What do you think?
Rate this book
袧械褌邪泻褌懈褔薪芯褋褌
袙懈褌芯褉懈褟 懈屑邪 斜芯谐邪褌 褋褗锌褉褍谐, 谐芯谢褟屑邪 泻褗褖邪, 泻褉邪褋懈胁懈 褉芯泻谢懈 懈 锌褉懈褋谢褍卸薪懈褑邪, 泻芯褟褌芯 褲 锌芯写薪邪褋褟 褌芯锌褗谢 褔邪泄 懈 泻邪褎械. 袩芯褋褌懈谐薪邪谢邪 械 芯薪芯胁邪, 蟹邪 泻芯械褌芯 卸械薪邪 褋 薪械泄薪懈褟 锌褉芯懈蟹褏芯写 薪械 屑芯卸械 懈 写邪 屑械褔褌邪械 鈥� 芯褌 褔懈褋褌邪褔泻邪 胁 屑褍蟹械泄 写邪 褋械 锌褉械胁褗褉薪械 胁 蟹薪邪褌薪邪 写邪屑邪.
孝芯蟹懈 锌褉懈胁懈写械薪 褍褋锌械褏 芯斜邪褔械 薪械 褲 薪芯褋懈 褍写芯胁芯谢褋褌胁懈械. 袦邪泻邪褉 写邪 懈蟹锌懈褌胁邪 薪邪褋谢邪写邪 芯褌 锌懈褖薪懈褟 褋懈 懈 褍褉械写械薪 卸懈胁芯褌, 褌褟 泻芯锌薪械械 蟹邪 薪械褖芯 褉邪蟹谢懈褔薪芯 鈥� 蟹邪 袙懈褌芯褉懈褟 写邪 薪械 锌懈褕械, 斜懈 芯蟹薪邪褔邪胁邪谢芯 写邪 锌褉芯锌懈谢械械 卸懈胁芯褌邪 褋懈.
袙 褋胁芯褟 蟹邪斜械谢械卸懈褌械谢械薪 褉芯屑邪薪 鈥炐澬笛傂靶貉傂秆囆叫狙佈傗€� 袗屑懈薪邪 袣械泄薪 锌褉械芯斜褉褗褖邪 褋 谐谢邪胁邪褌邪 薪邪写芯谢褍 锌褉懈泻邪蟹泻邪褌邪, 胁 泻芯褟褌芯 锌褉懈薪褑褗褌 懈 锌褉懈薪褑械褋邪褌邪 蟹邪卸懈胁褟胁邪褌 褖邪褋褌谢懈胁芯 写芯 泻褉邪褟 薪邪 写薪懈褌械 褋懈. 孝芯褔薪芯 芯斜褉邪褌薪芯褌芯 鈥� 胁 褌邪蟹懈 泻褉邪褌泻邪 锌芯 芯斜械屑, 薪芯 锌褉芯褋褌芯褉薪邪 锌芯 写褍褏 泻薪懈谐邪 褖邪褋褌懈械褌芯 褋械 褉邪胁薪褟胁邪 薪邪 褌胁芯褉褔械褋泻邪 褋胁芯斜芯写邪 懈 谢懈褔薪邪 薪械蟹邪胁懈褋懈屑芯褋褌. 袩芯褋褌懈卸懈屑懈 谢懈 褋邪 褌械?
袗屑懈薪邪 袣械泄薪 械 邪屑械褉懈泻邪薪褋泻邪 锌懈褋邪褌械谢泻邪. 袗胁褌芯褉泻邪 械 薪邪 写胁邪 褋斜芯褉薪懈泻邪 褋 褉邪蟹泻邪蟹懈, 邪 薪械泄薪懈 械褋械褌邪 褋邪 锌褍斜谢懈泻褍胁邪薪懈 胁 鈥炐熜把€懈褋 褉懈胁褞鈥�, 鈥炐撗€邪薪褌邪鈥�, 鈥炐捫靶寡佲€� 懈 写褉. 袩褗褉胁懈褟褌 褲 褉芯屑邪薪 鈥炐澬笛傂靶貉傂秆囆叫狙佈傗€� 械 锌褉械锌芯褉褗褔邪薪 芯褌 褉械写邪泻褌芯褉懈褌械 薪邪 鈥炐澭� 袡芯褉泻 孝邪泄屑褋鈥� 懈 褋褌邪胁邪 褎懈薪邪谢懈褋褌 蟹邪 锌褉械褋褌懈卸薪邪褌邪 谢懈褌械褉邪褌褍褉薪邪 薪邪谐褉邪写邪 鈥炐犘把傂毙狙冃窖� 褎芯谢懈芯鈥� 懈 蟹邪 薪邪谐褉邪写邪褌邪 薪邪 笑械薪褌褗褉邪 蟹邪 褏褍写芯卸械褋褌胁械薪邪 谢懈褌械褉邪褌褍褉邪 蟹邪 写械斜褞褌.
孝芯蟹懈 锌褉懈胁懈写械薪 褍褋锌械褏 芯斜邪褔械 薪械 褲 薪芯褋懈 褍写芯胁芯谢褋褌胁懈械. 袦邪泻邪褉 写邪 懈蟹锌懈褌胁邪 薪邪褋谢邪写邪 芯褌 锌懈褖薪懈褟 褋懈 懈 褍褉械写械薪 卸懈胁芯褌, 褌褟 泻芯锌薪械械 蟹邪 薪械褖芯 褉邪蟹谢懈褔薪芯 鈥� 蟹邪 袙懈褌芯褉懈褟 写邪 薪械 锌懈褕械, 斜懈 芯蟹薪邪褔邪胁邪谢芯 写邪 锌褉芯锌懈谢械械 卸懈胁芯褌邪 褋懈.
袙 褋胁芯褟 蟹邪斜械谢械卸懈褌械谢械薪 褉芯屑邪薪 鈥炐澬笛傂靶貉傂秆囆叫狙佈傗€� 袗屑懈薪邪 袣械泄薪 锌褉械芯斜褉褗褖邪 褋 谐谢邪胁邪褌邪 薪邪写芯谢褍 锌褉懈泻邪蟹泻邪褌邪, 胁 泻芯褟褌芯 锌褉懈薪褑褗褌 懈 锌褉懈薪褑械褋邪褌邪 蟹邪卸懈胁褟胁邪褌 褖邪褋褌谢懈胁芯 写芯 泻褉邪褟 薪邪 写薪懈褌械 褋懈. 孝芯褔薪芯 芯斜褉邪褌薪芯褌芯 鈥� 胁 褌邪蟹懈 泻褉邪褌泻邪 锌芯 芯斜械屑, 薪芯 锌褉芯褋褌芯褉薪邪 锌芯 写褍褏 泻薪懈谐邪 褖邪褋褌懈械褌芯 褋械 褉邪胁薪褟胁邪 薪邪 褌胁芯褉褔械褋泻邪 褋胁芯斜芯写邪 懈 谢懈褔薪邪 薪械蟹邪胁懈褋懈屑芯褋褌. 袩芯褋褌懈卸懈屑懈 谢懈 褋邪 褌械?
袗屑懈薪邪 袣械泄薪 械 邪屑械褉懈泻邪薪褋泻邪 锌懈褋邪褌械谢泻邪. 袗胁褌芯褉泻邪 械 薪邪 写胁邪 褋斜芯褉薪懈泻邪 褋 褉邪蟹泻邪蟹懈, 邪 薪械泄薪懈 械褋械褌邪 褋邪 锌褍斜谢懈泻褍胁邪薪懈 胁 鈥炐熜把€懈褋 褉懈胁褞鈥�, 鈥炐撗€邪薪褌邪鈥�, 鈥炐捫靶寡佲€� 懈 写褉. 袩褗褉胁懈褟褌 褲 褉芯屑邪薪 鈥炐澬笛傂靶貉傂秆囆叫狙佈傗€� 械 锌褉械锌芯褉褗褔邪薪 芯褌 褉械写邪泻褌芯褉懈褌械 薪邪 鈥炐澭� 袡芯褉泻 孝邪泄屑褋鈥� 懈 褋褌邪胁邪 褎懈薪邪谢懈褋褌 蟹邪 锌褉械褋褌懈卸薪邪褌邪 谢懈褌械褉邪褌褍褉薪邪 薪邪谐褉邪写邪 鈥炐犘把傂毙狙冃窖� 褎芯谢懈芯鈥� 懈 蟹邪 薪邪谐褉邪写邪褌邪 薪邪 笑械薪褌褗褉邪 蟹邪 褏褍写芯卸械褋褌胁械薪邪 谢懈褌械褉邪褌褍褉邪 蟹邪 写械斜褞褌.
160 pages, Paperback
First published February 11, 2020
247 people are currently reading
19584 people want to read
About the author
Amina Cain
7听books288听followersAmina Memory Cain is the author of the novel Indelicacy, a New York Times Editors鈥� Choice and staff pick at the Paris Review, published in February 2020 by Farrar, Straus & Giroux, and two collections of short fiction, Creature, out with Dorothy, a publishing project, and I Go To Some Hollow, with Les Figues Press. Her writing has appeared in Granta, The Paris Review Daily, n+1, BOMB, Full Stop, the Believer Logger, and other places.
She has also co-curated literary events, such as When Does It or You Begin?, a month long festival of writing, performance, and video at Links Hall in Chicago, Both Sides and The Center, a summer festival of readings and performances enacting various levels of proximity, intimacy, and distance at the MAK Center/Schindler House in West Hollywood, and the Errata Salon, a talk/lecture series at Betalevel in Los Angeles鈥� Chinatown.
She lives in Los Angeles and is a literature contributing editor at BOMB. You can sometimes find her online on Twitter (@aminamemory) & Instagram (@amina_memory).
She has also co-curated literary events, such as When Does It or You Begin?, a month long festival of writing, performance, and video at Links Hall in Chicago, Both Sides and The Center, a summer festival of readings and performances enacting various levels of proximity, intimacy, and distance at the MAK Center/Schindler House in West Hollywood, and the Errata Salon, a talk/lecture series at Betalevel in Los Angeles鈥� Chinatown.
She lives in Los Angeles and is a literature contributing editor at BOMB. You can sometimes find her online on Twitter (@aminamemory) & Instagram (@amina_memory).
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 - 30 of 1,198 reviews
February 17, 2020
Damn! What an accomplishment. There鈥檚 more to unpack in this slim 160 pages than most books can achieve with 500. The whole time I kept thinking of all my friends who would gobble this up like me, in one breathless sitting. I want to loan out my copy to everyone I know so we can talk about it鈥攂ut I鈥檓 also scared they won鈥檛 want to give it back. Ahh! What a dilemma.
I would try to describe the gist of it, but that鈥檚 basically impossible and the less you know going in the better. I will only say that it鈥檚 full of quirky humor with a dark fog that unsettles throughout. Any comparisons are unfair, but it鈥檚 almost like an Iain Reid mystery with Sylvia Plath鈥檚 characters. It鈥檚 none of those things, however, and there鈥檚 really no point trying to find an equal novel to point to. This is its own thing.
As for target audience, I will say those who enjoy literary fiction with some bite will appreciate this most. If you鈥檙e a writer, you will really identify with the peculiar protagonist. Perhaps more than you want to.
Though I didn鈥檛 want it to end, the ending is good. Not fully satisfying, but even that feels right. It鈥檚 one of the few novels where, after finishing the last page, I immediately want to go back to the first and experience it all over again. I know there are key lines I missed or will experience differently the second time around. I鈥檒l want to highlight and add pencil marks in the margins. Though it鈥檚 a short book, every sentence has weight. You don鈥檛 want to breeze through it.
If anybody else reads this, please leave a comment! I鈥檓 dying to talk about it with someone.
I would try to describe the gist of it, but that鈥檚 basically impossible and the less you know going in the better. I will only say that it鈥檚 full of quirky humor with a dark fog that unsettles throughout. Any comparisons are unfair, but it鈥檚 almost like an Iain Reid mystery with Sylvia Plath鈥檚 characters. It鈥檚 none of those things, however, and there鈥檚 really no point trying to find an equal novel to point to. This is its own thing.
As for target audience, I will say those who enjoy literary fiction with some bite will appreciate this most. If you鈥檙e a writer, you will really identify with the peculiar protagonist. Perhaps more than you want to.
Though I didn鈥檛 want it to end, the ending is good. Not fully satisfying, but even that feels right. It鈥檚 one of the few novels where, after finishing the last page, I immediately want to go back to the first and experience it all over again. I know there are key lines I missed or will experience differently the second time around. I鈥檒l want to highlight and add pencil marks in the margins. Though it鈥檚 a short book, every sentence has weight. You don鈥檛 want to breeze through it.
If anybody else reads this, please leave a comment! I鈥檓 dying to talk about it with someone.
July 13, 2024
鈥�I will die if I can鈥檛 write and then I will have wasted my life.鈥�
鈥�Can a story be like a painting, Amina Cain ponders in an with fellow author , 鈥�what happens when a narrative allows us to spend time with an image longer than we are 鈥渟upposed鈥� to?鈥� In many ways her novel Indelicacy is an expression of this question, filled with frequent ekphrastic moments and short, staccato chapters鈥攐ften only a page in length鈥攖hat linger on an idea. It is a novel propelled by images more so than plot, following Vit贸ria from being 鈥�saved鈥� from her working class life cleaning an art museum to her general discontent in a life of fancy society. Through it all, the desire to be a writer overrides everything and she continuously shoves everything aside to create space regardless of 鈥�how indelicate鈥� her behavior is perceived or her husband鈥檚 annoyance that she would choose to labor over literature instead of quietly submit to a life of leisure. Though Cain writes in a sparse prose style, it feels almost magical how vast the imagery is that emits from her slender sentences. A rather haunting, stylistically stunning and very interior novel that registers more as a visual experience, Indelicacy examines the artistic life in conjunction with social status, gender expectations and the ways we must often elbow out our own space to create.
