(Disclosure: I don’t know anybody I’ve been currently reading this week. 😊)
Adding the preface again here: every Sunday without fail I throw up the freshest literature and photography I’ve read over the week, sometimes it’s a book, sometimes it’s a piece I saw in a magazine or an online zine, sometimes it’s something I saw on social media, etc. Sometimes I add ‘RECOMMEND’ next to a few of the titles, but that’s not to say I don’t recommend all of them, I just love some pieces more than others. Not everything will be everybody’s cup of tea, yanno, c’est la vie. And any titles that you see in bold are hyperlinked so if you click or tap them they’ll direct you straight to the source… or shopping basket.
This week I’m gonna throw in a red herring and tell you about something I’ve been watching as well as what I’ve been reading, because I think it’s really cool and definitely appropriate for the age we’re living in at the moment.
So I’ve been reading: Susan Sontag’s As Consciousness is Harnessed to Flesh (Diaries 1964—1980) which was edited by her son, David. I also read an interview on Granta from March between Rachel Long and Morgan Parker. I’ve also tucked into a couple pieces on Fence, Lexi Welch’s ‘Astroturf’ and Anthony Michael Morena’s ‘The Whale’. I also saw Cecelia Knapp’s poem in Bath Magg Issue Three (but the whole issue is an absolute smacker, it’s great). Last but not least, I’m up to episode 5 of a brand new thing called The Midnight Gospel. It is crazy good. And it’s on Netflix right now.
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Cecilia Knapp, ‘I Used To Eat KFC Zingers Without Hating Myself’, Bath Magg Issue #3: I really loved the whole of Issue Three, I guess I was quite struck by this particular poem for its “staccato-ness”. This poem is buttered with present-day references. But they’re not necessarily about creating a familiar environment. Rather the object of familiarity is found within the assemblage of places, snacks and thoughts, all of which compound the grief ‘I’ is experiencing. The ‘I’ ruminates on life’s banality and their personal insecurities in living banality: ‘I need a thigh gap. I use emojis / to avoid conflict. Worry I’m a gentrifier. Watch docs about murdered women’.
The vapidity is funny. The pain is not. The insecurities deepen. Your body, your life, continues the ache of day-to-day routine, and finds no resolution in the things which may or may not stand to comfort oneself when ravaged by loss. The poem feels quite loose, and disinterested. It’s a sore poem, but its array of references make it colourful. It sort of reminded me of Édouard Levé’s work a little bit? But if Édouard Levé had been a pop culture fanatic chewing HubbaBubba bubblegum on the London Overground.
Bath Magg is a pretty exciting new magazine, (been around just under a year I think?) and they’ve published a lot of great writers, many of whom are emerging and I’ve spotted some quite established peple in there too. Kudos to their rubber ducky logo. It’s run by Mariah Whelan and Joe Carrick-Varty.
In Conversation with Morgan Parker and Rachel Long, Granta Magazine: I deeply love Morgan Parker’s work, she’s, in my opinion, the master of titles. I can’t think of anybody who titles their work as well as Morgan Parker does. And I love the depth of honesty and charisma in this interview. Like yeah, it appears to be a generic Q/A but, it genuinely feels like a conversation, and it’s welcoming and unpretentious. Rachel Long asks some penetrating questions, and Morgan’s answers are so detailed and self-aware. Most of the discussion revolves around the action of writing poetry in general and where does that impulse arise from, but they do discuss Morgan’s latest collection Magical Negro which came out February last year. It’s a narrative on black womanhood, on micro-aggressions and reoccuring violence, it’s about breaking down white perceptions of blackness, and dissolving those projections. What I love about Morgan Parker is she’s tackling this fucking idiot thing where (mostly) white people think she’s attempting to represent all black women in her writing, which is, by Morgan’s own admission, impossible. Her work is a duty to herself, to the background she’s lived and lives, and to unpack that discourse in her own way. And if it resonates, then great! I felt all this was inherent in the interview and only adds to my respect for her, and to Rachel for being such an attentive interviewer. BTW Rachel Long has a debut collection coming out this July, My Darling from the Lions.
Anthony Michael Morena, ‘The Whale’, Fence Portal (Streaming) (RECOMMEND): I can’t tell you how much I adored this beautiful mass of whale and word. It’s an essay which references the American Natural History Museum’s Blue Whale model. The writing is thick with feeling and fat with concern. It blends monologue, memoir. It’s non-fiction and documentary. It’s elusive, enigmatic, fragmented. It’s like broken biscuits and blubber. To me it felt like a note on the offences of climate change, the emotional response and grief as we bystand erosion and corrosion, the loss of life, and the urge to merge something back together as it dissolves and fragments before our eyes. It’s as personal as it is public. A gorgeous and complex piece.
Susan Sontag’s As Consciousness is Harnessed to Flesh (Diaries 1964—1980) (RECOMMEND): I felt so afflicted reading Susan Sontag’s diaries, because y’know, it’s the equivalent of invading an Ancient Egyptian pharaoh’s tomb. Like, leave people alone. At the same like, this woman. These diaries are still shaping me, and each section leaves you with the weirdest aftertaste. Her personality permeates through every detail, every line-break, every reference and articulation of feeling. You learn so much, you gain so much from her perceptions and observations. How do I contain Susan Sontag? How do I describe these diaries? Not at all. Just buy it.
Lexi Welch’s ‘Astroturf’, Fence Portal (Streaming) (RECOMMEND): My eyes locked onto this piece and just didn’t really stop reading. Lexi’s voice is enamouring and hypnotic. It’s so violent too. You’re lunged into friction burns and sports injuries, time and progression, the tensions between collectivity and individuality, family and sexuality, or as Fence put it, ‘lesbian eros’. This piece felt acidic. At times you can’t tell if the ‘I’ is indifferent or hurting to the point of numbness. It straddles so many different thematics, and breaks down a lot of conventions pertaining to the “ideal experience” of family relationships and team work. The resolution seems to be that in spite of people, our collectivity is defined by our collective solitude. This essay kicked me around a football field. It takes a good few repeated reads to appreciate its kaleidoscopic shifting, but it’s definitely one of my favourites.
