Do you have a friend who's a misogynistic dumbass?
A friend who's having a hard time respecting your gender?
Or maybe a family member, who won't stop wDo you have a friend who's a misogynistic dumbass?
A friend who's having a hard time respecting your gender?
Or maybe a family member, who won't stop with those sexist comments at every family event you ever go to?
Or perhaps you're simply tired of defending your feminism to every stupid idiot who comes your way and hasn't even fucking googled it.
This book is meant to be given to people like that. It's perfect for those who want an easy, to the point explanation of, yes, why we all should be feminists. It's a beautiful place to start. No fancy words, no lengthy explanations. Just Adichie being intelligent and brilliant and right.
It's small, it's precise, it's personal, and enligthening. And it'll give you some nifty come backs for pretty much every dumb question people will ask you about feminism - always in a slightly condescending tone.
I once got into a heated argument with some idiot on facebook who made a status saying: "Why is it called feminism? Why not equality?". I wish I'd had Adichie's brilliant response handy back then, because I'm sure it would have shut him up (something I sadly had no luck doing):
"Some people ask: “Why the word feminist? Why not just say you are a believer in human rights, or something like that?” Because that would be dishonest. Feminism is, of course, part of human rights in general—but to choose to use the vague expression human rights is to deny the specific and particular problem of gender. It would be a way of pretending that it was not women who have, for centuries, been excluded. It would be a way of denying that the problem of gender targets women."
It also offers a Nigerian perspective, as many of Adichie's examples are from Nigeria (but happen everywhere in the world, nonetheless). It's way too short to be in any way enlightening on all areas, and it's a little too heteronormative, but as an introduction, and a very eloquent explanation of why feminism matters - and why this focus on gender matters - it's perfect.
So buy 10 copies and always have one in your bag to hurl at the next douchebag who tries to start an argument. It's small enough it won't hurt them severely (unless you throw really well) and you will have made an effort without making an effort. If they really wanna fight, they should read this first.
Do not give these ignorant people anger. Give them Adichie. ...more
“… If I was bound for hell let it be hell. No more false heavens. No more damned magic. You hate me and I hate you. We’ll see who hates best.”
Gothic l“… If I was bound for hell let it be hell. No more false heavens. No more damned magic. You hate me and I hate you. We’ll see who hates best.”
Gothic literature takes a lot of different forms. Jane Eyre is gothic, in a way that Wide Sargasso Sea isn’t. JE rewards the sensible young woman, who acts rationally and virtuously, even Rochester is rewarded (after being punished to a degree), WSS does no such thing, quite the opposite. No one is rational in WSS, everyone deceives and is deceived in this exotic and chaotic garden of eden, among its rotting flowers and oppressive sun. There’s no reward, only punishment, regardless of who you are. Still, some make it out less haunted than others, some have a future.
It’s narrated by Antoinette, the madwoman in the attic, the character who’d inspire heaps of feminist analysis, and her husband, who remains nameless, but is obviously Rochester (I’ll call him R). What really struck me was the mirroring of these two characters. They find themselves largely in the same situation, sold to each other by their families and on a honeymoon full of false premises and bad beginnings. However one is a white, rich man and the other is a creole woman, her every penny given away in marriage. There’s a very clear distinction between their situations, although on the surface they share the same one, and the outcome they can expect once their very volatile relationship inevitably goes bad is vastly different.
Then there’s the deal with the names. It may be arbitrary why we’re named what we’re named, but as we grow up it becomes tied up with our identity. We are our names. Sometimes, when we want to change, we pick a new name. Being called the wrong name deliberately, to have someone ignore your wishes regarding your identity is, in a way, an act of violence. Just think of transgender and transsexual people, using the wrong name is a way to strip them of who they truly are. Antoinette’s name changes repeatedly over the course of the novel; she’s Antoinette Cosway, Antoinette Mason, Antoinette Rochester, and then Bertha, a named picked by R and forced upon her. An act of violence, a stripping of identity, a way to reinforce his power over her and remind her that she belongs to him, that he can do with her what he pleases.