鈥�Still in the process of becoming, the soul makes room.鈥�
I often find that the novels with the barest of plots make space to let the details really shine. It is like a quiet evening, when all the bustle of the day dies down and, instead of simply darkness and silence, we suddenly hear the cacophonous choirs of insects under a dazzling display of starshine. Such is the case with Indelicacy where within its own quiet spaces we can truly hear her language sing. I read this alongside her book on writing, (read my review here), which made for a truly illuminating experience, seeing how her ideas lead into her sentences and her sentences into her ideas back and forth across both books. Most notably are the ways Vit贸ria鈥檚 excavations of self, such as questioning 鈥�what part of me is false?鈥� in order to cut those aspects from her life and further engage in her writing, aligns with Cain鈥檚 own efforts to parse down her language for the most economical effect and authenticity. As she writes in A Horse at Night: 鈥�going further into my writing means being vigilant about shedding what is false, even the smallest bit of it.鈥� Cain excels at embedding imagery into her writing and transports us into the space, not unlike the way Vit贸ria feels she would like to ender the 鈥�wooden buildings meant to conjure the street of a village鈥� she sees on a ballet stage or how 鈥�you look at the painting and you want to go farther into the room.鈥� And the sparseness of words opens a room to be projected into:
Her writing projects into our minds like the ways Vit贸ria says she sees handwriting projected onto the faces of others. This is all the more impressive considering the vague time period this is set鈥攚e hear of carriages and candle-lit rooms but the texture of time seems it could be any time, all times, or no time but its own yet it feels so visually vivid nonetheless. It is an exquisite form of creation and we feel as if, like a painting, our eyes are lingering on a canvas more than reading words on a page.
鈥�Writing was not the only thing I wanted to do, but the important thing, I thought, was that I wanted to do it more than anything else.鈥�
This is not a typical story of art life, of trying to find a story and create it (we never do learn much of what she writes about) but more about having to create a space for it to occur. Which, honestly, I vibed with way too hard. Life is so full and your focus is being hooked from all angles all demanding full attention at the same time and sometimes you just have to really shove your own space. At the novels start we find our narrator working in a museum scrubbing floors with her only friend, Antoinette, looking at art the same way she looks at society: from the outside wishing she could go in. She wants to be a writer and it is what gives her pleasure and purpose鈥斺€�In books I found even more strongly my desire to write, to write back to them and their jagged, perfect words. I found life that ran close to my own鈥欌€攁nd a sudden twist of fate finds her married to a wealthy man and freed of her working class woes (admittedly this is a bit of a shoehorned plot point, but whatever I read a lot of fairy tales and can cope).
While wrote that women must have financial mobility in order for liberation, adds a second necessity: 鈥�A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.鈥� Vitoria enjoys the comforts of her new status but just wants to write (which is strongly against her husband鈥檚 wishes). There is also the element of Solange, the maid, reminding her at all times of where she came from and feels twinges of guilt seeing as the symbol of the working class clearly detests her. Cain borrowed the character name from 鈥檚 play , writing in A Horse at Night that she did this
There is also the aspect that the narrator wants to remove anything false from her life. She spends much of the novel reflecting on the sacrifices women have made, such as her thoughts about women who work at a factory turning horses into glue:
But with the presence of Solange, can she really feel this affinity to the working class is an authentic self in her new status? Yet she also cannot find her position as a women of wealth to be authentic either, admitting to eating 鈥�like a pig鈥� and other poor manners such as her brusque way of dealing with others and embracing her eccentricities for which her husband accuses her of doing because she believes herself better than everyone else (she is, she retorts). In a world where every step is judged, especially if one is a woman, how can you feel authentic? And how can you find space to create (her plan, which arrives at the end of the novel, is quite the twist).
鈥�...saw me only in relation to property and propriety. To be domestic first and then to be a shallow vessel out and about in the world. Didn鈥檛 he understand that was not who I was?鈥�
What I love most about this novella was how much it felt like a classic novel. There is a lot of Virginia Woolf in the general vibes, most notably when after attending an author event between two men who spend the whole time counting their accolades she tells them to their faces 鈥�when you open your mouths, you are male worms eating from a toilet.鈥� I especially enjoyed the tender passages describing various paintings, each pointing towards something thematic in the novel through its juxtaposition with the text, and how this tied into the narrator鈥檚 artistic struggles as well as she 鈥�wanted to write about paintings, but I wasn鈥檛 seen as someone who could say something interesting about art.鈥� The way this novel knots all its ideas about writing together with the expressions of her creative journey is rather breathtaking and it is so stylistically stunning I could not tear my thoughts away from it for days. Indelicacy is a quiet novel with a loud voice that packs a wealth of imagery into the tiniest of spaces. A lovely read and I would highly recommend reading this alongside as I found both enhanced by doing so.
4/5
鈥�I had created an experience for someone; I hadn鈥檛 been sure I could actually do that.鈥�
鈥�Can a story be like a painting, Amina Cain ponders in an with fellow author , 鈥�what happens when a narrative allows us to spend time with an image longer than we are 鈥渟upposed鈥� to?鈥� In many ways her novel Indelicacy is an expression of this question, filled with frequent ekphrastic moments and short, staccato chapters鈥攐ften only a page in length鈥攖hat linger on an idea. It is a novel propelled by images more so than plot, following Vit贸ria from being 鈥�saved鈥� from her working class life cleaning an art museum to her general discontent in a life of fancy society. Through it all, the desire to be a writer overrides everything and she continuously shoves everything aside to create space regardless of 鈥�how indelicate鈥� her behavior is perceived or her husband鈥檚 annoyance that she would choose to labor over literature instead of quietly submit to a life of leisure. Though Cain writes in a sparse prose style, it feels almost magical how vast the imagery is that emits from her slender sentences. A rather haunting, stylistically stunning and very interior novel that registers more as a visual experience, Indelicacy examines the artistic life in conjunction with social status, gender expectations and the ways we must often elbow out our own space to create.
鈥�Still in the process of becoming, the soul makes room.鈥�
I often find that the novels with the barest of plots make space to let the details really shine. It is like a quiet evening, when all the bustle of the day dies down and, instead of simply darkness and silence, we suddenly hear the cacophonous choirs of insects under a dazzling display of starshine. Such is the case with Indelicacy where within its own quiet spaces we can truly hear her language sing. I read this alongside her book on writing, (read my review here), which made for a truly illuminating experience, seeing how her ideas lead into her sentences and her sentences into her ideas back and forth across both books. Most notably are the ways Vit贸ria鈥檚 excavations of self, such as questioning 鈥�what part of me is false?鈥� in order to cut those aspects from her life and further engage in her writing, aligns with Cain鈥檚 own efforts to parse down her language for the most economical effect and authenticity. As she writes in A Horse at Night: 鈥�going further into my writing means being vigilant about shedding what is false, even the smallest bit of it.鈥� Cain excels at embedding imagery into her writing and transports us into the space, not unlike the way Vit贸ria feels she would like to ender the 鈥�wooden buildings meant to conjure the street of a village鈥� she sees on a ballet stage or how 鈥�you look at the painting and you want to go farther into the room.鈥� And the sparseness of words opens a room to be projected into:
鈥�Why is empty space a comfort and a relief? It鈥檚 not because I project myself there, it's because I can鈥檛. It shows me my projections but they haven鈥檛 left my mind. Empty space remains empty, always. And for a little while a small part of me can be empty too.鈥�
Her writing projects into our minds like the ways Vit贸ria says she sees handwriting projected onto the faces of others. This is all the more impressive considering the vague time period this is set鈥攚e hear of carriages and candle-lit rooms but the texture of time seems it could be any time, all times, or no time but its own yet it feels so visually vivid nonetheless. It is an exquisite form of creation and we feel as if, like a painting, our eyes are lingering on a canvas more than reading words on a page.
鈥�Writing was not the only thing I wanted to do, but the important thing, I thought, was that I wanted to do it more than anything else.鈥�
This is not a typical story of art life, of trying to find a story and create it (we never do learn much of what she writes about) but more about having to create a space for it to occur. Which, honestly, I vibed with way too hard. Life is so full and your focus is being hooked from all angles all demanding full attention at the same time and sometimes you just have to really shove your own space. At the novels start we find our narrator working in a museum scrubbing floors with her only friend, Antoinette, looking at art the same way she looks at society: from the outside wishing she could go in. She wants to be a writer and it is what gives her pleasure and purpose鈥斺€�In books I found even more strongly my desire to write, to write back to them and their jagged, perfect words. I found life that ran close to my own鈥欌€攁nd a sudden twist of fate finds her married to a wealthy man and freed of her working class woes (admittedly this is a bit of a shoehorned plot point, but whatever I read a lot of fairy tales and can cope).
While wrote that women must have financial mobility in order for liberation, adds a second necessity: 鈥�A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.鈥� Vitoria enjoys the comforts of her new status but just wants to write (which is strongly against her husband鈥檚 wishes). There is also the element of Solange, the maid, reminding her at all times of where she came from and feels twinges of guilt seeing as the symbol of the working class clearly detests her. Cain borrowed the character name from 鈥檚 play , writing in A Horse at Night that she did this
鈥�not with the intent to rewrite her, but because I was interested in the currents that often remain invisible, that aren鈥檛 usually acted out as they are in The Maids...I wanted my Solange to carry within her鈥 dark history of maids throughout time.鈥�
There is also the aspect that the narrator wants to remove anything false from her life. She spends much of the novel reflecting on the sacrifices women have made, such as her thoughts about women who work at a factory turning horses into glue:
鈥�We should memorialize the horses, remember them truthfully, and the women who have to spend their days in that way....I have benefited from a woman who never stops working, walking back from the factory in the morning and the night.鈥�
But with the presence of Solange, can she really feel this affinity to the working class is an authentic self in her new status? Yet she also cannot find her position as a women of wealth to be authentic either, admitting to eating 鈥�like a pig鈥� and other poor manners such as her brusque way of dealing with others and embracing her eccentricities for which her husband accuses her of doing because she believes herself better than everyone else (she is, she retorts). In a world where every step is judged, especially if one is a woman, how can you feel authentic? And how can you find space to create (her plan, which arrives at the end of the novel, is quite the twist).
鈥�...saw me only in relation to property and propriety. To be domestic first and then to be a shallow vessel out and about in the world. Didn鈥檛 he understand that was not who I was?鈥�
What I love most about this novella was how much it felt like a classic novel. There is a lot of Virginia Woolf in the general vibes, most notably when after attending an author event between two men who spend the whole time counting their accolades she tells them to their faces 鈥�when you open your mouths, you are male worms eating from a toilet.鈥� I especially enjoyed the tender passages describing various paintings, each pointing towards something thematic in the novel through its juxtaposition with the text, and how this tied into the narrator鈥檚 artistic struggles as well as she 鈥�wanted to write about paintings, but I wasn鈥檛 seen as someone who could say something interesting about art.鈥� The way this novel knots all its ideas about writing together with the expressions of her creative journey is rather breathtaking and it is so stylistically stunning I could not tear my thoughts away from it for days. Indelicacy is a quiet novel with a loud voice that packs a wealth of imagery into the tiniest of spaces. A lovely read and I would highly recommend reading this alongside as I found both enhanced by doing so.
4/5
鈥�I had created an experience for someone; I hadn鈥檛 been sure I could actually do that.鈥�
June 24, 2020
Very interesting stylistically. Ruminative.
November 24, 2024
Still in the process of becoming, the soul makes room.
Lately, I realized I often need to approach contemporary literature in the same way as contemporary music 鈥� unlike the piano repertoire from the Baroque or Romantic period and more conventional novels, contemporary creations rarely immediately grab me. I need to listen to a piece or read it a second time in order to let it sink in.
Mood plays a role too, and while at the first time Amina Cain鈥檚 novel incited a likewise indelicate response from this reader鈥檚 side, the second time round made me embrace it with more empathy, mercy and mildness towards her elusive protagonist and narrator, Vit贸ria.
While I was intrigued by the premise of this short novel 鈥� a museum cleaner manages to escape from her dreary existence through writing鈥� I ended up disappointed, even irritated, grumpy and angry with myself as well as with the protagonist: why did I fail to discern any of the deep wells that seemed to lurk beneath Cain鈥檚 dark and dreamy, fairy-tale-like story? Why couldn鈥檛 I settle with the thought that her protagonist Vit贸ria might simply represent the ultimate void of solipsism, hollowness and amorality? The plain, minimalist prose, mean and neat as it was, didn鈥檛 help; mostly it gave me a similar impression of neutral, bland numbness as when watching cream-painted walls, despite some sentences (on books and writing) that kindled a slight thrill.
In books I found even more strongly my desire to write, to write back to them and their jagged, perfect words. I found life that ran close to my own.
Because this novel 鈥� coming in chapters that are mostly only one or two page long- is so short and I find it hard to say goodbye of a book that left me with irksome mixed feelings, I started reading it a second time on the train to the library. Maybe once more it was me needing a second round to appreciate it properly (the same happened with Yourcenar鈥檚 )? Not that I would equal or compare Amina Cain鈥檚 writing to Marguerite Yourcenar's, but reading the glowing reviews, I came to believe her book was simply too subtle for me, that I was overlooking its deeper meaning, or not in the right mood.
Vitoria, a former art museum cleaner, looks back on the years she swapped her life of mopping floors and dusting in the museum for a life of leisure and privilege in which she discovers her aspiration to write 鈥� first about art and the paintings, gradually turning outward, and inward.
Writing is endless, what it allows you to consider. What is in paintings is endless too.
True to Virginia Woolf鈥檚 observation that a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write, Amina Cain explores what happens when one moment to the next, a woman with a creative urge is given both. Moreover, like Woolf herself, Vit贸ria doesn鈥檛 need to waste time with cooking, cleaning or washing, because her maid Solange unburdens her from these jobs 鈥� a situation that Vit贸ria doesn鈥檛 take for granted but on the contrary feels deeply uncomfortable with.