The Midnight Gospel, from Pendleton Ward and Duncan Trussell, Netflix: (RECOMMEND) So the other day my friend Ben linked this to me and I had seen the trailer ages back and thought “Oh yeah I really wanna watch that”, but just forgot. After his reminder, I started watching it and ever since I’ve been saying to loads of other friends “Have you watched ‘The Midnight Gospel’ on Netflix?” because I’m d y i n g to talk about it with everybody.
I literally can’t categorise this “TV show” to you. It’s like if animation had a baby with a philosophy podcast and then put that baby onto an IV drip of psychedelics. It’s this swarm of different stimuli which you kind have to zone in on and absorb individually and yet somehow collectively.
So like, “Clancy” is a spacecaster who sets up “spacecasts” (podcasts) with creatures from other simulated worlds and he interviews them. But when Clancy transports himself into these worlds, it’s not like they’re sat down on some cream sofa with two glasses of water like it’s animated Oprah. No, his interviewees are like in the middle of fighting off a zombie apocalypse or meditating on a mountain or trying to find and save their lost lover. And Clancy just joins them on the journey and interviews them about their “specialism”. These are real people that are being interviewed like, the first episode is with Dr. Drew Pinker. And when you’re watching it, you think that the animation is totally separate to the conversation exchange the characters are having, but that’s not true. They have intersections, they have meaning. It only becomes obvious that it has meaning right at the end of each episode, but if you lock on you’ll see it’s all relevant throughout.
One of my friends was like “Oh I might stick that on tonight and have a joint” and I was like, don’t fucking get high when you’re watching this because it’s already intense enough as it is, like you know that Pendleton Ward and Duncan Trussell have felt some real shit to create this absolute rare jewel. In my opinion, you don’t need cannabis to appreciate these discussions. But if you wanna do it, then hey it’s a “free country”. And it’s not as though there’s a serious, central core plot like there is with Rick & Morty, I mean there is a kind of overarching plot but it’s not always integral. Like ultimately we’re invested in Clancy’s story but also all the stories of all the other people that come his way. There’s multiple plots, there’s multiple dimensions and ways of seeing. It’s a programme which delivers on multiplicity, which manifests itself in everything and everyone we see and know and touch and hear, etc, etc.
This production articulates some of the revelations that psychedelics can give you. Psychedelics don’t make you see the world literally like these animations do, but the sensations of the animation are reminiscent of an acid trip’s oscillating moods and sensitivities. It’s really cool, and it’s very poignant, and it’s my new favourite show to watch. And what’s so great about it is that, it requires multiple watches in order to really absorb everything in its entirety, so it’s a series you can just keep going back to even after you’ve seen them all. It’s re-watchable. Just fundamental goodness all round. Best way to indulge in it is with ice cream. 🍨
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So that’s it for this week, next Friday’s review is Annie Ernaux’s A Girl’s Story translated by Alison L. Strayer, published with Fitzcarraldo Editions.
Stay safe and well as always, my little caramels. 💁🏽
(Disclosure: Don’t think I know anyone this week (and sadly Édouard Levé is no longer alive) and I don’t know anyone personally working within these publications/presses bc I am a loner, apart from Hobart actually I do know EE from Hobart.)
Preface as always: Every Sunday without fail I throw up the freshest literature and photography I’ve read over the week, sometimes it’s a book, or a piece I saw in a magazine or an online zine, maybe it’s something I saw on social media, etc. If I add ‘RECOMMEND’ next to a few of the titles, but that’s not to say I don’t recommend all of them, I just love some pieces more than others. Not everything will be everybody’s cup of tea, yanno, c’est la vie. And any titles that you see in bold are hyperlinked so if you click or tap them they’ll direct you straight to the source… or shopping basket.
I check all the writers and their social media (i.e. I stalk them and their bios) to make sure I absolutely get their pronouns correct, I don’t just blindly assume hes and shes, etc. So in case anyone’s concerned about that, dw I do this shit properly.
This week’s been weird, I’m starting to feel like I’m dissolving a bit. The lockdown feels like culture now. The last time I went to a bar seems like a dream. Some of the work I’ve read over the past few days has compounded this dazed feeling I’ve been having, and I’ve been dipping into a lot of work which was published way before this pandemic hit, like back in September 2019. I’ve been rereading Édouard Levé’s Autoportrait which is one of my favourite books. I’ve been reading a poet I came across in Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Carolee Bennett. I discovered a new writer I’ve fallen hard for, his name’s Richie Hofmann and I’m torn between talking about his recent publication in Hobart and the piece he did in The New Yorker a while back (I guess I’m gonna talk about both), his poetry is so delicate and intimate, it’s like it breathes on the back of your neck. I loved Michael Sutton’s poems on 3:AM Magazine’s Poem Brut series and am now anticipating his next collection. Sarah Cavar’s a complete family / hstry was another piece in 3:AM which I kept reading over and over.
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Sarah Cavar’s a complete family / hstry, 3:AM Magazine, (RECOMMEND): The discourse around hysterectomy in writing generally tbh, is very small, practically non-existent. The number of people willing to talk about it outside of a medical, clinical sense is rare. Like abortion, it’s something people don’t talk about, they rarely unpack it in essays or poetry or what have you. It would be kind of obvious to say here that Sarah Cavar’s piece on 3:AM is brave (which of course it absolutely is), because how many people do you know are talking about hysterectomies in the context of trans-identity? But it’s the way they write about this experience, with an enviable, vivid gift for description. Sentences I loved: ‘Blood is a lineage. It begins in the toilet, rings of icing suspended in liquor. [...] The following morning I am discharge with my age-restricted scars [...] ‘The stitches were dissolving; they said goodbye in crimson streams. [...] Finally I told her to leave the room, wrangling my vagina, this traitorous beast’. Another line I love, which is just so powerful, ‘There is something poetic in scarring the site of the umbilical cord. I deny the very people whose (re)productive efforts rendered me possible; upended the dynasty whose heterosexual ehiteness brought them from poverty to vermount and priceless menus.’ It’s articulate and personal and deeply self-aware, and it’s that way from the off. Immediately I was drawn in by that play on words in the title, ‘a complete family / hstry’, hstry playing on history and hysterectomy here. There’s parts to this piece, this self-reflective voice which reminds me of Sontag’s diaries, the way Sarah breaks lines (this is particularly strong in the NOTES — ESSAY ENDING section). They also have a flair for dialogue, a way of pulling a reader into their periphery and having these difficult conversations with family members, wrestling with discomforting terms like ‘ramifications’. The violence of the relationship one has with their body, ravaged by identity. Internalising the reaction from parents whose hopes of becoming grandparents is no longer. As essays go, this is one of the most insightful, articulate and self-aware pieces of transgender literature I’ve ever read. It’s something that myself, I’m not at all equipped to understand, because I don’t share Sarah’s experience, I can’t pretend to believe I even get it. But they write with accessibility and profundity, acknowledging their being as the final sentence in their family tree (what a powerful thing to hold). A writer to watch.
