A review by minalouise
The American Woman in the Chinese Hat by Carole Maso
Tender and raw.
At times the way she included the French language felt forced. Clumsy. It loosens up, or I get used to it. She is learning French in the book, but it find the single words and half sentences slightly grating and unappealing. It might be that way by design, I’m unsure. But it doesn’t come across as honest.
The scene setting also grows more natural, and I feel like the first 30 pages could have done with some better editing. Too much fluff and filler to transport the reader. I went into the book already transported.
When she comes to the emotions, the pain, the sex-- that’s her element. She completely knocks me down. No one does it better. All of a sudden I’m in the midst of questions I’ve been avoiding asking myself. And I want to live in her writing.
‘She says I never loved her enough. She says I’ve been very cruel. She begins to list my crimes. But I scarcely remember being that woman.’
She writes in a very inviting way. I want to stay. Even when it hurts.
‘I left often, sometimes for months, to write. I seduced her brother. I slept with the next-door neighbor. I slept with everyone. Often I was cruel, it is true. I was too moody— too angry, too afraid. I was never satisfied. I never loved her the way she needed to be loved.’
Makes me question my own fidelity.
‘I am tired. I will live to be old, I think. I will live to pay for every crime. Even the minor ones. Among the minor ones: I never learned to drive. I could never do the bankbook right.’
...
“I’ve never been with a woman before,” the poet says.
“I know,” I say. “I’ve been watching you all day. But I think you’d like to be.”
“Yes. I guess.”
“With me.”
“Yes.”
I kiss her shoulder, part her lovely legs, sail across the perfect surface of skin, sweetly.
“My god,” she says later that night. “No wonder men are crazy for women!” She is the type that talks. “Women are so tender, and soft and warm and wet and incredible!” She is used to describing everything. And I am on my knees this time, and she is already screaming.’
No comment.
‘I tell her the heart is more fragile than fruit. It can’t be handled tenderly enough.’
A sentence to live by, isn’t it.
‘There is so much longing in me. I feel the strange, erotic shape of each day.’
‘Only touch is not a lie.’
(I desperately want that sentence to be true)
‘Touch, too, is a terrible lie.’
(Unfortunately I know this one to be just as true)
Women, fascists, threesomes with thieves, a devastatingly beautiful man. More women. Heartbreak.
The book is full of lovers. The word lover. A word that makes it all seem worth it in a way.
‘But he is unknowable and I don’t feel like making him up.’
I’m here for the internal. And the between. She does it so deliciously.
At times the way she included the French language felt forced. Clumsy. It loosens up, or I get used to it. She is learning French in the book, but it find the single words and half sentences slightly grating and unappealing. It might be that way by design, I’m unsure. But it doesn’t come across as honest.
The scene setting also grows more natural, and I feel like the first 30 pages could have done with some better editing. Too much fluff and filler to transport the reader. I went into the book already transported.
When she comes to the emotions, the pain, the sex-- that’s her element. She completely knocks me down. No one does it better. All of a sudden I’m in the midst of questions I’ve been avoiding asking myself. And I want to live in her writing.
‘She says I never loved her enough. She says I’ve been very cruel. She begins to list my crimes. But I scarcely remember being that woman.’
She writes in a very inviting way. I want to stay. Even when it hurts.
‘I left often, sometimes for months, to write. I seduced her brother. I slept with the next-door neighbor. I slept with everyone. Often I was cruel, it is true. I was too moody— too angry, too afraid. I was never satisfied. I never loved her the way she needed to be loved.’
Makes me question my own fidelity.
‘I am tired. I will live to be old, I think. I will live to pay for every crime. Even the minor ones. Among the minor ones: I never learned to drive. I could never do the bankbook right.’
...
“I’ve never been with a woman before,” the poet says.
“I know,” I say. “I’ve been watching you all day. But I think you’d like to be.”
“Yes. I guess.”
“With me.”
“Yes.”
I kiss her shoulder, part her lovely legs, sail across the perfect surface of skin, sweetly.
“My god,” she says later that night. “No wonder men are crazy for women!” She is the type that talks. “Women are so tender, and soft and warm and wet and incredible!” She is used to describing everything. And I am on my knees this time, and she is already screaming.’
No comment.
‘I tell her the heart is more fragile than fruit. It can’t be handled tenderly enough.’
A sentence to live by, isn’t it.
‘There is so much longing in me. I feel the strange, erotic shape of each day.’
‘Only touch is not a lie.’
(I desperately want that sentence to be true)
‘Touch, too, is a terrible lie.’
(Unfortunately I know this one to be just as true)
Women, fascists, threesomes with thieves, a devastatingly beautiful man. More women. Heartbreak.
The book is full of lovers. The word lover. A word that makes it all seem worth it in a way.
‘But he is unknowable and I don’t feel like making him up.’
I’m here for the internal. And the between. She does it so deliciously.