There has been no female equivalent of The Trial or Ulysses, de B writes in The Second Sex, because women writers don’t interrogate the human condition.”a woman could never have become Kafka: in her doubts and anxieties, she would never have recognized the anguish of Man driven from paradise.” “Man” is the capitalised eternal, the transcendent- the woman has already been driven away, has already been excluded from this category. I’ve never dog-eared so much my copy of Heroines about a third thicker than it was before I started. Scrunching myself up into odd shapes on the sofa.
However, there is my relationship to the blog, to the critiques and interviews I have been reading relating to Zambreno’s work, (slipping from easy categorisation, Heroines is a hybrid biography with novelistic and autobiographical elements) and then there is my relationship to the words on the page: I picked through this book in a shaken state, I read nodding my head and puckering up my mouth. It would be disingenuous not to say, immediately, that I am a massive admirer of Kate Zambreno’s blog Frances Farmer Is My Sister, and have followed her there and on Twitter and Tumblr for many months. It’s probably bad form to write a review entirely composed of quotations from this book.īut – that’s my immediate urge.
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