In Slowly, By Thy Hand Unfurled, a nineteenth century nameless and uneducated housewife records a remarkable diary of her dark, disintegrating journey. Trying to make sense of herself and to form a judgment of her life, she struggles in confusion to pierce the narrow limits of her understanding—of her time and place, of the realities of her nature. Romulus Linney has written an exquisite exercise in self-destruction, but it’s final strength rests in its naked yet compassionate treatment of human guilt and suffering. The diarist’s language is blunt and deformed, but it also reaches toward a lyricism as she sees the discrepancies between what she professes and what she practices—as a mother, a wife, and individual.
This novel is well-written and engaging, a frank and unflattering look at the underside of the human soul. It is in the form of the journal of a semiliterate woman living in a small town in late nineteenth century America. It takes a little getting used to the style, as there are deliberate misspellings, no punctuation, and she rambles and repeats herself. Nonetheless, this proves to be an effective way of telling the story, which takes place over a couple of years, and I found it to be a quick read. The narrator is unpleasant and judgmental, and as you read on, you begin to get suspicious of her motivations. The novel ends up going to some dark places, and becomes a psychological exploration of narcissism and self-delusion. A journal is where one keeps one's secrets, and this one reads like a confession, but a misguided one. I did not have any pity for the narrator after I finished the book, but I did contemplate how many people carry secrets throughout their lives, and how many go through life without self-awareness, keeping secrets even from themselves.
just started on the last day of April... slow but incredibly well crafted like all of his works
slow, he's a better playwright, but this work is resoundingly effective if you're looking for another perspective (as in contrast to "Night" or "the Painted Bird" or even "The Clown" or, if you care to reach there with me. It's a long stretch, but Clavell's "King Rat could be a distant cousin, on the grounds of the similar themes of the dying durability of mankind's sustainability (via the power of the liberal minded, slinky-esque, resoundingly one-sided (gender-wise, that is) (and, still, magically, on each and every consistent exhale, sparsely and systematically convex) bi-factory line way of thinking). To go from conCave to ConVex to ConCept with such Con"text"-ual acrobatics (of theological justification and feministic wiles) in the face of mortality's shaky gambling temperament IN A PIECE LIKE THIS WITH A NARRATOR LIKE THIS, whom is educated before our very eyes, via the text, VIA US...well, it is worth it, if you have the timel, & more importantly if you have that certain type of patience. The tempremental kind.
An interesting novel. Maybe I'll try to re-read this one when I'm in the mood for it. I liked the stream-of-consciousness and emotion of the narrator. Her family situation is strange, and it leaves plenty of mystery to the reader. It's like I found an old journal in the attic and started reading. Interesting insight into Temperance era.