This was a fun book to carry around on the subway in New York.
It’s also the kind of the book that if I hadn’t known previously that it was seen as some sort of feminist breakthrough, I might’ve been more amused, or less.
Once I knew it was based on real people and that it was less fiction than a very conscious attempt to create art from reality, I felt like I was complicit in violating Dick’s privacy.
That’s not to say I didn’t enjoy the genre-bending read, and slipping from feminist essay to memoir to romantic noir, all while staying resolutely meta about the creation of it. I definitely scribbled notes to myself about the artists/writers/feminists I’d like to check out, and highlighted in my mind gems like this one, “There’s not enough female irrepressibility written down.” Plus, the whole meditation on Kikes versus Cowboys was dangerously alluring.
(It got a little academically heavy, even for a novel that didn’t fully intend to be a novel, towards the end. Which is why I have no idea why Chris keep saying that she’s not an intellectual. Was it because the people around her didn’t consider her one? Is it another effort at pointing out how women erase themselves? Does she mean a paid intellectual?)
Under it all, it’s a very simple story of the power of love, even (or especially) unrequited love. It wasn’t Dick’s love of her; it was the awakening of her own love/libido that turned her on as an artist so that she became irrepressible and wrote and came alive and Dick became a muse that she kept creating for herself.
That could be a disempowering message, because love like that isn’t a choice. And if that’s the case, than neither is inspiration. Unless the message is that by nurturing that initial spark between her and Dick, by embracing it wholly and submitting to it and thereby risking everything — that’s what woke her up.