Vit贸ria uses marriage as the royal way to freedom. She agrees to marry a rich man she meets at work in the museum, like she would accept the gift of a musty fur coat in winter, out of convenience and because warmth is preferable to cold, even if coming with a stench. The old story of the gold-digger or of Cinderella? Things aren鈥檛 that simple. There are hints to an abusive childhood, penury, gruesome factory labour (glue made from dead horses), religious fanatism which make her choice to marry for money and convenience more believable.
The marriage isn鈥檛 unpleasant, neither is there any emotional attachment. Vit贸ria wonders why that rich husband picked her, but not too fanatically 鈥� he remains a cipher as well to her as to reader, nondescript but for his wealth.
Class issues and inequality aren鈥檛 solved by feminism alone. Why is it, that it seems right to let other people do the dirty jobs for you just because you pay them? Why does one think one鈥檚 own time is more precious than someone else鈥檚 time, justifying to steal time from the ones who are less lucky? Is it possible to create freedom and space for oneself without impairing others? Does being talented, creative, artistic or simply sheer lucky condone selfishness?
Cain鈥檚 tale speaks of a profound desire for freedom, a perhaps impossible escape from a world in which people think of themselves and others in terms of winners and losers, of masters and servants and are too busy with status and social climbing to live a life in authenticity. Like Melville鈥檚 , Vit贸ria rather prefers not to. She refuses to play a part in a system that she cannot change. She takes the option out 鈥� contemplating alternatives.
We cycle in and out of different ways of being, of appearing in the world.
Although I wasn鈥檛 blown away by this novel, I will nonetheless read Amina Cain鈥檚 equally short book on writing that a friend recommended to me, 鈥� because writing to Cain seems as vital as reading is to this reader, and because she prompted me to read about the art of Francisco de Goya to which she refers in her novel.
Lately, I realized I often need to approach contemporary literature in the same way as contemporary music 鈥� unlike the piano repertoire from the Baroque or Romantic period and more conventional novels, contemporary creations rarely immediately grab me. I need to listen to a piece or read it a second time in order to let it sink in.
Mood plays a role too, and while at the first time Amina Cain鈥檚 novel incited a likewise indelicate response from this reader鈥檚 side, the second time round made me embrace it with more empathy, mercy and mildness towards her elusive protagonist and narrator, Vit贸ria.
While I was intrigued by the premise of this short novel 鈥� a museum cleaner manages to escape from her dreary existence through writing鈥� I ended up disappointed, even irritated, grumpy and angry with myself as well as with the protagonist: why did I fail to discern any of the deep wells that seemed to lurk beneath Cain鈥檚 dark and dreamy, fairy-tale-like story? Why couldn鈥檛 I settle with the thought that her protagonist Vit贸ria might simply represent the ultimate void of solipsism, hollowness and amorality? The plain, minimalist prose, mean and neat as it was, didn鈥檛 help; mostly it gave me a similar impression of neutral, bland numbness as when watching cream-painted walls, despite some sentences (on books and writing) that kindled a slight thrill.
In books I found even more strongly my desire to write, to write back to them and their jagged, perfect words. I found life that ran close to my own.
Because this novel 鈥� coming in chapters that are mostly only one or two page long- is so short and I find it hard to say goodbye of a book that left me with irksome mixed feelings, I started reading it a second time on the train to the library. Maybe once more it was me needing a second round to appreciate it properly (the same happened with Yourcenar鈥檚 )? Not that I would equal or compare Amina Cain鈥檚 writing to Marguerite Yourcenar's, but reading the glowing reviews, I came to believe her book was simply too subtle for me, that I was overlooking its deeper meaning, or not in the right mood.
Vitoria, a former art museum cleaner, looks back on the years she swapped her life of mopping floors and dusting in the museum for a life of leisure and privilege in which she discovers her aspiration to write 鈥� first about art and the paintings, gradually turning outward, and inward.
Writing is endless, what it allows you to consider. What is in paintings is endless too.
True to Virginia Woolf鈥檚 observation that a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write, Amina Cain explores what happens when one moment to the next, a woman with a creative urge is given both. Moreover, like Woolf herself, Vit贸ria doesn鈥檛 need to waste time with cooking, cleaning or washing, because her maid Solange unburdens her from these jobs 鈥� a situation that Vit贸ria doesn鈥檛 take for granted but on the contrary feels deeply uncomfortable with.
Vit贸ria uses marriage as the royal way to freedom. She agrees to marry a rich man she meets at work in the museum, like she would accept the gift of a musty fur coat in winter, out of convenience and because warmth is preferable to cold, even if coming with a stench. The old story of the gold-digger or of Cinderella? Things aren鈥檛 that simple. There are hints to an abusive childhood, penury, gruesome factory labour (glue made from dead horses), religious fanatism which make her choice to marry for money and convenience more believable.
The marriage isn鈥檛 unpleasant, neither is there any emotional attachment. Vit贸ria wonders why that rich husband picked her, but not too fanatically 鈥� he remains a cipher as well to her as to reader, nondescript but for his wealth.
Class issues and inequality aren鈥檛 solved by feminism alone. Why is it, that it seems right to let other people do the dirty jobs for you just because you pay them? Why does one think one鈥檚 own time is more precious than someone else鈥檚 time, justifying to steal time from the ones who are less lucky? Is it possible to create freedom and space for oneself without impairing others? Does being talented, creative, artistic or simply sheer lucky condone selfishness?
Cain鈥檚 tale speaks of a profound desire for freedom, a perhaps impossible escape from a world in which people think of themselves and others in terms of winners and losers, of masters and servants and are too busy with status and social climbing to live a life in authenticity. Like Melville鈥檚 , Vit贸ria rather prefers not to. She refuses to play a part in a system that she cannot change. She takes the option out 鈥� contemplating alternatives.
We cycle in and out of different ways of being, of appearing in the world.
Although I wasn鈥檛 blown away by this novel, I will nonetheless read Amina Cain鈥檚 equally short book on writing that a friend recommended to me, 鈥� because writing to Cain seems as vital as reading is to this reader, and because she prompted me to read about the art of Francisco de Goya to which she refers in her novel.
February 18, 2023
I saw a city filled with people I didn鈥檛 know, would probably never know. It didn鈥檛 bother me; it鈥檚 the same for everyone. When people look at me, they also see a stranger.
Vit贸ria works in a museum (as a cleaner) and becomes obsessed with writing critiques of the art. Her writings are detailed, sensitive, and frequently disturbing. I was continuously gripped by the rich and frequently eerie cultural details Cain writes into this story, on nearly every page. Vit贸ria meets her husband in front of paintings by Caravaggio and Goya, two artists famous for their lovingly detailed paintings of gruesome suffering. A detailed story of women working in a glue factory seems metaphorical at first mention, and then appears again as memory, and then morphs into a meditation on cruelty to horses and finally into an aversion to eating meat. Is it a horror story? I think it is. Not in a classic sense. But through the character of Vit贸ria, Cain creates a perfect, suffocating, horrifying argument, that to be alive is to be alone. Chilling, remarkable, unforgettable.
Vit贸ria works in a museum (as a cleaner) and becomes obsessed with writing critiques of the art. Her writings are detailed, sensitive, and frequently disturbing. I was continuously gripped by the rich and frequently eerie cultural details Cain writes into this story, on nearly every page. Vit贸ria meets her husband in front of paintings by Caravaggio and Goya, two artists famous for their lovingly detailed paintings of gruesome suffering. A detailed story of women working in a glue factory seems metaphorical at first mention, and then appears again as memory, and then morphs into a meditation on cruelty to horses and finally into an aversion to eating meat. Is it a horror story? I think it is. Not in a classic sense. But through the character of Vit贸ria, Cain creates a perfect, suffocating, horrifying argument, that to be alive is to be alone. Chilling, remarkable, unforgettable.
April 5, 2020
The quote that opens this novella, this debut by Amina Cain, made me jump back. "Oh, NO!" I cried. "Clarice Lispector? Not HER!"
It's true. It was a major put off. Clarice Lispector scares me (because of THIS, and THIS). Her plot-less-ness puts me into a panicky, page-ripping state of mind. And her self-absorbed philosophizing gives me butt-kicking ideas.
Fortunately, Amina Cain's book doesn't go quite into Lispector's black void. There IS a plot, although it's very airy, as plots go. And there are THINGS and CHARACTERS and PLACES, and I delighted in those tangible luxuries.
However, it's obvious that Lispector's spirit is present in these pages. There's an impenetrable nature to the main character, who is so introspective, so deeply private and alone, by choice. She wants to write, but doesn't care if anyone ever reads it. She writes mainly about herself, looking at paintings. (Good thing she doesn't care if anyone ever reads it!) She has meaningful friendships with a few women, but the reader doesn't learn anything new about her through these relationships. She marries, though we never really find out why. She likes her husband for as long as she likes him, and then does what she needs to do to achieve what it is she wants. She participates on the surface of life, with a numb detachment that is more than a little bewildering.
There's an individualistic darkness that I enjoyed, and celebrated, in these pages. But I didn't find it inspiring, as an artist. Maybe because her art was so personal to her, and not compelling to me? Also, I didn't find this work feminist, not in the least, especially given how she achieves her "independence" at the end.
How am I to connect with this mediocre writer, whose narcissism keeps her happily in her head, delighting in her own thoughts? It makes it hard to discern what I am to take away with this work, which presumably has a lot to say about art, class, friendship, sex, and devotion to one's passion in life.
I'm going to take the easy way out and say it's all Clarice's fault.
It's true. It was a major put off. Clarice Lispector scares me (because of THIS, and THIS). Her plot-less-ness puts me into a panicky, page-ripping state of mind. And her self-absorbed philosophizing gives me butt-kicking ideas.
Fortunately, Amina Cain's book doesn't go quite into Lispector's black void. There IS a plot, although it's very airy, as plots go. And there are THINGS and CHARACTERS and PLACES, and I delighted in those tangible luxuries.
However, it's obvious that Lispector's spirit is present in these pages. There's an impenetrable nature to the main character, who is so introspective, so deeply private and alone, by choice. She wants to write, but doesn't care if anyone ever reads it. She writes mainly about herself, looking at paintings. (Good thing she doesn't care if anyone ever reads it!) She has meaningful friendships with a few women, but the reader doesn't learn anything new about her through these relationships. She marries, though we never really find out why. She likes her husband for as long as she likes him, and then does what she needs to do to achieve what it is she wants. She participates on the surface of life, with a numb detachment that is more than a little bewildering.
There's an individualistic darkness that I enjoyed, and celebrated, in these pages. But I didn't find it inspiring, as an artist. Maybe because her art was so personal to her, and not compelling to me? Also, I didn't find this work feminist, not in the least, especially given how she achieves her "independence" at the end.
How am I to connect with this mediocre writer, whose narcissism keeps her happily in her head, delighting in her own thoughts? It makes it hard to discern what I am to take away with this work, which presumably has a lot to say about art, class, friendship, sex, and devotion to one's passion in life.
I'm going to take the easy way out and say it's all Clarice's fault.
June 8, 2020
"You're almost like an animal," he said. "I never know what you will do."
"I know."
A red squirrel climbing a tree.
"But in reality you're a woman."
I laughed. "What does that mean?"
"It isn't nice to call your wife an animal, is it?"
"I think it's interesting."
But then my husband was annoyed with me, for I had taken the conversation too far, even though I had hardly taken it far at all. "You try to make yourself abnormal on purpose," he said. "You think it makes you better than the other people around you."
"I do no such thing, and still I am better."
I know how that sounded, but I couldn't help saying it, and I suppose I did think I was better than him. If I'm being honest. If I'm being shallow. pg. 64
This is a strange little book.
You float around inside this novel kind of like you would in a dream. It's not clear-cut, there's not much dialogue.
Everyone speaks to each other as if they aren't humans, but rather aliens who have come down to Earth and put on their meat suits, desperately hoping to pass as human. If I didn't know better, I'd say it was translated from the French, or the Korean, or some other language in a clumsy way.
Ostensibly this is about Vit贸ria, a maid who cleans in a museum. She is a writer - not a published one. She marries a rich man and suddenly has not only time to write, but a lavish lifestyle she could only dream of previously.
That sounds like a cohesive plot, but the book doesn't really have much of a plot.
The book values female friendship, but sees men as just props in women's life. One wonders, while reading this book, if a woman can ever truly befriend a man or see a man as a person. Vit贸ria loves and cherishes her female friends, and speaks to women as equals, but sees her husband as something to tolerate. A burden. A source of money. Someone not very bright who wants to fuck her and fund her lifestyle. Men are on the periphery, women are in the spotlight and they are the ones who matter. Women are the ones who think critically. Men just dominate and enjoy. (According to this book.) Actually, her husband is not even given a name in this book. That's how little he matters as a human being.
People have claimed this book is feminist, or a feminist work, but that's not how I would label it. I feel like Cain wants to be in the vein of , but IMO she just does not accomplish it. I think the reason she doesn't accomplish it is not because she is not a feminist or doesn't understand feminism, but because she makes this book so claustrophobic, so surreal, and doesn't allow any character to develop or be truly explored.
Vit贸ria was always a strong, independent woman, but becoming rich emboldens her and gives her power. The book toys with the idea of materialism - how poor women dream that owning things will make them happy. Vit贸ria's friend Antoinette, who works with her as a maid, loves to daydream and list all the things she will own, 'one day.' Of course, she won't. She's poor and she'll always be poor. (SEE ALSO: ) But of course, material possessions don't make you happy. And with wealth comes some burdens, burdens Vit贸ria has a hard time dealing with.
Vit贸ria marrying a rich man is just a crutch - a contrived plot device on the part of Cain. We have no idea how this marriage happened. It's ridiculous. This rich man materializes out of thin air and marries a maid he meets at a museum! No thought or attention is given to this because it's simply a way for Vit贸ria to become rich and leave her life in poverty behind.
