The Madwoman in the Attic: The Woman Writer and the Nineteenth-Century Literary Imagination

Sandra M. Gilbert and Susan Gubar

The Madwoman in the Attic: The Woman Writer and the Nineteenth-Century Literary Imagination forges a ground-breaking contribution to feminist literary criticism. In this study, Sandra M. Gilbert and Susan Gubar argue for the existence of a distinctly female literary imagination in women writers of nineteenth-century. Their landmark study has influenced how we read women writers ever since. 

Gilbert and Gubar systematically deconstruct the obstacles women authors faced and how their struggles are manifested in their works, beginning with the fundamental perception that literary authorship was perceived as an exclusively male activity, a patriarchal endeavor, bestowing ownership and authority on the work. As such, it not only excluded women from authorship, it asserted that women who were authors defied their essential nature, i.e. they were being “unfeminine.” Unlike their male counterparts who suffered from an “anxiety of influence,” women authors suffered from an “anxiety of authorship.”

Among the many patriarchal constructs inhibiting women’s writing were the stereotypical depictions of her as either angel or monster; the circumscribed space she was forced to inhabit in society; her limited sphere of permissible activities; the plethora of literary texts saturated with male hegemony and female subordination; the misogyny of Milton’s Paradise Lost; the trap of “feminine” roles in patriarchal homes; the deliberate malnourishment for her writing; the assumption of a vapid intellectual life; and the interiorization of her as Other.

Through their brilliant analysis of the writings of such authors as Jane Austen, Christina Rossetti, the Brontë sisters, Mary Wollstonecraft, Mary Shelley, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, George Eliot, Emily Dickinson, Simone de Beauvoir, Virginia Woolf, Sylvia Plath, and through references to numerous others, Gilbert and Gubar demonstrate the strategies for artistic survival women developed to counteract these crippling constructs.

Comprehensive in scope, the study weaves the author’s biography with detailed textual analysis and discussion of her work to show how her thoughts evolved and in what ways and to what degree she was able to counteract patriarchal constructs. By interpreting the literature through the “mad woman” lens, Gilbert and Gubar open the literary work to subtleties and nuances, revealing sub-merged layers of meaning that may otherwise have been overlooked.

This is a fascinating study, a consummate tome of feminist literary criticism, and so well deserving of the high praise it has received. It is highly recommended as a valuable resource for students of Victorian women writers and for the readers who love to immerse themselves in the literary masterpieces they crafted.

Boudica: Dreaming the Bull

Manda Scott

Boudica: Dreaming the Bull by Manda Scott is the second in a four-book series on the Celtic warrior Boudica, leader of the coalition of tribes fighting Rome’s invasion of Britain. As with the first book in the series, Boudica: Dreaming the Eagle, Scott combines historical research with a creative imagination. But this second book in the series falls short of its predecessor.    

Picking up where Dreaming the Eagle left off, Dreaming the Bull begins with a lengthy description of ongoing battles and complex battle maneuvers between the two sides. The description is unnecessarily detailed, convoluted, and somewhat tedious. But once you get passed that, the pace of the novel picks up.

Intermittently threaded throughout the battles and skirmishes with the indigenous population, we witness Bán (Boudica’s brother) becoming progressively more brutal. The novel focuses on Bán and his downward spiral more so than on Boudica. Bán, who has adopted the name Julius Valerius, has immersed himself thoroughly in Roman culture and the military, dedicating himself to the Roman god, Mithras. He has worked his way up the military ranks, becoming increasingly brutal toward members of his former tribe and their coalition partners. He uses his knowledge of their battle maneuvers to entrap them, rapidly developing a reputation among all sides for his extreme brutality.

Unfortunately, Bán’s transformation from Bán of the Eceni tribe to Julius Valerius, Decurion of the first troop, First Thracian Cavalry, was unconvincing. Why does Bán become more Roman than the Romans? Why is he so hell-bent on destroying all traces of his heritage even after he learns his sister is still alive and leads the rebellion? Why is he so full of venom that he embraces every opportunity to betray the tribes and their cause? We read of Rome’s cruelty toward the rebels—tortures, crucifixions, flaying of victims, and hangings—all of which Bán eventually endorses. His pangs of guilt manifest through frequent visits from spirits of his deceased family and friends, but he suppresses their voices by calling on Mithras and/or burying himself in alcohol. His journey from Bán to the “Decurion on the pied horse,” the rebel’s most hated military officer in the Roman army, isn’t believable.

Scott peoples her novel with a motley crew of characters: a Roman emperor desperate to hold on to power; dreamers who commune with the gods, see into the future, and control the weather; a young man from the Eceni tribe turned cruel Roman soldier who suffers from a severe identity crisis; a female warrior who leads a coalition of tribes in the resistance to Roman occupation of its lands. The spirits of the dead make frequent appearances, blurring the lines between the real and imaginary. The transitions are seamless with characters dialoguing with one another as routinely as they dialogue with spirits. Greater prominence is given to life in the Roman military and the political intrigues of the Roman Empire than life among the rebels. Similarly, the degree to which we follow the tribulations of Dubornos, Cunomar (Boudica’s son) and Caradoc after their capture shifts the attention away from Boudica and relegates her to the margins of her own story. 

Despite its shortcomings, Boudica: Dreaming the Bull is an entertaining and compelling read as Scott manages to sweep us up in her vision of a time when Rome’s tentacles reached the shores of Britain.

Recommended with reservations.

Bright Air Black

David Vann

Bright Air Black by David Vann is a lyrical masterpiece. Based on Euripides’ classical Greek play Medea, Vann’s re-telling of Medea’s story is dark, brilliant, and hypnotic. Two notes of caution, however. First, some familiarity with the story of Medea and Jason is necessary prior to reading the novel. And second, this is not a novel for the faint of heart. Vann spares none of the gory details of Medea’s horrific actions in all of their blood-curdling madness.     

