{"id":140388,"date":"2019-10-22T09:00:53","date_gmt":"2019-10-22T13:00:53","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=140388"},"modified":"2019-10-22T11:03:55","modified_gmt":"2019-10-22T15:03:55","slug":"women-who-enjoy-pleasure","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/10\/22\/women-who-enjoy-pleasure\/","title":{"rendered":"Women Who Enjoy Pleasure"},"content":{"rendered":"

Novelist Lucy Ellmann\u2019s perennial and revolutionary subtext is that women should enjoy pleasure.<\/em><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Lucy Ellmann\u2019s great theme is the grim impossibility of proportion: emotional, moral, cosmic. Her 1998 novel Man or Mango? <\/em>begins with a disbelieving lament that the world kept turning after the Holocaust, instead of spinning faster to \u201cfling us from the trees \u2026 hurl us into outer space.\u201d And yet, who among us is capable of measuring personal preoccupations against the barometer of grand-scale tragedy? Ellmann\u2019s latest novel, the Booker-shortlisted Ducks, Newburyport<\/em>, is a sublime literary enactment of how guilt, grief, rage, regret, compassion, and every other emotion swirls and ebbs in unbalanced defiance of rational logic. Remembering a beloved parent\u2019s drawn-out death clenches the heart of the unnamed narrator, but so does the plight of a two-year-old rhino rescued from the El Ni\u00f1o monsoons: \u201cshe must have been so frightened, poor little rhino, first the floods and then being manhandled.\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

The very form of Ducks, Newburyport<\/em> is perhaps the ultimate expression of life\u2019s absurd disproportionality. The novel comprises a single, occasionally interrupted sentence, stretching over about a thousand pages, emanating from the fretful, intelligent, roving mind of a woman in Ohio, a professional baker and mother in her early forties. For Ellmann, such bold experimentation is nothing new. Her previous six books all eschewed the tried-and-tested approaches to novel writing, sometimes to critical bemusement. Among other literary foibles, Ellmann is fond of lists, historical and scientific digressions, newspaper snippets, and\u2014her most divisive habit\u2014sentences that lapse into INDIGNANT ALL CAPS<\/small>. Her 1988 debut, the semiautobiographical Sweet Desserts<\/em>, has an index, likely the funniest ever compiled: \u201cAloofness, see<\/em> inhabitants of the British Isles, Aplomb, my total lack of social, 103 \u2026 Penis, not the only mention of a, 37.\u201d In Varying Degrees of Hopelessness<\/em>, a razor-sharp comedy of manners set in a superannuated London art school, some chapters contain only single-sentence paragraphs. This captures, to unexpected and droll effect, the tense, covetous, fastidious personality of the main protagonist, thirty-something virgin Isabel. Here\u2019s one of Isabel\u2019s many crotchety reflections:<\/p>\n

It is amazing what people will settle for.
\nI saw a couple on a train once.
\nThe woman looked much older than the man.
\nHis name seemed to be Gavin.
\nGavin had long hair in a ponytail.
\nGavin had long hair and the responsibility of going for the sandwiches when they were traveling.
\nTruly pathetic: she, too old for him, crouching over her magazine, while he, merely too hairy, stalking off in search of British Rail sandwiches.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

American critics have often credited Ellmann\u2019s writerly eccentricities to the Illinois native\u2019s longstanding residence in the UK, where she moved as a teenager. Reviewing Man or Mango?<\/em> in the New York Times Book Review<\/em>, the novelist Lisa Zeidner mused that England \u201cis currently far more hospitable to her brand of literary experimentation than the United States.\u201d But Ellmann\u2019s comedic brilliance is sui generis on any continent, as are her prickly, perceptive heroines, though they have much in common with each other. Disappointed by others but desperate for meaningful connection, Ellmann\u2019s women are so noncompliant with conventional feminine decorum, so exhilaratingly pissed off at the world that most other fictional characters seem like insipid, crowd-pleasing conformists by comparison. In Doctors and Nurses<\/em>, murderous health care worker Jen is a woman of \u201cimmodest\u201d hatreds living in a \u201crural backwater\u201d of England. The targets of her hatred range from the general (the nation, her species, everyone she\u2019s ever met) to the specific: Nigella Lawson, Neighborhood Watch schemes, synesthetes. \u201cWhat do they MEAN<\/small> green is the color of Wednesday? What the hell are they TALKING<\/small> about and why do we let them get AWAY<\/small> with it?\u201d<\/p>\n

