“Lying naked with her chin in her hand, reading poetry.” Jesus, here we go. I feel my hackles rise as I’m thrown into an arena where it’s me versus an imaginary other reader, who I needn’t bother describing, who likes this kind of thing. The spectators — men, male writers, all the dead noble poets we suffered through at university — are watching us in a fight to the death over what it means to be a woman writer, a woman reader. I find myself trying to prove to these crowds of imaginary men that I am not like my opponent, I am better, more serious, less cringe. This is the schizophrenic experience of being a young woman reading Sally Rooney.
We are all feminists until we read a book by another feminist, and then we’re bitchy schoolgirls, treading on each other’s necks. It does not escape me that this is an article by a woman about a book by a woman whose readership is famously female. With this fact comes a knot of pressures, a higher, colder standard to which Rooney is held: can she write from the perspective of men? Can she capture their feelings about sex? Does she only write about sex? Is this really a soap opera?
The few times I have rolled my eyes in the long and generally pleasurable experience of reading Rooney’s new novel, Intermezzo, have been in the moments of apparent pretentiousness. There’s a briefly mentioned character who is “always sneezing into a handkerchief and talking about Karl Marx”. A minor sin. But the moment that really flung me into orbit was when we met our Madonna, our nude poetry reader, our character embodying feminine academic seriousness, Sylvia, and she is described as a “Slender woman at the top of the room talking about eighteenth-century prose forms”. Resisting ridiculing this line — and I feel saintly for doing that — I want to ask instead why I find it so offensive. And I think it’s because I am assuming, quite wrongly, that Rooney is incapable of writing herself out of novels. I am assuming that, like the other waifish Trinity graduates of Rooney’s literary world, this is a model of herself, or of myself, or is something to do with us as female readers.
It is a suspicion Rooney has confronted, as in a recent interview with The Guardian. But this image, the one of Sylvia at the “top of the room”, of being thin, of being clever, has been damaging to Rooney’s early career because it crystallises the uncomfortable girliness, the languorous intensity, of her fans. I still remember a parodical tweet from four years ago which has followed Rooney around ever since: “Skinnily, I sadly and hotly forgot to eat for 7 days and I only realised when I fell over in front of trinity college and everyone was worried about me. Then a horrible man fed me something and we had sex. It felt good, and bad.” This tweeter is not like other girls, you understand; she has triumphantly determined that the novel those less discerning other girls like is, in fact, little more than wet-wipe fanfiction – the most hateful and superficial kind of contrarianism. But is this why I’m so quick to rag on it?
In other words, I find myself scoffing at the centre of a maze constructed of my own self-consciousness, my own snobberies and feelings of having to prove myself. This suggests an uncomfortable possibility: that Rooney is not in fact, as I have heard from my peers many times, a bad writer — I really think she’s quite good — but that the toxicity of the discourse around her means that some of us become bad readers. We fall more readily into the traps Rooney has laid out for us, particularly, in Intermezzo, by giving us two love objects — the superficial, OnlyFans-model student Naomi and the wounded, beatific intellectual Sylvia — both of whose thoughts are, unusually, concealed from us. Instead they are seen, primarily, through the gaze of the chaotic brute Peter, who is an alcoholic, suicidal human rights lawyer involved with them both. It is a conceit which deliberately draws us into arguments with ourselves about how we want to be represented, and traps us in a game of self-identification which means that the wider critical world, one which embraces relativism and pure textual pleasures, will always evade us.
But avoiding affront at how young women exist inside and outside this text, how they talk, speak, smell — is an excruciating task. At one point, our Gen Z wastrel Naomi, who is forever enveloped in sensory lusciousness, “fragrance of perfume, sweat and cannabis”, says of Peter: “Honestly, very dilf-coded.” I glance at the packet of paracetamol on my bedside table. Wouldn’t be enough. At the end of this same page, we get a string of impressive academic references, presumably to stop us from throwing the book across the room. “Toussaint Louverture. Bolívar, Garibaldi.” This perfectly sums up why Rooney is good, but also a bit cringe — it’s that combination of aggressive contemporariness and erudition, the archetypal English Student. If I’m uncomfortable with this, it’s because I was one.
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SubscribeI read one of her novels, Normal People, I think. It was readable, the style was engaging but that was about it. I thought it should be re-marketed as Young Adult fiction – 15 to mid twenties. It was very self-conscious; acutely concerned of how she, as an author, comes across. When she announced her anti-Israeli stunt, mentioned in the article, that confirmed my impressions. She clearly has talent but I’m not rushing to buy the book reviewed here. Maybe in ten years time, she might turn her gaze away from her navel, and write something of interest – the talent is there.
Am I the biggest misogynist I know?
Oh, go on, do it – women have been doing it for years.