The novel opens with Medea on the deck of the Argo tossing chunks of her brother’s body (a brother she murdered and dismembered) into the sea to delay capture by Aeetes, her father. Aeetes rages at his daughter each time he has to slow his ship to gather the bits and pieces of his son’s body to give him a proper burial. As horrifying as this opening scene is, it is just the beginning of a series of Medea’s violent and bone-chilling deeds.

Since the story is told from Medea’s point of view, we are sucked into her vortex of demonic rage. We watch as she scurries in the night to collect roots, plants, spiders, termites, salamanders, a scorpion, and mushrooms that induce hallucinations. She concocts a brew for Jason and his men using this potpourri, forces them to drink it, and proceeds to terrify them into submitting to her demands. We listen as she manipulates the daughters of Pelias into believing she can restore their father’s youth if they chop him into pieces, bite into his testicles, and throw his butchered body into her cauldron. We watch with horror and fascination as each of her schemes comes to fruition.  

Our perception of the world through Medea’s filter forces us to understand what motivates her to do the things she does. Medea rages at a world that marginalizes her because she is a woman and a foreigner and, therefore, deemed a “barbarian” by the misogynistic, male-dominated, xenophobic Greek society. She repudiates her designation as “Other”, viewing men with absolute contempt and seizing every opportunity to lash out and ridicule them. Her hunger for power prompts her to destroy anyone in her way. More than anything else, she wants control over her life, the ability to decide her destiny. She abhors submission of any sort and murders her two children rather than surrender control of them to Kreon’s soldiers. Her many references to Hatshepsut, the female Egyptian Pharaoh who ruled Egypt independent of any man, reflect her desire to reign as king. But because she knows Greek culture will not accommodate for a female ruler, Medea has to rely on Jason to help her get what she wants. She is complex, fierce, calculating, demonic, manipulative, and a brilliant strategist who leaves nothing to chance.    

 Medea’s internal machinations are captured by David Vann’s writing style—a style both mesmerizing and lyrical. Most sentences are in fragments with fleeting images. They surge in short, choppy spurts. Many are stripped of definite articles and verbs. There is very little direct dialogue and no quotation marks. The effect is jarring, the impact powerful. The style borders on stream of consciousness, thrusting us in different directions as we try to navigate the maze of Medea’s thought patterns and emotions.

It’s important to note that Medea is not the only character capable of brutality and murder. We are told Aeetes hangs corpses on trees; Pelias murders his brother and nephew to seize control of the throne. He also tortures and enslaves Jason and Medea for six years until Medea obtains their release through her gruesome machinations. But because these are powerful men, they act with impunity. Medea’s conduct suggests if it is acceptable for men to behave as monsters then it should be acceptable for women to do the same. She hammers her point by perpetrating her crimes in particularly graphic and brutal ways. For example, she not only decapitates her brother, she smears his blood, licks it, and spits it out in full view of Jason and his crew. As with her male counterparts, Medea’s goal is to instill fear and absolute obedience.     

Euripides’ Medea and David Vann’s Bright Air Black can be seen as cautionary tales in that they share a common theme about possible consequences of “Othering.” They suggest that if a people is consistently “othered;” marginalized; discriminated against; denied rights available to others; stripped of voice and agency; labeled foreigners, savages, monsters; some of these people may one day rise up screaming revenge. And if that revenge is ever manifested, it may take a form that is brutal, monstrous, and designed to make us reel in shock and horror.     

This is a stunning novel in its haunting depiction of the internal machinations of a dark, complex, maniacal, and brilliant female in Greek mythology. Some may sympathize with Medea and understand her rage while condemning her actions. Others may turn away in disgust. But whatever one thinks of her, David Vann’s Medea is a character not soon to be forgotten.      

Highly recommended.

Boudica: Dreaming the Eagle

Manda Scott

Boudica: Dreaming the Eagle by Manda Scott is the first of four books on the life of Boudica of the Eceni tribe, the female Celtic warrior who defended Britain against the invading Roman army beginning in the year 43 C.E.     

At the ripe old age of eleven, Breaca, later named Boudica, (“Bringer of Victory”) kills the man who attacked and killed her mother. We follow Breaca as she matures into a heroic warrior who slowly but surely assumes the mantle of leadership in her community.     

Manda Scott combines the available research on tribal Britain and the historical figure of Boudica with a creative imagination that is both convincing and compelling. She serves a tale of epic proportions. Scott plunges us into the world of 1st Century Britain with its tribal conflicts and alignments, its Dreamers who predict the future through their dreaming, its animals perceived as emissaries from the gods, and its spirits of the dead who frequently appear to the living to warn them of impending disasters and to guide them forward.    

Painted in vivid detail, this is a world simultaneously brutal and sensitive, a world in which battle scenes are littered with bloodied corpses and mangled limbs, a world of horrific torture and desecration of the dead. But it is also a world in which warriors value honor, loyalty, and oaths that bind; in which cultural rules are adhered to and respected even at the cost of personal sacrifice; in which the elderly are honored; and in which the spirit of community and sisterhood is in full display as the women rally around Breaca after the death of her mother and celebrate with her at the onset of her menarche.    

Love connections weave their way throughout this tapestry, including illustrations of parental love, sibling love, heterosexual love, and homosexual love. Love of animals is also in full display, including a boy’s love for his hound and his horse.    