Michael Sutton, poem brut #92 — music / lyrics, 3:AM Magazine (RECOMMEND): The fusion of note as word and as trebel clef, reinvented into fantastical illustrations. The first piece on here has a ‘creature-ness’ to it, I wonder of the animal in the notes pegged as sheets of music. Some of them feel more like graffiti, and I’m perplexed by what these new lyrics intimate, their renewed musicality in being cut up and stuck elsewhere. These are amazing pieces and I’m anticipating this collection’s release from Hesterglock Press in July.
Carolee Bennett, ‘Prettier When You Smile’ in Glass Poetry (RECOMMEND): I don’t know how I came across this piece, but it was published two years ago. I hungered for the nostalgia of sitting in a bar and eavesdropping on conversations, as Carolee Bennett does in this poem. Her note about this piece is really interesting, and I wouldn’t have guessed it as a partial collection of fragments from conversations, it kind of wrestles with the subjective voice as commentary and the objective role as listener to these ongoing conversations around her. There’s a solitude to the writing, but it’s not ill at ease with it, it’s comfortable solitude on a bar stool. I really loved this line: ‘The ones we love depart. / We squeeze in and out of anguish / like bees, no opening too small. The hive begins / with single cell. Our vocabulary for this kind of busy work is limited: disease, / disease, disease.’ It’s a really beautiful, complicated cocktail straddling thought and response, and reminds me of a time where we could do that, we could sit in a bar and listen to a human’s hum. And the themes of disease, death and intimacy in ‘Prettier When You Smile’ are more evident and conscious in our minds today, in an ongoing pandemic. Bowie says it best: Planet Earth is blue and there’s nothing I can do.
Richie Hofmann, ‘The Romans’ (Hobart) / ‘French Novel’ (The New Yorker) (RECOMMEND): I read Richie’s first piece in Hobart this week and thought it was so delicate and vivid. Then I stalked him a bit and read more of his work. There’s something pre-Raphaelite about his writing, I don’t know if that sounds shitty and pretentious, but I just see his poems are paintings in my head, or even sculptures, like they seem to embody an architecture to them. It’s just the way he reminisces and articulates his lovers; it’s almost metaphysical. ‘French Novel’ in particular I just found fragrant, it’s like I could smell red wine and bedsheets and humidity and snow slush. I can sense the texture. And then ‘The Romans’ had a movement and a colour to it I could just see and feel. He has a flair for articulating scenery; as a reader, I’m in his eyes and I’m absorbing every detail. I could feel this new lover wafting the Polaroid, the shake. The tangibility of his memories is so potent, you feel as if you’re there, not as a witness but actually within the experience.
Édouard Levé, Autoportrait (RECOMMEND): I started reading Édouard Levé just over a year ago, and it was in this tumultuous episode of my life where I wasn’t really writing. If I did, I was forcing myself, and living in London was making me feel really depressed, although I now wonder whether that was more because of my MA and not the city. Édourd Levé was the best thing I got out of my course, and he came at a specific juncture when I was trying to understand how I could merge writing into photography, without taking photographs. I was investigating that relationship between the written and the visual. Autoportrait is a photo album in sentences. It’s a portrait of Édouard Levé himself, who committed suicide in 2007. He crafts this text masterfully, each sentence is like the shutter firing inside a camera, capturing an image, a new angle to his personage. For that reason it’s an intensely personal read. He oscillates between memories in time within the act of writing as memory, there’s a kind of meta-ness to it, a cubist quality to the text as a whole. He doesn’t start with his birth to his current present, rather the structure of the work is a series of non-sequiturs, a stream of consciousness stuck between frames. Sentences are mostly short, the longer you read, the more investigative and analytical it feels, into a forensic analysis of what makes Édouard, Édouard. It’s a book I go back to all the time, and the more I replay this series of images, the more unreadable it becomes. It’s also particularly surreal and disconcerting reading it now, as an artefact of Édouard Levé when he was alive. There is a coldness to his voice, a dismissiveness, and from the off it’s clear that his mental disposition, his depression, is a huge force in his life, the central focus to which all his perceptions, his affirmations, his unbothered demeanour seems to emerge from. The acuity of his self-description is pained by disconnection to the world around him, and that’s synonymous with the way he articulates himself in disconnected fragments. It’s one of those books you can read once and walk away from, but it leaves you altered and dazed, like the way you feel after watching a strange film in a dark cinema, returning to daylight. And since I picked up that text to read in class, Édouard Levé’s always stayed with me.
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That is everything from me for this week. I will be taking next week away to read Ariana Reines’s A Sand Book. It’s a big one and it’s gonna take me some time to read and think and write about it. I’ve also figured out that the quality of my reviews will generally be better if I give myself more time to sit down and think, so I’m going to be posting my reviews now every other Friday as opposed to every Friday (or around then, past couple of weeks it’s been on Sats and Suns). My reviews do border on being full blown essays, and they take a lot of time to put together because I prefer to go into detail. Obviously I can’t keep generating these big pieces in a week turnaround at a quality I’m happy with, that was always going to be too ambitious of me. BUT I don’t think Current-Reads will change, because I’m always reading small bits throughout the week anyway, and I’m happy to keep doing that every Sunday still.
NOTE TO WRITERS I AM REVIEWING: If I’ve said I’ll review your work and given you a date for when that review will be, that will still be the date I’ll review your work for. It won’t change. Scout’s honour.
(Disclosure: I know a couple people this week, like Billie Collins from The Writing Squad. I know Elizabeth Ellen through Mira Gonzalez and her editorial help with my poetry. Everybody else be a stranger to me. 😢)
Preface as always: Every Sunday without fail I throw up the freshest literature and photography I’ve read over the week, sometimes it’s a book, or a piece I saw in a magazine or an online zine, maybe it’s something I saw on social media, etc. If I add ‘RECOMMEND’ next to a few of the titles, but that’s not to say I don’t recommend all of them, I just love some pieces more than others. Not everything will be everybody’s cup of tea, yanno, c’est la vie. And any titles that you see in bold are hyperlinked so if you click or tap them they’ll direct you straight to the source… or shopping basket.