Vit贸ria now feels she can say and do things she couldn't before. The only chapter that made me laugh, in fact, is the one where Vit贸ria attends an author-reading by an author she admires. After the reading, he is to be interviewed by a second author.
At the reading, the author spoke in a loud voice that was also dramatic, yet he wasn't reading a dramatic part. Every so often, he looked at the audience with a great amount of purpose. It was difficult to want to look back. The few times he looked at me, I looked immediately past him, to the window with the night sky in it. At least I had something else on which to focus my attention, something open and calm. Or I looked at the wastebasket, completely still. I didn't like him, and I hadn't expected that. I didn't like the man who interviewed him either, who spoke out of turn, I thought, of his own success, both at the start of the interview and then again sometime in the middle of their conversation.
That second author said, "When you are first given accolades for your work, it is tremendously exciting, but it soon becomes tiresome." I didn't believe him. If it were true, why would he be saying it now? It meant something to him to be able to say it. He probably hadn't been able to stop himself, as I sometimes had trouble not saying something I later regretted. Or maybe he would never regret it, thought it important to the conversation he and the author were having.
I wanted to lock them in the room after the reading was over and make them listen to each other forever. Let them look at the sky when they got tired, or at the wastebasket. I thought they deserved that. I wanted to tell them how terrible the reading had been, that it had ruined the writing, how shallow the interview was, how much I had hated all of it.
When I walked out of the room, I said simply, "You're both worms," and they looked at me, not knowing how to respond to a statement like that. "Of the worst kind. When you open your mouths, you are male worms eating from a toilet."
I was dying laughing, but you can see what I mean both about the dreamy (as in dream-like, not as in 'awesome') writing and the bizarre dialogue. Every time people have conversations in this novel... and granted it is not very often... it's bizarre.
I won't tell you how the book ends, but IMO the ending is pretty ho-hum.
TL;DR The book wasn't unpleasant. I balked at the beginning because it was so fucking weird, but after you get used to it it's okay. Not wonderful, but okay. Cain definitely has a few things she wants to say, which saves this from simply being a bizarre stream-of-consciousness novel. Although the plot and the characters are dim (as in not-shining) and the book rambles around willy-nilly with no seemingly obvious course, there are three or four passages in here that are interesting and in which I think Cain was trying to express something.
It's quite short, so if you are interested by what I said in this review, give it a go. The 'chapters' are sometimes only a page long.
NAMES IN THIS BOOK
"I know."
A red squirrel climbing a tree.
"But in reality you're a woman."
I laughed. "What does that mean?"
"It isn't nice to call your wife an animal, is it?"
"I think it's interesting."
But then my husband was annoyed with me, for I had taken the conversation too far, even though I had hardly taken it far at all. "You try to make yourself abnormal on purpose," he said. "You think it makes you better than the other people around you."
"I do no such thing, and still I am better."
I know how that sounded, but I couldn't help saying it, and I suppose I did think I was better than him. If I'm being honest. If I'm being shallow. pg. 64
This is a strange little book.
You float around inside this novel kind of like you would in a dream. It's not clear-cut, there's not much dialogue.
Everyone speaks to each other as if they aren't humans, but rather aliens who have come down to Earth and put on their meat suits, desperately hoping to pass as human. If I didn't know better, I'd say it was translated from the French, or the Korean, or some other language in a clumsy way.
Ostensibly this is about Vit贸ria, a maid who cleans in a museum. She is a writer - not a published one. She marries a rich man and suddenly has not only time to write, but a lavish lifestyle she could only dream of previously.
That sounds like a cohesive plot, but the book doesn't really have much of a plot.
The book values female friendship, but sees men as just props in women's life. One wonders, while reading this book, if a woman can ever truly befriend a man or see a man as a person. Vit贸ria loves and cherishes her female friends, and speaks to women as equals, but sees her husband as something to tolerate. A burden. A source of money. Someone not very bright who wants to fuck her and fund her lifestyle. Men are on the periphery, women are in the spotlight and they are the ones who matter. Women are the ones who think critically. Men just dominate and enjoy. (According to this book.) Actually, her husband is not even given a name in this book. That's how little he matters as a human being.
People have claimed this book is feminist, or a feminist work, but that's not how I would label it. I feel like Cain wants to be in the vein of , but IMO she just does not accomplish it. I think the reason she doesn't accomplish it is not because she is not a feminist or doesn't understand feminism, but because she makes this book so claustrophobic, so surreal, and doesn't allow any character to develop or be truly explored.
Vit贸ria was always a strong, independent woman, but becoming rich emboldens her and gives her power. The book toys with the idea of materialism - how poor women dream that owning things will make them happy. Vit贸ria's friend Antoinette, who works with her as a maid, loves to daydream and list all the things she will own, 'one day.' Of course, she won't. She's poor and she'll always be poor. (SEE ALSO: ) But of course, material possessions don't make you happy. And with wealth comes some burdens, burdens Vit贸ria has a hard time dealing with.
Vit贸ria marrying a rich man is just a crutch - a contrived plot device on the part of Cain. We have no idea how this marriage happened. It's ridiculous. This rich man materializes out of thin air and marries a maid he meets at a museum! No thought or attention is given to this because it's simply a way for Vit贸ria to become rich and leave her life in poverty behind.
Vit贸ria now feels she can say and do things she couldn't before. The only chapter that made me laugh, in fact, is the one where Vit贸ria attends an author-reading by an author she admires. After the reading, he is to be interviewed by a second author.
At the reading, the author spoke in a loud voice that was also dramatic, yet he wasn't reading a dramatic part. Every so often, he looked at the audience with a great amount of purpose. It was difficult to want to look back. The few times he looked at me, I looked immediately past him, to the window with the night sky in it. At least I had something else on which to focus my attention, something open and calm. Or I looked at the wastebasket, completely still. I didn't like him, and I hadn't expected that. I didn't like the man who interviewed him either, who spoke out of turn, I thought, of his own success, both at the start of the interview and then again sometime in the middle of their conversation.
That second author said, "When you are first given accolades for your work, it is tremendously exciting, but it soon becomes tiresome." I didn't believe him. If it were true, why would he be saying it now? It meant something to him to be able to say it. He probably hadn't been able to stop himself, as I sometimes had trouble not saying something I later regretted. Or maybe he would never regret it, thought it important to the conversation he and the author were having.
I wanted to lock them in the room after the reading was over and make them listen to each other forever. Let them look at the sky when they got tired, or at the wastebasket. I thought they deserved that. I wanted to tell them how terrible the reading had been, that it had ruined the writing, how shallow the interview was, how much I had hated all of it.
When I walked out of the room, I said simply, "You're both worms," and they looked at me, not knowing how to respond to a statement like that. "Of the worst kind. When you open your mouths, you are male worms eating from a toilet."
I was dying laughing, but you can see what I mean both about the dreamy (as in dream-like, not as in 'awesome') writing and the bizarre dialogue. Every time people have conversations in this novel... and granted it is not very often... it's bizarre.
I won't tell you how the book ends, but IMO the ending is pretty ho-hum.
TL;DR The book wasn't unpleasant. I balked at the beginning because it was so fucking weird, but after you get used to it it's okay. Not wonderful, but okay. Cain definitely has a few things she wants to say, which saves this from simply being a bizarre stream-of-consciousness novel. Although the plot and the characters are dim (as in not-shining) and the book rambles around willy-nilly with no seemingly obvious course, there are three or four passages in here that are interesting and in which I think Cain was trying to express something.
It's quite short, so if you are interested by what I said in this review, give it a go. The 'chapters' are sometimes only a page long.
NAMES IN THIS BOOK
February 12, 2020
Indelicacy is a very unusual book. My conventional mind tried very hard and failed to put it within any time and place constraints, and then decided it didn't matter. As the blurb rightly suggests, there is something Victorian about it, something about male and female attitudes, the protagonist having people to wait on her and other people to entertain, or perhaps the idea that the only way to escape a life of poverty and endless floors to mop is to marry a rich man?
At the beginning of the book Vitoria works in a museum as a cleaning lady and a maid. She doesn't mind her life and enjoys an easy frienship with Antoniette and, above all, the possibility to admire paintings, landscapes, portraits and still nature, old and new ones, finished and unfinished ones- Vitoria is able to appreciate them all. She has a consuming need to write about the paintings she sees as if she is trying to carve out new imaginary experiences. One day she is noticed by a rich man who marries her after a very brief courtship. Suddenly, she is free to live a life of privelege in a beautiful house. Her requests are never denied, although she still has to ask for everything of any importance. This life of relative luxury wasn't something she wanted or cared about, it just dropped in her lap. Vittoria is trying to experience and make sense of it all- being able to write any time she wants, although her husband doesn't take it seriously, meeting new interesting people, dance lessons and the freedom of movement, sensual pleasures of making love with her husband Eventually she outgrows it and becomes stifled by the marriage without true companionship or understanding.
The writing is powerful in its seeming simplicity. Vitoria is ingenuine, selfish and honest. She doesn't want and doesn't see a need to conform to what other people around her expect her to be or desire. Extremely sensitive to every single detail, she rejects the notion of 'delicacy' in her quest for the truth of real experiences.
It is a very short book which can be read in under an hour. It left me feeling unsettled, as if I took a dive into deep sea full of mysterious shadows I struggled to make out, and then came up gasping for breath to realise that the world around me is still bright and full of colours.
Thank you to Edelweiss and Farrar, Straus and Giroux for the review copy provided in exchange for an honest opinion.
At the beginning of the book Vitoria works in a museum as a cleaning lady and a maid. She doesn't mind her life and enjoys an easy frienship with Antoniette and, above all, the possibility to admire paintings, landscapes, portraits and still nature, old and new ones, finished and unfinished ones- Vitoria is able to appreciate them all. She has a consuming need to write about the paintings she sees as if she is trying to carve out new imaginary experiences. One day she is noticed by a rich man who marries her after a very brief courtship. Suddenly, she is free to live a life of privelege in a beautiful house. Her requests are never denied, although she still has to ask for everything of any importance. This life of relative luxury wasn't something she wanted or cared about, it just dropped in her lap. Vittoria is trying to experience and make sense of it all- being able to write any time she wants, although her husband doesn't take it seriously, meeting new interesting people, dance lessons and the freedom of movement, sensual pleasures of making love with her husband Eventually she outgrows it and becomes stifled by the marriage without true companionship or understanding.
The writing is powerful in its seeming simplicity. Vitoria is ingenuine, selfish and honest. She doesn't want and doesn't see a need to conform to what other people around her expect her to be or desire. Extremely sensitive to every single detail, she rejects the notion of 'delicacy' in her quest for the truth of real experiences.
It is a very short book which can be read in under an hour. It left me feeling unsettled, as if I took a dive into deep sea full of mysterious shadows I struggled to make out, and then came up gasping for breath to realise that the world around me is still bright and full of colours.
Thank you to Edelweiss and Farrar, Straus and Giroux for the review copy provided in exchange for an honest opinion.
March 9, 2020
Almost from the first words of this tiny novel, my brain began percolating, popping, and screaming:
Amina Cain鈥攕he did it! She did it! She made a story (at times, an unexpectedly hilarious one) out of the nothing of being a writer. She told all sides by splitting it into two or multiple characters, or maybe they're all the same, who knows, I don't care 鈥� This is like when I was a professional mole, doing solitary jobs that nobody else wanted: cleaning, typing labels, taking care of office plants, working nights alone or Sunday afternoons in a shut-down building鈥攁ll jobs where nobody ever saw me and I saw everything! Jobs I specialized in because I coveted time for my "real life," an interior one that I alone inhabited, but if I went too deep, I knew I would die from lack of oxygen. 鈥� This is about finally getting free of jobs and then 鈥� , this is like, this reminds me of 鈥�
I couldn't get enough of it. I wanted to read slowly because I wanted it to last. I wanted to read fast because it felt like a favorite food I'd never tasted before but suddenly realized I craved.
This is a book for writers and particularly female writers. If you are or know such a person, this is a gift to give yourself or them. Or maybe painters. Or maybe any artists. Or anybody with a strong interior life and people who thrive in creating something out of nothing. It's just a terrific, unique, and incredibly well-made book.
Amina Cain鈥攕he did it! She did it! She made a story (at times, an unexpectedly hilarious one) out of the nothing of being a writer. She told all sides by splitting it into two or multiple characters, or maybe they're all the same, who knows, I don't care 鈥� This is like when I was a professional mole, doing solitary jobs that nobody else wanted: cleaning, typing labels, taking care of office plants, working nights alone or Sunday afternoons in a shut-down building鈥攁ll jobs where nobody ever saw me and I saw everything! Jobs I specialized in because I coveted time for my "real life," an interior one that I alone inhabited, but if I went too deep, I knew I would die from lack of oxygen. 鈥� This is about finally getting free of jobs and then 鈥� , this is like, this reminds me of 鈥�
I couldn't get enough of it. I wanted to read slowly because I wanted it to last. I wanted to read fast because it felt like a favorite food I'd never tasted before but suddenly realized I craved.
This is a book for writers and particularly female writers. If you are or know such a person, this is a gift to give yourself or them. Or maybe painters. Or maybe any artists. Or anybody with a strong interior life and people who thrive in creating something out of nothing. It's just a terrific, unique, and incredibly well-made book.
February 11, 2020
I read this novella mainly because it鈥檚 so brief (took me about 45 minutes); I found it quite bizarre in its lack of emotion, and wouldn鈥檛 have persisted had it been longer. It鈥檚 the narrative of a woman named Vit贸ria who works as a cleaner in a museum, dreams of being a writer, then eventually marries a wealthy man. It is typical of the book that this is all she says about her wedding:
The style is economical in the extreme. It鈥檚 unclear when or where this story is taking place, or indeed why it is called Indelicacy (perhaps the title is ironic?). Little happens to or around Vit贸ria. She narrates her life without any sense of attachment to what is happening in it; there is always a distance and a numbness to what she relates; she barely seems to be involved, really.