Manda Scott has packed a great deal into this novel. And perhaps that is its biggest downfall. She has packed too much. The novel is long and unnecessarily drawn out. At times it was difficult to follow the complex technicalities of the battle scenes and to keep track of which tribe was situated where in the battle lines. In addition, transitions from the natural world to the world of the spirit weren’t clearly delineated. This required re-reading whole passages to distinguish the real from the visionary. But these shortcomings diminish in significance when one considers the work as a whole.    

Manda Scott has written an exciting novel immersing us in her fictional re-imagining of the life and times of Celtic Britain and the remarkable woman credited with challenging the Roman Empire. This is an extraordinary feat of the imagination that will captivate its readers, especially lovers of historical fiction.       

Highly recommended.

Women Who Run With the Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype

Clarissa Pinkola Estés

Women Who Run With the Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype by Clarissa Pinkola Estés is an unqualified call to arms for every woman to unleash the Wild Woman buried within her depths. Estés, a Jungian analyst and storyteller, interprets fairy tales and folk tales as empowering how-to guides for women to reconnect with their wild, instinctual natures. She invites women to view wolves as their metaphorical role models, as inspirations to help them unleash the shackles silencing their voices, stunting their behavior, and smothering their instincts.

By incorporating Jungian psychology and women’s intuition, Estés explores such themes as the importance of belonging; the deleterious impact cultural socialization can have on girl’s psychic development; the ways in which women stunt their own development by internalizing the “mother” voice; the recognition that effective mothering is contingent upon being mothered effectively; the necessity of returning to one’s “soul-home” for replenishment and self-nurturance. Each chapter focuses on a specific topic, for example, “Nosing out the Facts: The Retrieval of Intuition as Initiation” or “Finding One’s Pack: Belonging as Blessing.” Estés introduces the topic by summarizing a short tale and then dissecting and analyzing it to reveal its archetypal layers of meaning. She endows even the most seemingly innocuous detail in a story with meaning and significance.    

Estés is a gifted writer who alternates between explaining complex theories of archetypes and expressing her ideas with a folksy turn of phrase. For example, in describing her clients initial fear of Skeleton Woman and the positive qualities she embodies, Estés says: “It [Skeleton Woman] careens into shore, and before you can say jackrabbit, they [Estés’ clients] are running for their lives, and as analyst I am running along beside them trying to put a word in, while guess-who bumpety-bumps along behind.” Her writing is full of similar gems. At times, however, she has a tendency to repeat herself and prolongs explanations unnecessarily as she tries to hammer home her message. And some of her sentences suffer from excessive verbosity. But for the most part, her writing is engaging, lively, and spirited.    

Estés’ discussion is full of interesting insights and theories about why we behave the way we do. Her analysis helps us gain a better understanding of both the internal and external forces that collude to impede our development. With this understanding, we are given the tools for tapping into our inner resources to manifest our authentic selves.    

This is a book that can be read and re-read, slowly and thoughtfully, to extrapolate the nuggets of wisdom to be found in virtually every page. Some sections will prove more relevant than others depending on the individual, his/her experiences and stage in life. Also, the passage that resonates with a reader today may not be the one to resonate with the same individual years from now. But no matter where one is in life, no matter one’s circumstances, there is sure to be something here for everyone.    

Highly recommended.

The Bell Jar

Sylvia Plath

“It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs, and I didn’t know what I was doing in New York.” With that opening sentence, Sylvia Plath immerses us in the world of Esther Greenwood, the nineteen-year-old narrator of The Bell Jar. This opening sentence is prescient in that the reference to the Rosenberg’s electrocution foreshadows Esther’s electric shock treatments in the asylum; her declaration of aimlessness sums up the lack of direction she feels about her own life.    

Esther is articulate, intelligent, talented, and penetratingly honest. Plath does a remarkable job of taking the reader inside Esther’s mind as she struggles with herself and evaluates her life from the standpoint of a detached observer. Plagued with despair, self-doubt, and feelings of inadequacy and futility, her flirtation with thoughts of death permeate the novel. Her almost clinical exploration of the possible methods of committing suicide is chilling enough only to be compounded by the knowledge that Plath took her own life two weeks after the novel’s publication.    

Plath’s prose is threaded with elegant metaphors and unforgettable images that evoke her narrator’s frame of mind. The writing is descriptive, clear, poignant, and reflective of a sensitive young girl alienated from the world around her and feeling hollow inside. Esther describes herself as trapped in a bell jar, isolated, exposed, stifled, and . . . “blanked and stopped as a dead baby.” From inside the bell jar, the outside world appears to her as a “bad dream.”

Esther draws us into her life, making us her companions as she evaluates herself and the people around her with a jaundiced eye. She drifts from one sporadic event to another with no apparent purpose and no obvious connection. The effect is jarring and reflects Esther’s spiraling descent into depression, breakdown, and attempted suicide. Her unabashed honesty is compelling. Her dry sense of humor is endearing. Her voice is gripping. And her refusal to conform to the restrictive pressures society inflicts on her is heroic.   

The novel closes with Esther’s appearance in front of the board that determines whether or not she is well enough to be released from the asylum. We cheer her on hoping she has extricated herself from the bell jar with its stifling, suffocating air and is now filling her lungs with air that is fresh, clean, and breathable. And we do so with the sobering knowledge that Sylvia Plath, the brilliant author who introduced us to this memorable character, tragically never escaped her own bell jar.  

Highly recommended.

The Hummingbird's Daughter

Luis Alberto Urrea

In The Hummingbird’s Daughter, Luis Alberto Urrea tells the story of his great aunt Teresa, known as St. Teresa, the “Mexican Joan of Arc.”   

Urrea chronicles the life of Teresa from the time of her birth as the illegitimate child of a young girl named “Hummingbird” and a wealthy Mexican rancher, Don Tomás Urrea. Abandoned by her mother, Teresa is initially raised by an abusive aunt and later taken under the wing of Huila, a respected medicine woman and healer.   