This is really good. It’s very smart and funny in capturing – substantively and performatively – the issues of readerly self-awareness that gather around certain artists in the social media age, and really seem to gather around Sally Rooney.
That’s a helpful comment. I enjoyed this article and you’ve summarized its strong points better than I could.
Glad I read this article so I won’t waste time reading the narcissistic books.
You can put Colleen Hoover in that category too. Over-hyped, excruciating trash.
There’s a reason I have only one book by a woman in my personal library. Sowerby explains it perfectly, and if she writes a book, that might make two.
I enjoy Poppy Sowerby’s writing. It’s clever, self aware and an insight into a generation that increasingly seems like an alien species to a boomer like me.
This one seems to hit on something I’ve noticed in various interactions with younger women. The extent to which feminist ideology, and the actual experience of being a woman, are in conflict and the strange mental gymnastics that leads to.
“Lying naked with her chin in her hand, reading poetry.”
I’ve been engaging with poetry alot more over the last 2 years (my new year’s resolution for 2023 and 2024 was to learn one poem a month by heart) and never once did it occur to me to pull this move.
Poetry reading was something I did when I was between tasks at my desk (or trying to put off said tasks at said desk). It also fit quite nicely into the time I was waiting for pasta to cook or the washing machine to finish.
But maybe I’m missing something. Maybe it is time to throw one’s inhibitions (and knickers) to the wind and roll around on my bed in my birthday suit reciting Maya Angelou or Christina Rossetti. I think the other half would be on board with the idea.
Now I’m going to have to look up Maya Angelou and Christina Rossetti!
I thought that their work would lend itself to naked poetry sessions more than, say, Rudyard Kipling’s “If”. That would just be odd.
If only he’d written “When”, not “If”.
Indeed. Just want to check if they’d interest the Mrs.
One step at a time.
Don’t bother with Angelou. Definitely bother with Rossetti. Esp Goblin Market.
You’re funny!
Please keep us posted on how this goes, Katharine!
I don’t know Rossetti, but Angelou is drivel.
Still I Rise might be more appropriate for an elderly male poetry neophyte.
Nothing in this has made me change my mind about reading only White male authors, although I have been planning to make an exception for Edith Wharton, having thoroughly enjoyed The Age of Innocence a few years ago.
And yes I have read and esteem all of Austen and Eliot, and some of Woolf.
I know where you are coming from. But it took me a while to realise most writers were left wing too.
Susanna clarke is good
If you want to read a great woman author, read Marguerite Yourcenar, the author of “The Memoirs of Hadrian” and “The Abyss” two of my favourite books of all time. Being a serious classical scholar, Yourcenar, the first woman to be voted a member of the French Royal Academy, didn’t need to splash her erudition around, she entirely concentrated on the human and moral dilemmas. She would have had no time for Rooney.
“…and more than anything, try to get over yourself. I’m working on that.”
Er, work harder, perhaps by asking yourself what George Eliot or Simone de Beauvoir would make of this article and its preoccupations.
Lie (naked or not, up to you), chin in hand, with thinking cap on (for five marks, does this technically count as clothing?), and read the Leonard Cohen poem apparently meant just for you:
A person who eats meat
wants to get his teeth into something
A person who does not eat meat
wants to get his teeth into something else
If these thoughts interest you for even a moment
you are lost.
99.99% of modern women fiction writers are excruciatingly bad. Hasn’t been a good one since Patricia Highsmith and there’s only the great Agatha before her. These are facts.
Sowerby is very good indeed.
Is it literary criticism, or a mini guide on how to read oneself into a work of fiction? Are they both the same?
Thank god I lived in an age where reading was pure pleasure and my brain did not feel obliged to tie itself into knots, thus raising my blood pressure. I covered a myriad of subjects and no ism or ology disturbed me. I could tell within a couple of sentences whether it was well or badly written, my only criteria.
Worth reading the article just for this.
is this a resp0nse type article woud be good to mention straight off
It seems we have too many female Eng Lit graduates, prone to spouting femi-drivel such as a “fight to the death over what it means to be a woman writer, a woman reader…the schizophrenic experience of being a young woman reading Sally Rooney.” Eh? It’s just a novel – not an opportunity to self-dramatise pretentiously.
Does anyone think straight men have these concerns?
I think so, yes, when it comes to novels by Hunter S. Thompson and David Foster Wallace (grandparented by Hemingway). Men, especially young ones in their 20s, go through the same tortured self-examination when reading those authors or watching a movie like Fight Club.
yes, it’s popular chick-lit
(with some pretentious bits chucked in to flatter it’s female readers that they are doing something ‘literary’ )
I imagine feminists of an older generation (X to Boomer) are enemies of Ms Rooney who is as surely as fond of trans rights as she is of Palestinian liberation.
If I understand correctly, this is what they are paying for now.