Bit of an off-week this week, my dog hasn’t been very well so my mind has been elsewhere, and that Annie Ernaux review took it out of me, ha. I was terrified to write negative criticism, openly, and it’s not even like I was saying, “I just didn’t enjoy this writing”, like the Ernaux text genuinely has politically biased implications. It’s really hard writing about the genocide in Algeria and my family, because 1. France has done a lot of work to avoid its discussion so they’re never held accountable, 2. A lot of people don’t really know about it, and 3. A lot of people don’t care, like a lot a people, the annihilation of the Amazigh hasn’t even entered social discourses like it has with Native Americans or the Aborigines, and these are still discourses which are a lot of the time, ignored. Getting people to just be aware of this, takes time, centuries even, and so many voices. I do feel like I’m screaming into a void, and I’m not surprised Fitzcarraldo Editions didn’t pay much attention to the review. It probably seemed impertinent of some random stranger to call out a 78-year-old feminist for her furtive privilege and non-condemnation of France’s role in genocide in Algeria. Afterwards I had a massive cup of tea, and took a minute out. The amazing and lovely work I’ve read this week has been like comfort-food. Current-reads this week include Billie Collins’s The Haircut, an excerpt from ‘Bluets’ from Elizabeth Ellen’s Poems collection which I still can’t believe came out two years ago, and I rediscovered this poem on one of Hobart’s web features. I also read a review Jon Petre did for SPAM zine on Cathy Galvin’s Walking The Coventry Ring Road With Lady Godiva, published by Guillemot Press (which is run by one of my old tutors and friend, Luke Thompson). I adored these beautiful pieces for 3AM Magazine’s Poem Brut series, from Kayleigh Cassidy, to do man and other poems. FINALLY, last but not least, I read two wonderful writers on Split Lip Magazine, one from their 2019 site, JJ Peña’s manguitos, pears and grapefruits, and Threa Almontaser’s I Crack An Egg.
I also want to say beforehand that I check all the writers and their social media (i.e. I stalk them and their bios) to make sure I absolutely get their pronouns correct, I don’t just assume hes and shes, etc. So in case anyone’s concerned about that, dw I do this shit properly.
Let’s get into it.
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Threa Almontaser’s I Crack An Egg on Split Lip (RECOMMEND): Cooking, family and religion. That’s the fucking trinity here. If it weren’t for the fact that I practised Islam when I was kid and my dad’s Muslim, I wouldn’t understand a lot of these references. The vernacular here is important, because what Threa does, is she makes you aware. She pulls you into her periphery, and then into her focalisation. It’s steeped in her habitus. This poem’s peppered with Arabic utterances, (wallah = I swear to God), references to the imam, henna and hijab. She negotiates the relationships of mother and marriage, tests the tensions in personality, admonishes expectations in the kingdom of her mother’s kitchen. I felt looked in the eye when I read this poem. Women are the backbone of everything. And Threa Almontaser’s one to watch.
Kayleigh Cassidy, to do man and other poems on 3AM Magazine (RECOMMEND): These are so cool, I’ve got a massive smile on my face rn. I loved these visual word collages. Each one is so individual in its own right and they’re so witty and relatable, haha. Particularly ‘to do’ and ‘an idea woke me’... They’re symptomatic of Gen Z anxieties and frustrations, they wrestle between our office selves and our artist selves. Just loved them. Adored Kayleigh’s bio too, “Kayleigh is dyslexic, working class and a massive fan of the moon; full, half or gibbous.”
Billie Collins’s The Haircut (RECOMMEND): Billie Collins’s writing is so familiar and real and intimate. It’s like home to me. I really loved this piece she did for the Writing Squad’s Staying Home series. I’ve been making my way through each of the works on there slowly, they’re so fantastic. Since the lockdown, we’ve been displaced by home haircuts and DIY. This piece is about the intimacy of giving your dad a hair cut written in the form of a contract (it echoes of tenancy agreement also, does anyone else get that?) / a play, I mean it’s amazing. The familial camaraderie and realism makes the scene so accessible and visceral. The opening immediately grabbed my attention:
“This is the first time I’ve ever given my Dad a haircut. I’m reluctant, but have agreed to do it on the following terms:
1. PARTY A [Hereafter: THE HAIRDRESSER] agrees to cut the hair of PARTY B [Hereafter: THE HAIRDRESSEE] under the proviso that no matter what happens, no matter the appearance of the resultant effect [Hereafter: THE HAIRCUT], THE HAIRDRESSEE is not allowed to get angry at THE HAIRDRESSER.”
The dialogue is a harmless bicker, which fades away as the focalisation of the speaker comes to the fore. It lessens in wit and exposes a more vulnerable and moving perception to the task in hand. It becomes tender, a moving cut. The ‘I’ finds a poignancy in being guided to cut the father’s hair, and the hairdresser becomes transfixed by other details, of skin and touch, in age and aging. It made me cry. Especially that reference to Tom Waits. Bloody hell, Billie.
‘Bluets’ from Elizabeth Ellen’s Poems collection, HOBART (RECOMMEND): Someone finally says it. Maggie Nelson’s Bluets wasn’t that great. Thank you Elizabeth Ellen. Elizabeth’s writing is like sitting in your trackies eating Chinese food and having a good sob. Other people have said similar things in that vein. It’s really the best of kind of writing, the most accessible and universal. This whole collection is about being messy, about revelling in your messy womanhood, being a messy fucking woman and having messed-up feelings and writing messed-up writing. It’s deeply self-contemplative and irritated, it’s also watchful. ‘Bluets’ is a sneak peek of a collection I adore, and keep going back to. This one poem singularly unpacks the tensions of neatness and neat perceptions of femininity, tight structures and the constrictive corseting of feelings Elizabeth Ellen so abhors. Let it all out. Let it all hang right out.