Teresa becomes Huila’s apprentice, developing healing powers and visions that eventually exceed those of her teacher. Her reputation spreads rapidly among the indigenous population, the poor, and the outcasts, all of whom flock to her side seeking blessings and healing. Her teachings of equality and justice threaten both the government and the church, eventually inspiring the Mexican revolution. Perceived as a danger to the establishment, she is captured and sent into exile in North America.   

This is a powerful story, powerfully told. Urrea has the skill of a master storyteller who underscores the irony and humor and cruelty found in life, describing all with unflinching honesty. He does not shy from describing the horrors, the filth, the stench, and the unimaginable brutalities human beings are capable of inflicting on each other in their pursuit of power. He also illustrates the sensitivity, generosity, and tenderness of people struggling to survive in a harsh political and natural environment. Peppered throughout the narrative are instances of magical realism—strange, inexplicable happenings; dream journeys; mysterious healings made with the touch of a hand; a girl who comes back to life just as preparations are being made for her funeral.    

Urrea skillfully immerses us in a different time, a different place. He breathes life into a panoramic landscape by flooding our senses with the sights, sounds, touch, and smells of humans, animals, and foliage populating the environment. His characters are well-rounded, recognizable human beings. Teresa is a compassionate, courageous, lively, vulnerable, and loving young girl, capable of enjoying life with gusto and of embracing all people regardless of—or maybe because of—their foibles, failings, and suffering. Tomás, her father, is a religious skeptic with a generosity of spirit and an ability to love unconditionally. And Huila is the no-nonsense crotchety old wise woman who recognizes Teresa’s true potential and teaches her to cultivate it.   

The Hummingbird’s Daughter is a masterpiece, vast in scope with vivid characters and a story line that grips the reader from the first page to the last.   

Highly recommended.

The Whale Road

Robert Low

Robert Low’s The Whale Road takes us back to over a thousand years ago to experience life as a Viking raider through the voice of young Orm Rurikson.  Orm becomes a member of the Oathsworn, the crew of a Viking raiding ship. The Oathsworn derive their name from an oath to Odin that binds them together in brotherhood. They are hired as relic-hunters. Through the many twists and turns of the plot, they eventually end up seeking the buried treasure of Attila the Hun. 

Low firmly thrusts the reader in a man’s world. With one notable exception, women are treated as incidentals, there for the taking. The novel is replete with crashing shields, slashing swords, clanging metal, whizzing arrows, dismembered body parts, obscenities, foul smells, graphic descriptions of bodily functions, breast-thumping machismo, swinging axes, gushing blood, and fierce hand-to-hand combat.

The writing is fast-paced and vigorous—sometimes a little too fast because it was difficult at times to know what was happening and who was fighting whom. The confusion is compounded by the plethora of Nordic characters, some of whom are mentioned in a few lines or a few pages only to disappear entirely from the novel. The first few chapters are especially bewildering with their convoluted story line and flashbacks. The writing is a little choppy, but one eventually gets caught up in the rhythm of the book and gallops along with the events.

References to Norse mythology and the conflict with the “White Christ” abound. And punctuated throughout the blood and gore are moments of surprising humor. The Oathsworn tease each other mercilessly, engaging in friendly put-downs and snappy barbs that are funny.

As the narrator of events, Orm Rurikson is unflinchingly honest. He describes the battlefield as a grim and bloody killing fest, one that bears no relationship to the heroic battle descriptions in the sagas of Norse culture. Brotherhood oaths and shield walls notwithstanding, Orm recognizes survival on the battlefield may have as much to do with luck as skill.

With its vivid, gritty, and visceral descriptions, this is not a novel for the faint-hearted or for those seeking novels about polite society. But if you’re looking for an action-packed, entertaining story, a compelling page-turner that grips you into the grisly warp and weft of a Viking raider’s life, then this is a book for you.

Recommended.

Hatchepsut: The Female Pharaoh

Joyce Tyldesley

Hatchepsut by Joyce Tyldesley is a documented research on the life of Hatchepsut, the female pharaoh of the 18th Dynasty. Tyldesley pieces together the available historical and archaeological evidence to detail the life and times of Hatchepsut. Unfortunately, there is much that has been lost to us as a result of tomb robbers, the pillaging of Egypt’s antiquities, and the systematic attempts to erase all evidence of Hatchepsut’s rule shortly after her demise.     

Tyldesley’s scholarly approach to the subject is to be commended. She does not attempt to sensationalize the issue of a female pharaoh. She presents the known facts methodically; dispels the theory of mutual animosity existing between Hatchepsut and her step-son, Tuthmosis III; situates Hatchepsut’s rise to power within its historical context; provides alternative scholarly interpretations to events when relevant; and then suggests the path that seems the most logical. What emerges is a fascinating portrait of a powerful female who assumed the position of pharaoh after the death of her half brother/husband, Tuthmosis II.     

Hatchepsut went to extraordinary lengths to present herself as a viable, legitimate pharaoh. She wore male clothing, including a pharaoh’s false beard, and, among other things, ordered a sequence of images of her own divine conception and birth be carved in a portico in her mortuary temple at Deir el-Bahri. Since all kings of Egypt had wives, Hatchepsut selected her daughter, Neferure, to assume the role of the king’s wife, assigning her its duties.     

Tyldesley highlights Hatchepsut’s military exploits, her expeditions to foreign lands, including Punt, and her instigation of an impressive construction program of monuments and mortuary temples. Egypt experienced a time of prosperity and peace under her rule. She relied heavily on her advisor, Senenmut, for a number of years. But for reasons we can only speculate, Senenmut eventually fell out of favor with her.    