The blurb calls it 鈥榓 ghost story without a ghost鈥�. I鈥檇 say Vit贸ria is a ghost in her own life. But the claims that this is a 鈥榮tory of a woman navigating between gender and class roles to empower herself and fulfill her dreams鈥� and 鈥榓 novel about seeing, class, desire, anxiety, pleasure, friendship, and the battle to find one鈥檚 true calling鈥� seem like a huge stretch. It reminded me most of the similarly cold (minus the plot). navigates similar themes more successfully.
Had I not read this as a review copy, I would have returned it; it鈥檚 far too insubstantial to be described (and priced) as a novel.
I received an advance review copy of Indelicacy from the publisher through .
We were married at the start of the summer and hardly anyone attended鈥攁 few of his friends, a cousin from Brazil. No one knew I was there. While our vows were being said, I looked at him and wondered, Who are you?
The style is economical in the extreme. It鈥檚 unclear when or where this story is taking place, or indeed why it is called Indelicacy (perhaps the title is ironic?). Little happens to or around Vit贸ria. She narrates her life without any sense of attachment to what is happening in it; there is always a distance and a numbness to what she relates; she barely seems to be involved, really.
The blurb calls it 鈥榓 ghost story without a ghost鈥�. I鈥檇 say Vit贸ria is a ghost in her own life. But the claims that this is a 鈥榮tory of a woman navigating between gender and class roles to empower herself and fulfill her dreams鈥� and 鈥榓 novel about seeing, class, desire, anxiety, pleasure, friendship, and the battle to find one鈥檚 true calling鈥� seem like a huge stretch. It reminded me most of the similarly cold (minus the plot). navigates similar themes more successfully.
Had I not read this as a review copy, I would have returned it; it鈥檚 far too insubstantial to be described (and priced) as a novel.
I received an advance review copy of Indelicacy from the publisher through .
September 26, 2023
I am no longer in the business of thinking I need to like literary-type books just because they're literary and "deep".
This is about a woman who cleans museums and gets married to a wealthy guy. She wants to be a writer. She loves art. She has some friends. That's pretty much it.
I did not care about these people and this story. Turns out I'm a plot-oriented reader, and if there's no particular plot, the characters have to be really intriguing. This fell short for me on both accounts.
This is about a woman who cleans museums and gets married to a wealthy guy. She wants to be a writer. She loves art. She has some friends. That's pretty much it.
I did not care about these people and this story. Turns out I'm a plot-oriented reader, and if there's no particular plot, the characters have to be really intriguing. This fell short for me on both accounts.
March 25, 2020
My husband picked up his spoon again; then to my great surprise, I imagine because he was jealous, he said we could smoke hashish together.
鈥淲hen?鈥� was the only thing I managed to say. How indelicate.
is another ARC I brought into self-isolation without knowing much (other than some great reviews) about it. Now I wonder: What was the fuss? And I need to conclude: This is a book for other writers; based on the reviews, perhaps only they who live in their minds and who sweat out words on the page really connect with what Amina Cain has crafted here. As for me: Right over my head. (Note: I read an ARC and passages quoted may not be in their final form.)
I didn't write for a month: my mind was somewhere else. But I was writing a book; I knew that now. I had been writing it for two years. The problem was that it would make little sense to most people, and how would that work out? Everyone always wants sense.
In its blurb, Indelicacy is described as 鈥渁 down-to-earth investigation of the barriers faced by women in both life and literature. It is a novel about seeing, class, desire, anxiety, pleasure, friendship, and the battle to find one鈥檚 true calling.鈥� But I really don't think it's that universal. We have a woman, eventually learning her name is Vit贸ria, who while working as a custodian at an art museum, caught the eye of a rich man and became his wife. And while she thought this would finally give her the time and leisure to really focus on her writing, her husband insists that she put away all forms of labour and just enjoy resting, as the wife of a rich man ought. Vit贸ria writes anyway. And she attends concerts and walks frequently to the museum she used to work at; takes ballet lessons and makes awkward friendships. We also learn early on that Vit贸ria will eventually leave her husband 鈥� the timeline dips forwards and back 鈥� but she's such a passive character that she accepts whatever comes along, never works for anything. I learned nothing, really, about 鈥渢he barriers faced by women in both life and literature鈥�.
鈥淵ou try to make yourself abnormal on purpose,鈥� he said. 鈥淵ou think it makes you better than the other people around you.鈥�
鈥淚 do no such thing, and still I am better.鈥�
I know how that sounded, but I couldn't help saying it, and I suppose I did think I was better than him. If I'm being honest. If I'm being shallow.
As for the title: The only indelicate character 鈥� as in 鈥渦nladylike鈥�, I suppose 鈥� is Vit贸ria herself. She tells us, more than once, that she eats like a pig. When she used to clean the museum's bathroom, it was all she could do to stop herself from throwing her bucket of water at the patrons. When she attends an author's reading event at the library, and is bored by what had been a favourite novelist's interview by another writer, she tells them before leaving that they're a pair of worms, 鈥渨hen you open your mouths, you are male worms eating from a toilet.鈥� And when she decides to leave her husband, she creates a situation in which he'll feel the need to support her; she'll never need to work again, other than the writing.
And Vit贸ria really is passionate about the writing. For the most part, she stares at paintings in the museum and describes them on the page. And I got nothing from these passages:
One day I looked for a while at a small painting and saw something in it. A man and a boy in muted suits doing their engraving work, the background behind them completely dark. We are not meant to see anything beyond this task, their concentration on it. Yet we want to know, it is only a scrap. What is in the darkness?
We're in an unnamed country and time period 鈥� there is no technology mentioned beyond trains 鈥� and there's no way of knowing what the societal expectations are for a young and uneducated woman such as Vit贸ria. We learn that in the beginning she was happy living in one plainly furnished room because it was so peaceful compared to the large, loud family she had escaped from, but once she's married to the rich man, she's quick to take a life of luxury as her due. She is forever writing about interiors and exteriors, waves and the leaves of plants, the progressing seasons, empty spaces and 鈥渃lumping鈥�. And it all went right over my head. On the other hand, there was quite a bit that was darkly amusing and otherwise intriguing in the writing:
After that, the winter dragged itself through its January, its February, its March, with its dirty snow and frozen mud. I felt I was dragging myself through as well. I hated March more than any other month, with its promises of warmth that never came.
But it didn't add up to much for me. Another wishy-washy three stars.
February 22, 2020
I鈥檒l be thinking about this 160-page novella for longer than I will most 400-page novels. Cain has written a contemporary mini Victorian novel about roles and societal expectations of women and how to liberate ourselves from class, gender and our own anxieties. Her deployment of narrative distancing techniques combines beautifully with her intimate writings where she puts us in paintings and nature. It鈥檚 all completely intriguing and thought provoking.
April 6, 2020
鈥橧n books I found even more strongly my desire to write, to write back to them and their jagged, perfect words. I found life that ran close to my own.鈥�
A relatively short rags-to-riches tale of a woman who works as a cleaning woman at an art museum, spending her free time writing about her feelings about the art on the walls in between scrubbing walls and floors and toilets.
鈥橶hile I dusted, I listened to the music and afterward wanted to describe it in my notebook. I was thinking things that I was afraid I would forget. Also, I had become interested in my handwriting. I wanted to see it there, in its own way, alive.鈥�
And then one day when she meets a man, a fairly wealthy man who becomes her husband. Her lifestyle changes drastically as she moves from a tiny flat to a rather grand house, with her own room to write in, and a maid to handle the chores. And yet, she feels less fulfilled than before, and begins to yearn for her former freedom, the simple friendships, acceptance and understanding that she had among her former friends.
While I don鈥檛 think this is a story that will appeal to all, for those who appreciate lovely, spare prose, with thought-provoking themes, this was a story shared through deceptively simple prose that touches on a range of topics about women鈥檚 roles vs. men鈥檚 roles, society鈥檚 influence, and the pursuit of one鈥檚 own idea of personal happiness.
Many thanks to my goodreads friend Betsy, whose review brought this book to my attention.
Betsy鈥檚 review: /review/show...
October 13, 2022
袩褉械泻褉邪褋薪芯 屑邪谢泻芯, 泻褉邪褌泻芯, 泻薪懈卸薪芯 斜懈卸褍!
袩芯褋械谐薪邪褏 泻褗屑 鈥溞澬笛傂靶貉傂秆囆叫狙佈傗€�, 蟹邪褉邪写懈 泻褉邪褋懈胁邪褌邪 泻芯褉懈褑邪 懈 泻褉邪褌泻邪褌邪, 薪芯 懈蟹褔械褉锌邪褌械谢薪邪 邪薪芯褌邪褑懈褟. 袠蟹写邪褌械谢褋褌胁芯 鈥溞氀€褗谐鈥� 褋邪 屑懈 懈蟹泻谢褞褔懈褌械谢薪芯 谢褞斜懈屑懈!
袧褟屑邪褏 薪懈泻邪泻胁懈 芯褔邪泻胁邪薪懈褟, 薪芯 泻薪懈谐邪褌邪 屑械 懈蟹薪械薪邪写邪 懈 褋褌褉邪褕薪芯 屑薪芯谐芯 屑懈 褏邪褉械褋邪.
袧邪 锌褉褗胁 锌芯谐谢械写 褌胁褗褉写械 泻褉邪褌泻邪 懈 芯斜懈泻薪芯胁械薪邪 懈褋褌芯褉懈褟, 泻芯褟褌芯 薪懈 蟹邪锌芯蟹薪邪胁邪 褋 袙懈褌芯褉懈褟 - 褔懈褋褌邪褔泻邪 胁 屑褍蟹械泄, 泻芯褟褌芯 锌芯 褋谢褍褔邪泄薪芯褋褌 (懈谢懈 锌芯薪械 邪蟹 芯褋褌邪薪邪褏 褋 褌邪泻懈胁邪 胁锌械褔邪褌谢械薪懈褟) 褋械 芯屑褗卸胁邪 蟹邪 斜芯谐邪褌 褋褗锌褉褍谐. 袩褉芯褋谢械写褟胁邪屑械 芯褌褉褟蟹褗泻 芯褌 卸懈胁芯褌邪 懈 胁 褉邪屑泻懈褌械 薪邪 3 谐芯写懈薪懈. 袧械 褋褌邪胁邪 褟褋薪芯 芯褌 泻邪泻胁芯 褋械屑械泄褋褌胁芯 懈写胁邪 懈 泻邪泻 褌芯褔薪芯 蟹邪锌芯褔胁邪 胁褉褗蟹泻邪褌邪 褋褗褋 褋褗锌褉褍谐邪 褋懈, 薪芯 褋褟泻邪褕 薪褟屑邪褏 薪褍卸写邪 芯褌 褌械蟹懈 锌芯写褉芯斜薪芯褋褌懈.
袣薪懈谐邪褌邪 械 薪邪锌懈褋邪薪邪 屑薪芯谐芯 泻褉邪褋懈胁芯. 小锌芯褉械写 屑械薪 械 写芯褋褌邪 褍屑芯蟹褉懈褌械谢薪邪, 褎懈谢芯褋芯褎褋泻邪 懈 薪邪褋芯褔械薪邪 泻褗屑 褏芯褉邪 褋 邪褎懈薪懈褌械褌 泻褗屑 懈蟹泻褍褋褌胁芯褌芯 胁褗胁 胁褋懈褔泻懈褌械 屑褍 褎芯褉屑懈. 袗蟹 谢懈褔薪芯 褟 胁褗蟹锌褉懈械褏 泻邪褌芯 写薪械胁薪懈泻 薪邪 谐谢邪胁薪邪褌邪 谐械褉芯懈薪褟, 泻芯褟褌芯 芯锌懈褋胁邪 褌褉邪薪褋褎芯褉屑邪褑懈褟褌邪, 泻芯褟褌芯 薪邪褋褌褗锌胁邪 褍 薪械褟 褋谢械写 泻邪褌芯 褋械 芯屑褗卸胁邪 懈 懈屑邪 胁褗蟹屑芯卸薪芯褋褌 写邪 褋械 芯褌写邪写械 懈蟹褑褟谢芯 薪邪 锌懈褋邪薪械褌芯. 袩芯褌褗薪邪褏 懈蟹褑褟谢芯 胁褗胁 胁褗褌褉械褕薪懈褟 懈 褋胁褟褌 懈 薪褟泻邪泻 蟹邪 锌褉褗胁 锌褗褌 薪械 褍褋械褖邪屑, 褔械 薪械褖芯 谢懈锌褋胁邪 胁 泻薪懈谐邪 褋 褌邪泻褗胁 芯斜械屑.
袨锌褉械写械谢械薪芯 锌芯锌邪写械薪懈械!
袩芯褋械谐薪邪褏 泻褗屑 鈥溞澬笛傂靶貉傂秆囆叫狙佈傗€�, 蟹邪褉邪写懈 泻褉邪褋懈胁邪褌邪 泻芯褉懈褑邪 懈 泻褉邪褌泻邪褌邪, 薪芯 懈蟹褔械褉锌邪褌械谢薪邪 邪薪芯褌邪褑懈褟. 袠蟹写邪褌械谢褋褌胁芯 鈥溞氀€褗谐鈥� 褋邪 屑懈 懈蟹泻谢褞褔懈褌械谢薪芯 谢褞斜懈屑懈!
袧褟屑邪褏 薪懈泻邪泻胁懈 芯褔邪泻胁邪薪懈褟, 薪芯 泻薪懈谐邪褌邪 屑械 懈蟹薪械薪邪写邪 懈 褋褌褉邪褕薪芯 屑薪芯谐芯 屑懈 褏邪褉械褋邪.
