Harriet Malinowitz, Marguerite Van Cook

[Marguerite Van_Cook]

#556

The voice in service of Harriet Malinowitz’s narrative appears to be vulnerable and moves between a paradoxical state of self-aware confidence and a bemused reassessing tone. However, something in her tenor gnawed at me and it took me a while to realize that she was attempting to seduce me with her writing, just as she did with her school mates, her feminist peers and her partner. It seems as though there is a double register in her voice. One appears to be frank and vulnerable and another seems to say, look what power I wield with my writing. I did not want to be another on a long list of folks unknowingly seduced by her writing. Perhaps, her honesty about her tactics is brave, but perhaps it is a little creepy.

The story which seems to build on waves of discovery and crisis which lead to the revelation, “reader, I married her.” The essay’s structure might otherwise be seen as a modern quest in which a writer seeks a writer….or validation. In the first instance, she seeks recognition from her school mates through her writing, later more clearly from her writing peers, until finally she finds romantic love with another writer. In each sequence of the narrative, the stakes are raised and throughout, it is writing that connects her to the world and to the people with whom she interacts. She seems to leverage writing to come to the “real world” of people. It is as if she is reminding us of the real world behind the text, (which she now inhabits) and perhaps asks the question where the “real” resides and what are the boundaries of text.
Of course, as writers and readers we might find this a fascinating glimpse into modern correspondence; an epistolary narrative. It speaks of the new world of online courtship. Yet it is one that shows a correspondence based in anxiety and untruths. She writes that in a letter to Kerryn that she had “written to her, with false ingenuousness” (71). I began to sense that I was the subject of the same type of handling. Certainly, Malinowitz writes in subterfuge as her current relationship with Sara deteriorates beyond our sight.
I also felt uncomfortable about the role of “chance” in this narrative. A concrete example of the deceptive use of bemusement would be: “In 1989, by pure chance, I came across a small, intriguing volume in the fiction section of my local independent bookstore and impulsively bought it” (67). This is the voice of a feminist scholar who seeks feminist material, here in a book shop where presumably she went deliberately, not surprisingly, to seek material on her subject. If she found something interesting, why would it be an impulse buy? Perhaps, but there are enough problems for me to loose faith in her veracity. It feels as though she doesn’t take responsibility for her actions and desires. It all just happens to her. As they say on face book, it’s complicated

[Sondra Perl]

#559

Marguerite, it wasn’t until I read your post that I realized how much Malinowitz’s essay is something of an updated version of Cyrano de Bergerac. As you put it so beautifully, “[Malinowitz] seems to leverage writing to come to the ‘real world’ of people. It is as if she is reminding us of the real world behind the text, (which she now inhabits) and perhaps asks the question where the ‘real’ resides and what are the boundaries of text.” For me, this is a fascinating point, one I had not considered before. And I would go further to ask the same question about identity–which part of us is real? The text we create or the body we inhabit? Where do I come to be my most authentic self? I often find myself writing things I would never say out loud–the blankness of the page, the silence of writing gives me a strange kind of permission I don’t always feel in everyday conversation. And this question of “reality” becomes even more complicated when I think about issues of mortality–the written word lasts longer than the body, and in a way it comes to occupy a space more real than our flesh.

Identities that emerge through writing, this question of the “real” self, allow for a kind of truth telling that walks a fine line–one you identified as negotiating “bravery” and something a little more unsettling, a little “creepy.” I think this is a common fear most writers have–that our willingness to tell the truth will somehow render us stigmatized. And with these thoughts in mind, I personally have come to appreciate Malinowitz essay just a bit more. It is creepy. But, it is brave as well, and that messy posture of bravery and creepiness is something I can easily identify with.

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