Shortly after her death and the ascension of Tuthmosis III as Pharaoh, systematic attempts were made to erase all evidence of Hatchepsut’s reign, including effacing her monuments and wall carvings on mortuary temples. This was tantamount to an attempt to erase her from history and to subject her spirit to a “Second Death” from which there could be no return. Although some scholars speculate that Tuthmosis III was avenging himself on his stepmother for usurping his right to throne, Tyldesley argues the evidence for this is inconclusive.     

We may never know all there is to know about Hatchepsut. But Joyce Tyldesley has produced an engaging, readable, scholarly work based on the available evidence about this female pharaoh. In the process, she has given us a glimpse of a fascinating woman living in fascinating times.   

Highly recommended.

Mayan Folktales: Folklore From Lake Atitlan, Guatemala

James D. Sexton

Mayan Folktales: Folklore from Lake Atitlan, Guatemala translated and edited by James D. Sexton is a collection of folktales obtained in collaboration with Ignacio, a Guatemalan Indian whom Sexton met in 1970. Ignacio’s good relationship with the elderly in his village was invaluable in encouraging them to open up to him and to share their stories, stories that had been transmitted orally for centuries.

The 34 folktales in the collection are diverse. Some are for entertainment purposes only while others are for edification. Through these folktales, we learn about Mayan cultural values: the social obligations toward others; maintaining the proper attitude while participating in religious ceremonies and festivals; the gendered division of labor; the importance of sharing and compassion; the virtue of hard work; the proper way to grow crops; and respect for the environment. There is also a story of creation, which includes a modified version of the fall of first man and first woman.

The stories are populated with talking animals, humans transformed into animals and animals into humans, kettles and pans complaining about their burnt bottoms, talking beans and corn, tricksters and shamans, dragons and giants, and priests whose behavior is decidedly unpriestly. Some of the stories are funny; some are bawdy; some are edifying; but all are entertaining.

Recommended.

Complaints and Disorders: The Sexual Politics of Sickness

Barbara Ehrenreich and Deirdre English

Complaints and Disorders: The Sexual Politics of Sickness by Barbara Ehrenreich and Deirdre English, their sequel to Witches, Midwives, and Nurses: A History of Women Healers, documents the role of the medical system in propagating and fueling sexist ideology. The authors argue it is not biology that oppresses women; it is a social system based on sex and class discrimination.    

Focusing on the late 19th and early 20th century, Ehrenreich and English cite one example after another of the barbaric “cures” women received for the ostensible purpose of healing them. These range from the compulsory “rest cure” made famous in Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s The Yellow Wallpaper to the placement of leeches on the cervix to combat amenorrhea.    

The authors discuss the impact of race and class on women’s health. Upper class and middle class women aspiring to the upper class were perceived as weak, sickly, and frail. They were prescribed a life of enforced leisure with little to no physical activity. Their confinement to the home coupled with unmitigated boredom led to the cult known as “female invalidism” or hypochondria—a condition made even worse by the rest cure. The male dominated medical profession fueled this myth of female frailty since it served the financial interests of the physician to do so.    

By contrast, working class and immigrant women, living in urban slums and exposed to hazardous working conditions, were perceived as breeders of germs and disease. They certainly did not have the luxury to indulge themselves in a rest cure or take advantage of medical care since that was virtually non-existent for the poor. Fear of the spread of disease, especially VD in the case of prostitutes, eventually spurred the growth of the public health movement and the birth control movement, both of which were aimed the reducing the risk of contagious diseases and curbing the population growth of the working class and immigrants.    

The authors conclude their study by discussing the changes that have taken place since the 19th and early 20th centuries in the medical profession’s treatment of women. They urge women to educate themselves on their bodies and to recognize their biological similarities with all women while acknowledging the medical needs of women will vary based on race and class.  

An essential read for those interested in the use of medicine as a form of social control whose purpose is to bolster a sexist ideology. 

Witches, Midwives, and Nurses: A History of Women Healers

Barbara Ehrenreich and Deirdre English

Witches, Midwives, and Nurses: A History of Women Healers by Barbara Ehrenreich and Deirdre English traces the systematic and systemic persecution of women as healers beginning with the witch-hunt craze of the 14th through 17th centuries up to the early 20th Century. As Ehrenreich and English demonstrate, women have always been healers, primarily healers of women and the poor. But their journey has been fraught with peril. For over five centuries they faced a systematic, two-pronged attack on their vocation: first from the church and then from the male-dominated medical profession. 

The number of women in Europe who were tortured, burned at the stake, or executed by the Protestant and Catholic churches over a period of three centuries is staggering. By some estimates it is in the millions. These women were accused of any number of crimes: consorting with the devil; committing sexual crimes against men (including causing male impotency and making their penises “disappear”); committing murder; distributing poison. They were even persecuted for using their knowledge of human anatomy and medicinal herbs and remedies to heal and help the sick! As Ehrenreich and English point out, there has not been a consistent justification for shunting women from healing roles.

As we moved toward the 20th Century, the establishment of medicine as a profession requiring university training further diminished the role of women as healers since women were denied access to university. Forced out of the role of healers, women adopted the supporting role of nurses. As such, they manifested the “wifely virtue of absolute obedience” to the doctor, and the “selfless devotion of a mother” to the patient.  

Even though the situation for women in the medical profession has improved since its publication (the 1970s), Witches, Midwives, and Nurses: A History of Women Healers is still well worth reading because it illuminates how two powerful forces systematically and consistently colluded for many centuries in ejecting women from their role as healers and replacing them with male physicians.  

Highly recommended.

