Still “not there yet,”but getting there. To the scream, I mean. Part of the brilliance of Green Girl is that it dares to leave Ruth, and the reader, hanging in this liminal space. The novel recreates the agonizing experience of becoming oneself, recognizing with growing anxiety one’s own smallness and powerlessness within a disappointing and unjust world. It’s dissatisfying, it’s maddening, it’s impossibly irritating: everything gets under the skin, and there is no adequate, or individualized, response —except maybe a scream.

— I was talking with my sister about being irritated/irritating/irritable (a familial legacy & affect) & then reread this super-smart essay by Megan Milks on Kate Zambreno’s Green Girl. Joy.

"If your identity is inscribed for you from the outside, it’s even more difficult to escape."



Stephanie LaCava talks to Kate Zambreno

I was skeptical when a friend told me to read Kate Zambreno’s work of literary criticism about modernist wives entitled Heroines, most likely out of self-preservation. I have my own heroines, they won’t leave me alone, they show up again and again in essays and fantasies. From what I understood, this book would explore women of this sort, in particular Zelda Fitzgerald and Viv Eliot (T.S. Eliot’s first wife) and how, perhaps, their own artistic voice was drowned in accusation of hysteria, their stories relegated to the fiction of their respective spouses. I was terrified. Then, I read it—all the research and personal anecdotes. I fell in love with one girl in particular, the writer Zambreno. When I heard of her novel Green Girl, I didn’t hesitate this time. Therein, I found evidence of the very processes Zambreno discussed in Heroines, which became a kind of magical notebook for deconstructing Green Girl. (If only all novels came with such a companion.) Green Girl is the story of Ruth, a young American living abroad in London, pained and fascinated by beauty and loneliness. Her references include the likes of Catherine Deneuve in Repulsion, Charlotte Rampling in The Night Porter and Nico’s song, “Femme Fatale.” These are the women that inhabit my own pathetic scrapbook, and those of many contemporary girls. What was most striking, though, was Zambreno’s scathing rendition of a girl fixated on aloof icons, desperately channeling their allure and mystery. This strange connection is, I am sad to say, one of countless others that reminded me of my own struggles and those of other women I knew, some unlike me altogether. Isn’t that why we love a book, because it makes us a little mad with recognition? Green Girl also made me want more of Zambreno’s work and its ability to examine the perceived disconnect between beauty and intelligence, cipher and reality—even, simply, a woman and her work.

Last Wednesday, we met at a tea shop and began furiously discussing where our sensibilities intersect, the women—and men—of the French New Wave, struggling with embracing aesthetics in critical work, even an appreciation for Sir John Everett Millais’ portrait of Ophelia. We then went across the street, up the elevator and into my writing office where we sat in a windowless room and continued our conversation.

—Stephanie LaCava


STEPHANIE LACAVA: It surprised me that you were a fan of Walter Benjamin’s Arcades Project, and he was so influential in many parts of Green Girl. I found this fascinating because it’s such a disparate reference from your stable of cinematic and female icons.

KATE ZAMBRENO: It continues to be an important reference point for my work, this collaged text born out of intense obsession, and especially his chapter on the flâneur, the urban stroller.

SL: I saw it on two levels in Green Girl. Not only did you directly reference it with quotes before chapters and scenes surrounding the commerce and crowds of Oxford Circus, but also, I think, in the way Heroines was formed and subsequently influenced Green Girl. It seemed all about the fragmented thought and then a natural cohesion of vision.

KZ: I was accumulating the notes for Green Girl and Heroines at the same time, and Heroines especially, a book that came out of a decade-long notebooking process, was a slow accumulation, a gradual accretion. I think in some ways Heroines was an apologia for the type of novel that Green Girl was—I was philosophizing and working through an existential novel of a shopgirl, a flâneuse. Have you ever read Gail Scott’s My Paris? It’s very inspired by Benjamin. The female narrator, keeping this notebook while in Paris for a limited time, is voluptuously reading and engaging with the book, and I pulled from it, in Green Girl—for an epigraph, “Why can’t the flâneur be stoned?” It’s one of several  important contemporary novels that I talk about at the essay at the end, on walkers in literature [in the new Harper Perennial edition]—these innovative and radical novels of women writers, often queer, engaging with the notion of the walker and the city and contemporary space. And these books aren’t talked about as often in the mainstream, but they’re really important to me. Works by Gail Scott, Renee Gladman, Amina Cain, Danielle Dutton, Pamela Lu.  

SL: Do you know Lauren Elkin? She’s at work on a book about the flâneuse.

KZ: She’s writing about Bowen, Woolf and Rhys, right? I really wrangled—in Green Girl—with Benjamin’s chapter on the walker—and the ending scene of Green Girl was also inspired by Edgar Allan Poe’s story “Man in the Crowd,” the walker disappearing into a crowd in ecstasy, that Benjamin engages with as well.

