough reading. Shame palpable. Acknowledgement of the fact is where she wants to be, allowing it to override fear/shame/hatred/love. Between the brokenness of the the first half and the halting attempts to relate a story too taboo for words, this part of the novel is intense beyond understanding, much less words. You just have to read it.
  • A final note before I end my review of this amazing text…while perhaps not technically a stream of consciousness novel, Incest works better as one than most anything I’ve ever read. Ulysses is the original, but not as mature (heresy, I know); The Waves is the height, but there’s something more honest about Incest. Many try to write (or have tried) stream of consciousness, but this novel, stylistically, is near perfection.

    I would recommend this novel to anyone, especially fans of modern/contemporary literary fiction or experimental fiction. Even from my review it’s easy to tell that the book isn’t for everyone, but I will unabashedly say that the novel is pure, uncompromising, punishing brilliance.


    I got far too involved in my reading to capture many of the quotes I loved, but here are a few I snapped early on…


    book review – ‘lincoln in the bardo’ by george saunders

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    “Though on the surface it seemed that every person was different, this was not true. At the core of each lay suffering; our eventual end, the many losses we must experience on the way to that end. We must try to see one another this way. As suffering, limited beings — Perennially outmatch by circumstance, inadequately endowed with compensatory graces.”

    One of many beautiful lines from Saunders’ first novel, and newest literary publication.

    Blurb (from Amazon.com) – February 1862. The Civil War is less than one year old. The fighting has begun in earnest, and the nation has begun to realize it is in for a long, bloody struggle. Meanwhile, President Lincoln’s beloved eleven-year-old son, Willie, lies upstairs in the White House, gravely ill. In a matter of days, despite predictions of a recovery, Willie dies and is laid to rest in a Georgetown cemetery. “My poor boy, he was too good for this earth,” the president says at the time. “God has called him home.” Newspapers report that a grief-stricken Lincoln returns, alone, to the crypt several times to hold his boy’s body. From that seed of historical truth, George Saunders spins an unforgettable story of familial love and loss that breaks free of its realistic, historical framework into a supernatural realm both hilarious and terrifying. Willie Lincoln finds himself in a strange purgatory where ghosts mingle, gripe, commiserate, quarrel, and enact bizarre acts of penance. Within this transitional state—called, in the Tibetan tradition, the bardo—a monumental struggle erupts over young Willie’s soul. Lincoln in the Bardo is an astonishing feat of imagination and a bold step forward from one of the most important and influential writers of his generation. Formally daring, generous in spirit, deeply concerned with matters of the heart, it is a testament to fiction’s ability to speak honestly and powerfully to the things that really matter to us. Saunders has invented a thrilling new form that deploys a kaleidoscopic, theatrical panorama of voices to ask a timeless, profound question: How do we live and love when we know that everything we love must end?

    Though I certainly have critiques of this novel, I must start by saying I was quite satisfied when I came to its end. Lincoln in the Bardo, simply put, is a very good novel.

    Experimental literary devices and tactics are always welcome to me. I consider that perhaps my favorite forms of modern literature would fall under the wide and under-defined moniker “experimental.” Saunders’ form in this novel qualifies as experimental, in my assessment, both structurally and somewhat conceptually. The struggle I had while reading, however, is that not infrequently the novel structure feels contrived and forced. I loved the idea, but the execution falters. Physically, while a beautifully bound novel, the layout causes issues for the reader — the act of reading was interrupted multiple times by a need to flip around in the text to discover who, at a given moment, was speaking (or being quoted, depending on the chapter). While not necessarily the author’s fault, the reading experience was lessened by what seems to be poor planning and execution on the part of the publisher.

    Though not perfect, I truly loved what Saunders was aiming at with Lincoln in the Bardo. I especially appreciated his use of bardo, instead of purgatory. As a brief instructional, bardo is the intermediate state between death and rebirth – a state commonly referred to in some Buddhist and Tibetan thought traditions. In the last few pages of the book, Saunders puts the distinction to wonderful use (no spoilers, but marvelously handled).

    I enjoyed the writing in this book considerably more than Tenth of December, the last publication by Saunders. The assembly of stories there, admittedly (by the author) an attempt at being experimental, also often felt forced. Perhaps these two works aren’t the most representative of his ability, seeing how one is experimenting with his usual form, and the other his first attempt at a novel. Nevertheless, there were many beautiful sentences in the book, and my few critiques will not dissuade me from reading more of the author’s work.