Lyrics Alley

Leila Aboulela

Through its intersecting story lines, Lyrics Alley by Leila Aboulela portrays the Abuzeid dynasty in 1950s Sudan. Set against the backdrop of turbulent political times, Mahmoud Bey, the patriarch, navigates between clashing forces both in his public and private life: the indigenous population’s collision with British rule as it strives for independence; Waheeba, his Sudanese first wife steeped in the traditions of her culture versus his second wife Nabilah, a younger and more progressive Egyptian woman; his brother and business partner, Idris, who displays a staunch opposition to his daughter’s intellectual growth; his oldest son, Nassir, who has shown little aptitude for carrying on the family business while his second son and more promising heir, Nur, is unable to fulfill the promise because a swimming accident renders him paralyzed from the neck down. Nur eventually fulfills his dream of becoming a successful poet, his character inspired by the life of the author’s uncle Hassan Awad Aboulela.   

This is a novel about transitions—about the growing pains involved in moving from a traditional culture to one that is more progressive, especially as it pertains to the lives of young girls and women. It is also about love: Nur’s love for his cousin Soraya and his ultimate recognition he has to release her to live her life; Waheeba’s unconditional love for her son, Nur; the devout Ustaz Badr’s love for his family; Nassir’s love for his brother; and Mahmoud Bey trying to do right by everyone.  

The characters are movingly portrayed, especially Nur’s frustration as he struggles to come to terms with his disability and his distaste at being totally dependent on others for his personal hygiene; the gentle compassion with which Ustaz Badr treats his father; and Soraya’s struggle as she tries to define herself and her role in the new Sudan. 

Leila Aboulela’s development as a novelist is evident as Lyrics Alley is not as strong as her later novel, The Kindness of Enemies. It is, nevertheless, an engaging read and highly recommended.

The School of Essential Ingredients

Erica Bauermeister

Erica Bauermeister’s The School of Essential Ingredients is a warm, light-hearted novel about a motley crew of strangers who come together for a cooking class on Monday evenings at Lillian’s restaurant. Among them is Claire, a young mother struggling to find herself in a haze of toddlers and diapers; an elderly married couple; an attractive Italian woman with bubbling energy; a man still grieving over the loss of his wife; a computer engineer with a discerning palate for herbs and spices; a young girl who manifests her low self esteem by being clumsy and awkward; and an elderly lady with bouts of dementia. They enter Lillian’s restaurant as strangers. With gentle nudges from an unrealistically omniscient Lillian who seems to know exactly which culinary masterpiece is needed for the occasion, the strangers become acquainted with each other, emerging at the end of the cooking class with souls that have been healed, lives that have been restored, and friendships that have been forged. 

The novel is a quick and easy read. It suffers somewhat from its predictability, its lack of depth, and its abundance of sentimentality. But if you’re looking for a “feel good” novel that restores your faith in humanity while stimulating your taste buds, you can’t go wrong with this.

The Hakawati

Rabih Alameddine

The Hakawati (Arabic for storyteller) by Rabih Alameddine appropriately begins with the word “Listen” and ends with the word “Listen.” These two words form a circle encapsulating an enchanting world of stories within stories within stories told by a gifted storyteller who knows how to attract and sustain his audience’s attention. 

The main narrative is of Osama al-Kharrat who returns to Beirut in 2003 after an absence of many years to see his dying father. Within that narrative are flashbacks of Osama’s childhood; stories he heard from his grandfather, including circumstances surrounding his grandfather’s birth and family history; and fragmented memories of life in Lebanon before the civil war that decimated the country. We meet Osama’s large extended family and hear their stories as they visit the dying man in the hospital.

Woven within this main narrative is a rich tapestry of stories primarily taken from Islamic and Jewish texts, Arab literature, and Arab folklore. The characters and events populating these stories have been re-imagined in entertaining and inventive ways. We encounter demons and djinns, sit in the presence of august emirs and sultans, experience magic carpet rides, witness battles and conquests, visit the underworld, receive an education on pigeon wars, listen to rhapsodies of romantic love, learn of magic potions, and observe as dismembered bodies of loved ones are carefully reassembled and retrieved from the dead.  

Alameddine skillfully weaves myths, fables, tall tales, legends, stories within stories, short digressions, long digressions, wit, sarcasm, laugh out loud humor, twists and turns, and anything else imaginable into the backdrop of a Lebanon recovering from a devastating civil war and a prominent family that survived it. He has earned the title of being a true Hakawati—a master storyteller who seduces his listeners to join him on a boisterous, rollicking journey that captivates from the first “Listen” to the last.

Highly recommended.

Fasting, Feasting

Anita Desai

A finalist for the Booker Prize in 1999, Anita Desai’s Fasting, Feasting is divided into two parts. Part 1 takes place in India with a family of five: a father, mother, two daughters, and one son. Part 2 takes place in America with a family of four: a father, mother, son, and daughter. The connecting thread is Arun, the long-awaited for son of the Indian family who goes to Massachusetts to study and spends a summer with the American family. Although worlds apart, the two families have in common a patriarchal family structure with an inflexible hierarchy that goes unchallenged, one that forces its members into rigidly defined roles. In both cultures, women are the primary victims whether they are married or single, young or old. 

Part 1 is seen through the eyes of Uma, the eldest daughter of the Indian family. She suffers from epilepsy and myopia—both of which are trivialized by her family and treated as inconveniences. She remains unmarried and lives with her parents who run her ragged with their constant demands. Uma complains but is ultimately complicit in her subordination. She has little choice. Uneducated, single, unemployed, she is totally reliant on her parents for survival.   

