Skip to main content

Book 11: Sexing the Cherry, Jeanette Winterson

An so it came to pass that with two thirds of the year boxed off your humble correspondent threw up his hands and declared that all the year's lofty aims were coming a horrible cropper. Which, of course, they were always going to. However, it's hard to get too down-heartened about failing in the tasks I've set myself when the attempt contains gems like this.

It's stretching the no re-reads rule a trifle, because I have indeed read this book before, but it was that long ago I reckoned an exception could be made, and I'm very glad I did. What seemed to me to be unnecessarily tricksy when I was a tedious undergrad who wasn't half as clever as he thought he was has turned over time into a glorious flight of fancy (or rather, I've turned into someone who can get his head around it). Concerning the adventures of Jordan, an abandoned child discovered on the banks of the Thames (two rivers already, with all the intimation of travel and impermanence that they imply) by his adoptive mother, the larger than life Dog Woman.

As Jordan , not one to be tied to one place, roams the world looking for new fruits in the company of the King's gardener, John Tradescant, and in the process tracking down his mysterious true love who may or may not be real the Dog Woman stays put, mourns his absence, breeds her fighting dogs and murders a few Puritans. But this is only a tiny fraction of a story that roams over time and reality whilst resisting definitive interpretation. The Jordan of the 1600s becomes Nicholas Jordan of the 1990s, likewise a sailor, likewise dissatisfied, he meets his own woman by a river, an environmental campaigner. Winterson roams with cheerful disregard across time, what matters, of course, is the journey

Like all good books, it works on a few levels, at once feminist critique, magic-realist fable and bawdy farce. Winterson writes by turns with delicate yearning and ribald energy. The use of the fable of the Twelve Dancing Princesses is an excellent framing device for Jordan's quest, and allows her to skewer gender-role preconceptions with accuracy and precision, as they find happiness by abandoning marriages in various way. This also the case in the form of the Dog Woman, who is stronger and larger than any man, and content in her own company, finding that men break so easily. The magic-realist elements recall Calvino's Invisible Cities, as Jordan travels to impossible places and sees marvels and wonders, but who knows what seemed impossible and marvellous at that time? Indeed, the presentation of the wonder that is the banana is a key marker for what will follow. Much that seems banal now was once a mystery, and this book, which was once a mystery is anything but banal. Now, if only someone will let me have another crack at that undergrad essay....

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

What is happening?

An unpleasant, but in the grand scheme of things quite minor, incident occurred at a local school yesterday. Two lads entered the premises looking for another kid they wanted to assault. The school followed protocols and was locked down until the situation was resolved. Grim enough in and of itself, but not exactly a massive piece of news. Except, of course, on local Facebook pages, where a cast of many hang around visibly thirsting for events like this. This isn't a post about them, however. There is something desperately sad about a million posts on the same subject, everyone breathlessly recycling the same story without checking whether it might have already been covered. It speaks to an unfulfilled existence. Nor is this a post about Facebook and it's local pages, though they are a weird and interesting ecosystem. Were it not for running the pub, my Meta presence would be minimal, I need to be on there for work, and stuff like this is a necessary accoutrement. No, what depr...

Inedible

"He says it's inedible" said my front of house manager, as she laid the half-eaten fish and chips in front of me, and instantly I relaxed.  Clearly, I observed, it was edible to some degree. I comped it, because I can't be arsed arguing the toss, and I want to make my front of house's lives as simple as possible. The haddock had been delivered that morning. The fryers had been cleaned that morning. The batter had been made that morning (and it's very good batter, ask me nicely and I'll give you the recipe some time). The fish and chips was identical to the other 27 portions I'd sent out on that lunch service, all of which had come back more or less hoovered up, we have have a (justified, if I do say so myself) very good reputation for our chips. But it was, apparently, "inedible". When it comes to complaints, less is more. If you use a hyperbolic word like that, I'll switch off, you've marked yourself as a rube, a chump, I'm not g...

Worthless Art

Ah, we're back to calling humanities degrees rip-offs, are we? What a semi regular treat that is. There is a persistent strain of thought in British public life which runs thus: things are shit, blame clever people. When a politician needs a convenient punchbag, higher education is always a quick and easy mark. Everyone hates students, right? And those lecturers, bit up themselves, aren't they? And so Kemi Badenoch, bereft of ideas, takes up the cudgels once more, because why not? It's not like she's got anything else sensible to say. Might as well try and score a few populist points. Cuh, English degrees eh? What use are they?  Yes, this week, the erstwhile leader of His Majesty's Opposition decided to wander down a tired and well-trodden path and try to score a few points off the back of the much maligned Arts and Humanities. She's not the first, I highly doubt she'll be the last. She set out plans to a somewhat sparsely attended Conservative Party Confere...