Fallon has created an entirely po-mo (post-modern) novel – she uses terms like “de(con)struct” and “con/text” without locating tongue in cheek aforethought – which roves through monologue, academic commentary, libretto, poetry, and that certain je ne sais quoi that I think comprises wankery. An angry dissection of Toto Caelo’s relationships with women who done her wrong, with many a (true and depressing) bone cast to remind us of shite things men have said/done, it was alternately quite interesting and thoroughly tedious. Overall I could call it intriguing, and I’m glad it exists to balance out a world where man-books like Moby Dick are thought the be-all and end-all of “universal” literature – I can’t, however, say that I enjoyed it much. That seems to be the definition of taking one’s (feminist) medicine. Post-modernist writing seems as try-hard and self-congratulatory as I remember it from first year uni. Only for the devoted.
Where it came from: CH’s Bookshelf
Time & manner of reading: One dabble and a concerted train-read
Where it went to: Home
Reminds me of: Feminism at uni!!
Who I’d recommend it to: Anyone who needs a recap of ’90s feminism
Also reading: The Heart of the Matter by Graham Greene; The Reivers by William Faulkner