Desai takes us to America in Part 2 where we meet the Patton family. We see them through the eyes of Arun who is shocked to recognize some of the same patterns he witnessed in his own family. In Mrs. Patton he sees similarities with his own mother. Both constantly defer to their husbands and are reluctant to assert themselves. On those rare occasions when either woman expresses her views, her husband ignores her. Melanie, the Patton daughter, is bulimic. In her angry, contorted face, Arun recognizes the same expression worn by his sister Uma whose needs have been similarly misunderstood, ignored, and neglected.

Desai uses food as metaphor (the fasting and feasting of the title) to compare and contrast the two families. In one culture, food is used as a vehicle to express communion; in the other, it is used to express isolation. In India the sharing of meals assumes almost ritualistic importance. The family is drawn together for their meals even though communication falters and all are there to cater to the father. Food is a frequent topic of discussion: when to cook, what to cook, what food to offer guests, and who should or should not be invited to share a meal. By contrast, the Patton family has a problematic attitude toward food. The mother stuffs the freezer and refrigerator with food even though what is already there hasn’t been eaten. The father grills steaks that no one else wants to eat. The daughter gorges on peanuts and candy only to vomit everything out a few minutes later. The son forages for leftover meat on the implements used for grilling. And the family never sits together for a meal. They eat in isolation.

Desai is a keen observer of human behavior. Her characters come to life within the first few pages. They are revealed through intricate details—gestures, facial expressions, words said, and words left unsaid. Desai shows rather than tells. In Part 1, for example, there is a wonderful scene where the Indian family sits at the dinner table. Having finished the main meal, the father waits with a “sphinx like” expression. The mother takes it as her cue to peel him an orange. She meticulously removes the pips and places slice by slice carefully on the father’s plate. The father then lifts each slice, placing it ceremoniously in his mouth. Everyone watches in deafening silence at this amazing feat. When he finishes, mother sits back, flushed with pride at her achievement while father maintains his stony-faced silence without so much as a nod of appreciation. This scene speaks volumes.

Unfortunately, the novel ends abruptly, lacking in closure. We are told Arun leaves the Patton household to return to the dorms at the start of a new semester. We hear no more about his family. In spite of an ending that falls short, however, Desai’s skill at characterization through telling description is impressive and makes the novel well worth reading.

The King Must Die

Mary Renault

The King Must Die by Mary Renault is a re-telling of the Greek myth of Theseus. Renault begins with Theseus’ early childhood and concludes with his killing of the Minotaur in Crete.

Although Renault does an admirable job of fleshing out the historical setting and situating the myth in a realistic, historical context, her story-telling abilities did not live up to expectations. The first part of the novel was flat and plodding. The pace did pick up with Theseus’ arrival in Crete with the descriptions of life in the Bull Court, the Bull Dance, the earthquake, and the killing of the Minotaur.

The novel suffered from two main problems. The first lies in Renault’s writing style. Some of her sentences were unnecessarily cumbersome, wordy, and convoluted. The book was first published in 1958, so the muddled syntax may be attributed to its date of publication since writing styles have changed since then. However, books published even a few centuries before this did not suffer from the same problem. See, for example, the following sentence:

“All this I saw before he deigned to look at me; this and the way he stood; like a painting done on a wall of a princely victor, whom words do not touch, nor time and change, nor tears, nor anger; but he will stand so in his ease and pride, uncaring, till war or earthquake shakes down the wall.”

The same message could have been conveyed clearly, concisely, and without all that extra verbiage and pretentious language. And then there were sentences that left one scratching one’s head:

“If a man could prevent knowledge before he has it, I would not have known.”

The second problem lies in the handling of Theseus as the first person point of view narrator. The issue is not because Theseus exhibits an over-sexed masculinity and is a misogynist since that is probably an accurate reflection of the male culture of the time. It isn’t even because he is an unreliable narrator since unreliable narrators can reveal the inner workings of their minds in a manner that engages the reader and sustains our attention. It’s just that Theseus was not an interesting or engaging character. He was flat out boring.

Reynault’s lackluster portrayal of Theseus coupled with her writing style of unnecessarily convoluted syntax and unorthodox use of punctuation for no apparent reason detracted from what would otherwise have been an interesting re-telling of the myth.

Slaying the Mermaid: Women and the Culture of Sacrifice

Stephanie Golden

Slaying the Mermaid: Women and the Culture of Sacrifice by Stephanie Golden explores the issue of why so many women are willing to cater to the needs of others even at the expense of sacrificing their personal happiness, psychic health, and physical well-being. Using Hans Christian Andersen’s Little Mermaid as metaphor, Golden compares the behaviors of historical and contemporary women to the mermaid’s willingness to mutilate her body, lose her voice, and endure pain all because of a distorted sense of devotion to another person(s), an ideal, or a cause.

Golden weaves interviews of contemporary women with examples of the behaviors of historical women and with the research of prominent past and present historians, sociologists, psychiatrists, and physicians. Her well-documented research explores the religious and cultural roots of sacrifice and the unequal distribution of the burden placed on women to endure physical and psychological pain for the benefit of others. Women’s conditioning has been so ingrained that many women harbor feelings of guilt if they articulate their personal needs and/or insist on having them addressed. This results in women de-selfing, losing their identity, abandoning their dreams and aspirations, and assuming the guise of victim and/or martyr—a guise which relieves them of personal responsibility. They starve themselves both literally (as in the case of anorexics) and metaphorically from a sense of guilt and need for affirmation.

Golden argues that sacrifice in and of itself is not a bad thing. Sacrifice should be an exercise of conscious, mindful choice. It can and should be constructive, fulfilling, self-enhancing, mutually empowering, and nurturing of oneself as well as of those we serve. Problems arise when sacrifice is stripped of these qualities and, instead, entails self-defeating behaviors, a loss of voice and agency, a willingness to endure ill health and pain, and the surrender of control over one’s life.

