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mrsdalloslay's review
4.75
one of the most gorgeous things I have ever read, it is so dreamy and surreal and she is so uncertain and young, it’s a shame i rarely had a clue what she was on about
yeahdeadslow's review
3.0
This is the kind of book that enchants me as much as it frustrates.
I really like stream-of-consciousness. One of my main problems is the lack of line breaks, especially when it concerns multiple-person dialogue. (I don't know if it's a rule set in stone, but it's just the way these types of things seem to be written.) Big blocks of text suffocate me. And when the language is complex, it makes it hard for me to focus.
Though I'm not really blaming the formatting as much as my lazy brain.
Actually, the slightly incoherent (but beautifully rendered) style made me think of the last part of Against the Wall by Kathleen Millay. Ha. What a helpful comparison, considering that book is way more obscure than HERmione.
I want to re-read this, over and over throughout the years. Until I can see and understand all its nuances. I have such conflicted emotions over what to rate this. It's definitely somewhere in between a 3 and a 4. I'll round down to squelch my predilection towards pretentiousness.
I really like stream-of-consciousness. One of my main problems is the lack of line breaks, especially when it concerns multiple-person dialogue. (I don't know if it's a rule set in stone, but it's just the way these types of things seem to be written.) Big blocks of text suffocate me. And when the language is complex, it makes it hard for me to focus.
Though I'm not really blaming the formatting as much as my lazy brain.
Actually, the slightly incoherent (but beautifully rendered) style made me think of the last part of Against the Wall by Kathleen Millay. Ha. What a helpful comparison, considering that book is way more obscure than HERmione.
I want to re-read this, over and over throughout the years. Until I can see and understand all its nuances. I have such conflicted emotions over what to rate this. It's definitely somewhere in between a 3 and a 4. I'll round down to squelch my predilection towards pretentiousness.
talypollywaly's review
challenging
reflective
slow-paced
- Strong character development? It's complicated
- Loveable characters? No
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? N/A
3.0
I really wanted to like this book. It took me so long to finish it. Only a couple quotes that really stuck with me saved the book for me.
lolasebastian's review
5.0
Heartbreaking, enchanting, and endlessly quotable, HERmione captured me entirely. It is also one of the only books I can think of from this time period that openly and honestly addresses the conundrums of bisexuality. The prose isn’t going to be for everyone, even the most avid H.D. fans, but I found it endlessly fascinating and relatable.
I laughed, I cried, I wanted to get myself a time machine and throttle Ezra Pound. There’s little more I can ask for in a book.
I laughed, I cried, I wanted to get myself a time machine and throttle Ezra Pound. There’s little more I can ask for in a book.
willande123's review
5.0
HERmione is a maelstrom of modernist word-vomit interspersed with blinding moments of clarity. I've typed out my favorite pages, 224 and 225, where H.D. has placed a panicking Her Gart, the main character, on a thawing frozen stream. H.D. uses this image as an allegory for the dangerous mental journey that Her has taken throughout HERmione. Her wanted to risk it all, even her own sanity, to find Her Truth, to become an individual, to preach her own ideas. After months of mental deterioration lit up by peaks of brilliance, Her held back at the last moment and broke free from her derangement. She was weak; she couldn't resist society's call any longer. She saved herself from insanity. Don't rock the boat.
But did Her really save herself? Did she really "break free"? Did she break free from insane creative brilliance and end up with mediocrity? Did she break free from individuality and accept social complacence? Did she break free from homosexuality and yield to heterosexuality? Her survives, but at the cost of her glimpses into spectacular mystic brilliance. Is stability worth it? The following passage argues "Maybe," but in the end H.D. declares "No." I'm with her.
As soon as Her seems to have decided for stability, Faye, her queer lover, returns in the novel's last paragraph, throwing Her's future up in the air once again. She's given no choice but to ask again if individuality and artistic brilliance are worth instability and abandoning her entire social world. When HERmione ends, Her is still stuck standing on the half-frozen stream, unsure whether to take the leap toward Her Truth or to crawl back to shore. I think many of us can sympathize.
"Now she stopped at a runnel that was frozen. Her toe hammered at the space of frozen surface. Then she stamped heavily with her heel. The heel made a sharp dent in the frosted ice. She stood with both feet on it. The opposite bank was shadowed with a tangle of old creeper. No snow covered the tiny beach under the cave space opposite. There might conceivably be just the beginnings of things, common chickweed or arbutus bud under that protective mat of creepers. She stamped further and found foothold. As Her swayed forward, the ice dipped. She heard faint reverberation, the frail thing breaking. It never does freeze properly. There's always water running. She stood wondering whether it would be better to step back or to leap and risk the breakage. The ice stood solid, did not dip further.