What Jen \u201csecretly loves\u201d rather than hates is \u201cher CUNT<\/small> \u2026 She\u2019s charmed by its quiet steadfastness, how level it stays as she walks.\u201d Alas, Jen\u2019s cunt \u201chas been left to lie fallow for long periods,\u201d despite her roiling libido. \u201cIn the ABSENCE<\/small> of adulation, she wanks.\u201d As an unabashed chronicler of female sexual frustration, Ellmann has no parallel, living or dead. Eloise, the lovelorn six-year celibate of Man or Mango?<\/em>, contemplates the dildo potential of vegetables. \u201cHer main worry: that some day a male nipple under a taut shirt would so entrance her she\u2019d make a grab for it before she knew what she was doing.\u201d Chastity-burdened Isabel wears Janet Reger lingerie, obsessively reads romance novels, and seeks a deserving recipient for the \u201cprecious gift\u201d of her virginity. Even the narrator of Ducks, Newburyport<\/em>, who is happily married to an academic named Leo, often wishes she had more sex. But many obstacles stand in the way, not least \u201cthe fact that when I do have any excess energy, I like to spend it being regretful and embarrassed.\u201d<\/p>\n

Ellmann\u2019s perennial and revolutionary subtext is that women should enjoy pleasure. \u201cFood is an immediate source of satisfaction,\u201d she told the Irish Times<\/em> in 1998, bemoaning the cult of skinniness. \u201cAnd sex would be, but it\u2019s harder to arrange.\u201d Her 2013 novel, Mimi<\/em>, is an ode to sensuous joy in which a cosmetic surgeon falls in love, to his surprise, with a plump menopausal epicurean and quits his job. \u201cWhat women need is less scrutiny of how they look,\u201d Mimi schools him, \u201cnot more nose jobs.\u201d Mimi\u2019s amatriciana<\/em> recipe, included alongside ones for her eggnog and \u201cMom\u2019s jam,\u201d instructs: \u201cKiss me. Chop two-inch hunk of guanciale (smoked) into large half-inch-thick pieces. Kiss me again.\u201d The narrator of Ducks, Newburyport<\/em>, who makes and sells tartes tatin, sour cherry pies, cinnamon rolls, and lemon drizzle cake, is deprived, ironically, of the bliss her baking gives others. \u201cI\u2019m always thinking about recipes and all, but I forget to eat, the fact that it\u2019s hard to cook<\/em> if you\u2019re full, so I just got out of the habit.\u201d It\u2019s a resonant metaphor for the condition of motherhood, and womanhood in general.<\/p>\n

In a broader sense, Ducks, Newburyport<\/em>\u2019s epic portrait of one woman\u2019s limitless polyphonic thoughts is an apt representation of emotional labor. While ruminating over spree shootings, the reign of Trump, Marie Kondo, industrial pollution, beauty YouTubers, the fiasco of American health care, and quite literally everything else of significance in our contemporary culture, she is worrying about and taking care of her four children, making and delivering baked goods, calculating financial outgoings, anticipating future tasks and demands, and itemizing her regrets, failings, and sorrows.<\/p>\n

\u2026a chick for Jake, that fact that where is<\/em> Jake, hake, cake, bake, wake, make, fake, take, lake, lake effect snow, the Great Lakes, the great unwashed, why am I, the fact that, for Pete\u2019s sake, everybody, why are there so many wet towels on the bathroom floor, Stacy, Stacy at five, the fact that an abused dog named Pumpkin now has a home, lost button, the fact that I really gotta do the grouting, The Staggering Cost of Alzheimer Care, the fact that where could that button be from\u2026<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

The free-associative stream accumulates into a work of great formal beauty, whose distinctive linguistic rhythms and patterns envelop the reader like music or poetry. Equally, it forms a damning indictment on capitalist patriarchy that, in an extraordinary feat from a writer at the height of her powers, never veers within a mile of sanctimony or self-righteousness. If art is measured by how skillfully it holds a mirror up to society, then Ellmann has surely written the most important novel of this era. And with an off-the-cuff remark, she also happens to have given us the slogan of the era. At a finalists ceremony for the Man Booker at the Southbank Centre in London, Ellmann was asked to elaborate on an earlier assertion that the length of Ducks, Newburyport<\/em> has only been criticized because she\u2019s female. She replied, \u201cEssentially, I think it\u2019s time for men to shut up completely.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Emma Garman has written about books and culture for\u00a0<\/em>Lapham\u2019s Quarterly Roundtable,\u00a0<\/em>Longreads,\u00a0<\/em>Newsweek,\u00a0<\/em>The Daily Beast,\u00a0<\/em>Salon,\u00a0<\/em>The Awl,\u00a0<\/em>Words without Borders, and other publications.\u00a0<\/em>Read her Feminize Your Canon column for\u00a0<\/a><\/em>The Paris Review Daily<\/a>\u00a0here.<\/a><\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Lucy Ellmann\u2019s perennial and revolutionary subtext is that women should enjoy pleasure.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1048,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[419],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-140388","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-arts-culture"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nWomen Who Enjoy Pleasure by Emma Garman<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"October 22, 2019 \u2013 Lucy Ellmann\u2019s perennial and revolutionary subtext is that women should enjoy pleasure.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/10\/22\/women-who-enjoy-pleasure\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" 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