The Unicorn Woman feels less like a novel and more like drifting through someone else’s memories on a sticky Southern afternoon, slow, hazy, and very much about vibes rather than plot.
I liked Buddy and the way he moved through the Jim Crow South, absorbing people, conversations, and small truths. The supporting cast shines too, Doc Leeds in particular, with her herbal remedies and no-nonsense warmth, felt particularly real. The atmosphere is rich, almost tactile, and the glimpses of Black life, history, and inner worlds are thoughtful and beautifully handled.
But… the structure (or lack thereof) didn’t entirely work for me.
I don’t need a plot. I’m more than happy with a book that wanders. However, there’s a fine line between intentional meandering and just… drifting about. Buddy goes from conversation to memory to dream to another conversation, and after a while, the very long monologues started to wear me down. At times, it felt a bit self-indulgent, as if the book was so committed to being dreamy that it forgot the reader might want something to latch onto.
The experimental, almost indie-film feel will absolutely work for some people; a friend said it would make a better film than a novel, and honestly, I see it.
Even when my attention started slipping, though, I never doubted the care or intelligence behind it. Gayl Jones captures time, place, and interior life with real depth. I just wish the same restraint shown in the prose had been applied to the length of those monologues.