JJ Peña’s manguitos, pears and grapefruits (RECOMMEND): This work is just absolutely gorgeous, and it was in Split Lip over a year ago. There is a tartness, a bitter acidity, a bite that you find in these sweetnesses from JJ Peña. The way we’re all hanging fruit from a family tree. The intergenerational trauma. The pain and weight of parental imperatives and suppositions. It’s the honesty and the enviable metaphor that makes this work so beautiful, it’s so vivid. Like: ‘the island treasures into golden sunsets & moons, into pandulce plazas & beaches where women who eat the sun walk around. no other place, he says, bleeds & blooms the sun.’ The language is so enriching, you can so clearly envision what he’s talking about, and how these landscapes and skies collide with more sinister and unpleasant experiences, of secret-keeping, sexuality and rape.
On a personal level I connected with this writing for the way JJ negotiates with questions of heritage and self-identity. There’s a huge pain in being divided between lands and culture and blood. When I was a kid, I used to tan like my Algerian father, I’d go mahogany, and I’d get crocodile skin in the sun. My mum used to have to rub olive oil on me. Now, I’ve still got that thick Kabyle-girl, North African skin from my dad, but since I’ve grown up, I don’t tan like that anymore, for whatever inexpicable reason, I burn worse than my English mother. And I’m lighter-skinned than her too, like cheesecake white. And I understand what JJ means when he refers to his father, who in ‘grapefruits’, declares: i got that peña blood. wood skin. My father’s the same. And I get it, I don’t know why I’m not the same either, JJ. But I think the exact same thing: I might have hardened skin if I’d spent my life working in my grandmother’s fields, picking olives.
I’d hate to give any more away about this writing, so go ahead and read it and have a look at some of JJ’s more recent work in Barren Magazine.
Jon Petre, on Cathy Galvin’s Walking The Coventry Ring Road With Lady Godiva, SPAM zine (RECOMMEND): People never recommend reading a review of a book, they always just omit that part, and recommend the book straight-off. But a lot of the time, I wouldn’t know half of what to read if it weren’t for reviews. And writing reviews takes up a lot of time and a lot of reflection. I feel it’s necessary to review reviews, because they’re equally a piece of writing in and of themselves, and therefore an extension of the art being reviewed. I really loved this piece from Jon Petre. It not only made me want to buy Cathy Galvin, it made me want to read more of Jon. The review is as much an explanation of this psychogeographical poetry and Coventry’s ‘edgeland’ landscapes, as it is a wonderful piece in its own right. It is informative and witty, and its descriptions are succinct, measured and quite beautiful actually. I just loved this part in the opening paragraph: ‘I have always wanted to explore the edgelands. They are everywhere, hidden in plain sight, an alt-highway running into the hidden psyche of ostensibly dull places. If you want to get to the heart of somewhere stick to the edges.’
I also really enjoy the way Jon relays and quotes sections of the poems, he’s selective and careful. He recreates the oscillations in Galvin’s collection in his sentence structures: ‘Coventry’s punk scene is an especially positive part of the story ‘England’s dreaming Pistols and punk / peaches on beaches’ are up against ‘that figure head – / not what she seems, the Queen, the fascist regime’. Revolution and radical change has to start somewhere, as Lady Godiva herself proved – why not at the Coventry ring road?’
He’s chatty, he’s got a voice. ‘Galvin is clearly having a lot of fun mixing her references to Coventry history and other texts – quoting The Specials alongside Dante, which is 100% my shit – and stitching letters to Phillip Larkin and legalese about the ring road’s construction into art.’ He’s not sterile, he doesn’t write reviews that border on pretension, he’s not a ridiculously irritating sesquipedalian-ist (someone who likes to use big words, irony intended). He makes the books he reviews worth investing in, and you don’t need 10 tabs open to look up words he’s saying. He writes with precision and with feeling. SPAM zine in general is absolutely fabulous, and boasts some amazing writers.
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Right, I need a cup of tea. Next week’s review is Tiana Clark’s I Can’t Talk About The Trees Without The Blood. Absolute bleeder. I might be slower to the take next week because I’ve got my MA viva (on Zoom, wahey) and all sorts, so bear with me. Stay safe love-bears.
On ‘A Girl’s Story’ by Annie Ernaux, translated by Alison L. Strayer (2020)
(Disclosure: There are themes in this review which some may find triggering, so please don’t read on if you feel particularly vulnerable to the subject matter I’ll be unpacking in this review. A Girl’s Story was first published by Gallimard in 2016 as Memoire de Fille and subsequently it’s been translated into English and published by Seven Stories Press (US) and Fitzcarraldo Editions (UK), it came out in April just gone. So I’m working with the Fitzcarraldo Editions edition.
As for Annie Ernaux, I don’t know her. I don’t know Alison L. Strayer either.
I am familiar with Fitzcarraldo Editions, insofar that I applied for an internship there once which I didn’t get (and that hasn’t changed my feelings at all about the press nor the work they publish). Fitzcarraldo Editions was founded by Jacques Testard, who is joined by Tamara Sampey-Jawad and Joely Day. They’ve got two categories, fiction and essay. As for their name, they’re named after the typeface their designer came up with by Ray O’Meara. I feel like a lot of the writing they publish lies at the intersection of the writing world and the art world, they blur the two together and make them sort of indistinguishable. Not sure if they’d agree, that’s just my opinion. But I do trust Fitzcarraldo Editions, because you can tell that their selection process is careful and considered. They’re not just interested in your book, they’re interested in your whole cause, everything you’re going to write about in future. They maintain connections with their authors, explicitly so. Tbh, it’s rare to find publishers who do that without falling prey to nepotism. Their livery is beautiful: white font on blue for fiction, blue font on white background for essays. They’re lovely books to hold and to shelve.)
So onto the book: Alison L. Strayer does an amazing job. I’ve read Annie’s work both in original French and English, (I’m bilingual in French from my Algerian upbringing) and I can tell you she absolutely, hands down, conserves the entirety of Annie Ernaux’s voice. Hardly anything is compromised within her translation of A Girl’s Story and that deserves applause, because translations are an art form in and of themselves. She seamlessly keeps all the descriptions, tonality and pace of the work intact. For that reason, this text has to be commended for its precision and accuracy, because Alison hit the nail on the head.
