Fascinating Passages
At the mouth of the Danube I disappeared into my father’s
jaws. But three drops of blood, my last
ones, did flow into the Black Sea (147) . . . People don’t die here, they are
murdered. That’s why I also understand
how he could have entered my life.
Somebody had to do it. He was the
one (155).
This was probably my
favorite line in the entire book, as I similarly found myself most intrigued by
the middle section involving the narrator’s nightmares, memories, etc. The notion of murder—that her father has
murdered her, that her past is murdering her—is emphasized time and time again
throughout the sections, and I’m fascinated by the idea that, for people
suffering from this kind of depression, death is not simply an inadvertent
conclusion; it is a slow painful “crucifixion” brought on by other forces
outside of the self. I like to think
that the “three drops of blood” referred to here might be a reference to the
narrator’s writings.
I say happily: it must make a person sick to have so few new
experiences that he has to constantly repeat himself, for example a man bites
my earlobe, but not because it’s my earlobe or because he’s crazy about
earlobes . . . he bites them because he’s bitten the earlobes of all the other
women (177).
I think this might be
a veiled rebuke of the mainstream fiction, which has an aesthetic that can
sometimes seem like the same old tropes and plots being turned over and over
again in a massive compost heap.
Bachmann certainly breaks many molds with this novel, and I think she
did a really brave thing by writing it in the first place, not to mention
publishing it. She departed from
nibbling on the same old earlobes that writers always nibble on.
Ivan
. . . why I close the door, lower the curtain, why I am
alone when I present myself to Ivan. I’m
not trying to keep us hidden; I want to recreate a taboo (15).
And now this vacuum-brained, headless lady wants to distract
me, but I’m on to that, your dress just happened to slip off your shoulder,
think about your bishop, you’ve been exposing your legs above the knee for over
half an hour now as well, but that’s not going to help, and you call that
playing chess (25).
Ivan doesn’t believe in the “touch” rule, so he puts my
piece back, I don’t make any more mistakes, and the game ends in a stalemate
(25).
I love the interplay
here, the use of a chess game to show relational dynamics between Ivan and our
narrator—the push and pull of romance, the constant negotiation.
No I don’t want to know who’s causing you to wince, jerk you
head back, shake your head, turn your head away (26).
My imagination, richer than the Yage-fantasy, is finally
brought into motion by Ivan, inside me he has set off something immense which
is now radiating from me, without interruption I emit rays to the world which
needs them, I beam out from this one point, which is not only the center of my
life, but of my will “to live well,” to be useful once again, for I would like
Ivan to need me like I need him, and for the rest of our lives (45).
I’ll find the right phrases, forget the black magic of
words, for Ivan I shall write in all artlessness, like the country girls back
home write to their beloveds, like the queens who write to their chosen ones,
without shame (95).
. . . for it has happened to my body against all reason, my
body which now only moves in one continuous, soft, painful crucifixion on him
(112).
Malina
Why is my father also my mother? / Malina: Why do you
think? If one person is everything for
another, then that person can be many people in one (152).
But the wall opens, I am inside the wall, and Malina can
only see the fissure we’ve been looking at for such a long time. He’ll think I’ve left the room (223).
The Narrator’s Neurosis
In fact, “today” is a word which only suicides ought to be
allowed to use; it has no meaning for other people (2).
Reading is a vice which can replace all other vices or
temporarily take their place in more intensely helping people live, it is an
aberration, a consuming passion. No, I
don’t take drugs, I take books . . . (57).
This seems like a
perfect way to express her relationship with reading—which has many
similarities with her other relationships in its utter dependency and
obsession. . .
I drove to Schwechat without a nose and got out there with
my suitcase. But in the lobby I started
to have second thoughts and cancelled my flight, I drove back right away with
another taxi (73).
The Time is not today.
In fact, the Time no longer exists at all, because it could have been
yesterday, it could have been long ago, it could be again, it could continually
be, some things will have never been.
There is no measure for this Time, which interlocks other times, and
there is no measure for the non-times in which things play that were never in Time
(113).
No idea what this
means, but I enjoyed watching the narrator wrestle with it.
Wonderful Imagery
. . . the soprano, who can’t get up and open because her
four hundred pounds keep her in bed, later I’ll shove a note under her door
with an apology, because this must have been very upsetting to her (93).
Cars are rolling around, dripping paint, people pop up,
smirking larvae, and when they approach me they fall down, straw puppets,
bundles of iron wire, figures of paper mache, and I keep on going in this world
which is not the world . . . (114)
Women were carrying fresh milk and fresh rolls, men were
walking toward their goals with confident steps, briefcases under their arms,
their coat collars upturned and a small early morning cloud before their
mouths. In the limousine we had dirty
fingernails and bitter, brownish lips (171).
Other Interesting
Lines
. . . no child
could possibly want to live inside a hive of children . . . (56)
Ivan and I: the world converging. / Malina and I, since we
are one: the world diverging (79).
The result is a composition, a woman is to be created for a
dress. In complete secrecy designs for a
female are redrawn, it is like a genesis, with an aura for no one in particular
(86).
. . . for who wants anything from me, who needs me? . . . I am the perfect extravagance, ecstatic
and incapable of putting the world to any reasonable use (165).
This is also at the
heart of the narrator’s angst; she seems completely dependent on Ivan and other
things to sustain her existence, but she doesn’t feel any of that dependence
being reciprocated. No one needs her.
I lie down beside my father, amid the devastation, for my
place is here next to him who is sleeping, limp, sad and old. And although it disgusts me to look at him, I
must, I have to know what danger still is written in his face, I have to know
where the evil originates (135).
I only wanted to show you that I can do what you can. Just so you know, nothing more (152).
Words/Phrases
“universal prostitution”
pejorative: having a disparaging, derogatory,
or belittling effect
or force
defenestrate: to throw (a person or thing) out
of a window.
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