This degree of self-assurance is typical of Written on the Body, and a worrying feature of a novel which constantly seems to be doing something other than it claims. It may be that Winterson is edging towards a different truth - that it is easier to write about love when an affair is finished - but her opening leaves no room for dissension. (Feb.Jeanette Winterson sets out the theme of her new novel in its first sentence why is the measure of love loss? This poses a problem for any reader who disagrees with her premise, the Romantic notion that we truly value something only when we no longer possess it. For Louise-and the narrator's love for her-never seems quite real in this cold-hearted novel love itself, however eloquently expressed, is finally nothing more than a product of the imagination.
Did I invent her?'' One wonders, as Winterson intends, and then wonders some more. ``It's as if Louise never existed,'' the narrator observes, ``like a character in a book. Winterson manipulates gender expertly here, but her real achievement is her manipulation of genre : the capacious first-person narration, now addressed to the reader, now to the lover, enfolds aphorisms, meditations on extracts from an anatomy textbook, and essayistic riffs on science, virtual reality and the art of fiction (``I don't want to reproduce, I want to create something entirely new''). Rather, she teases readers out of their expectations about women and men and romance: Louise calls the narrator ``the most beautiful creature male or female that I have ever seen,'' and the narrator observes, ``I thought difference was rated to be the largest part of sexual attraction but there are so many things about us that are the same.'' When the narrator breaks off the affair after learning that Louise has cancer-only her husband can cure her-the work turns into a eulogy for lost love. This scenario seems obvious enough, but Winterson never reveals whether the narrator is male or female. Louise is unhappily married to a workaholic cancer researcher, so the narrator leads her into a sexually combative affair. The narrator, a lifelong philanderer (``I used to think marriage was a plate-glass window just begging for a brick''), has fallen in love with Louise, a pre-Raphaelite beauty. This fourth effort from British writer Winterson ( Sexing the Cherry ) is a high-concept erotic novelette, a Vox for the postmarital crowd.
0 kommentar(er)
