The first book of Deborah Levy's three part "Living Autobiography" delves into childhood whilst telling us what it is to be a woman and how this effects her writing. Except the first section "Political Purpose" sees her as an adult visit an isolated hotel near Palma, Majorca to write. Here, not a novel but memories and thoughts about her place in the world. She thinks "perhaps women secrete their own despair in the process of being mothers and wives. Perhaps, their whole lives long, they lose their rightful kingdom in the despair of every day". And so on. Now, as a man, I don't pretend to have even considered some of the things she says. But this a thought provoking introduction that I will try to read again.
"Historical Impulse" follows Levy's childhood in apartheid South Africa in 1964. With her father in prison, I liked the part where she is palmed off on Grandmother Dory. Her cousin Melissa is seventeen and arrives like a whirlwind. Somehow the book here turns into a brilliant story, full of wit and love. Just a short piece (not twenty pages) but a reminder of Levy's extraordinary prose. Is she remembering exactly what it was like at seven or eight? Or are there some embellishments? But we know she is "Melissa's little chum" and the piece in the convent school is very funny. Levy's father returns from prison after five years and the family leave for England by boat. Waving goodbye to her friend she tells us "Melissa was the first person in my life who had encouraged me to speak up ...... she was spirited and brave and she was making the best of her lot". But the only memory of South Africa she wants to keep is that of the maid Maria. "I don't want to know about my other memories of South Africa. When I arrived in the UK what I wanted was new memories".
In "Sheer Egoism" we are in England in 1974 and Levy is fifteen and had been in West Finchley for six years. "I was born in one country, and grew up in another, but I was not sure which one I belonged to." She is starting to realise that she wants to write, even on napkins in a cafe.
The last part is "Aesthetic Enthusiasm" is only twelve pages and we are back in the Majorca hotel. And in that tiny room, with a desk she is at home, "to become a writer, I had to learn to interrupt, to speak up, to speak a little louder, and then louder, and then to speak in my own voice which is not loud at all". That I never learnt.
Having loved Deborah's Levy's first memoir "Things I don't want to know", I was a little disappointed in this, the second installment of her autobiographical trilogy. The theme about a woman's place in the world did have interesting things to say, but I found it overwhelmed by the recent break up of her marriage. She seems to have very mixed feelings about men. Obviously. Whilst there is some anger there, she recalls one incident in a Boston hotel where a man was "attentive and gentle and kind". And there are others such as the gardener, the Turkish newsagents and "the man who cried at the funeral". who are equally impressive. I was also interested in her new life in a seedy tower block with her daughters and the kind elderly Cecilia who lets her write in her shed. Her Booker shortlisted novel "Swimming Home" is already making a stir.
The third and last in Deborah Levy's memoir (I didn't like the pretentious Living Autobiography tag). Actually the whole book has a certain pretentious quality. That does not mean I was not interested. I enjoyed the first of these three books, less so the second, and even less this one. These are more like musings on her current life, much of which is is fairly boring. Although as a window into a writer's life it is oddly captivating. There are lots of philosophical stuff which interrupt her memoir, and not in a good way.
Now don't get me started on the feminist stuff. Her feelings about men are kind of contradictory. Mostly this "patriarchal culture" dominates the book: "she's (women) always being told what she wants" (some hope in our house). I'm not sure what sort of life has led her to these generalisations. But then there is "my best male friend" who to me is typical of all the men she cannot stand and who I would avoid like the plague.
If it's true that a male writer "viewed every female writer as a sitting tenant on his land" , is she just unlucky, was she joking or just being provocative. But Levy will not let it go: "his final last gasp at crushing her imagination and capabilities is to accuse her of causing his impotence". One reviewer says "she makes the reader want her for a companion". Don't you just hate it when someone tells you what to want, as I would not. Levy goes on and on: "Domestic space, if it is not societally inflicted on women, if it is not an affliction bestowed on us by patriarchy (she does use this word so often) can be a powerful space". And angriest of all: "I was furious about the pain that men inflict on women and girls".
Back to the autobiography, and Levy is off to Paris with a fellowship awarded by Columbia University. One of twelve in the Institute for Ideas and Imagination. Lots about Paris, very little about her colleagues. Although having said that, one does take her to the nightclub Silencio. Her daughters couldn't believe their mother (nearly sixty) was so cool. There is then one passage that, for me, stands out above the rest. It's about goodbyes, inspired by suddenly wanting to hear that Leonard Cohen song ("Hey, That's No Way To Say Goodbye") she first heard at thirteen. Five brilliant pages. That should have ended the book but unfortunately it does not.
What is it about Deborah Levy's writing that is, at times, so captivating? Her prose it not easy or straightforward. Somehow I like the challenge. On Goodreads there are some very articulate reviews from some intelligent people. I don't classify myself as dumb, but these reviews are something else. And here is part of a review of her latest novel August Blue: "reads like a fever dream of the themes explored in her memoirs". There we go.
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