SL: I love that scene when she’s lost in the crowd and you’re just listing the types of bodies before that.

KZ: So much of the book takes place in crowds—on the street, working in the fragrance section at the department store, the holiday rush. I am interested in this idea of deconstruction and urban space, and whether that’s possible for this girl who’s so aware of her appearance and her identity, as it’s formed from the outside, whether she could dissipate ecstatically. I’m thinking of Anne Carson’s reading of ecstasy from its origins of ekstasis in her essay “Decreation,”to escape outside, a sort of mysticism. I was really compelled, in Benjamin, to see how close the chapter on the prostitute is to the chapter on the walker.

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"Connected but facing out at life alone, and separated in that aloneness."



An Interview with Amina Cain

Amina Cain’s second book, Creature, came out last November, and its inner-workings have only grown more mysterious to me as time goes on. Her stories use language to get to a place entirely outside of language, to the maid’s room in Clarice Lispector’s The Passion of G.H., a room inside of your home where you haven’t been for a while, that when you enter, nothing’s as you had expected, and when you leave, whoever it is that’s leaving is different from whoever had gone inside.

Amina Cain and I emailed about Creature over the course of several months, and the conversation is as follows.

—Hayden Bennett


THE BELIEVER: Your writing feels very far away from speech—like it may have been spoken at one point, but that now it’s been culled and shaped into the bare containers of speech, and it makes me wonder about the level of rhetoric in your writing. In shaping stories, do you feel like there’s someone you’re addressing?  

AMINA CAIN: I love that idea: that the writing may have been speech at one point, but becomes a kind of container. When I’m writing, I don’t feel a distance from language, necessarily, but as if I am using it to get to something else, some place, so a container does make sense to me.

In terms of address, there have been times when I am oriented toward another (real or fictionalized) when writing a story (like someone I once loved, or Vitória in Clarice Lispector’s The Apple in the Dark), and that includes a few of the stories in Creature. And then there are times when what I’m facing is more like a landscape (the desert, a tropical farm, the mountains), or an intense experience, or a simple one, in which I felt very connected (riding my bike on a summer evening), or even a whole swath of time (when I felt very close to a group of friends). I think I address things as much as I address people, and sometimes I address writing others have done that I feel some deep kinship towards. In the novel I am now working on, I seem to be addressing, very lightly, Virginia Woolf’s The Waves.

I hope that those others, those landscapes, those texts, and those experiences are also addressing me. In many ways I think so, yes; it’s maybe why I’m called to say something too. 

BLVR: Does writing come out of a response, then? If you were stuck in a bare room for the rest of your life, would you still feel pushed to write?

AC: It’s probably always a response, if even to my own mind. If I were stuck in a bare room I would still write, imagining my way out of it. The need to respond might even be stronger—to the past, to some future.   

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“As far as I know I’m not writing to anybody. Writers often write about what they want to read or haven’t seen written.”
A manuscript page from Grace Paley’s story “Friends” from Enormous Changes at the Last Minute. Read the full interview here.


“As far as I know I’m not writing to anybody. Writers often write about what they want to read or haven’t seen written.”

A manuscript page from Grace Paley’s story “Friends” from Enormous Changes at the Last Minute. Read the full interview here.

(via weil-weil)

This is a great question. There’s the kind of basic answer, of the solitary nature of writing and the desire to work outward, with others, and there’s the answer that has more to do with what I see the stories as often being about—closeness and distance, in all kinds of ways—and the pleasure and suffering that comes from that. When I was younger I often painted these stories of myself in my head where I went off to different cities—alone—and lived very vibrantly there, walking around, taking it all in, and yet friendship has always been significant for me and I’ve been lucky enough to be close to people I have immense love for. I’m not sure where that fantasy of living in my own world came from, just to say that aloneness and kinship are both important and I think the two things are imprinted in my work.


From R. On her last day in New York.

I had nothing to say on Father’s Day but tonight I was lying in bed reading On the Banks of Plum Creek to Magoo, thinking how lovely it is to read a book that I read as a girl, and it means more now that I am old and feel the passage of time so deeply, and then a memory of myself at Goo’s age reading Archie comic books, and my Dad every day coming home with a new Archie comic book. They are the worst, really, Archie Comics, but I was obsessed, briefly, and he helped feed that obsession and I read each one as if for life and now a zillion years later I am still reading as if for life and GOD but for all the pain of this life I had a Dad who really really loved me and that is something.  

"There is no such thing as fantasy unrelated to reality. / A book is really like a lover. It arranges itself in your life in a way that is beautiful."

—Maurice Sendak

Born on this day in 1928, in Brooklyn, New York.

(via thetinhouse)

10 Rules for Students & Teachers. Courtesy John Cage & Sister Corita Kent

10 Rules for Students & Teachers. Courtesy John Cage & Sister Corita Kent