Written on the Body by Jeannette Winterson

I just finished this book today. I just wanted to restate my feelings about the book here:

This is the sort of book that writers write, and that writers read. It is the sort of thing that a fool about love would enjoy, because it makes being such a fool excusable. It is extremely well written, and I really mean that. I just fault the rather malevolent premise, that real love, although eloquently described, is so unattainable in the world of the narrator. I did not enjoy the highlighting of the anti-hero, and I found the “ending” trite. I would not recommend reading this for the story, and I cannot recommend reading it for the eloquent passages, because frankly, words are supposed to mean something, and that is not amenable, ever.

This is the sort of thing that I look to books and art for in order to avoid. Show me your strength, your courage, your victory, your happiness. I don’t need to read about a person who can’t take the time to ground themselves, and seeks out self-esteem from the genitalia of others – no matter how well it is written.

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