袧邪 锌褉褗胁 锌芯谐谢械写 褌胁褗褉写械 泻褉邪褌泻邪 懈 芯斜懈泻薪芯胁械薪邪 懈褋褌芯褉懈褟, 泻芯褟褌芯 薪懈 蟹邪锌芯蟹薪邪胁邪 褋 袙懈褌芯褉懈褟 - 褔懈褋褌邪褔泻邪 胁 屑褍蟹械泄, 泻芯褟褌芯 锌芯 褋谢褍褔邪泄薪芯褋褌 (懈谢懈 锌芯薪械 邪蟹 芯褋褌邪薪邪褏 褋 褌邪泻懈胁邪 胁锌械褔邪褌谢械薪懈褟) 褋械 芯屑褗卸胁邪 蟹邪 斜芯谐邪褌 褋褗锌褉褍谐. 袩褉芯褋谢械写褟胁邪屑械 芯褌褉褟蟹褗泻 芯褌 卸懈胁芯褌邪 懈 胁 褉邪屑泻懈褌械 薪邪 3 谐芯写懈薪懈. 袧械 褋褌邪胁邪 褟褋薪芯 芯褌 泻邪泻胁芯 褋械屑械泄褋褌胁芯 懈写胁邪 懈 泻邪泻 褌芯褔薪芯 蟹邪锌芯褔胁邪 胁褉褗蟹泻邪褌邪 褋褗褋 褋褗锌褉褍谐邪 褋懈, 薪芯 褋褟泻邪褕 薪褟屑邪褏 薪褍卸写邪 芯褌 褌械蟹懈 锌芯写褉芯斜薪芯褋褌懈.
袣薪懈谐邪褌邪 械 薪邪锌懈褋邪薪邪 屑薪芯谐芯 泻褉邪褋懈胁芯. 小锌芯褉械写 屑械薪 械 写芯褋褌邪 褍屑芯蟹褉懈褌械谢薪邪, 褎懈谢芯褋芯褎褋泻邪 懈 薪邪褋芯褔械薪邪 泻褗屑 褏芯褉邪 褋 邪褎懈薪懈褌械褌 泻褗屑 懈蟹泻褍褋褌胁芯褌芯 胁褗胁 胁褋懈褔泻懈褌械 屑褍 褎芯褉屑懈. 袗蟹 谢懈褔薪芯 褟 胁褗蟹锌褉懈械褏 泻邪褌芯 写薪械胁薪懈泻 薪邪 谐谢邪胁薪邪褌邪 谐械褉芯懈薪褟, 泻芯褟褌芯 芯锌懈褋胁邪 褌褉邪薪褋褎芯褉屑邪褑懈褟褌邪, 泻芯褟褌芯 薪邪褋褌褗锌胁邪 褍 薪械褟 褋谢械写 泻邪褌芯 褋械 芯屑褗卸胁邪 懈 懈屑邪 胁褗蟹屑芯卸薪芯褋褌 写邪 褋械 芯褌写邪写械 懈蟹褑褟谢芯 薪邪 锌懈褋邪薪械褌芯. 袩芯褌褗薪邪褏 懈蟹褑褟谢芯 胁褗胁 胁褗褌褉械褕薪懈褟 懈 褋胁褟褌 懈 薪褟泻邪泻 蟹邪 锌褉褗胁 锌褗褌 薪械 褍褋械褖邪屑, 褔械 薪械褖芯 谢懈锌褋胁邪 胁 泻薪懈谐邪 褋 褌邪泻褗胁 芯斜械屑.
袨锌褉械写械谢械薪芯 锌芯锌邪写械薪懈械!
October 2, 2020
There have been many novels about writers grappling with the process of writing. So much so that it's almost become an eye-rolling clich茅 and could be considered the ultimate form of navel-gazing. But Amina Cain's 鈥淚ndelicacy鈥� does something very different with this well trodden subject matter. It's a retrospective tale narrated by Vit贸ria who worked as a cleaner in a museum before marrying a wealthy man. Throughout her life she's been driven by a passionate desire to write. The form of her writing changes over time. She jots down striking observations and interpretations about the paintings she sees in the museum and many of these are reproduced in the text of Cain's novel. In doing so, this story builds to a fascinating meditation about the creative process and the way the imagination interacts with our subjective reality. It also shows how the impulse to create can be a motivation that both sustains and debilitates us as it can supersede every other form of human desire. This novel is also a fascinating character study of an abrasive personality who sometimes struggles or fails to connect with women and men in enticingly dramatic ways.
Read my full
Read my full
December 31, 2020
When the protagonist of this novel, Vit贸ria, gets annoyed by people she reacts like the French soldier in 鈥淢onty Python and the Holy Grail鈥� when the soldier said to King Arthur 鈥淚 fart in your general direction.鈥� 馃槷
This is what she says鈥�
鈥� 鈥hen she is out and about and minding her own business and too many men ask her what she is doing she says 鈥淵our face looks like the butt of a wolf and it鈥檚 interfering with my concentration.鈥�
鈥� 鈥hen she is annoyed at a reading by the pretentiousness of two authors and as she is leaving the reading she tells them, 鈥淵ou鈥檙e both worms. Of the worst kind. When you open your mouths, you are male worms eating from a toilet.鈥�
I guess she knows how to tell people off!
Vit贸ria used to be a cleaning women at an art museum, and she likes art, and she likes to write, and one day a man walks into the museum and they hit it off and before you know it they get married and the novel is about the several years after that. All of sudden she does not have to work鈥he can wear fancy clothes鈥he has plenty of time to write, but the maid Solange makes dinners with meat even though Vit贸ria tells her she does not eat meat. 馃
I liked the structure of the book given its substance (it was light fare to me) 鈥� each chapter 2-3 pages, with the whole novel (novella?) being 161 pages.
After I was finished reading the novel I was remembering what was on the inner flap of the book jacket of the front cover 鈥� 鈥淩eminiscent of a lost Victorian classic in miniature, yet taking equal inspiration from such modern authors as Jean Rhys, Octavia Butler, Clarice Lispector, and Jean Genet, Amina Cain鈥檚 Indelicacy is at once a ghost story without a ghost, a fable without a moral, and a down-to-earth investigation of the barriers faced by women in both life and literature.鈥� And I was puzzled as to how, whoever wrote that, they saw the book being a ghost story without a ghost, and a fable without a moral. Perhaps when I get to the reviews I will be enlightened.
Anyhoo, then I was thinking of how I might have ended the novel, i.e., an alternative ending. And that got me to thinking鈥�.are there novels out there such as experimental fiction in which, say, a certain number of chapters of a book are written and then the author presents a number of different endings? So let鈥檚 say there are 6 alternative endings. That way you would be reading 6 novels in one. I like that concept 鈥� has any author done that? Can someone let me know? Maybe Kate Atkinson鈥檚 鈥淟ife After Life鈥� is like that, but I am not sure. If nobody has done that, maybe I will and then become a world-famous person. 馃槒
I thought this book had the potential to be much better than it was鈥t was OK as is and I must accept what the author wrote and judge the book by its existing content, not what I would like it to be. But still, I bet it could have been better with an alternative twist at the end. I just didn鈥檛 see a punch line, a zinger, something unexpected, and/or perhaps a bit of closure. I鈥檒l leave it at that. 2.5 stars.
Reviews (they all liked it):
鈥�
鈥�
鈥�
鈥�
This is what she says鈥�
鈥� 鈥hen she is out and about and minding her own business and too many men ask her what she is doing she says 鈥淵our face looks like the butt of a wolf and it鈥檚 interfering with my concentration.鈥�
鈥� 鈥hen she is annoyed at a reading by the pretentiousness of two authors and as she is leaving the reading she tells them, 鈥淵ou鈥檙e both worms. Of the worst kind. When you open your mouths, you are male worms eating from a toilet.鈥�
I guess she knows how to tell people off!
Vit贸ria used to be a cleaning women at an art museum, and she likes art, and she likes to write, and one day a man walks into the museum and they hit it off and before you know it they get married and the novel is about the several years after that. All of sudden she does not have to work鈥he can wear fancy clothes鈥he has plenty of time to write, but the maid Solange makes dinners with meat even though Vit贸ria tells her she does not eat meat. 馃
I liked the structure of the book given its substance (it was light fare to me) 鈥� each chapter 2-3 pages, with the whole novel (novella?) being 161 pages.
After I was finished reading the novel I was remembering what was on the inner flap of the book jacket of the front cover 鈥� 鈥淩eminiscent of a lost Victorian classic in miniature, yet taking equal inspiration from such modern authors as Jean Rhys, Octavia Butler, Clarice Lispector, and Jean Genet, Amina Cain鈥檚 Indelicacy is at once a ghost story without a ghost, a fable without a moral, and a down-to-earth investigation of the barriers faced by women in both life and literature.鈥� And I was puzzled as to how, whoever wrote that, they saw the book being a ghost story without a ghost, and a fable without a moral. Perhaps when I get to the reviews I will be enlightened.
Anyhoo, then I was thinking of how I might have ended the novel, i.e., an alternative ending. And that got me to thinking鈥�.are there novels out there such as experimental fiction in which, say, a certain number of chapters of a book are written and then the author presents a number of different endings? So let鈥檚 say there are 6 alternative endings. That way you would be reading 6 novels in one. I like that concept 鈥� has any author done that? Can someone let me know? Maybe Kate Atkinson鈥檚 鈥淟ife After Life鈥� is like that, but I am not sure. If nobody has done that, maybe I will and then become a world-famous person. 馃槒
I thought this book had the potential to be much better than it was鈥t was OK as is and I must accept what the author wrote and judge the book by its existing content, not what I would like it to be. But still, I bet it could have been better with an alternative twist at the end. I just didn鈥檛 see a punch line, a zinger, something unexpected, and/or perhaps a bit of closure. I鈥檒l leave it at that. 2.5 stars.
Reviews (they all liked it):
鈥�
鈥�
鈥�
鈥�
February 22, 2020
This was a very unsatisfying read for me. The author seems to be trying to write a story with the gender roles flipped. The writing, however, is spare and comes across as very distant. There is no sense of time or place in this book and the main character lacks depth. I also found her quite unlikeable. She leaves her family because she wants to be on her own and become a writer. She gets married to a wealthy man mainly to provide her with financial support while she pursues her creative passions. When she鈥檚 tired of him, she schemes to get him to leave her. This seems to be an intentional gender-role reversal, and it鈥檚 just as unattractive here as it is in the traditional story of a man supported in his goals by a wife. Perhaps the lack of depth in this character made me dislike the book, even though I think this was also intentional. I know it was meant to illuminate how the same behavior in a woman may seem more offensive than it does in a man, but the reading experience was flat without much depth in the characters or any idea of where and when the story takes place. 2.5猸愶笍
July 29, 2021
What does a person do when she has too much of herself.
鈥淚 see myself then, a figure in the street, walking to the museum. To look out from my window and see myself like that. Moving in and out of experience.鈥�
A state of trance. Almost. Looking at things, looking within. Seeing oneself looking at those things.
Vitoria watches herself like a figure walking in the street, looking at paintings and dances and faces of friends. What she sees, she captures into words. Writing, even if it is only meant for herself.
The experience of reflecting at art and the subsequent emotions is subjective. Rarely does it have a place for notions of others. And when the art transcends living, its exploration turn still more solitary, the rest obscured from view. Or not deliberately looked at because it鈥檚 unnecessary. Quite a hindrance really.
In this uncanny and yet bewitching novel, Cain explores a mind so entranced by the idea of seeing oneself as still in the constantly shifting and moving world that the rest ceases to be significant. Though Vitoria鈥檚 carefully plotted act of estranging herself from her husband in such a way that it ensures a comfortable living for her, because of her otherwise meager means, presents a contradiction with this idea of stillness.
The impulse of looking at oneself looking at the world found a home in me, my reveries at times resembling that trance like state and perhaps even striving, like Vitoria, to be able to hold them longer. It may be vain an exercise, still it brings a heightened sense of being alive, of somehow being more conscious of our passage through this life.
鈥淚 see myself then, a figure in the street, walking to the museum. To look out from my window and see myself like that. Moving in and out of experience.鈥�
A state of trance. Almost. Looking at things, looking within. Seeing oneself looking at those things.
Vitoria watches herself like a figure walking in the street, looking at paintings and dances and faces of friends. What she sees, she captures into words. Writing, even if it is only meant for herself.
The experience of reflecting at art and the subsequent emotions is subjective. Rarely does it have a place for notions of others. And when the art transcends living, its exploration turn still more solitary, the rest obscured from view. Or not deliberately looked at because it鈥檚 unnecessary. Quite a hindrance really.
In this uncanny and yet bewitching novel, Cain explores a mind so entranced by the idea of seeing oneself as still in the constantly shifting and moving world that the rest ceases to be significant. Though Vitoria鈥檚 carefully plotted act of estranging herself from her husband in such a way that it ensures a comfortable living for her, because of her otherwise meager means, presents a contradiction with this idea of stillness.
The impulse of looking at oneself looking at the world found a home in me, my reveries at times resembling that trance like state and perhaps even striving, like Vitoria, to be able to hold them longer. It may be vain an exercise, still it brings a heightened sense of being alive, of somehow being more conscious of our passage through this life.
