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ausma23's review against another edition
2.0
"A Horse at Night" feels like the kind of book I would've liked in my earlier 20s: a meandering collection of meditative thoughts and quiet reflections on books, films, little everyday experiences; the kind of book from which you can draw up a reading list, which analyzes things only so deeply and is less instructive than merely suggestive. (When I noticed the other writers who blurbed the book — Claire Louise-Bennett, Jenny Offill — it all added up). But reading Amina Cain’s book, I got the sense that I've since outgrown works like these.
I guess I feel that if you're going to [sub]title a piece with that uppercase, authoritative "On" followed by the subject you’re undertaking, there's a reasonable expectation that there will be a little more insight than just meditations, that some deeper wisdom will be gleaned; and ultimately I didn’t get anything like that. The "slim" book — as Cain seems to defensively remind us throughout, she is a writer of “slim” works — didn't offer me anything new in the way of thinking about writing, the writing process, what we write for ourselves and what we write for the world, what it means to “be writing” versus “not writing,” etc. Her dissection of narrative and form are not terribly incisive or insightful; at times, she comes across as hyperanalytical for hyper analysis' sake. She pulls and tugs at snippets and lines from her other favorite books, but all these little pieces never form a cohesive idea; they’re more like clouds that just drift on by, names dropped and scattered. It indeed feels like this amorphous form was the intention, and Cain herself admits to not being so sure of the direction she wants the book to take throughout. Even the structure, with each piece distinct from one other, yet not titled as individual essays with specific theses, seems to support this. I’m not against that kind of abstract, floaty kind of writing per se, but the examples and comparisons she tries to draw, the images she tries to paint with said examples and comparisons, feel flimsy and, at times, utterly boring. She ponders uninteresting, tired concepts as though just throwing them out there with little conviction — maybe you’re interested in contemplating them with her, but no worries if not. Among these are: Is the pursuit of perfection in art worthwhile or even achievable? (Gee!) Is the literary world’s interest in toxic female friendships a sign of internalized patriarchy/misogyny? (Groundbreaking!) With all of her little questions and analyses, I just kept asking: Yes, and? Yes, so?
For finding many of her ideas facile, I can’t say I altogether disliked this book, nor can I flippantly say it’s the kind of thing that’s just “not for me”. At moments I did feel engaged in her thought wanderings, like when she talks about the emotional impact of mere “impressions” versus concrete ideas (as in Fleur Jaeggy’s writing), and her reflection on her expectation, in her youth, that joy would infinitely expand in her life, and the sober realization that it wouldn’t, and couldn’t. Such experiences and concepts are more often vaguely, inexplicably felt rather than spoken or written, and I found it genuinely interesting to encounter these ideas articulated in Cain’s poetic prose — I only wish I felt more of these such moments throughout this little book.
I guess I feel that if you're going to [sub]title a piece with that uppercase, authoritative "On" followed by the subject you’re undertaking, there's a reasonable expectation that there will be a little more insight than just meditations, that some deeper wisdom will be gleaned; and ultimately I didn’t get anything like that. The "slim" book — as Cain seems to defensively remind us throughout, she is a writer of “slim” works — didn't offer me anything new in the way of thinking about writing, the writing process, what we write for ourselves and what we write for the world, what it means to “be writing” versus “not writing,” etc. Her dissection of narrative and form are not terribly incisive or insightful; at times, she comes across as hyperanalytical for hyper analysis' sake. She pulls and tugs at snippets and lines from her other favorite books, but all these little pieces never form a cohesive idea; they’re more like clouds that just drift on by, names dropped and scattered. It indeed feels like this amorphous form was the intention, and Cain herself admits to not being so sure of the direction she wants the book to take throughout. Even the structure, with each piece distinct from one other, yet not titled as individual essays with specific theses, seems to support this. I’m not against that kind of abstract, floaty kind of writing per se, but the examples and comparisons she tries to draw, the images she tries to paint with said examples and comparisons, feel flimsy and, at times, utterly boring. She ponders uninteresting, tired concepts as though just throwing them out there with little conviction — maybe you’re interested in contemplating them with her, but no worries if not. Among these are: Is the pursuit of perfection in art worthwhile or even achievable? (Gee!) Is the literary world’s interest in toxic female friendships a sign of internalized patriarchy/misogyny? (Groundbreaking!) With all of her little questions and analyses, I just kept asking: Yes, and? Yes, so?
For finding many of her ideas facile, I can’t say I altogether disliked this book, nor can I flippantly say it’s the kind of thing that’s just “not for me”. At moments I did feel engaged in her thought wanderings, like when she talks about the emotional impact of mere “impressions” versus concrete ideas (as in Fleur Jaeggy’s writing), and her reflection on her expectation, in her youth, that joy would infinitely expand in her life, and the sober realization that it wouldn’t, and couldn’t. Such experiences and concepts are more often vaguely, inexplicably felt rather than spoken or written, and I found it genuinely interesting to encounter these ideas articulated in Cain’s poetic prose — I only wish I felt more of these such moments throughout this little book.
mindthebook's review against another edition
4.0
Fann den här av en händelse när jag kollade efter öppettiderna på konstmuseet i Birmingham, för där hänger originalmålningen av Herr Egg; den med de två läsande/slumrande flickorna ombord på ett tåg någonstans i Europa. Så som jag föreställde mig att mitt liv skulle bli.
Andras läsliv, det blir ofta finfina böcker. Tänk t.ex. Kate Zambreno. Men den där hästen i titeln är nog en extra tröskel för eventuella läsare. Bara man kommer så långt som till översikten av kapitelrubrikerna blir man fast, jag lovar. Se instagram @mindthebook under 'Lit'.
Så här inleds ett:
"When I was a teenager in Ohio, I dreamed regularly of leaving, and my daydreams were almost entirely made up of me walking around a city by myself."
Sänder kärlek till den teenager in Halland jag en gång var och tackar littgudarna för allt.
Andras läsliv, det blir ofta finfina böcker. Tänk t.ex. Kate Zambreno. Men den där hästen i titeln är nog en extra tröskel för eventuella läsare. Bara man kommer så långt som till översikten av kapitelrubrikerna blir man fast, jag lovar. Se instagram @mindthebook under 'Lit'.
Så här inleds ett:
"When I was a teenager in Ohio, I dreamed regularly of leaving, and my daydreams were almost entirely made up of me walking around a city by myself."
Sänder kärlek till den teenager in Halland jag en gång var och tackar littgudarna för allt.
khopeisz's review against another edition
4.0
if the entries on an annotated bibliography were surrounded by uncluttered and insightful prose. somewhat entry level thoughts on writing and life, pointing readers in directions of deeper and profound works.
thatflowerjazmin's review against another edition
emotional
informative
inspiring
reflective
relaxing
fast-paced
3.5