I came to this book already a fan of Yan Lianke's writing, having loved Three Brothers — his earlier memoir about his father's generation — so my expectations going in were high. For the most part, The Women delivered, though it's a book that takes some adjusting to structurally. It moves from intimate family recollections into broader philosophical territory about womanhood as a social construct, then into loosely connected regional stories, before closing with a tender coda about his granddaughter. That range is ambitious, but it also means the book doesn't always feel like a single, cohesive work.
The family chapters are, without question, the heart of the collection. Yan writes about his sisters, aunts, and mother with such warmth and respect that I felt like I knew these women myself, despite never having met them — the section about gathering coal with his second sister especially stands out as the strongest piece in the whole book. That said, there's something worth sitting with in how he refers to them: never by name, only as "first sister," "second sister," "first aunt," and so on. It's hard to know whether that's a deliberate device or an unconscious echo of the very patriarchal erasure he's trying to examine — either way, it nags at you.
To his credit, Yan seems aware of the limits of his own perspective. He's upfront that he's telling these stories as a man who can't fully access these women's inner lives, and he leans on quotes from feminist writers and interviews with women from his region to broaden the lens beyond his own. It mostly works — though I found myself wishing he'd gone further and let his own sisters and aunts speak in their own words rather than filtering everything through his memory of them.
The section I'm most torn on is "The Third Sex." There's a lot of genuinely interesting material in it, and I ended up highlighting more from this chapter than any other, but the central premise — female otherness as a kind of "third sex" — never fully clicked for me. A few reference points, like the nod to Saramago's Blindness, also gave me pause. Still, the ideas raised there stayed with me even where I wasn't sure I agreed with the framing.
The book's final piece, a short afterword about Yan taking his granddaughter to the park, is a lovely way to close things out — quiet and grounding after everything that comes before.
Structural unevenness aside, this is a thoughtful, often moving collection, and the translation reads beautifully. I'd recommend it to anyone interested in women's experience in modern China, and in the imperfect, self-aware ways a man might try to bear witness to lives he can only partly understand. I'm already looking forward to rereading it with a pen in hand.