It is absolutely clear to me why Annie Ernaux is so revered and loved in France. Her work is deeply rooted in her French experience, and of course that means her work is an artefact of French culture and history. Her work is peppered with French references, places and figures, e.g. Juliette Gréco, Mylène Demongeot, Orne, Caen, si t’en veux plus, je la remets dans ma culotte, cha-cha-cha des thons... etc. Annie Ernaux is 78 years old, so she possesses experiences quite divided from today. This makes her work a contribution to discourses on feminism, self-identity, womanhood, abortion, women’s rights, etc. within the 20th century. And she has set out to write the differences of her time in essays which divulge her trauma most acutely. A Girl’s Story is a rumination and a recalling of the events that took place in France, in 1958, at a holiday camp in ‘S’, to Annie Ernaux, née Duchesne. It recalls of her work as a camp instructor over the summer, and her first sexual experience with a man named H, her rejection and the “verbal hegemony” of her peers, prejudices and judgements made of her which she internalises as truth. Later, after the summer, she sets out to become H’s “ideal”, she dyes her hair blonde and develops an eating disorder.
A Girl’s Story speaks of a time where provocation is conflated with “whoredom”, where the worth of a woman is vested in her virginity. She hammers down the volatility of the slave/master dynamic between men and women, in a time ‘pre-dating by ten years the slogan ‘my body, my rules’.’ (p.95.)
A Girl’s Story is a tough read. It’s a memoir that distrusts itself and analyses the legitimacy of memory compounded by years of separation from the event. It ruminates on the female condition, the teenage girl’s self-perception which seems to be a collection of external voices and embarrassments. This is all happening in 1958, during the Algerian War on Independence, which is when this narrative begins to slip up on oversights, misinformation and very subtle political bias. I have so much to say about A Girl’s Story but I can’t possibly say it all without boring many people to death and without it turning into a 200-page essay, and frankly I’m not interested in turning this review into a thesis, but I think I already have, because this “review” is L O N G. So I am thankful to you if you do decide to read it all, including my criticisms of the work.
I have read lots of reviews talking about A Girl’s Story from a feminist slant. I have no desire to repeat a review totally akin to them. I’m interested in the political bias and implications of that bias, and the ignorance of Annie Duchesne and Annie Ernaux, respectively. That will be the main focus of this review. If you want pure praise, and to read a review on this book that focuses on the girl and the girl’s suffering in A Girl’s Story, you can go here, here, and finally, here.
I want to say, firstly, that I respect the acute self-awareness of Annie Ernaux’s writing, and her courage for writing these painful chapters of her life. I am expressly grateful to her book, Happening. She has, at times, helped me. So I don’t want anyone to think that I’m being heartless or insensitive about the predicaments and sadnesses Annie unpacks in her writing. Because I do understand these traumas.
What I don’t share, is age. There is a massive age gap between myself and Annie Ernaux, which means that the way she’s had to deal with shit has probably been harder because when she was 18, men had the upper hand way more than they do right now, women weren’t invited to exploring their sexuality without being rendered a whore, and abortion was illegal.
There are times where I find Annie’s reference to herself at the age of 18 as, ‘the girl of S’, or ‘the girl of 1985′, a bit melodramatic and corny, but at the same time I’m empathetic of the pain these memories must stir inside her psyche. The fact that this torment has caused Annie to mentally create divisions of herself in such a way, that she requires an entirely different name for herself at a specific point of her life, that’s upsetting. That is an incredibly vulnerable thing to expose about yourself, in your writing, and for this text, it’s an integral part to digesting Annie Ernaux’s multi-faceted perceptions of memory.
There’s a sort of clairvoyancy-esque tonality to Ernaux’s voice at times, points where she makes predictions based off her past self, because she distrusts her memory so much. For example, ‘I perceive, in the persistence of these memories, the girl’s fascination for a rigorously organized world...’, ‘I perceive a desire to acclimatize to the new environment [the camp] but also a pervasive fear of being unable to do so’(p. 38). This voice brings about new dimensions to Annie Ernaux’s voice which characterise her as historian, archaeologist and psychologist to the remains of this “long-lost” identity:
But what is the point of writing if not to unearth things [...] something that emerges from the creases when a story is unfolded and can help us understand — endure — events that occur and the things that we do?
What I’m most upbeat about in A Girl’s Story, is the universal truths Annie unpacks about the philosophy of writing the truth, and writing about writing. It’s so good that it sometimes makes me jealous. And that’s how I know I’m reading good writing, when I actually wish I’d written some of these things myself. When Annie (Ernaux) in the present, confesses to wanting to call some of the people who tormented her from the camp, she elaborates:
I wanted physical, tangible proof of their existence, as if to continue writing I needed them to be alive, as if I needed to be writing about what is alive, to be endangered in the way one is when writing about the living and not in the state of tranquility that prevails when people die and are consigned to the immateriality of fictional characters.
And then the Big Truth:
There is a need to make writing an untenable enterprise, to atone for its power (not its ease, no one feels less ease in writing than me) out of an imaginary terror of consequences.
Unless, now that I think of it, there is some perverse desire in me to make sure they’re still alive in order to compromise them, as I attend to my business of disclosure: to be their final Judgement.
There is a desire in writing, sometimes, to condemn and call out the people who’ve hurt you or fucked you over by name, especially if that betrayal is acutely felt, even more so if it stands the test of time. There is an urge to feel the quality of consequence, and to dissolve our sealed lips. I resonate with this: I have, sometimes impulsively, taken it upon myself to write writing that condemns hurt other people have caused, and no matter what anyone says, it does feel good. Especially if the work gets published. There are good and bad reasons for why it feels good, they are mostly all futile, and jejune.
It’s the ‘pushing the big red button’ of writing, I feel. It says don’t do it. But you do it anyway, because you can. As Annie says:
I do not envy him [H]: I’m the one who is writing.
Certainly in A Girl’s Story, this whole memory contains the pain behind Annie Ernaux’s whole impetus for writing, it marks the origins of where her work is seated. On shame and abuse and the convolutions of self-image as female. I don’t think Annie so much condemns the people in this essay. Rather, she is reconstructing scenes, and deconstructing her feelings and the projections she creates for herself as a result of being manoeuvred by the expectations and sensitivities of other people. Confessing all this is admirable, and makes for a book which is acutely self-aware.