Golden’s shuffling between different interview subjects was confusing at times and the central argument became repetitive. In spite of that, however, Slaying the Mermaid has considerable merit. The research is well-documented, all-encompassing, and considers how the intersections of race and class impact the gendered manifestations of sacrifice. Ample concrete examples from the lives of women buttress the claims.

But perhaps more importantly, the study spurs us to examine the motives behind our own sacrifices: Are our sacrifices made by choice? Or are they the result of years of a socialization that promotes the ideal of true womanhood as consisting of self-denial and a willingness to embrace physical and psychological pain in the service of others?

Slaying the Mermaid prompts us to interrogate our own motives. And as such, it provides a valuable service that makes it well worth reading.

The Handmaid's Tale

Margaret Atwood

In Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale, the Handmaid Offred recounts in chilling detail the horrors of life in the fictitious Republic of Gilead. Offred’s unflinching lens in describing the circumstances of her life is thrown in stark contrast with her memories of how life used to be.

A taste of Gilead’s state sponsored practices: censorship, exploitation of women as baby-making machines, public display of corpses dangling from ropes, book-banning, control of women’s reproductive organs, secrecy, selective enforcement of rules, black vans that swoop in and “disappear” people, a climate of fear and distrust, road blocks, security checkpoints, confinement, clothing as markers of status, stripping of personal identity, othering, separation of families, discrimination based on race and/or ethnicity, banning the written word, armed militias roaming the streets, corruption and debauchery of officials, public executions, prohibition of birth control and abortion, torture, informants within one’s sex/caste/race/religion, control of the media, and enforcement of religious extremism. All these acts are committed in the name of security and for “the public good.”

While it may be easy to dismiss events in this book as a work of fiction, and/or as the creative imagination of a gifted writer, and while it may be easy to reassure oneself this can never happen in the real world, the truth of the matter is that it is happening. At one time or another, in one corner of the world or another, many such atrocities have been and still are being perpetrated on innocent people.

Margaret Atwood’s brilliant novel serves as an uncompromising reminder to men and women to remain vigilant in opposing every creeping infringement on our rights as human beings no matter how innocuous these infringements might initially appear to be. We need to be particularly vigilant if these infringements come under the guise of safeguarding our security. As we saw in The Handmaid’s Tale, it was by utilizing those very tactics that the Republic of Gilead managed to get a stranglehold on its population.

Highly recommended

The Locust and the Bird: My Mother's Story

Hanan Al-Shaykh

In The Locust and the Bird: My Mother's Story, the contemporary Arab author Hanan Al-Shaykh writes the biography of Kamila, her mother. Al-Shaykh tells the story of her mother’s childhood in 1930s Lebanon, her forced marriage at the age of 14, her illicit love affair with the man who later became her second husband, her divorce from her first husband, her second marriage, her widowhood and its aftermath. The narrative construction is unusual in that Al-Shaykh tells her mother’s story from her mother’s point of view, through her mother’s voice.

We experience the Arab world through Kamila’s lens. She is a child forced into a marriage with her much older brother-in-law after the death of his first wife. Although she is defiant and resourceful, she is also immature. She never seems to grow up or to assume the responsibilities of an adult—even after giving birth to seven children. Denied access to schooling, she remains illiterate all her life. Her knowledge of the world and how it operates is influenced by what she sees on the movie screen. She confuses the real world with the glitz of Egyptian movies and the lives of Egyptian movie stars. Struggling with debt after the death of her second husband, Kamila does what she has been doing all her life: she relies on her good looks and charm to get her through her difficulties.

In her later years, Kamila comes to regret the choices she made in life, including abandoning her two oldest daughters in order to be with the man she loves. But in spite of her remorse, she does not come across as a sympathetic or endearing character. She is self-absorbed, selfish, and has no qualms about using people—especially her children—to achieve her goals.

Because Kamila is illiterate, she has to rely on those around her to shape her worldview. As a consequence, she espouses a narrow worldview with very limited options. It is not surprising she is incompetent when it comes to managing a budget, running a household, or raising children. She has never been taught. And what female role models she does have were denied the same opportunities, rendering them equally incompetent.

Kamila’s tragedy lies in the fact she is never allowed to reach her potential. She has a romantic spirit that longs to soar. She loves the language of poetry, composing poems and committing them to memory but unable to write them down. Her family insists on keeping her illiterate, a situation she regrets all of her life. Forced into an unwanted marriage to a man nearly two decades her senior, castigated as a fallen women when she finally divorces him and marries the man she loves, she spends most of her adult years pregnant with one child after another. There is little room for individual growth or development under such challenging circumstances. But Kamila has the last word when she convinces her daughter to put pen to paper and write her life story.

Unfortunately, Al-Shaykh’s biography of her mother rambles, its prose simplistic and choppy. It reads like a diary—a series of unfocused, disconnected, episodic events that lack coherence or an organizational plan. But the book does have value in that it illustrates the deleterious impact on women when society denies them choice and opportunity for growth and development.

Throughout history, different cultures have oppressed girls and severely constrained their mobility and intellectual development. Whether they were kept barefoot, ignorant, or pregnant; subjected to the horrors of female infanticide, foot binding, or genital mutilation; bartered or sold off to an early marriage or prostitution, girls and women have historically been treated as pawns to be used and abused for the economic benefit of their families.

Kamila is no exception. Her childhood, upbringing, and experience severely hamper the range of possibilities available to her as a young girl growing up in that environment at that time and in that place. Unfortunately, many young girls throughout the world continue to experience the same harsh restraints—restraints that deprive them of the ability to thrive and flourish. As such, The Locust and the Bird serves as a cautionary tale of wasted potential and thwarted aspirations.