“Names matter” she muses at the end of the novel, “like when he wouldn’t call me Antoinette, and I saw Antoinette drifting out of the window with her scents, her pretty clothes and her looking-glass. ”
It’s also significant to notice that while Antoinette’s name changes, her husband remains unnamed throughout the novel. Anyone familiar with JE or who’s read anything about WSS will know that he’s Rochester, but at the same time he’s something else, something unidentified. His identity remains out of reach for Antoinette, as if it’s outside of her power to interfere with. And in a way it is, because he belongs to another story, one that cannot be altered, whatever may happen in WSS we know exactly who Rochester is in Jane Eyre. But Bertha’s story is never told, her ultimate fate may be known, but nothing else. If names matter, then it must also matter that he doesn’t have one, something that makes him both powerful and worthless. The nameless husband renames his wife and they both go mad. It’s a potent image.
”’Is there another side?’ I said. ‘There is always the other side, always.’”
R becomes increasingly bitter towards his father for deceiving him into a loveless marriage for money, he starts obsessing over Antoinette’s heritage, he takes his bitterness out on her, he’s angry and cruel. Antoinette becomes like a doll, he considers himself a puppeteer, because she acts the way he expects her to act – as does everyone else, he’s the one with the power – and blames her for it. Strangely, R was himself just as much a puppet to begin with. He was maneuvered into place by his and her family, he was married off without making objections. “I agreed. As I had agreed to everything else” he says, he’s a puppet holding a smaller puppet, thinking he’s in control.
“I could see Antoinette stretched on the bed quite still. Like a doll. Even when she threatened me with the bottle she had a marionette quality.”
He’s not in control. As their relationship crumbles they both go mad, but Antoinette stays in the madness, because there’s no escape for her. She has nothing to return to, no money, no family, her situation resembles that of her mother, both driven to madness by men unable to comprehend the world they inhabit or the people who inhabit it. Perhaps not everyone will agree with me when I say that in the end even R is mad, but his narrative becomes jumbled. It speaks of revenge and hatred and despair, it’s fragmented and chaotic. He wants to enact revenge on Antoinette for, well, everything, instead of blaming others he takes it out on her, the only one who would have understood him. She slips into muteness, and when she speaks for R at one point – she borrows his voice, his identity, having lost her own – she’s told off, R telling her she knows nothing of his opinions. He threatened to make her into nothing and he has.
R understands throughout his narrative that the beautiful landscape hides something, that he’s not looking at anything in its true form, but he is incapable of discovering what lies underneath and he gives up. He returns to England and sanity, taking his wife with him and leaving her to rot in the attic, securely burying another secret, like those that have been hinted at throughout the novel. Secrets that he couldn’t unravel because he couldn’t listen. In JE he hides his ugly secret in the attic and she’s hidden until she dies, in WSS she gets a voice, a chance to speak and be free, to be someone, before it’s taken from her and she’s securely locked up again. They may both go mad, but she stays in the madness, and he makes it out. He's backed by privilege; she has nothing.
R is aware of his own destructive nature, but he refuses to acknowledge that he’s the force (or at least part of it) that broke Antoinette. That by denying her true name, despising her heritage, taking her property, he’s denied her anything that could hold her to reality. The third part of the book reminded me strongly of “The Yellow Wallpaper” with a woman trapped in a room until she loses herself, but finds something new to hold onto. There’s madness, yes, but also a sense of freedom. A parrot unable to escape a burning building with its clipped wings, but at least this time she got to set the fire.
A stunning work.
“I tell you she loves no one, anyone. I could not touch her. Excepting as the hurricane will touch that tree – and break it. You say I did? No. That was love’s fierce play. Now I’ll do it. (…) The tree shivers. Shivers and gathers all its strength. And waits.”...more
"Down the long white road we walked together, Down between the grey hills and the heather, Where the tawny-crested Plover cries.
You seemed all brown and
"Down the long white road we walked together, Down between the grey hills and the heather, Where the tawny-crested Plover cries.
You seemed all brown and soft, just like a linnet, Your errant hair had shadowed sunbeams in it, And there shone all April In your eyes.
