You know who else could say that? All the anonymous narrators/protagonists in this week's Friday Fiction round-up. You know, because they're anonymous.
Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier – In women's novels featuring anonymous protagonists the statement is one of a removed agency or erasure of self or lack of power; male authors are open to a wider variety of reasons for such anonymity. Ugh, patriarchy! Rebecca, the classic novel cum film is about a young woman who marries a man, moves to his estate and then is forced to live in the shadow of his super awesome dead wife, Rebecca. Rebecca, Rebecca, Rebecca! Du Maurier was a fracking master of the sinister and spooky behaviour (see also: Birds. BIRDS!) and Rebecca is the perfect storm of her talents. Rather Mrs Danvers, the eviiiiiiiiil housekeeper is the perfect storm of Du Maurier's talents. Manderly!
Senselessness by Horacio Castellanos Moya – An young, exiled (unnamed) writer in an unnamed Central American country is called upon to write out the testimonies of Indigenous people who have suffered mass murder and torture at the hands of the military. The writer is like many a young writer: promiscuous, fond of alcohol, a bit of a hot-shot all things told. But as he gets further into the horrific (and true) testimonies, he descends into paranoia and he finds that it is harder and harder for him to differentiate his own voice from those of the Indigenous people. Writers!
Hunger by Knut Hamsun – A surprisingly hilarious novel, the unnamed protagonist wanders the streets of Norway's unnamed capital (Oslo!) waffling between hunger and art. Could be a manifesto for the hipster: to sell out or not to sell out? Or it could be a manifesto for the conservative boomer, so intent on lecturing the millenials to stop whining about "no jobs" and "student loans" and "threat of homelessness" and just never take any sort of "charity". Or it could just be a rollicking Catch-22 tale written by a nazi sympathizer about a weirdo writer who is so hungry he can't write but in order to eat he must write. At any rate, he eats his pencil. Writers!
Yellow Wall Paper by Gilman Perkins – She's not crazy, your actions are leading her to believe she's crazy. And yellow wall paper is gross. A
feminist classic that offers a sad look into the world of the infantalization of women by their husbands and doctors, a practice that still hasn't gone out of style. Gaslighting!
The Road by Cormac McCarthy – A father-son, coming of age romp through the apocalypse! I have now read so much (too much? NEVER) McCarthy that if I am not emotionally eviscerated by a novel's end (i.e. most characters are dead, in particular, the ones that the protagonist loved the most and they're dead in the most unnecessary and cruel way), well, the writer wasn't really trying, now were they? MCCARTHY! The Road is my least favourite, though, to be honest. Read this because it's a McCarthy and because it won the Pulitzer and because Oprah looooooooooooo-veeeeeeeeeeed it and because it fits with the Lauren "You don't know me" Conrad theme, but then go read Suttree. And The Border Trilogy. And Blood Meridian. McCarthy!
(Heh, there is an essay's worth of commentary on the fact that I opened this Friday Fiction with over-exposed reality stars, famous for being attractive, rich and White but followed up with books about struggles of race, gender and power. I believe that is what Alanis Morissette would call ironic.)
Have a wonderful weekend, friends! I hope the sun is shining wherever you are and that you will have an opportunity to enjoy it!