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319 pages, Hardcover
First published September 5, 2000
Do you think I did not know her,
Ragged and gnarled and stooped like a wind-bent tree,
Her basket full of combs and pins and laces?
Of course I took her poisoned gifts. I wanted
To feel her hands combing out my hair.
To let her lace me up, to take an apple
From her hand, a smile from her lips,
As when I was a child.
Politically, I find this novel fairly repugnant. It regurgitates some of the most unsavory elements of second wave feminism, right down to the white feminist primitivisms that, in the present, take the form of gentrifiers burning sage in their remodeled Flatbush lofts in the name of the sacred feminine. Lee's sentences, however, are undeniably beautiful, as is the poignant redoubling of the central mother/daughter antagonism. My contingent defense of this book is more personal than philosophical or aesthetic (although the one would undoubtedly branch eventually into the others, if I thought long enough.) I was, at one point in my life, a young woman who wanted very much to be a writer. I was raised to do my utmost to stamp out every sign of the anger that simmered inside me, as many young women are. I thought, for a long time, that my intention to write, if it was to be carried out seriously, meant stuffing my anger into a dark and dusty corner of the Art Closet, so that I could perfect my Cheever and Hemingway impersonations.
Back to Lee: this is an enraged, bitter, twisted book, and unapologetically so. It seems to me that this novel's great strength is its willingness to unflinchingly embrace the cruel forms that the will to survive can take in a cruel world: to affirm the realism of that cruelty, if never its righteousness. If the women at the heart of it find some measure of peace, some cool shadow to rest in by the novel's end, it is explicitly for their own sake and perhaps the sake of other women. Men, and the demands women make of each other on behalf of men, barely enter the equation of who comes to what end: the judgment at the heart of all fairy tales. What is right turns out to be nothing more or less than what makes it easiest and sweetest to live, or, if it's time, to die.
The effect would be entirely spoiled if the affective ceasefire was diluted by corny moral redemption or self-improvement. Insert pat self-help slogan about resentment and drinking poison, say. Luckily, Lee is canny enough a critic of patriarchy to tiptoe as best she can around that well-mined vein of horseshit. The happily-ever-after of heterosexual coupling is, slantwise, preserved, but it's almost an afterthought, I suspect for this exact reason. I think I would have found this novel too resonant with some of my own traumas to get all the way through it as a teenager, but I wish I'd had it on my shelf, anyways. I imagine I'd have found it immensely enabling. I eventually came into the inheritance of my own fury by a more subterranean route, in college. (I read Rimbaud.)