With your golden voice of tears and laughter Softened into song: 'Does aught come after Life,' you asked, 'When life is Laboured through? What is God, and all for which we're striving?' 'Sweetest sceptic, we were born for living. Life is Love, and Love is - You, dear, you.'"
-R. A. L.
I honestly don’t know what to say about this book, and this is not as good a review as it deserves, but I have cried throughout writing it and I really need to post it now. It’s a wonderful book, I recommend it to all of you.
"'I feel as if someone had uprooted my heart to see how it was growing.'"
Those words belonging to Roland have stuck with me since I read them the first time. In many ways, I feel a little as if they describe my reading experience. At some point, no matter what part I was reading, I would inevitably start crying, and I’m not sure why. I can’t think of a specific reason except this; Brittain writes unwaveringly and beautifully about people and moments it must have hurt, excruciatingly, to remember. There’s of course comfort and safety in memories, even in memories that hurt, given enough time. But to delve into them like this? To talk about Roland or Edward and infuse their moments with the hope that they may have the rest of their lives together, all the while knowing they’re gone? I’m floored by it.
At the same time, she manages not to get sentimental. She does an incredible job of keeping the war from stealing the show, although that would have been an easy thing to do. She tries, at times, to give the bigger picture of the war, but it remains an account of her life, from girlhood to adulthood and womanhood. The war is inescapable, but it’s never the only thing, it’s part of her life, but a life contains multitudes of parts and she’s good at including as many as possible.
It spans the years from 1900 to 1925, presenting a “before, during and after” image of a Europe in ignorant, hopeful bliss, war-torn and bleeding, and victorious, but hollow and healing. The contrast is devastating. It’s perhaps quite correctly described as an eulogy (among other things), for her fiancé, her friends, her brother, but just as much an eulogy for idealism and innocence. In some miraculous way hope never quite crumbles though and somehow Brittain manages to hold on to life. It’s not that she’s at any point close to losing it, but she never gives up on it either.
"I had never believed that I could actually go on living without that lovely companionship which had been at my service since childhood, that perfect relation which had involved no jealousy and no agitation, but only the profoundest confidence, the most devoted understanding, on either side. Yet here I was, in a world emptied of that unfailing consolation, most persistently, most unwillingly, alive."
I thought “Testament of Youth” referred to the age of those who went to war, not just the soldiers, the nurses too. It isn’t quite the “loss of a generation” as it’s sometimes referred to, but it carved a big enough chunk out of the young population that the title isn’t entirely off. The best and brightest went to fight and not nearly enough of them came back. I realize now, however, that while the title certainly refers to the tragedy of all those young people going off to fight and not making it back, it is just as much a reference to the things that come with youth; idealism, naivety. And the age of the society and the world that went to war.
You’d think, with war being a near constant in our time on earth, that we’d have learned a thing or two, but I don’t think we did, not until WWI, perhaps not even then, perhaps not since. Weapons change, and the rules of war change, and soldier must adapt, the way war is fought changes and we redo all our mistakes one more time. The world was young before WWI, it was a lot less so after, but it takes more than one mistake to teach a lesson and we got to repeat it too soon after. At least WWII presented a more tangible “evil” to defeat, it seems the only war in recent memory, the only modern war, let’s say, that it made one lick of sense to partake in for any young person (I say, but I’m not well read on the subject, so correct me if I assume to much). After 600 pages of Brittain I’m still not sure what WWI was actually about, it doesn’t seem anyone fighting in it knew either.
Brittain writes of Roland that "[h]e certainly had no wish to die, and now that he had got what he wanted, a dust-and-ashes feeling had come. He neither hated the Germans nor loved the Belgians; the only possible motive for going was 'heroism in the abstract', and that didn't seem a very logical reason for risking one's life". Heroism in the abstract seems the major reason a lot of young men went (and probably still go), not to fight for a specific cause, but to protect a vague ideal, because they feel they should, that they’d not be real men if they didn’t. They went to shoot at and kill people they’d rather not, and for what? The idea that they had to?