    Character development is another strong point of the book. The way their stories were developed and shared, both with one another and with the reader, the way they interacted with one another, the shadow of memory carried by each, though never fully shared or even fully integrated by the carrier – the weaving together of a fairly large cast was deftly managed.

    I only became truly upset at one point in my reading. trigger warning {facetiously typed}: Thomas Havens, character, a slave who proclaimed himself happy with his life, who even contrasts himself with the slaves who had it bad. Havens says that he had “a happy arrangement, all things considered…I was living simply an exaggerated version of any man’s life” (219-220). Why have this fictional character, in a book set in a time when human beings were still owned and where even the graveyards were segregated by race, especially in our current age of consistent attempted white-washing (including emotionally) of our egregious history? Why? [I actually put the book down here, after reading Haven’s words, angry not at his words, per se, but at his existence and inclusion. Needless.] Of course, his own words about his owners later undermine the thoughts he expresses in his brief appearance, but still…why? Having the most dialogue from a slave be in defense of the dehumanizing life he led because ‘everyone has to work and therefore trade time and freedom for necessities and he somehow didn’t really have it so bad’ – this particular decision of the author bothered me a great deal.

    All things considered, Saunders has turned out a book definitely worth the investment of time and money required to enjoy it. No work is perfect, my own falls far short, but Lincoln in the Bardo is, again, a very good book. In comparing critical reviews and awards with reader reviews on sites like Amazon or Goodreads, I think my bottom line sense was felt by many readers – there are problems enough that it’s not a 5 star kind of book, but critical reviews glowed partially because of expectations and past experiences. Regardless, enjoy your reading!

    This particular quote, almost entirely unrelated to the thrust of the text, though included in it, somewhat agrees with me.

    not a review, but thoughts after reading Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale: “Faith is only a word, embroidered.”

    “It appears that certain periods of history quickly become, both for other societies and for those that follow them, the stuff of not especially edifying legend and the occasion for a good deal of hypocritical self-congratulation.”

    I finally understand. I see why The Handmaid’s Tale has claimed a spot again on the best seller list. I sit on my couch and feel like a damn idiot. How have I not read this by now? A degree in English, plenty of graduate work (150+ hours and degrees to show), thousands of books read, 39 years of life gone – but never this one. The older I get and the more I experience and read, the more I realize that I know nothing, I’ve read nothing, and my life has practically been wasted.

    I can imagine a Trump-esque regime leading America to the dystopian reality Atwood’s novel portrays. Fortunately, it seems that public sentiment is slowly turning away from the insanity we see daily from the government (bought by foreign powers, abandoned by those who could help) leading our country today.

    Who publicly calls one of their leading allies evil?
    Who uses world tragedies to attack their detractors?
    Who rapes women?
    Who physically attacks reporters?
    Who shoves world leaders to keep themselves front and center in all things?
    Who brags about supporting Everyman, yet refuses to pay their employees and contractors?
    Who brashly shares state secrets with people who are virtually enemies?
    Who plots to cut funding for the arts, education, and healthcare?
    Who destroys you with a smile, claiming everything will soon be better?

    The US today is mimicking the Republic of Gilead, where half of the population repeats phrases they know to be false, praising a regime that continually demonstrates disregard for all but the top 2% of the top 1% (economically).

    Artists and writers and the press are persecuted in order to stop them from speaking the truth to the masses. Sound familiar?

    The rights of women and minorities are oppressed in order to keep homogeneity in power. Sound familiar?

    In The Handmaid’s Tale, our protagonist (and her frequently quoted aunt) remember what life was like before tyranny. But then we hear this: “We were a society dying…of too much choice.” Defeat. Aunt Lydia, and many like her, had not only accepted cruelty and deceit and a warped vision of life, but had come to embrace it. Yes, most likely as a coping mechanism for a reality that felt inescapable, but accept and support and preach they did.

    This is our America, 2017, filled with adults and leaders who are bowing to what they swore they’d never accept. Evil, oppression, bigotry, isolationism, authoritarianism – these are the reality of what the regime wrenching power from the people represent.

    Attack the press – attack the judiciary – attack the legislative branch – attack foreign governments – attack founding documents – attack the rule of law and justice – attack protestors – attack entertainers – attack artists.