October 6, 2019
I鈥檓 the first person to review this book and I鈥檇 hate to be indelicate about it (buh dum dum), but it isn鈥檛 the sort of thing that鈥檚 easy to recommend. Even the official description of it鈥he fable without a moral, the ghost story without a ghost鈥t鈥檚 meant to be clever and alluring, but when you think about it, it just kind of spotlights the insubstantiality of the entire thing. Personally, I didn鈥檛 really think of it as either of those descriptors, I鈥檓 not sure what it was. In was hoping for something as terrific as the timeless classic Yellow Wallpaper. But no, this wasn鈥檛 it. This was鈥ell, it was a story about a young woman who aspires to be a writer, but doesn鈥檛 have much to say, so jots down descriptions of things (such as her looking at works of art) instead. She works as a cleaner in a museum alongside another woman, whom she thinks of as a friend, although abandons completely when a wealthy man comes in and sweeps (oh no, the cleaning pun, hopeless) her off her feet. Now she has the means to live the life of luxury with a man she doesn鈥檛 love, but at least enjoys sexually and financially, and pursue her writing. Just like that, one chance meeting, and she jumps many steps on the class ladder in a society where class is determined strictly by income. Eventually, though, she becomes dissatisfies with luxury. Poignantly, her cleaner friend, with whom she reconnects, has married for love and seems to be happy despite financial straits. If there is a moral to be found in this book, that would be it. But this doesn鈥檛 seem to be a moral driven story, I鈥檓 not sure what drives it, actually. It鈥檚 nicely written, but it has a weird ethereal gauzy quality to it. Which is heavily reinforced by giving the characters foreign names and not establishing a specific geographic location of an era to the story. It鈥檚 a balloon just waiting to float away connected to a reader by nothing but a thin string. Which, frankly, isn鈥檛 an optimal level of reader/book connectivity. I was in a weird enough mood that somehow I didn鈥檛 mind it, especially since it鈥檚 such a quick read, maybe 80/85 minutes tops. But when I say it reads like a dream, I mean it literally, not like woohoo, this is awesome, but more like oh wow, ok, weird, what was that all about. It鈥檚 the sort of novel that makes you go in the end鈥eah and. And there鈥檚 nothing. The author seems to specialize in short stories until now and that鈥檚 what this book reads like, a stretched out short story. It鈥檚 nice in its odd way, but certainly not for everyone. Thanks Netgalley.
April 6, 2023
Amina Cain's novel Indelicacy is about a nameless female narrator who above all else, wants to write. It鈥檚 about her small struggles to carve out a place in a world for herself to be free and do what she is passionate about.
The novel is not set in any certain time or place and it gives it an alluring feeling of floating somewhere unknown. The main character is not grounded, not tied down by an era or specific country. Another layer of dreaminess is added by the descriptions of what writing means to her. Cain has used the exact precise words to show how writing is being alone behind your table but at the same time being with everyone you have ever met in all the places you have ever been to.
And the prose is pure like crystal. Stripped of all excess, the sentences are bare which makes them vulnerable and so very honest. Something I have come to enjoy more and more stylistically and Cain is very good at it.
Despite the sparse prose, the book has a strong impact. It has little pockets of wisdom hidden in its relatively simple plot. It shows better perhaps than anything I've read before, how writing is like an ocean that washes over you, shaking pebbles and sand on a beach inside you, you thought long abandoned, scratching your soul and stirring up memories.
The novel is not set in any certain time or place and it gives it an alluring feeling of floating somewhere unknown. The main character is not grounded, not tied down by an era or specific country. Another layer of dreaminess is added by the descriptions of what writing means to her. Cain has used the exact precise words to show how writing is being alone behind your table but at the same time being with everyone you have ever met in all the places you have ever been to.
And the prose is pure like crystal. Stripped of all excess, the sentences are bare which makes them vulnerable and so very honest. Something I have come to enjoy more and more stylistically and Cain is very good at it.
Despite the sparse prose, the book has a strong impact. It has little pockets of wisdom hidden in its relatively simple plot. It shows better perhaps than anything I've read before, how writing is like an ocean that washes over you, shaking pebbles and sand on a beach inside you, you thought long abandoned, scratching your soul and stirring up memories.
October 19, 2020
What was that
January 18, 2020
To read Amina Cain is to enter tide pools of the mind. On its surface, her fiction is quiet, lovely, contained, but sit with any passage and that which seems still uncoils and comes alive. The reach of her fiction is an invitation to peer deep into our inner worlds.
In the tradition of the K眉nstlerroman, Cain鈥檚 debut novel Indelicacy follows the maturity and growth of an artist, and like Proust鈥檚 In Search of Lost Time or Atwood鈥檚 Cat鈥檚 Eye, it is a novel interested in consciousness, identity, the passage of time, art, and freedom. Indelicacy tells the story of a woman who desires a life beyond her janitorial duties, a life where she can nurture her writing aspirations and the friendships she holds dear; however, to focus on plot alone would deny the narrative its inner depth. Like Cain鈥檚 short story collections, I Go to Some Hollow (Les Figues Press, 2009) and Creature (Dorothy, 2013), the space the novel inhabits is largely interior, yet the longer form opens the narrative up to a grander investigation of self and society. Cain has said that 鈥渋nner life can propel a narrative forward as much as plot,鈥� and indeed what animates Indelicacy is the thrill of experiencing the narrator鈥檚 mind attuning to both her inner and outer worlds with equal parts agency and wonder.
Cain鈥檚 magic act is her ability to write the interior life without tumbling into the traps of isolation, solipsism, or spiraling self-obsession. Instead, Cain writes into the expansiveness of the narrator鈥檚 thought processes, not in isolation but in concert with her surrounding environment. While working as a cleaning woman in an art museum, the narrator starts to see herself reflected in the art: 鈥淲hen I was supposed to be cleaning, I would look out the windows of the museum, the paintings behind me reflected in the glass. It meant something to me to see myself with them.鈥� Seeing her reflection blurred with the art elevates the narrator鈥檚 sense of self. The memory situates the narrator in her own narrative鈥攚hile she is looking outside herself (through the window, but also at the painting reflected in the window) she is simultaneously staring back at her reflection, gazing within.
While Indelicacy orbits themes of identity, social class, female friendship, creativity, and desire, it is ultimately a story of a woman claiming her freedom. Vit贸ria, the narrator, lives in an unspecified time and place that could be nineteenth century England (she is expected to marry, clean, cook, entertain, and raise children) if it weren鈥檛 for the slippage that occurs in details like the books the narrator reads or the art she describes. Where naming a specific year and setting might help ground readers in a narrative, the purposeful ambiguity of Indelicacy creates an eerie unmoored effect. Vit贸ria, like the art she describes, exists both in and out of time.
Vit贸ria鈥檚 arc of self-discovery begins when she stops laboring and starts thinking. Throughout the novel, Vit贸ria spurns social norms鈥攕he writes when she is supposed to be working, she questions authority, she experiments with drugs. These small but deliberate transgressions are necessary in her process of understanding her own subjectivity. Close friendships are also significant in Vit贸ria鈥檚 development. Though the novel is slow to reveal Vit贸ria鈥檚 name, her friends, Antoinette and Dana, are named and described in loving detail. We are never told the name of the rich patron from the art museum whom Vit贸ria marries, but we are told the name of their house maid, Solange.
Cain focuses on what matters to Vit贸ria, what she values鈥攚riting, reading, art, female friendship, and a desire to live her own life. Often this takes place in quiet, everyday moments: 鈥淟ately, I鈥檝e had a vision of drinking a glass of water while lying in a bath. Or a grouping of vegetables on a counter meant for preparing a vegetable soup. I think about the things we need to live.鈥� Introspective, poetic, and full of longing, this passage is reminiscent of another K眉nstlerroman, Virginia Woolf鈥檚 To the Lighthouse. Like Woolf鈥檚 Lily Briscoe, who desires 鈥渢o be on a level with ordinary experience鈥� and yet to also know that 鈥渋t鈥檚 a miracle, it鈥檚 an ecstasy,鈥� so too does Cain鈥檚 Vit贸ria desire to see and reflect, to be both inside and outside of the moment. The complication of being present yet also a witness to one鈥檚 own life is evident in the following passage:
To be alive and sometimes grieving. To eat dinners and sit in restaurants. To sleep with my husband and then tell Solange which rooms need cleaning. To clean my own study and then read in it. To sit in a dark theater with a lit stage in front of me. To walk with Antoinette and then with Dana. Walking along the lake, the snow falling on my boots, my hat.
The effect, for both Lily and Vit贸ria, is living the complicated struggle while at once being removed from it. Here, the dispassionate distancing allows the subject agency over her alienation.
Imagination connects Vit贸ria to the sacredness of the world. She imagines a life where she no longer has to clean the art museum and she, indeed, is able to have that life with her new rich husband, but not without cost. Her husband tolerates her writing but he is hardly supportive. She lives comfortably, but she feels a tremendous amount of guilt with her new class status whenever she engages with Solange. It isn鈥檛 until she befriends Dana, a dancer, that Vit贸ria starts to see just how unhappy she is. Then, one day when she visits an art museum, she begins to feel deserving of freedom and devises a plan.
Indelicacy is a hopeful story, told hauntingly. Vit贸ria says at the beginning that she is stalking her own soul, and certainly, in looking back at her life, there is a sense of mystery and awe. If we think about Vit贸ria imagining herself into being, then it makes sense that her attempt to reflect back and write of this emergence may appear hazy, haunted, a carbon copy of what was. While this troubles memory, it is also the condition of women鈥攁ny freedom imagined cannot be a freedom outside the patriarchal structure that Vit贸ria was born into.
For Vit贸ria, true freedom is found in the space between artist and world鈥攂eing in connection to something 鈥渇lowing鈥� toward something else. The theme of connection and flow recurs throughout the book; notably, in the ballet studios, she says, 鈥渨hen I am here, I am like the streamers. I鈥檓 connected to something, but also connected to something else. It is always like that. I am flowing toward it.鈥� It is in this liminal space that Vit贸ria feels most attuned to herself but also connected to something that is not self鈥攈er purpose of living and existence, her very being in and of the world rises from a type of nonbeing, as sound from silence.
Like the moment when Vit贸ria sees herself blurred with the art, Indelicacy, too, has this effect on the reader. Now, as I write this, I feel unmoored in time鈥攁s much a part of the text as it is of me鈥攜et also strung together in some larger constellation. I feel somehow connected to Vit贸ria at her desk, to the tangelos in a wire basket that hangs in my kitchen, to a past-self whispering with my friend, Sarah Rose, in an art history class over twenty years ago, to my fingers, to this computer, to the structures that both allow and condemn this privilege to write, and also to something that is me and not me鈥攁 purpose that propels me forward.
Review published in The Rumpus, January 8th, 2020
In the tradition of the K眉nstlerroman, Cain鈥檚 debut novel Indelicacy follows the maturity and growth of an artist, and like Proust鈥檚 In Search of Lost Time or Atwood鈥檚 Cat鈥檚 Eye, it is a novel interested in consciousness, identity, the passage of time, art, and freedom. Indelicacy tells the story of a woman who desires a life beyond her janitorial duties, a life where she can nurture her writing aspirations and the friendships she holds dear; however, to focus on plot alone would deny the narrative its inner depth. Like Cain鈥檚 short story collections, I Go to Some Hollow (Les Figues Press, 2009) and Creature (Dorothy, 2013), the space the novel inhabits is largely interior, yet the longer form opens the narrative up to a grander investigation of self and society. Cain has said that 鈥渋nner life can propel a narrative forward as much as plot,鈥� and indeed what animates Indelicacy is the thrill of experiencing the narrator鈥檚 mind attuning to both her inner and outer worlds with equal parts agency and wonder.
Cain鈥檚 magic act is her ability to write the interior life without tumbling into the traps of isolation, solipsism, or spiraling self-obsession. Instead, Cain writes into the expansiveness of the narrator鈥檚 thought processes, not in isolation but in concert with her surrounding environment. While working as a cleaning woman in an art museum, the narrator starts to see herself reflected in the art: 鈥淲hen I was supposed to be cleaning, I would look out the windows of the museum, the paintings behind me reflected in the glass. It meant something to me to see myself with them.鈥� Seeing her reflection blurred with the art elevates the narrator鈥檚 sense of self. The memory situates the narrator in her own narrative鈥攚hile she is looking outside herself (through the window, but also at the painting reflected in the window) she is simultaneously staring back at her reflection, gazing within.
While Indelicacy orbits themes of identity, social class, female friendship, creativity, and desire, it is ultimately a story of a woman claiming her freedom. Vit贸ria, the narrator, lives in an unspecified time and place that could be nineteenth century England (she is expected to marry, clean, cook, entertain, and raise children) if it weren鈥檛 for the slippage that occurs in details like the books the narrator reads or the art she describes. Where naming a specific year and setting might help ground readers in a narrative, the purposeful ambiguity of Indelicacy creates an eerie unmoored effect. Vit贸ria, like the art she describes, exists both in and out of time.
Vit贸ria鈥檚 arc of self-discovery begins when she stops laboring and starts thinking. Throughout the novel, Vit贸ria spurns social norms鈥攕he writes when she is supposed to be working, she questions authority, she experiments with drugs. These small but deliberate transgressions are necessary in her process of understanding her own subjectivity. Close friendships are also significant in Vit贸ria鈥檚 development. Though the novel is slow to reveal Vit贸ria鈥檚 name, her friends, Antoinette and Dana, are named and described in loving detail. We are never told the name of the rich patron from the art museum whom Vit贸ria marries, but we are told the name of their house maid, Solange.
Cain focuses on what matters to Vit贸ria, what she values鈥攚riting, reading, art, female friendship, and a desire to live her own life. Often this takes place in quiet, everyday moments: 鈥淟ately, I鈥檝e had a vision of drinking a glass of water while lying in a bath. Or a grouping of vegetables on a counter meant for preparing a vegetable soup. I think about the things we need to live.鈥� Introspective, poetic, and full of longing, this passage is reminiscent of another K眉nstlerroman, Virginia Woolf鈥檚 To the Lighthouse. Like Woolf鈥檚 Lily Briscoe, who desires 鈥渢o be on a level with ordinary experience鈥� and yet to also know that 鈥渋t鈥檚 a miracle, it鈥檚 an ecstasy,鈥� so too does Cain鈥檚 Vit贸ria desire to see and reflect, to be both inside and outside of the moment. The complication of being present yet also a witness to one鈥檚 own life is evident in the following passage:
To be alive and sometimes grieving. To eat dinners and sit in restaurants. To sleep with my husband and then tell Solange which rooms need cleaning. To clean my own study and then read in it. To sit in a dark theater with a lit stage in front of me. To walk with Antoinette and then with Dana. Walking along the lake, the snow falling on my boots, my hat.