There’s an extra layer of tragedy to reading the book, because the reader knows, as Brittain didn’t at the time of writing it, that there’s a second world war coming. Hitler and Nazism, at least, were worthy enemies and worthy evils to protect ones country and loved ones from, the heroism it took to fight for that was a little less abstract, a little less idealistic.
Of course, this is not only a war-memoir. In fact that’s perhaps only a third of what it contains. It’s just as much a memoir of a young, headstrong girl growing up and finding her own feet, discovering feminism, the liberation of women, and later on making a career as a writer. It shows the changes made to the lives of women in a period where so much went on; the right to vote, men going off to war and women taking over their jobs, and the struggle to hold on to a newfound position of power and freedom for women as the men made their way back. It’s a time of great, important changes, like a tidal wave has been released and keeping it going, while still collecting the pieces of a ruined world, is vital.
I also understand why Brittain was upset her husband requested her to tone down his part in the last third of the book. As much as the book is centered around Brittain, her relationship with the men in her life is an important focus though out much of the book. It seems odd, that when another man enters her life near the end, he isn’t given the same amount of attention as the others. It would have given a greater feeling of having come full circle, as well as underlining the surge of hope and vitality that, while less strong than in the beginning, reappears, if it had focused more on her marriage. To marry, for Brittain and for many other women who had lost great loves of their lives, is not an act of submission, it’s a sign of hope, and I wish it had gotten more attention. Even so, Brittain’s efforts in writing this book, a beautiful testament of youth as well as life in spite of death, and hope in spite of loss, are inspirational. She isn’t perfect in her feminist or political efforts (is anyone?), but she remains an admirable person. To endure this kind of loss, and keep going? I’m astounded by her perseverance, and the perseverance of everyone who had to go on after the devastation of the first world war.
"In spite of the War, which destroyed so much hope, so much beauty, so much promise, life is still here to be lived; so long as I am in the world, how can I ignore the obligation to be part of it, cope with its problems, suffer claims and interruptions?"...more
’The Color Purple’ is the most life affirming book I’ve read this year. Told through letters first to God, then her sister, Celie tells the story of h’The Color Purple’ is the most life affirming book I’ve read this year. Told through letters first to God, then her sister, Celie tells the story of her life, and it isn’t pretty, but it’s real.
I honest to god read the last line of the last page, closed the book and started crying. It touched me deeply.
It will hit you, hopefully often, that gender issues, racial inequality, and privilege are fucking important to address in books, in movies, in any media, because to some people it might be all they have.
They might grow up not knowing they don’t have to put up with the beatings or the sexual abuse, they might grow up not knowing that looking at a man’s penis and feeling nothing is fine, that not enjoying or wanting sex is fine. These people need to know that they might be queer, that they might be a lot of things, and that it’s okay. They should know they can stand up for themselves, and it’s okay. And books like this can show them that.
Diverse literature and media is so goddamned important. I can’t stop wondering what reading a book like this might have done for someone like Celie. It might have meant the world.
But Celie doesn’t read a book or meet a person who can tell her these things until she’s grown up. She bears the abuse as a child because it’s all she can do, and when she’s married off to an abusive man with three children from a previous marriage, she doesn’t run, she bears it again, because it what she does. Her sister, Nettie, gets away with Celie’s help, and though she grows up "smarter" and more informed than Celie, and lives a very different life, there are things you cannot change. She doesn’t suffer the same abuse, but racism and sexism will take many forms and shapes, and whether you’re in Africa or America you’re likely to find it.
It is not through education that Celie finally comes to terms with herself, it's through her interactions and relationships with other women. It's not our solemn duty as feminists to tell other women how to live their lives, it's our duty as women to support other women in their decisions. To respect them for their choices, and help them the best we can. I love this book because it celebrates that.
Celie is not less of a woman than Shug or Sophia, because she’s passive and doesn’t fight for herself, she hasn’t done anything wrong. She doesn’t deserve scorn because she reacted the way she reacted, society deserves it for not showing her there’s a different way to be.