    All of this has happened, and will continue. This is a bald-faced attempt to change the landscape of American life, values, culture, history. This is a full-on attack on freedom.

    You don’t have to be a particular fan of America to see the problem — I’m not. I often wish I weren’t born here and didn’t live here. But this county has always valued freedom and equality — these are being threatened today, under the very noses of those who swear protection, by the ones elected to protect them. That’s not alarmist — read the news, watch the people running things today and listen to them…listen to the words they proudly speak — there’s no question about their aims.

    The Handmaid’s Tale offers us a warning. It shows us a vision of what life could look like if we allow our country to get out of control…if we allow regression to continue. A few glimpses of life in Gildead follow; heed this warning from literature.

    Quotes for consideration:

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    “Ordinary, said Aunt Lydia, is what you are used to. This may not seem ordinary to you now, but after a time it will. It will become ordinary.”

    “We lived, as usual, by ignoring. Ignoring isn’t the same as ignorance, you have to work at it.”

    “We were the people who were not in the papers. We lived in the blank white spaces at the edges of print. It gave us more freedom. We lived in the gaps between the stories.”

    “Sanity is a valuable possession; I hoard it the way people once hoarded money. I save it, so I will have enough, when the time comes.”

    “Maybe none of this is about control. Maybe it isn’t really about who can own whom, who can do what to whom and get away with it, even as far as death. Maybe it isn’t about who can sit and who has to kneel or stand or lie down, legs spread open. Maybe it’s about who can do what to whom and be forgiven for it. Never tell me it amounts to the same thing.”

    “How easy it is to invent a humanity, for anyone at all. What an available temptation.”

    “Pen Is Envy, Aunt Lydia would say, quoting another Center motto, warning us away from such objects. And they were right, it is envy. Just holding it is envy. I envy the Commander his pen. It’s one more thing I would like to steal.”

    “Better never means better for everyone, he says. It always means worse, for some.” [it seems so…does this always have to be true?]

    “But people will do anything rather than admit that their lives have no meaning. No use, that is. No plot.”

    “There is something powerful in the whispering of obscenities, about those in power. There’s something delightful about it, something naughty, secretive, forbidden, thrilling. It’s like a spell, of sorts. It deflates them, reduces them to the common denominator where they can be dealt with.”

    “Change, we were sure, was for the better always. We were revisionists; what we revised was ourselves.”

    “Humanity is so adaptable, my mother would say. Truly amazing, what people can get used to, as long as there are a few compensations.”

    “I don’t want to be a doll hung up on the Wall, I don’t want to be a wingless angel. I want to keep on living, in any form. I resign my body freely, to the uses of others. They can do what they like with me. I am abject. I feel, for the first time, their true power.”

    book review – ‘the life and death of sophie stark’ by anna north (May 19, 2015)

    the life and death of sofie starkWhen I finished this novel, I sat on my couch with a cup of coffee and shivered. I sat and shook and held my knees. All I could think about was Sophie. I wasn’t cold; I wasn’t sad; I was overwhelmed. I was devastated…but not in a way that fits at all with the definition of the word. I was devastatingly satisfied, genuinely happy in a way I’d not felt in years. I was complete.

    Perhaps these words, this reaction, won’t make sense to most people. The vast majority of books are easy to think about: good, bad, thoughtful, well (or poorly) written, meaningful…books are finished, set aside, and life goes on.

    This is one of the radically few books that I will never leave. I do not, as a firm personal rule, reread books. There are too many new ones I want to experience to dwell on repeats.

    I will reread this book – again and again and again…

    There’s my little introduction, so here is the blurb for the novel (Amazon): Gripping and provocative, The Life and Death of Sophie Stark is a haunting story of fame, love, and legacy told through the propulsive rise of an iconoclastic artist. Sophie Stark begins her filmmaking career by creating a documentary about her obsession, Daniel, a college basketball star. But when she becomes too invasive, she finds herself the victim of a cruel retribution. The humiliation doesn’t stop her. Visionary and unapologetic, Sophie begins to use stories from the lives of those around her to create movies, and as she gains critical recognition and acclaim, she risks betraying the one she loves most. Told in a chorus of voices belonging to those who knew Sophie best, The Life and Death of Sophie Stark is an intimate portrait of an elusive woman whose monumental talent and relentless pursuit of truth reveal the cost of producing great art. It is “not only a dissection of genius and the havoc it can wreak, but also a thunderously good story” (Emma Donoghue).