A Girl’s Story is a narrative I and many women share. After the narration of Annie Duchesne, Annie Ernaux moves away from the shame of her memories and gradually begins to walk towards herself. She sees the symmetry of her experiences in the histories of Billie Holliday and Violette Laduc, sadnesses of love and intoxication of other in the same year of 1958. She begins to experience resonance:
the eighteen-year-old girl [...] were less alone, less forlorn — saved, in a sense — because these forsaken women, unknown to her then, even by name, had lived in desperate solitude at the same time as her. [...] to shatter the singularity and solitude of an experience that is more less shared by others at about the same time.
This realisation is part of the second half of the book which contains all the reasoning and steps Annie Ernaux makes towards articulating her selves in language. That these memories, though she is dubious about the reliability of them, and of her feelings, she can write this as part of the purpose to write A Girl’s Story. She can realise her intentions for her writing, recognise a purpose in sharing the experiences so that they might perhaps “save” other women from the solitude of their own experiences. And as she does, the memory of ‘the girl of 1958′ begins to “fade”, and what is left is the now, the now, being the most reliable source to yourself at any given point in life. A part of this book’s nature, for me at least, is one of reciprocity, in the sense that we as an audience might reflect on the banks of our memories, and unite ourselves with our pasts and futures in the collective whole of our present selves.
It’s for these reasons I enjoyed the text, but there are more difficult things going on in the background which pertain to Annie Ernaux’s, and of course Annie Duchesne’s, politics and ignorance.
For me there are three very different narratives going on. I’ve unpacked the first two as briefly as I could, above. There is Annie Duchesne and her perspective of the world, her feelings, her torment, and the events unfolding at the camp in S. Then there’s present-day Annie, as Annie Ernaux, recalling these events and writing in the first-person to administer her present-day reflections and hindsights.
The third narrative is the narrative which is rarely acknowledged and mostly alluded to: it’s what’s happening in the rest of the world, and how both Annies remain still pretty oblivious to it. It’s this third narrative I’ve felt most engrossed by.
It is really hard for me to not make this book about Algeria in many ways, but the fact that both Annies gloss over the subject of the Algerian War, gives me impetus to address this “glossing” as being a problem in and of itself, and highlights other issues within the work. You’d think this dismissive inclusion of French political affairs is intentional, because by her own admission, she states her attention towards these world affairs was displaced by the agonies of men and love: ‘Perhaps as a result of that blindness to everything that was not the camp, I come to an abrupt halt when my eye is caught by the date of 1958′. It would make sense that Annie skirts around these issues when she speaks of herself at the age of 18, and that’s implied from the very start.
Annie tries to recreate the version of herself in youth by aligning you to her ideology and her principles at that age. Just three pages into the essay, she says:
That summer [1958], too, thousands of servicemen left France to restore order in Algeria. Many had never been away from home before. In dozens of letters, they wrote about the heat, the djebel, the douars — tent villages — and the illiterate Arabs, who after one hundred years of occupation still did not speak French.
You immediately get an impression for the mentality she once harboured. And it’s also a really misinformed one, because she implies that Algeria is made up of Arabs and that’s not true, the dominant demographic in Algeria and most of North Africa is the Amazigh, also known by the derogatory term “Berbers”. This is true of back then and it remains true of now.
The thing is, what’s so enraging about this particular statement, and at several other points of this book, is that she oscillates between her present self and her 18-year-old self at random junctions, and she doesn’t really come back to Algeria in great detail, because as I say, her mind is elsewhere occupied by her affections for H at this camp and the reduction of herself as slave to his desires. That how she legitimises her ignorance as Annie Duchesne, y’know, which is understandable of a young girl looking to fall in love. I mean, of course the book isn’t about Algeria, it’s about her mind and desire for affection and to be seen, in a tiny, damaging bubble at a camp, at a time when Frenchmen were being sent away to fight for a mythical land called “French Algeria”. In which case, what’s the point in being so deliberately inflammatory about something you’re not going to later unpack in detail, as your present-day self? (I’ll come back to that in a couple paragraphs).
Secondly, it’s important that we know Annie Ernaux no longer “agrees” with the French Occupation of Algeria. She doesn’t identify with her 18-year-old self. On page 19, she says:
The longer I gaze at the girl in the photo, the more it seeems that she is looking at me. Is this girl me? Am I her? For me to be her, I would have to
be able to solve a physics problem and a quadratic equation in maths
read the whole novel given out with Bonnes soirées magazine each week
[...]
support the continuation of French Algeria
There’s the confirmation. But I’m not convinced that Annie Ernaux feels for the collective destruction that annihilated both sides, I’m not convinced that she really cares beyond the confines of French life and French borders. When she speaks in her present-day voice, she is still clearly biased, and I have no care for the logistics of this, that it’s more convenient for her to not turn this into a political essay. This is because about halfway through the book, she remarks:
My memory retains no trace of world events, reduced to a distant rumble that reached the camp by way of the television set in the dining hall. [...] I don’t believe the boys ever mentioned the constant threat they faced, from which none was exempt, of being sent to fight in the djebel, in Algeria.
On the Internet, I read the list of terrorist actions that occur almost daily between late August (fifteen attacks on the 25th) and the end of September 1958: an attack against Jacques Soustelle that killed one passerby and wounded three, the sabotage of railways, machinegun attacks on cafés and police stations, fires at factories (Simca in Poissy, Pechiney in Grenoble) and refineries (Notre-Dame-de-Gravenchon-Marseilles) [...] All were perpetrated by the FLN, [Front Libération Nationale (the Algerian rebels fighting for independence basically)] which brought the conflict to metropolitan France.
I don’t think Annie Ernaux has ever left France, at least not mentally. And for me it’s this essay’s downfall, which is still clearly blinded by French propaganda. This is the extent Annie Ernaux goes into detail about the Algerian War for Independence. And there’s nothing in that entire passage, nor in any part of the essay, about the genocide native Algerians were abjected to. You’d think that age and knowledge would bring this clarity to Annie Ernaux, at least, but it doesn’t, and I’m perplexed by her choice of words, “the constant threat they [French soldiers] faced”, “terrorist actions”, “perpetrate”, as if France was a victim here, and still coming back calling North Africans ‘crouillat’ (it’s a racist term, look it up). I’m not saying that these events weren’t offences, or by any means, acceptable, but this is a country that took Algeria by force, and left it in a mess from which it has never recovered...
