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A review by emjay2021
The Birdcatcher by Gayl Jones
This experimental novel has a challenging structure, but the theme is actually quite clear, and the writing is absolutely gorgeous. I am not normally a fan of experimental writing, but I received this as a Christmas present, and I am quite glad I read it. Sometimes I feel like I don’t challenge myself enough, and I appreciated being challenged by Birdcatcher. (However, I am not going to give it a star rating, because I simply don’t know how to assign one to an experimental novel.) It helps, of course, that Gayl Jones can craft a beautiful sentence. I was often in awe at her light touch but devastating effect.
The book description makes it sound very plotty, but it really isn’t. The main kernel of the story is intriguing: Catherine, an artist, keeps trying to kill her husband, Ernest. Ernest keeps having her institutionalized and then getting her released. The two of them eventually fall into a friendship with Amanda, an author. When the novel begins, the three of them are living together on Ibiza, and Ernest and Amanda are trying to prevent Catherine from killing Ernest while sizing each other up to figure out their own relationship with each other.
That makes it sound like a mystery/thriller, but I cannot emphasize enough how much it really is NOT. Instead, it is an interesting exploration of women’s artistic creativity and how that is stifled by patriarchal structures. This is exemplified by the characters of Catherine and Amanda, but also by Catherine’s artist friend (?) Gillette, a disturbing and intriguing character.
This book was first published in Germany in 1986, and from what I gather, this is its debut publication in English. The racial and sexual politics of The Birdcatcher feel both of the period, and yet also in some ways quite fresh.
I would recommend this to anyone who is not turned off by experimental fiction, who enjoys beautiful prose and wants to experience more good writing by Black women.
“‘This is shit,’ he said, laying the pages on the coffee table.
‘It’s shit?’
I stood in the corner of the study, feeling as cornered as the furniture.
‘Yeah, you can’t publish this shit,’ he said.
I said nothing.
‘Is it that bad?’
‘I think so.’
I drooped like a wet rag. Then I took the proofs and put them in the desk drawer. I sat in the hard chair looking at the wall but not at him though I could tell his eyes were on me.
‘So what are you thinking?’ he asked.
I said nothing for a moment, then it came out like a dam had broken loose. ‘I’m thinking of the women writers I know who live with men who think their work is shit, or next to shit. I can list about five of them. But I can’t list any, not one, of the men writers I know who live with women who think theirs is less than fantastic.’
‘They’re better liars.’
‘That’s not true. That’s not true,’ I said. Then I said, ‘They wouldn’t put up with it. They wouldn’t. Why do you think we women put up with it?’”
(P. 148)
The book description makes it sound very plotty, but it really isn’t. The main kernel of the story is intriguing: Catherine, an artist, keeps trying to kill her husband, Ernest. Ernest keeps having her institutionalized and then getting her released. The two of them eventually fall into a friendship with Amanda, an author. When the novel begins, the three of them are living together on Ibiza, and Ernest and Amanda are trying to prevent Catherine from killing Ernest while sizing each other up to figure out their own relationship with each other.
That makes it sound like a mystery/thriller, but I cannot emphasize enough how much it really is NOT. Instead, it is an interesting exploration of women’s artistic creativity and how that is stifled by patriarchal structures. This is exemplified by the characters of Catherine and Amanda, but also by Catherine’s artist friend (?) Gillette, a disturbing and intriguing character.
This book was first published in Germany in 1986, and from what I gather, this is its debut publication in English. The racial and sexual politics of The Birdcatcher feel both of the period, and yet also in some ways quite fresh.
I would recommend this to anyone who is not turned off by experimental fiction, who enjoys beautiful prose and wants to experience more good writing by Black women.
“‘This is shit,’ he said, laying the pages on the coffee table.
‘It’s shit?’
I stood in the corner of the study, feeling as cornered as the furniture.
‘Yeah, you can’t publish this shit,’ he said.
I said nothing.
‘Is it that bad?’
‘I think so.’
I drooped like a wet rag. Then I took the proofs and put them in the desk drawer. I sat in the hard chair looking at the wall but not at him though I could tell his eyes were on me.
‘So what are you thinking?’ he asked.
I said nothing for a moment, then it came out like a dam had broken loose. ‘I’m thinking of the women writers I know who live with men who think their work is shit, or next to shit. I can list about five of them. But I can’t list any, not one, of the men writers I know who live with women who think theirs is less than fantastic.’
‘They’re better liars.’
‘That’s not true. That’s not true,’ I said. Then I said, ‘They wouldn’t put up with it. They wouldn’t. Why do you think we women put up with it?’”
(P. 148)