Indelicacy

My husband picked up his spoon again; then to my great surprise, I imagine because he was jealous, he said we could smoke hashish together.

“When?” was the only thing I managed to say. How indelicate.

Indelicacy is another ARC I brought into self-isolation without knowing much (other than some great reviews) about it. Now I wonder: What was the fuss? And I need to conclude: This is a book for other writers; based on the reviews, perhaps only they who live in their minds and who sweat out words on the page really connect with what Amina Cain has crafted here. As for me: Right over my head. (Note: I read an ARC and passages quoted may not be in their final form.)

I didn't write for a month: my mind was somewhere else. But I was writing a book; I knew that now. I had been writing it for two years. The problem was that it would make little sense to most people, and how would that work out? Everyone always wants sense.

In its blurb, Indelicacy is described as “a down-to-earth investigation of the barriers faced by women in both life and literature. It is a novel about seeing, class, desire, anxiety, pleasure, friendship, and the battle to find one’s true calling.” But I really don't think it's that universal. We have a woman, eventually learning her name is Vitória, who while working as a custodian at an art museum, caught the eye of a rich man and became his wife. And while she thought this would finally give her the time and leisure to really focus on her writing, her husband insists that she put away all forms of labour and just enjoy resting, as the wife of a rich man ought. Vitória writes anyway. And she attends concerts and walks frequently to the museum she used to work at; takes ballet lessons and makes awkward friendships. We also learn early on that Vitória will eventually leave her husband – the timeline dips forwards and back – but she's such a passive character that she accepts whatever comes along, never works for anything. I learned nothing, really, about “the barriers faced by women in both life and literature”.

“You try to make yourself abnormal on purpose,” he said. “You think it makes you better than the other people around you.”

“I do no such thing, and still I am better.”

I know how that sounded, but I couldn't help saying it, and I suppose I did think I was better than him. If I'm being honest. If I'm being shallow.

As for the title: The only indelicate character – as in “unladylike”, I suppose – is Vitória herself. She tells us, more than once, that she eats like a pig. When she used to clean the museum's bathroom, it was all she could do to stop herself from throwing her bucket of water at the patrons. When she attends an author's reading event at the library, and is bored by what had been a favourite novelist's interview by another writer, she tells them before leaving that they're a pair of worms, “when you open your mouths, you are male worms eating from a toilet.” And when she decides to leave her husband, she creates a situation in which he'll feel the need to support her; she'll never need to work again, other than the writing.

And Vitória really is passionate about the writing. For the most part, she stares at paintings in the museum and describes them on the page. And I got nothing from these passages:

One day I looked for a while at a small painting and saw something in it. A man and a boy in muted suits doing their engraving work, the background behind them completely dark. We are not meant to see anything beyond this task, their concentration on it. Yet we want to know, it is only a scrap. What is in the darkness?

We're in an unnamed country and time period – there is no technology mentioned beyond trains – and there's no way of knowing what the societal expectations are for a young and uneducated woman such as Vitória. We learn that in the beginning she was happy living in one plainly furnished room because it was so peaceful compared to the large, loud family she had escaped from, but once she's married to the rich man, she's quick to take a life of luxury as her due. She is forever writing about interiors and exteriors, waves and the leaves of plants, the progressing seasons, empty spaces and “clumping”. And it all went right over my head. On the other hand, there was quite a bit that was darkly amusing and otherwise intriguing in the writing:

After that, the winter dragged itself through its January, its February, its March, with its dirty snow and frozen mud. I felt I was dragging myself through as well. I hated March more than any other month, with its promises of warmth that never came.

But it didn't add up to much for me. Another wishy-washy three stars.