Reviews and Comments

'For three days in a row, there is not a single victim in the entire precinct. No rapes. No murders. No rape-murders. No kidnappings. No child pornography made, bought, or sold. No molestations. No sexual assaults. No sexual harassments. No forced prostitution. No human trafficking. No subway gropings. No incest. No indecent exposures. No stalking. Not even an unwanted dirty phone call. Then, in the gloaming of a Wednesday, a man wolf-whistles at a woman on her way to an AA meeting. The whole city releases its held breath, and everything returns to normal'.

The quote is taken from the fourth and longest story in this collection, Especially Heinous: 272 Views of Law & Order SVU. I should say that this was the story I enjoyed the least, possibly because I haven't not watched a single episode of Law & Order (and have no burning desire to do so anytime soon). But I would say that it encapsulates what is so brilliant about Machado's writing: without ever falling into moralism or preachiness she relentlessly brings out the absurd and the unjust in society. To my mind, this one of the best quality a book can have.

There are several themes running through the collection. Sex, a lot of sex: good sex, bad sex, violent, explicit, queer. The female body: a haunted house with no doors but a hundred windows, as the beautiful quote by Jacqui Germany says at the start of the book. And myths and fairy tales, in the broades sense of the world: isn't Law & Order one of those? The Husband Stitch, Eight Bites and The Resident were my favourites.

I don't know how or why I didn't come by this book before, since it's such a classic. Even though I didn't know this was THE book, I was familiar with the plot: Charlie Gordon becomes a genius through an operation, until (mini-SPOILER, though you probably already know, too) the effects of the operation fades, and he goes back to being 'stupid'. The description of this parabol is fascinating, especially, in my opinion, on the way up. I don't know if a person like Charlie would relate, but it felt realistic, and quite frankly, heartbreaking. He goes through his memories, and, step by step, is forced to re-interpret them. More often than not he realises that people have been meaner to him that he could see the first time around. In my opinion, the author mastered the uneasy task to ascribe stupidity to his main character without being gimmicky or disrespectful.

For some reason, the downward half of the parabola didn't work for me in the same way, but I really think it was me and not the book, as most readers seem to have given in to tears at this stage. I also didn't love the way in which women and their relationships with Charlies are described but a) maybe it shows the book as a product of its times b) I suppose the point was to suggest that (extreme) intelligence goes hands in hands with loneliness.

I don't know how or why I didn't come by this book before, since it's such a classic. Even though I didn't know this was THE book, I was familiar with the plot: Charlie Gordon becomes a genius through an operation, until (mini-SPOILER, though you probably already know, too) the effects of the operation fades, and he goes back to being 'stupid'. The description of this parabol is fascinating, especially, in my opinion, on the way up. I don't know if a person like Charlie would relate, but it felt realistic, and quite frankly, heartbreaking. He goes through his memories, and, step by step, is forced to re-interpret them. More often than not he realises that people have been meaner to him that he could see the first time around. In my opinion, the author mastered the uneasy task to ascribe stupidity to his main character without being gimmicky or disrespectful.

For some reason, the downward half of the parabola didn't work for me in the same way, but I really think it was me and not the book, as most readers seem to have given in to tears at this stage. I also didn't love the way in which women and their relationships with Charlies are described but a) maybe it shows the book as a product of its times b) I suppose the point was to suggest that (extreme) intelligence goes hands in hands with loneliness.

Brave New World is on every must-read list, and it belongs there. Huxley's longsightedness is undisputed: as far back as 1931, he picked up on some of the most disturbing features of what was becoming our society, and showed their darkest side. I don't know why I couldn't get more into the story. Sometimes it's just a matter of timing. In fact, I remember reading it as a teenager, and liking it a lot more. Truth be told, I must have been on a sci-fi binge, because I definitely remembered it all wrong - I think my mind collated 1984, Fahrenheit 451, and Brave New World in a major, majorly inconsistent dystopia of its own. I don't know if it was just me, but I have the impression that our collective memory has boxed the book as a warning bell against the dangers of a world driven by escapism, sensual pleasure, and the obsession with being happy. I had completely removed the fact that 'the Savage' actually also comes across as fairly obsessed - with religion, purity, and purification through pain - is it just me, or that is also supposed to be a little creepy? As an aside, the representation of the 'uncivilised' as a sort of native Americans was hella problematic (yes, I know, it's easy to practice critical analysis from 90+ years in the future)

(I read this book in the Italian translation by Lorenzo Flabby). In this memoir, Annie Ernaux focuses on two years in her life - starting just before her 18th birthday, in the France of the 1950's. Her struggles to fit in, her tormented enconters wih sex, passion and abuse, her eating disorder, her becoming aware of her class. After reading some reviews that characterised the book as 'shockingly honest' I was a bit surprised: if anything, what is shocking is the extent to which her experiences resonate for me with the ones of many women I know. The pressure to 'be cool' before one understands what that means oneself, the conundrum that casts every woman as either slut or nun, the aura that, in many circumstances, still surrounds the act of 'losing one's virginity' (aargh). As Ernaux spells out in the book, the point of writing the story is that some readers might find it familiar.

The story proceeds hesitantly, because the author has to reconstruct it through objects, photos, field visits and, above all, long immersion in her memory. Some books represent, and some books explore, and this one belongs to the latter category (and openly so, since this sentence is an almost direct quotation).

On another level, the book is also a reflection on the impossibility to recount the past. Or, rather, on the inevitable gap that opens up between the past as we lived it, and the version of it that we tell. And, therefore, between 'us as we were', and 'us as we are'. Ernaux formulates this reflection in plain words, in a sort of dialogue with the reader: should I use the third person when I write about my 19yo self? Should you trust what I say? What am I making up to fill the gaps? I lately grew mildly allergic to this sort of literary meta-meditation on the power of literature, but I'm positive that it's a phase, and I still could appreciate the fact that it was sensibly done.