I had the strangest feeling while reading The Blindfold that I had read it before, and even now, having finished it, I'm not sure whether that's a product of an over-hasty read years ago (it doesn't show up on extemporanea, so would have to've been pre-2005) or rather of the hauntedly familiar nature of the text itself, for which my Persona postcard was an ideal bookmark.
In terms of writers of more or less this last extended generation (let's say those starting out from around the 80s, so as to exclude the first wave of postmodernists who kicked off in the 60s/70s - Pynchon & co), there are really four who stand out for me, four particular favourites. There's Donna Tartt, aloof (less than a novel a decade is just ridiculous) and enigmatic but all the more beguiling for it, Haruki Murakami, the dreamer whose world you wish you could live in (and sometimes, in his company, almost feel that you do), Scarlett Thomas, the smart, hip girl for whom you could all too easily fall, but whose brand of coolness you think you recognise and know makes it a bad idea to invest any real emotional energy in her acquaintance - and Siri Hustvedt, who's perhaps most like the wise best friend, deeply insightful, subtle, intelligent and generous of spirit.[*]
So, evidently, whether I've read it before or not, it was high time that I came/returned to The Blindfold, Hustvedt's first. And while it doesn't reach the heights of What I Loved and The Sorrows of an American, it's nonetheless a finely wrought, deeply incisive portrayal of modern urban female identity, selfhood and their discontents, and often chest-tighteningly compelling.
[*] I owe that little piece of fancy to Nicolette, who once told me that, for her, Hemingway was like the secret boyfriend that she was a bit ashamed of, or words to that effect.
In terms of writers of more or less this last extended generation (let's say those starting out from around the 80s, so as to exclude the first wave of postmodernists who kicked off in the 60s/70s - Pynchon & co), there are really four who stand out for me, four particular favourites. There's Donna Tartt, aloof (less than a novel a decade is just ridiculous) and enigmatic but all the more beguiling for it, Haruki Murakami, the dreamer whose world you wish you could live in (and sometimes, in his company, almost feel that you do), Scarlett Thomas, the smart, hip girl for whom you could all too easily fall, but whose brand of coolness you think you recognise and know makes it a bad idea to invest any real emotional energy in her acquaintance - and Siri Hustvedt, who's perhaps most like the wise best friend, deeply insightful, subtle, intelligent and generous of spirit.[*]
So, evidently, whether I've read it before or not, it was high time that I came/returned to The Blindfold, Hustvedt's first. And while it doesn't reach the heights of What I Loved and The Sorrows of an American, it's nonetheless a finely wrought, deeply incisive portrayal of modern urban female identity, selfhood and their discontents, and often chest-tighteningly compelling.
[*] I owe that little piece of fancy to Nicolette, who once told me that, for her, Hemingway was like the secret boyfriend that she was a bit ashamed of, or words to that effect.
