Written on the Body
Written on the Body by Jeanette Winterson
I haven’t entirely made up my mind about this book. I decided to read it because a couple of the girls I was friends with in one of my English classes last Fall raved about it. I can see why they love it, and I can also see why I could love it, but I’m not sure if I even like it all that much. Perhaps this is one of those instances when seeing the value in something is quite different from enjoying it. I think I could really benefit from a solid treatment of it in class, or at least some discussion on it.
The book details the romantic relationship that develops between the unnamed, gender-ambiguous narrator and a beautiful married woman named Louise. The main thing that stood out to me when I first started reading was the precise and beautiful writing. This carried me through approximately the first third of the book, and then I started feeling bored and irritated.
I think that part of what bothered me about the book was that it seemed much more a statement, argument, or commentary on society than an actual story. It’s not that I think that novels should be only about character and plot, but I don’t think that those elements should get thrown into the backseat while political agenda hops into the driver’s side and takes off. I like a little more subtlety, the interweaving of all the different elements that make up a story.
Because I felt that the characters weren’t developed very fully, I felt uncomfortable reading the details of their romantic relationship. I’ve never encountered this before. Often, I identify with at least one of the characters, or, failing that, I feel that I’ve been invited to read, to learn about their lives. Reading this book made me feel like an intruder, like I was reading someone else’s embarrassingly personal diary without permission.
The other result of the flat characters for me was that I just didn’t care about them. There isn’t much of a plot to speak of, so if you don’t care about what happens to the characters, that’s pretty much all there is. Besides the fantastic writing, of course.
I feel that I might have just been in the wrong frame of mind for the book. I can’t summarize my opinion into a recommendation this time because I’m still undecided. I do have a suspicion that this will be one of those books that stays with me. Maybe I’ll re-read this in a few years and decide then.
Articulacy of fingers, the language of the deaf and dumb, signing on the body longing. Who taught you to write in blood on my back? Who taught you to use your hands as branding irons? You have scored your name into my shoulders, referenced me with your mark. The pads of your fingers have become printing blocks, you tap a message on to my skin, tap meaning into my body. Your morse code interferes with my heart beat. I had a steady heart beat before I met you, I relied on it, it had seen active service and grown strong. Now you alter its pace with your own rhythm, you play upon me, drumming me taut.