"The ice cracked as she made tentative slipping movement. The sound it gave out suggested something beneath hammering the undersurface. The slight jar brought Her to tension. She stood tense and silent, if she moved forward it would break now certainly. The bank opposite rose sheer up above the tangle. She wanted to touch the narrow black strip under the bank, was sure of finding something growing. Every year all my life, I have discovered something really in the winter. She remembered all those years, the first year she had actually found violets in December. Violets in December, part of last year? Part of next year? She stood part of next year, part of last year, not totally of either. The crack widened, actually snapped suddenly. The ice she stood on still held, did not dip further toward the tiny upward jet of running water. Reverberation cut like a white string, cut like a silver string. Winter branches etched above her head caught reverberation of ice breaking. Reverberation of the break seemed to be prolonged, would be till it touched stars. The stars invisible in daylight. Then her thought widened and the tension snapped as swiftly. It's like a violin string. It's like Fayne exactly.
"When she said Fayne a white hand took Her. Her was held like a star invisible in daylight that suddenly by some shift adjustment of phosphorescent values comes quite clear. Her saw Her as a star shining white against winter daylight.
"Her Feet were held, frozen to the cracked ice surface. Her heart was frozen, held to her cracked, somewhat injured body. I am glad I was ill. Her, though remembering illness, recalled the suffocation of steam heat, the fragrance of hothouse lilac. Whole lilac wafted ineffable remembrance. Like the super note on the violin strong, the thing in Her reverberated slightly. She shifted her feet, moved back, slid backward till her heels felt the frozen grass edge of the little river. Then she clambered self-consciously alert back toward the scrubby pathway. Oak saplings tore at skirt and rough coat."
But did Her really save herself? Did she really "break free"? Did she break free from insane creative brilliance and end up with mediocrity? Did she break free from individuality and accept social complacence? Did she break free from homosexuality and yield to heterosexuality? Her survives, but at the cost of her glimpses into spectacular mystic brilliance. Is stability worth it? The following passage argues "Maybe," but in the end H.D. declares "No." I'm with her.
"Now she stopped at a runnel that was frozen. Her toe hammered at the space of frozen surface. Then she stamped heavily with her heel. The heel made a sharp dent in the frosted ice. She stood with both feet on it. The opposite bank was shadowed with a tangle of old creeper. No snow covered the tiny beach under the cave space opposite. There might conceivably be just the beginnings of things, common chickweed or arbutus bud under that protective mat of creepers. She stamped further and found foothold. As Her swayed forward, the ice dipped. She heard faint reverberation, the frail thing breaking. It never does freeze properly. There's always water running. She stood wondering whether it would be better to step back or to leap and risk the breakage. The ice stood solid, did not dip further.
"The ice cracked as she made tentative slipping movement. The sound it gave out suggested something beneath hammering the undersurface. The slight jar brought Her to tension. She stood tense and silent, if she moved forward it would break now certainly. The bank opposite rose sheer up above the tangle. She wanted to touch the narrow black strip under the bank, was sure of finding something growing. Every year all my life, I have discovered something really in the winter. She remembered all those years, the first year she had actually found violets in December. Violets in December, part of last year? Part of next year? She stood part of next year, part of last year, not totally of either. The crack widened, actually snapped suddenly. The ice she stood on still held, did not dip further toward the tiny upward jet of running water. Reverberation cut like a white string, cut like a silver string. Winter branches etched above her head caught reverberation of ice breaking. Reverberation of the break seemed to be prolonged, would be till it touched stars. The stars invisible in daylight. Then her thought widened and the tension snapped as swiftly. It's like a violin string. It's like Fayne exactly.
"When she said Fayne a white hand took Her. Her was held like a star invisible in daylight that suddenly by some shift adjustment of phosphorescent values comes quite clear. Her saw Her as a star shining white against winter daylight.
"Her Feet were held, frozen to the cracked ice surface. Her heart was frozen, held to her cracked, somewhat injured body. I am glad I was ill. Her, though remembering illness, recalled the suffocation of steam heat, the fragrance of hothouse lilac. Whole lilac wafted ineffable remembrance. Like the super note on the violin strong, the thing in Her reverberated slightly. She shifted her feet, moved back, slid backward till her heels felt the frozen grass edge of the little river. Then she clambered self-consciously alert back toward the scrubby pathway. Oak saplings tore at skirt and rough coat."
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