Despite her often terrible circumstances, Celie finds it in herself to love, to give freely, to forgive and to grow. You might find her a bit naïve, but it’s in her naivety she finds the capacity for acceptance and love, because she will accept bad circumstances the same as good. This acceptance keeps her from being bitter, it keeps her open to all the good, because she doesn’t turn resentful. It’s a very powerful quality in a person, and especially in someone who is continuously disregarded because of her seemingly passive demeanor. We all have different qualities, we’re all worth exactly the same, and it’s only through each other we find a life that’s really worth all the pain.
It’s simply beautiful book, filled with a variety of female characters, each with their own struggles and complexities. They walk different roads, and lead vastly different lives, but it doesn’t change their love for one another.
I want everyone to read this. Everyone should read this. ...more
“Better never means better for everyone, he says. It always means worse, for some.”
This book is beautifully written. So beautifully written I rea(4.5)
“Better never means better for everyone, he says. It always means worse, for some.”
This book is beautifully written. So beautifully written I realized I’d been throwing that word around about writing that isn’t beautiful at all. Not beautiful like this. The story itself isn’t beautiful, far from it, it’s devastating and terrible, but the way it’s told, the words picked out to weave it together? I found it beautiful.
It’s dystopia, but not the sort of dystopia I expected. It’s told from the point of view of a Handmaiden, and being part of the society, there’s no urge to explain anything. The reader will spend some time confused, perhaps frustrated, because everything, the background story, how society works, is revealed extremely gradually, in glimpses, in hidden meanings. It’s not the story of a specific society as such, rather it’s meant to present a woman’s experiences living in that society.
There’s an extremely unsettling mix of utopia and dystopia about it. The society she’s part of seems to have risen out of a twisted feministic ideal, but in the process of creating a world that protects women from the violence of men, they’ve taken their freedom from them entirely, making their bodies commodities, reduced to the basic function of giving birth.
“There is more than one kind of freedom, said Aunt Lydia. Freedom to and freedom from. In the days of anarchy, it was freedom to. Now you are given freedom from. Don’t underrate it.”
Slowly, you realize the world they’ve “escaped” from had potentially deteriorated to the point where women couldn’t walk on the streets in safety (you also realize, it may very well just have been exactly like our society right now), and so a new age arose, where women have freedom from, but absolutely no freedom to.
There’s the sense that those two can’t co-exist, that you must give up one to have the other. The ideal, of course, the true utopia, would be to have both freedom to and freedom from. Freedom to dress how we want and freedom from being raped. To be free from violence and harassment and abuse, these women have to give up control of their bodies. Turns out it doesn’t really free them from anything, it just takes away any agency they might have had before.
The true genius of this book is it’s ability to present truly horrific and disturbing scenes with an absurd normalcy, seen through a lens of numbness and disassociation because our narrator has gotten used to a way of life that no one should get used to.
Her constant fight to maintain sanity, to make sense of the world, even at times to reason with it and explain it, to not give up her sense of self, her freedom, is what makes this story so beautiful, yet grotesque.
“Maybe none of it is about control. Maybe it isn’t really about who can own whom, who can do what to whom and get away with it, even as far as death. Maybe it isn’t about who can sit and who has to kneel or stand or lie down, legs spread open. Maybe it’s about who can do what to whom and be forgiven for it. Never tell me it amounts to the same thing.”
It’s not the story of someone changing the society she’s part of, it’s an escape story. She’s trying to escape the nightmare (that looks like a daydream) that she’s part of. Thoughts of suicide intersect with thoughts that life is worth it after all, it’s not just about physical escape, for her that is largely unattainable, it’s about inner escape.
“But a chair, sunlight, flowers: these are not to be dismissed. I am alive, I live, I breathe, I put my hand out, unfolded, into the sunlight.”
It’s, I think, the story of a lot of women’s lives. It’s grotesque, it’s terrible, like Offred states “I don’t want to be telling this story”, because it’s ugly, but it’s also never insignificant, it’s never unimportant. She’s not someone chosen, she’s just a citizen, a person in this world that’s gone crazy (again), and her story will always be worth telling, because so many women share it.
I really think everyone should read this.
“After all you’ve been through, you deserve whatever I have left, which is not much, but includes the truth.”...more