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Not to be melodramatic but it is a genuine tragedy that this book is not a classic of both modernist and lesbian literature. Yes it was only printed in 560 copies but Emily Dickinson was printed in none copies so that's not a fully sufficient reason. But really Barney and her circle of pre-WW2 feminist lesbians has been pretty erased historically despite their prominence at the time, which again is something of a travesty. Well, we can undo that so read this dang book.
Anyways, this is an absolutely extraordinary novel. It is a poetic, misty, painful, remarkably beautiful piece of writing that is distinctly modernist, certainly, but also should probably be considered a late Symbolist novel more than anything. Barney's style is so poetic and amorphous, blending together poetry, narrative, and leaps of mystical philosophy, that it feels like a predecessor to Clarice Lispector and Ingeborg Bachman which, if you know me, is a massive complement. It is also refreshing reading something from this period that is profoundly, openly, passionately queer, genderweird, plural, and polyamorous, without any plausible deniability such as a vestigial male love interest.
This book is many things. It is a prose poem about life, death, and love. It is an exploration of the internally fractured identity and its complex relationship with the body that still marks queerness. It is a passionate argument for feminist queer polyamory. And it is also, at its roots, a bittersweet story about the way death and the past are constant specters for queer people in a way they aren't for straights. A remarkable piece of work, please read it if you are invested at all in classic queer fiction.
Anyways, this is an absolutely extraordinary novel. It is a poetic, misty, painful, remarkably beautiful piece of writing that is distinctly modernist, certainly, but also should probably be considered a late Symbolist novel more than anything. Barney's style is so poetic and amorphous, blending together poetry, narrative, and leaps of mystical philosophy, that it feels like a predecessor to Clarice Lispector and Ingeborg Bachman which, if you know me, is a massive complement. It is also refreshing reading something from this period that is profoundly, openly, passionately queer, genderweird, plural, and polyamorous, without any plausible deniability such as a vestigial male love interest.
This book is many things. It is a prose poem about life, death, and love. It is an exploration of the internally fractured identity and its complex relationship with the body that still marks queerness. It is a passionate argument for feminist queer polyamory. And it is also, at its roots, a bittersweet story about the way death and the past are constant specters for queer people in a way they aren't for straights. A remarkable piece of work, please read it if you are invested at all in classic queer fiction.
