I am way to the left on criminal justice issues and am strongly opposed to capital punishment, but if there is one group of offenders forcing me to reconsider my commitment to the values I hold, it is probably that comprised of people who write in library books. I'd like a grant for a study researching both people who write in library books and people who engage in loud, long cellphone conversations in otherwise quiet and enclosed spaces (e.g., the bus from the Port Authority to Kingston, NY; the train from Penn Station to Philadelphia). My theory is that there's a great deal of correlation between these two behaviors, and studying the subjects who engage in them would add to the body of scientific knowledge that could be used in the future to develop a program wherein perpetrators of these acts could be grouped together and transported to an out-of-the-way location; because honestly, I really don't believe in capital punishment, but even my lefty views must admit that some citizens infringe upon the rights of the rest of us in completely unacceptable ways. Therefore, I propose mandatory relocation of library-book-writers and obnoxious-cell-phone-users to a distant and underpopulated island.A cold and ugly island, though, not a beautiful one like Dominica, where The Autobiography of My Mother is set. Though as Jamaica Kincaid makes clear, life on a Caribbean island isn't just always a Jimmy Buffettesque lark in the sand.I liked this book, though I'm sure not everyone would, and I managed to enjoy it despite the infuriatingly stupid underlining and marginalia of a previous NYPL patron. It's the story of a girl whose mother died giving birth to her; this motherlessness defines the main character's identity and life, which the story chronicles. Much of the novel is about colonialism, and it is very brutal and intense, with a great deal of human cruelty, sex, and masturbation. I thought it was good. It really took me into the existence of someone I couldn't relate to at all, in a way that was both interesting and satisfying, and it made me think about colonialism and power in a new way. What more do we want?One of the things I liked a lot about this book was that it did a lot of "telling" instead of "showing." When I took fiction-writing class in college, the standard go-to criticism of pretty much anything I or anyone else wrote was, "You do too much telling; you need to do more showing!" This seems to be the infallible rule of writing workshops, that "telling" is about the worst sin one can commit and "showing" is just an absolutely great thing to do, but honestly, I've never accepted this dogma at all. What the hell is wrong with some good old telling? I like being told things sometimes. Seriously! Who decided this was such a horrible thing to do? I like telling, and I like to be told, provided it's done right. In this book, the narrator tells you all sorts of things, and it's great. It's what makes the novel work. I am sure that if Jamaica Kincaid had shared the draft of this book with a gaggle of undergraduates, they all would have been on her ass about all the telling and would have explained that she needed to show more. To which I say: screw them! All those fiction workshop kids might take a deep breath and settle down, lest I decide to expand criteria for my island.Anyway, this book wasn't flawless or amazing, but I did enjoy it. I felt no driving passion to get through the story and wouldn't have been upset if someone had taken it away from me halfway though, but I did like reading it and don't feel that time was wasted at all.
A somewhat longer and more complex work than the other book I just read by Kincaid, 'Annie John.' Similarly, though, it deals with fraught and complex emotional relationships. Or lack of relationships. The narrator here is a woman, Xuela, whose mother died in childbirth; and who lets that lack define who she is as as person.Her father is a distant and venal man, and Xuela doesn't think much of him. By necessity, she is essentially on her own. However, as the book progresses, she seeks something(?) in others: the narrator has an affair with a much older man, marries a white man who cares deeply for her but whom she does not love, and falls in love with a married man to whom she is only one of many women.Xuela strives to find an identity and a place for herself in the world, but through all her striving is a dark fatalism which undercuts her: what she describes as a 'bleak, black wind' at her back. This can be read as stemming from her family situation, her community, her gender, and the legacy of colonialism - but it's also simply and matter-of-factly portrayed as just the way this character is, without apologies or excuses.Is this actually Kincaid's reconstruction of her mother's life, or is the title a reference to the looming absence of the narrator's mother? I'm not sure.
Do You like book The Autobiography Of My Mother (1997)?
I loved this book. What a difficult life she's lead. She kept saying that her mother died the moment she was born, and I want to trust her as a narrator. However, upon looking at the back cover, it is classified as "fiction." Now, this calls into question of an unreliable narrator. Did she really live this life? If she did, my heart breaks for her. However, she is full of love for herself, which most people of a dominant race never achieve. However shallow she may be, she is still able to love herself. I want this story of her life to be true, I want it so much, because if it is a work of fiction, it kind of ruins the whole disturbingly honest book I've just devoured.
—Andrea Strube
I will start off and say that I loved the writing. It was poetic and lyrical and very trancelike. I could even relate to the protagonist and her yearning for her mother. But there was so much about the plot I didn't like. I'm not sure of the connection between losing your mother and being oversexed all the time. The main character seemed to always be touching herself - I don't know, maybe she was trying to connect with her mother through her femininity, but she literally always her hands between her legs. And she describes the way she likes to smell herself. Again I'm guessing it's a type of way to connect to her mother. I also noticed that there were three distinct sexual relationships. One in which she is raped, one in which she is the dominant one with the doctor, and one that seems the most balanced, with Roman. I guess the author is trying to show how she tried to make up for the loss of intimacy with her mother through other means. The book was a little all over the place, but I could appreciate the writing.
—Mariette
I think I can safely say that I didn't get as much out of this as many of the goodreads reviewers did. Even if I have nothing in common with the narrator, a good novel makes me able to get my head around them or better, enter their world. I felt shut out. From the get-go she was a hard and shaded character. I did not feel invited to understand her. It was a dark book that left me cold. Kincaid did keep me reading because she's such a fine writer. For me, a difficult book to recommend. Definitely not for everyone, but I think people who enjoy reading about the underbelly of society find much to like here.
—Mmars
