elfs29's reviews
194 reviews

Didion writes with incredible precision — the formation of Grace’s character through her observation of Charlotte is cleverly constructed, and the intersections between their personal conflicts and the political backdrop are never arbitrary. Didion’s women have a tendency to stick in my mind, unfortunately so do her men, but I don’t think I’ll forget this story and how deftly Didion asks about character, about truth, about what we remember and what we see and whether one can ever be a true witness to someone else. 

The question of Charlotte Douglas has never been ‘settled’ for me. Never ‘decided’. I know how to make models of life itself, DNA, TNA, helices double and single and squared, but I try to make a model of Charlotte Douglas’s character and I see only a shimmer. Like the shimmer of the oil slick on the boulevards after rain in Progresso. 

Rhys’ prose is mesmerising for all the ways she so closely captures what happens inside a woman’s head. Sophia felt desperately and devastatingly real to me, almost immediately, and I couldn’t bear to tear my eyes away from her because it just felt so important that she be seen. Glimpses of hope amidst desolate loss, glimpses of humanity amidst the almost collapse of it, Sophia’s story, never linear and always heartbreaking, was moving and scarily real. 

I am trying hard to be like you. I know I don’t succeed, but look how hard I try. Three hours to choose a hat; every morning an hour and a half trying to make myself look like everybody else. Every word I say has chains around its ankles; every thought I think is weighted with heavy weights. Since I was born, hasn’t every word I’ve said, every thought I’ve thought, everything I’ve done, been tied up, weighted, chained? And mind you, I know that with all this I don’t succeed. Or I succeed in flashes only too damned well. Think — and have a bit of pity. That is, if you ever think, you apes, which I doubt. 

I found the exploration of philosophy, The Absolute, within the context of upper class Western society an interesting lens through which to dissect the morals and priorities of said society. Larry’s character was very compelling, along with Isabel in moments, and his journey, as told only through his own anecdotes, was by far the best part of this novel. The way it offers a contemplation of how capitalist society shapes consciousness and offers a false happiness, and how war and death so deeply affected soldiers in WWI was interesting - I only wish the narrator had been less ambivalent.

I had a strange sensation, a tingling that arose in my feet and travelled up to my head, and I felt as though I were suddenly released from my body and as pure spirit partook of a loveliness I had never conceived. I had a sense that a knowledge more than human possessed me, so that everything that had been confused was clear and everything that had perplexed me was explained. I was so happy that it was pain and I struggled to release myself from it, for I felt that if it lasted a moment longer I should die; and yet it was such rapture that I was ready to die rather than forgo it. 

Haunting and contemplative. I hope Agnes' soul is free.

The middle of all of it seemed aflame as if a fountain of fire rose up, and fell, and rose up again with sparks like stars for drops.

I don’t expect that Toni Morrison has ever written anything that isn’t entirely perfect. This reminded me a lot of Sula; the way Morrison writes female characters is religiously perfect, the way she explores their relationships and the way men infiltrate them is genuinely heartbreaking. Within the political back drop of America through the civil rights movement, this novel draws attention to the shrapnel left behind by the death of a well renowned man in every woman he knew, even women he didn’t. Impeccably crafted, Morrison feeds you this story in pieces that, when they slot together, reveal a complex and emotional portrayal of sex, relationships and of course, love. 

Even in idagay they had never been able to share a certain twin shame. Each one thought the rot was hers alone. Now, sitting on the floor braving the body’s treason, with everything and nothing to lose, they let the phrase take them back once again to a time when innocence did not exist because no one had dreamed up hell. 

As a short piece of existentialist fiction, I think Kafka raises numerous questions about the human condition, about capitalist society, about ethics and about family. This story actually made me feel really sad, I think I will think about it for a long time. I think the comments Kafka is making about false consciousness and the way it actively affects relationships and drains sympathy is especially interesting, and through this surreal and really miserable story, the reader comes into conflict with many existential musings, and surely must ask themselves what, or whom, they believe in.

Soon, he made the discovery that he was unable to stir a limb. This did not surprise him, rather it seemed unnatural that he ever should have been able to move on these feeble little legs. Otherwise he felt relatively comfortable. He thought of his family with tenderness and love.

It is true that women must write, and it is true that writing is integral to not only their emancipation but also to their self realisation. I don't however think it true that this must be linked so intrinsically to the female sex nor be viewed through the idea that women are wrestling with the male sex. Linking sex and gender so inextricably is almost hypocritical - how could women write themselves if they are already so simply defined?

As a foundational feminist text, Beauvoir lays out many truths of the reality of women, and existentially what the concept of Otherness is and how it has infiltrated every facet of society. It makes me very sad that almost everything in this text is still applicable to our society although it was written seventy five years ago.

Woman has made no effort to displace man as the One. It is not the Other who, defining itself as Other, defines the One; the Other is posited as Other by the One positing itself as One. In order for the Other not to turn into the One, the Other has to submit to this foreign point of view. Where does this submission in woman come from?