So, last night I finished reading After Sappho by Selby Wynn Schwartz.
This book was a lot.
It's not terribly long, just very intense.
There were actually two things about this book that if I'd noticed them beforehand, I probably wouldn't have bought it. The first, which is more excusable for me to have missed it, is that it's basically in internet formatting: unindented paragraphs separated by blank lines, a format that I absolutely detest on the printed page, where it sometimes actually gives me a headache. The second, for which I have no excuse, is that in the list of prizes and awards the book won, the back of the book mentions that it was a "Finalist for the Orwell Prize for Political Fiction." Given my stress-related heart palpitations, I would have avoided anything labeled "political fiction" like the plague, but somehow I didn't notice that.
As usual, I feel that the back of the book still somehow managed to misrepresent the contents. One of the central sentences of the blurb on the back says "Through a series of cascading vignettes, the intertwined lives of real feminists at the turn of the twentieth century are mesmerizingly reimagined" followed by a list of a few of the most notable of them. (Which honestly probably shouldn't have listed Josephine Baker, since she basically just passes through the narrative in a single chapter. But she's one of the only non-white people in the book, which is presumably why the back of the book was so eager to mention her.) What it didn't mention--despite that the title of the book made it blatantly obvious--was that the vast majority of the real women depicted were not merely "feminists" but also lesbians/sapphics/whatever-other-name-you-can-come-up-with-for-women-who-love-women. That reluctance on the part of the novel's own marketing is appalling.
Anyway. As I said, this book was a lot. It covers from about the 1880s or so (early chapters jump around in time a bit, and/or give dates that are more symbolic than anything else) to 1928, ending with the publication of Virginia Woolf's Orlando. (Which is one of those novels where I loved the film adaptation, and so I am left wondering if reading the book would ruin the film for me, or if the deeper understanding would make it even better.) That was not a pleasant time to live in, especially for women, and even more so for women who loved women, so a lot of what happens in the novel is distressing.
I don't usually read literary fiction, being someone who mostly prefers to read for escapism, so it's hard for me to know how to react to this book. It was amazing, a real experience, and I'm not sorry I read it, but I didn't actually enjoy reading it. But enjoyment was definitely never the point.
Original language: English (but it contains a lot of quotes that the author translated out of French and Italian)