    Perhaps I’ve never encountered a figure in literature that I like more than Sophie Stark. I think I’d fallen entirely in love with her by the middle of the second chapter…rounding out the strong affinity I felt just a few pages in. Funny enough, you never actually meet Sophie personally, rather you meet her through the remembrances of people who knew her.

    There are many things I could mention about this book…but honestly, most of those things come as afterthoughts (though they are what created the main thought). North is a wonderful writer on every level. She writes with atmosphere. You don’t simply read this novel – it becomes the place where your dreams and fears and everything you are comes to life. It’s so refreshing to read a different kind of book – original story, lovely writing, interesting perspective, captivating story telling. But those are the words of a ‘normal’ book review, yet this is no normal book.

    The central point of it all is not North’s lovely writing or style or story…the novel is brilliant solely because of Sophie Stark. I know there are some who think it’s rather ridiculous to speak of a fictional character as though they were an actual person…and I know it took the astonishing vision of North to make this novel and this person a reality. But Sophie takes on a life all her own, apart from everything else…and she makes this book one of the singular moments in publishing in 2015.

    The great achievement here is simple, in a way – North creates Sophie, and lets her live. She’s not analyzed, or deconstructed, or understood. Sophie simply lives. And through her life, she changes ours.

    Read this book. Everyone. I plead with you all. Read this book.

    Pre-order now – available May 19, 2015

    book review – ‘the horse healer: a novel’ by gonzalo giner

    the horse healerToday’s review will simply begin with the book blurb from Amazon: His father dead, his sisters kidnapped, a boy with an intuition for horses flees his home and is taken in by a veterinarian during the turbulent years of the Reconquest of medieval Spain. At the border of the Christian kingdom of Castile and the Muslim caliphate of Al-Andalus, a little inn sits on the front lines of the battle for Iberia. When word travels that the most feared fighters of the Muslim world, the Imesebelen, are advancing on Toledo, the innkeeper tells his son, Diego, to flee with his sisters. But Diego refuses to abandon his father. The old man and one of his daughters are slaughtered, and the other two girls are kidnapped. Now there’s only one thought on Diego’s mind: revenge. On his lightning-fast Arabian mare, Diego makes his way to Toledo. It is the start of a journey that will usher him into manhood and lead him to the dawn of a field of medicine that will change Spain—and the world—forever.

    The Spanish author Gonzalo Giner should, if this novel is representative of his body of work, be a far better known name in the world of literature. I love Spanish literature, and I love to read literature in translation, so I had a pretty good idea that I would enjoy this novel. What a joy to discover Giner, and to live in his world for a while. It made my life richer, spending time with Diego in Medieval Spain.

    My notes about the novel were quite simple – beautiful.

    I honestly didn’t write anything else in my review notebook. I was too engrossed with the book to tear myself away and make even the briefest notes for my review. But the notes are not needed in this case, because the novel has stayed firmly with me in the time since I finished it.

    Blubs often fall short, and this one from Amazon falls desperately short of conveying the drama and excitement of Diego’s life, and therefore of this superb novel. A lot happens in these 500+ pages, and every bit of it (even when desperately sad) is fantastic. I would amend the blurb’s focus on revenge, and say that the single thought of the protagonist’s mind is being reunited with his sisters. Certainly revenge is there, but his desire for his sisters gives him the strength he needs to push through some very difficult situations.

    Giner’s writing is a wonder to read. I know that the book is in translation, but you can tell a lot about the original writing from the translation, if that work is well done (which here, it is – bravo Adrian West, translator). Giner is subtle. I found myself lost in a world that I knew very little about – the world of Medieval Spain during the Reconquista (battles between the Christians and Muslim Moors for control of the Iberian peninsula). His language flowed over me, and kept me riveted to the book from page 1.

    The story of The Horse Healer is, honestly, not one I expected to enjoy that much. But what Giner does with a boy, his horse, and his life of wandering – it’s pure magic. Even though the story is what many would consider ‘far-fetched’ in some spots, I never lost my connection with the novel. I never found myself thinking, ‘That probably wouldn’t happen!’ Giner allows us, by language and story, easily to temporarily suspend our disbelief (necessary for a good reading experience), and leaves us happy we were able to do so.

    A superb novel that I highly recommend. Buy it and read it, so that other books by Gonzalo Giner will also be translated into English!

    Available April 14, 2015