The effect, for both Lily and Vit贸ria, is living the complicated struggle while at once being removed from it. Here, the dispassionate distancing allows the subject agency over her alienation.
Imagination connects Vit贸ria to the sacredness of the world. She imagines a life where she no longer has to clean the art museum and she, indeed, is able to have that life with her new rich husband, but not without cost. Her husband tolerates her writing but he is hardly supportive. She lives comfortably, but she feels a tremendous amount of guilt with her new class status whenever she engages with Solange. It isn鈥檛 until she befriends Dana, a dancer, that Vit贸ria starts to see just how unhappy she is. Then, one day when she visits an art museum, she begins to feel deserving of freedom and devises a plan.
Indelicacy is a hopeful story, told hauntingly. Vit贸ria says at the beginning that she is stalking her own soul, and certainly, in looking back at her life, there is a sense of mystery and awe. If we think about Vit贸ria imagining herself into being, then it makes sense that her attempt to reflect back and write of this emergence may appear hazy, haunted, a carbon copy of what was. While this troubles memory, it is also the condition of women鈥攁ny freedom imagined cannot be a freedom outside the patriarchal structure that Vit贸ria was born into.
For Vit贸ria, true freedom is found in the space between artist and world鈥攂eing in connection to something 鈥渇lowing鈥� toward something else. The theme of connection and flow recurs throughout the book; notably, in the ballet studios, she says, 鈥渨hen I am here, I am like the streamers. I鈥檓 connected to something, but also connected to something else. It is always like that. I am flowing toward it.鈥� It is in this liminal space that Vit贸ria feels most attuned to herself but also connected to something that is not self鈥攈er purpose of living and existence, her very being in and of the world rises from a type of nonbeing, as sound from silence.
Like the moment when Vit贸ria sees herself blurred with the art, Indelicacy, too, has this effect on the reader. Now, as I write this, I feel unmoored in time鈥攁s much a part of the text as it is of me鈥攜et also strung together in some larger constellation. I feel somehow connected to Vit贸ria at her desk, to the tangelos in a wire basket that hangs in my kitchen, to a past-self whispering with my friend, Sarah Rose, in an art history class over twenty years ago, to my fingers, to this computer, to the structures that both allow and condemn this privilege to write, and also to something that is me and not me鈥攁 purpose that propels me forward.
Review published in The Rumpus, January 8th, 2020
February 22, 2023
I was entranced by this book. I found it elegant and enigmatic.
September 15, 2020
Dang, this is a hard book to review. It's not like anything else I've ever read. I liked it, but I didn't LOVE it, and I'm not sure I even enjoyed it much, though I was very intrigued throughout. As not only a writer, but a writer who particularly loves to do ekphrastic writing, and attends monthly groups at the Denver Art Museum where we spend 2 hours writing about various art works, I really enjoyed the aspects of the story that did have to do with her writing, specifically.
There are some brilliant lines in here: ".....I would listen to a bird cry, or the cat and the dog scratching around. In those moments I felt like a giant ear." RIGHT? Haven't you felt like this in the quietest moments?
"I look at my books of paintings while sitting at my desk. I look at paintings with snow in them. Here, people are skating across a pond, buying things from a Christmas market. How rosy they look. I don't think I've ever looked that rosy before." This is how I feel during EVERY Christmas season. And whenever I look at snowy holiday scenes full of happy shiny people.
But these tidbits are rare, and the rest of the story just didn't feel very believable to me - a rich husband who comes and rescues her from her cleaning job and gives her everything she wants? Money to buy everything and more she could ever desire? She can write for as long and whenever she wants and is given a lot of freedom within her marriage, and she's not happy with it? All of this stretched my ability to trust a bit, but then again, the entire story was just otherworldly enough that I went with it. There is a sense of surrealism that never quite dives into being truly surrealistic. Fortunately this was a very short and quick read, or I'm not sure I'd have made it through this.
3.5 stars for me. The parts specific to writing were a 4, and the rest a 3.
There are some brilliant lines in here: ".....I would listen to a bird cry, or the cat and the dog scratching around. In those moments I felt like a giant ear." RIGHT? Haven't you felt like this in the quietest moments?
"I look at my books of paintings while sitting at my desk. I look at paintings with snow in them. Here, people are skating across a pond, buying things from a Christmas market. How rosy they look. I don't think I've ever looked that rosy before." This is how I feel during EVERY Christmas season. And whenever I look at snowy holiday scenes full of happy shiny people.
But these tidbits are rare, and the rest of the story just didn't feel very believable to me - a rich husband who comes and rescues her from her cleaning job and gives her everything she wants? Money to buy everything and more she could ever desire? She can write for as long and whenever she wants and is given a lot of freedom within her marriage, and she's not happy with it? All of this stretched my ability to trust a bit, but then again, the entire story was just otherworldly enough that I went with it. There is a sense of surrealism that never quite dives into being truly surrealistic. Fortunately this was a very short and quick read, or I'm not sure I'd have made it through this.
3.5 stars for me. The parts specific to writing were a 4, and the rest a 3.
March 4, 2020
A boring book about a woman who gets everything she wants and is still miserable. At least it was short.
November 7, 2020
鈥測our face looks like the butt of a wolf and it鈥檚 interfering with my concentration?鈥�. isn't that just the sweeter, most inspiring insult? one that makes you wonder what have you been doing all your life, not telling people their faces look like the butt of a wolf.
brilliant insults aside (and the book includes a few), let me say that if the literary gods decided to conjure a novel written exclusively for me, well, indelicacy would be it.
there鈥檚 more. the book was so excruciatingly good that once i lost my beloved black matte pencil 鈥攖he OG of pencils tbh鈥� half-way through, i consciously decided to keep reading and let the pen's ink on the page. this is a big deal for me, i only use pencils to write on books. but the book made me do it: to rid myself of my strange fixation with book preservation.
indelicacy is a galvanising experience into freeing oneself of the silly twitches (possibly by embracing them) and living one鈥檚 truth. vit贸ria leads the way. she writes a lot, takes long walks, sits in museums, ties her husband to a chair and dreams of a farm, the countryside, a room of her own where 鈥渢o write on the afternoon, walk again in the evening, then write again. late at night, read. then write again. sleep鈥�. that is her master plan. however, she鈥檚 constantly preoccupied with leisure, the lying down, the luxury and privilege of it. what does her maid think of her. shouldn鈥檛 she know better than that, having spent most of her life on the other side of the fence? her meditations on class are spare and poignant, so is her understanding of privilege.
an immovable fog wraps the gloomy landscapes and ghostly characters. the atmosphere feels claustrophobic, but in a controlled, engineered way. the absence of time or spacial references creates the impression of peeking through a snow globe where characters exist in a suspended dimension. at the same time, the observations vit贸ria makes summon the still-life detailing of flemish paintings, stark colours shining a light onto elements you wouldn鈥檛 pay attention to otherwise.
as readers we are forgiven incursions into the mind of a stubbornly resolute character who shares her resolve in a casual manner, but often displays fastidiousness at the audience peeking. she seems to say, too much.
vit贸ria鈥檚 is a story about becoming. who am i if i鈥檓 not writing, she wonders. she is becoming herself, an artist first and foremost, but also a woman in an ever-shrinking universe that slowly makes room for her too. she is incessantly becoming, shifting shapes and appearances, all the while leaving clues to her future self to 鈥渂e yourself again鈥�. vit贸ria uncompromisingly pursues the radical vision of what her life as an artist should be. she possesses an enviable self-awareness, an intimate knowledge of the inner workings of her soul and mind, that are often juxtaposed with fleeting doubts regarding the legitimacy of her identity as an artist. but, her determination to write returns her to herself and 鈥渟till in the process of becoming, the soul makes room.鈥� she is free at last.
brilliant insults aside (and the book includes a few), let me say that if the literary gods decided to conjure a novel written exclusively for me, well, indelicacy would be it.
there鈥檚 more. the book was so excruciatingly good that once i lost my beloved black matte pencil 鈥攖he OG of pencils tbh鈥� half-way through, i consciously decided to keep reading and let the pen's ink on the page. this is a big deal for me, i only use pencils to write on books. but the book made me do it: to rid myself of my strange fixation with book preservation.
indelicacy is a galvanising experience into freeing oneself of the silly twitches (possibly by embracing them) and living one鈥檚 truth. vit贸ria leads the way. she writes a lot, takes long walks, sits in museums, ties her husband to a chair and dreams of a farm, the countryside, a room of her own where 鈥渢o write on the afternoon, walk again in the evening, then write again. late at night, read. then write again. sleep鈥�. that is her master plan. however, she鈥檚 constantly preoccupied with leisure, the lying down, the luxury and privilege of it. what does her maid think of her. shouldn鈥檛 she know better than that, having spent most of her life on the other side of the fence? her meditations on class are spare and poignant, so is her understanding of privilege.
an immovable fog wraps the gloomy landscapes and ghostly characters. the atmosphere feels claustrophobic, but in a controlled, engineered way. the absence of time or spacial references creates the impression of peeking through a snow globe where characters exist in a suspended dimension. at the same time, the observations vit贸ria makes summon the still-life detailing of flemish paintings, stark colours shining a light onto elements you wouldn鈥檛 pay attention to otherwise.
as readers we are forgiven incursions into the mind of a stubbornly resolute character who shares her resolve in a casual manner, but often displays fastidiousness at the audience peeking. she seems to say, too much.
vit贸ria鈥檚 is a story about becoming. who am i if i鈥檓 not writing, she wonders. she is becoming herself, an artist first and foremost, but also a woman in an ever-shrinking universe that slowly makes room for her too. she is incessantly becoming, shifting shapes and appearances, all the while leaving clues to her future self to 鈥渂e yourself again鈥�. vit贸ria uncompromisingly pursues the radical vision of what her life as an artist should be. she possesses an enviable self-awareness, an intimate knowledge of the inner workings of her soul and mind, that are often juxtaposed with fleeting doubts regarding the legitimacy of her identity as an artist. but, her determination to write returns her to herself and 鈥渟till in the process of becoming, the soul makes room.鈥� she is free at last.
February 17, 2020
I really enjoyed Cain's other book Creature, a book of short meditative prose pieces. But this book, her first novel, didn't do much for me. There were passages that recalled the subtle brilliance of her unique brand of prose, but they were usually few and far between, lost in a novel that seemed to be set in the near-present, yet the attitudes of the narrator and other characters seem like those of another era.
Spoilers: the narrator talks almost like a kept woman; she starts off as a janitor, but she soon marries someone rich whom she does not love. Then in her bizarre journey to self-discovery figures out that she likes being financially supported without having to work while spending her days writing and going to the ballet. So she self-actualizes a plan to have her husband be unfaithful towards her, that way her husband will leave her and still feel obligated to pay for her lifestyle.
It all seems a bit... backwards. I mean, I'm all for empowerment, but isn't earning your own way towards financial freedom (even if it requires mopping a few floors) a more empowering notion?
Another problem I had with it was that it seemed to want to speak from a voice of a working class woman, completely unenlightened when it comes to certain ideas of agency and feminism (which becomes the journey she has to discover for herself throughout the course of the novel), and yet this is completely unconvincing. She goes to museums and ballets, writes about paintings in a cultured way, and uses words like "abject".
The parts I enjoyed most were her descriptions of the various artworks that moved her in the museums she goes to. I feel like Cain's best work doesn't really fit into a novel, and that is why her other book was so much better. I think ultimately she's more interested in weird thoughts, with examining the consciousness of her narrators as they do their bendy acrobatics. That's possible even within the form of a novel, think Virginia Woolf, but the other elements of the novel have to be just as strong, and I have a feeling that Cain just isn't interested in those other elements enough to make them good.
(Thanks to the publisher for sending me an advanced readers copy)
Spoilers: the narrator talks almost like a kept woman; she starts off as a janitor, but she soon marries someone rich whom she does not love. Then in her bizarre journey to self-discovery figures out that she likes being financially supported without having to work while spending her days writing and going to the ballet. So she self-actualizes a plan to have her husband be unfaithful towards her, that way her husband will leave her and still feel obligated to pay for her lifestyle.
It all seems a bit... backwards. I mean, I'm all for empowerment, but isn't earning your own way towards financial freedom (even if it requires mopping a few floors) a more empowering notion?
Another problem I had with it was that it seemed to want to speak from a voice of a working class woman, completely unenlightened when it comes to certain ideas of agency and feminism (which becomes the journey she has to discover for herself throughout the course of the novel), and yet this is completely unconvincing. She goes to museums and ballets, writes about paintings in a cultured way, and uses words like "abject".
The parts I enjoyed most were her descriptions of the various artworks that moved her in the museums she goes to. I feel like Cain's best work doesn't really fit into a novel, and that is why her other book was so much better. I think ultimately she's more interested in weird thoughts, with examining the consciousness of her narrators as they do their bendy acrobatics. That's possible even within the form of a novel, think Virginia Woolf, but the other elements of the novel have to be just as strong, and I have a feeling that Cain just isn't interested in those other elements enough to make them good.
(Thanks to the publisher for sending me an advanced readers copy)
February 12, 2020
This is a beautifully written story. I read this one slowly, so I could savor the language. My favorite parts of the book were the descriptions of the paintings. Such gorgeous writing!
A super big thank you to the publisher and Netgalley for giving me a free copy in exchange for an honest review! :)
A super big thank you to the publisher and Netgalley for giving me a free copy in exchange for an honest review! :)
August 3, 2022
i can't believe people are actually saying this is a retelling of "a room of one's own"??? one of the most beautiful classics ever written ... compared to this ????????? this is like a style exercise that someone published by accident
Displaying 1 - 30 of 1,198 reviews
Can't find what you're looking for?
Get help and learn more about the design.