And Jacques Soustelle, by the way, rendered native Algerians as “backward savages” due to their “primitive technology” and gave them second-class status. He was a fascist. He joined a terrorist group called l’Organisation Armée Secrète (OAS) to fight against Algerian independence. He worked alongside Charles de Gaulle and was responsible for his renewal as France’s President and the Fifth Republic. Like, she’s coming up with all these shitty counter-attacks committed by people whose families literally had their entrails pulled out and their houses burned down. Like my own grandmother’s house. These people had shitty pistols to fight with, the French had technology you can’t even imagine. The only reason France didn’t stick with the occupation was because the fight was becoming expensive and people were just tired of rebellion, so they gave Algeria a self-determined referendum. It was a pragmatical decision.
So there’s a really big division in me created by this incredible, sad narrative of a girl’s struggle, navigating sexuality and femininity within the confines of a patriarchal, limiting society which punishes her. That’s the woman in me, reaching out, saying “Yes!”. We need memoirs like this, we need stories like this.
And then there’s this other kind of background narrative of politics and world affairs, which is one-sided, and isn’t really relevant or important to Annie’s 18-year-old self but “it should be” but it isn’t, and like, it’s so absent-mindedly written for a woman who is now 78 years old. Her focalisation is that of French suffering, not global suffering. And I think this isn’t just a style of Annie’s writing, I think it’s an outlook, you can see it in other books like The Years. This is the Algerian woman in me, that is beginning a career in narrating the reality of Algeria and what it means to have Algerian family, and possess inherited traumas beyond your understanding and control, and still read books like this written by French people. And Algeria’s not just background noise for Annie to peddle in her narratives of life without fully considering the impact and shape they’ve taken in history. Ergo, don’t loosely include it in your essay if all you’re attempting to do is legitimise your ignorance. And don’t later on, pretend to care, and then cherry pick the events which minimises France’s accountability for genocide. Cos why the fuck would you still want to?
Here’s the thing, and I’m being as brief as I can here. In 1958, when Annie Duchesne was being taunted, harrassed and in my view, sexually abused, by some holiday camp leaders in S, for having not slept with a boy (I refuse to call him a man), but for somehow being “a whore”, all of which is terrible, this is what was happening in Algeria at the same time:
My grandmother and grandfather’s house had been burned down by the French in the Province of Kabylia, which is Amazigh territory, aka Algerian countryside. She fled to Algiers with her three babies.
Then, shortly afterwards, my grandmother’s 5-year-old daughter was killed by the French Army in a street in Algiers.
Algerian-Muslim votes in political elections were still considered to be unequal to that of French Algerian votes.
My grandfather was about to be shot in the leg and have to travel to France to save it (since all the hospitals in Algeria had been destroyed, and the French at the time were dismissive of indigenous Algerians and their ailments).
French soldiers were raping Algerian women left, right and centre to punish FLN members.
FLN members were bombing French army barracks. French soldiers were doing the same thing back. Mutual torture and rape from both parties was committed.
The death toll of Algerians was reaching (by my own approximations which I’ve studied hard cos this is a specialism of mine, there isn’t a confirmed statistic, because that’s how much people care) its peak. It was heading towards 20 million dead since the year of 1830, when the French Occupation started.
My grandmother went her whole life without holding her daughter’s killers accountable. She never had a voice and she never had the opportunity to write a book, or several, about it. And I hold my hands up: it doesn’t do well to quantify pain or the severity of experience. Your life is your life, there is only you living it, and whatever happens to you in your life is going to be important to you, even if the saddest thing that ever happens to you is that the flavour of ice cream you like has run out at the shop.
But it’s hard for me to really let myself just go ahead and resonate with Annie Ernaux. I don’t get caught up in the symmetry of my experiences, because a lot of the time, I’m just relating it back to the atrocities of genocide that Kabyle women like my grandmother were caught up in during 1958. I’m not saying that Annie’s miseries, past and present, are lesser than the miseries of that time for French soliders and Algerian soldiers and civilians enduring the devastation of war. I’m saying that her perspective is narrower. And that’s something I can’t change about Annie, nor this work.
I think what this text tries to do is explore a lack of accountability in many different facets. There is lack of accountability in the people that saw to Annie Duchesne’s humiliation and suffering, there’s a lack of accountability to her parents and their enforcement of religion, there’s no accountability for the people that suffer at the hands of other people, whether it’s a genocide or a sexual assault, and there’s the lack of accountability in having endured the patriarchal constructs which force you down on a bed to find out why your periods have stopped, i.e. an intact hymen (page 86).
The only resolution, ultimately, is to write about these horrors, and by writing about it you might achieve a narrative which produces a brand new discourse, or a brand new insight previously not seen or understood. By writing about it, we achieve awareness, clarity, even if we mistrust our memories of it all, as Annie does. And I do think Annie achieves clarity, at least, for me as a reader, with A Girl’s Story and this essay should be seen as a contribution to a feminine history, a lesson in where women still feel unvalidated by their own trauma, and the work it takes . I feel that Annie Ernaux has a desire to tell her stories, to admit her truths and confess her sensitive past, her vulnerability and expose the vulnerability of others. By doing so, and allowing a wider audience to access work like A Girl’s Story she carries out her justice. Her truth is evidenced and validated by her readership, by her audience, by it being a book.
But equally, for me again, A Girl’s Story is held back by some of the more subtle and problematic word choices and convoluted prose that I think is quite disillusioning and deceptively narrow-minded, this is something you’ll have to see for yourself by buying the book.
I think of this essay as an admonition to the follies of youth and of boys, not men, boys. I think of it as a documentation of female struggle and identity. I think of it as a text that intimates privilege even when it is not felt.
And I’m torn by A Girl’s Story, which made this review terribly difficult to write, and I don’t think I’m blowing it out of proportion, I do think there’s an indication of a non-condemnation of France’s historical role in genocide. And maybe this subtle admission is just as brave of Annie, as is writing her autobiographies.
If you’re interested and want to make assertions for yourself, please do buy A Girl’s Story from Fitzcarraldo Editions here.
And if you want to share some of your own thoughts, please do feel free to comment and discuss. I’m interested to see whether people agree or not.
The very first chapter of this book had me put it on my list of favorites. An absolute joy to read, particular for someone for whom tea is more than just a beverage. #Reccomended #LitForLife #LitBitch #Escape
- a person who is very much into literature, reading, analyzing the classics and modern novels. A person who is also into creative writing and playwriting.
