The nameless narrator of The A Modern Bestiary lives in her studio apartment with a pack of Doberman pinchers. The dogs, led by the cruel, charismatic bitch named Miss Dog, alternate between being brutal attack animals and loyal companions, being real and otherworldly. Some chapters draw upon the ecstatic and horrifying visions of Christian mystics; others take place in the landscapes of familiar fairytales; others in the banal settings of the late-night pick-up bars or suburban picnics. The narrator uneasily inhabits these worlds until the dogs force her to take irrevocable action. "A snarling attack on the fairytale form. A good girl's fears of inadequacy materialize as a pack of vicious dogs."— Publishers Weekly "A strange and wonderful first-person voice emerges from the stories of Rebecca Brown, who strips her language of convention to lay bare the ferocious rituals of love and need."— The New York Times "Using unsentimental language that slices, pries and exposes layers of emotion and sexuality as a scalpel does a body, Brown veers into the uncharted territory."— The San Francisco Chronicle "I read everything Rebecca Brown writes, watch for her books and hunt down her short stories. She is simply one of the best contemporary lesbian writers around."—Dorothy Allison "A dry, witty, graceful—if savage—gift."—Mary Gaitskill Rebecca Brown is the author of other fictions, including The Terrible Girls , Annie Oakley’s Girl , and The Gifts of the Body . She is the winner of the 2003 Washington State Book Award, and was awarded a Genius Award and grant from Seattle's weekly magazine, The Stranger . She lives in Seattle.
Rebecca Brown’s diverse oeuvre contains collections of essays and short stories, a fictionalized autobiography, a modern bestiary, a memoir in the guise of a medical dictionary, a libretto for a dance opera, a play, and various kinds of fantasy.
Too soon to write anything coherent. There are many fantastic reviews on GR.
But the experience of reading this bestiary? tale? dream? fable? with my AMAZING Quarantine Book Group will stay with me for as long as I have memory synapses. Next week we meet with the brilliant Rebecca (who is usually a member of our group, but sat this one out...understandably).
For en leseopplevelse! Denne boken var ikke slik jeg forventet i det hele tatt. Mørk, ekkel og hårreisende. The Dogs handler om jeg-personens voldelige forhold til en kvinne—eller det er slik jeg tolker det. Hvert kapittel drar deg lenger inn i dette forholdet og hvordan det blir verre og verre. Det er oppriktig uhyggelig å lese, men skrevet så forferdelig bra. Hundene fungerer som en metafor for forholdet deres, og det er helt genialt. Jeg har så masse annet jeg kunne sagt om denne boka, men jeg vil helst beholde det i hjertet mitt. Dere skal heller få dette sitatet fra boken:
I'm Old Mother Hubbard, I got to the cupboard To get the dogs a bone. But when I get there The cupboard is bare So they have me.
I remember this to be an incredibly unique and disturbing book (in the best way). It is one I think I could read many times and have a different interpretation each time. Each chapter has a slightly different lens of looking at the dogs and the woman whose home/life they take over. Whether representative of oppression, personal demons, an abusive partner, the book leaves you constantly curious.
I treated this book like a reliquary. I read each chapter at least twice going back over passages again and again to see if there was anything I had missed. It was recommended to me by my best friend and I found myself texting her at odd moments to say, "there is so much in here about abuse/abusive relationships!" or "This could be a meditation on care or care giving" or "I could see how this could be about mental illness." All of this before I finally gave in and saw that it was about everything that is powerful and violent in relationships and being in this world, those things that are speakable and unspeakable.
The Dogs was well worth taking the time to read and re-read. I called out certain passages in the book that, as I read, felt like someone had kicked me in the chest. I can't remember reading something that made me feel as excited and engaged with a text as this book.
A little free library find. When I first tried to read this I could not get into it and almost got rid of it. I tried reading it again a few years later and loved it. It's weird and at times made me feel super uncomfortable. I know that I didn't always understand all the symbolism. The ending! It is still with me months later. One of my favorite books of 2020.
might be the only book of rebecca brown's that i won't read again. it's amazing, but completely horrific. i don't have the stomach for a second go-round.
The rhythm and viscerality of Brown's prose hooks the reader seductively, prompts a laugh, then punches you in the gut. A mesmerizing little novel about trauma, coping, faith and more.
I took way too long to read this, picking it up sporadically over frenetic weeks of travel and family/friend visits. I imagine it would serve me to read it again all at once. But wow! In the end, I realized what it was about and the whole thing made sense in a new way.
I resonated with the feelings of the story from start to finish. They felt familiar to my own experiences, even though I suspected that I was missing the bigger picture, like a metaphor that had not yet taken shape in my mind. The concluding realization hit like a punch to the gut, yet also felt like healing.
I didn't really know what to rate this. It's a very complicated book, and I would have probably not finished reading it if I hadn't been reading it with a book club. If you do read it on your own, definitely read the back cover info.
I finished this less than an hour ago. I spent most of that time doing nothing but reflecting on what I'd just read, trying to comprehend more than I had already, going back and rereading passages, re-analysing. Yet I'm still unable to put into words the effect it's had upon me. It's an extraordinary piece. The line between reality and the narrator's delusions, or dreams, or simply symbolic retelling- it's done beautifully. The writing is at times poetic, at times harsh and relentless. It's entirely engaging and nearly impossible to put down.
Symbolism abounds. It's not a difficult read- in fact it's fairly fast- but it does request the reader's analysis. Some of the settings were quite easy to recognise, as in Red Riding Hood and Old Mother Hubbard. Others were, as the cover mentioned, more spiritual in origin. As I'm not highly educated in Christian ideas, or indeed less prominent Biblical stories, I found some of it harder to decipher. I saw glimpses of the Transfiguration, but mostly my interpretations were fairly abstract.
However, despite spiritual symbolism, I wouldn't describe it as overtly religious. You might think so from the Table of Contents, with chapters "illustrating" concepts like penitence, faith, prudence, and grace. Yet the interpretations of those are quite cryptic or even contrary at times, and the chapters never seem to preach ideals, or even offer them clearly to view. If they did, it was in a very cynical manner.
It's undeniably a dark read. Though it all seems to be taking place in the narrator's mind, there is significant violence. There are themes of enslavement, violation, and persecution. To fully place yourself in the narrator's shoes offers a terrifying ride. I found her fully sympathetic, and her journey overall highly emotional. Fortunately, though the end can't exactly be described as uplifting, there are enough moments of peace to offer respite from the more nightmarish scenes.
"what we talk about when we talk about horror"; RB is exhaustingly re-readable for me, but I'm glad I had the space between passes at this one (2001 and now) to forget the initial devastation. Triggering for abuse survivors, certainly, but the interplay of mental illness and the reinforcement of culturally embedded archetypes/mythology fueling cycles of abuse is masterful. And, as with all RB's work, the writing stands strong on its own, line-for-line, with some of the more devastating turns of phrase bringing to mind a dark Amy Hempel.
I've never enjoyed all those millennial books about women experiencing depression for the first time. I thought they were boring. I realize now that it's because my depression doesn't feel like that; my depression feels like this. Not pretty and sad. Bloody and sobbing and horrible.