Real Estate by Deborah Levy

 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.

NOTE: I have added this review to the other two in the series that I posted on 8th November 2021.