Magda Carneci

This modern classic of global feminist literature, the only novel by one of Romania's most heralded poets, styled as a long letter addressed to the man who is about to leave her, a woman meanders through a cosmic retelling of her life from childhood to adulthood with visionary language and visceral, detail. Like a contemporary Scheherazade, she spins tales to hold him captivated, from the small incidents of their lives together to the intimate narrative of her relationship to womanhood. Through a dreamlike thread of strange images and passing characters, her stories invite the reader into a fantastical vision of love, loss, and femininity.

Because what is love but the supreme intelligence—fusional, alive, conscious—of the universe? If the universe is eternal and harmonious, then the universe is conscious; if the universe is conscious, then the universe means attraction, union, love, interpenetration. How could this world exist, how could it last without destroying itself, eroding itself, disappearing, if it were not encompassed moment by moment in an enormous torrent of love?

Here’s the truth of it: I feel ridiculous, performative, and severely underqualified writing a review for this book. 

is entirely about the experience of being a woman: growing up, experiencing puberty, having a crush on a boy, sexual intercourse, experiencing specific emotions, being comfortable with your body and your place in existence. As an asexual man, it feels almost mocking to even think about throwing in my 2 cents about 

brought up in this novel. What makes matters worse is that there are no reviews ANYWHERE for 

. The only moderately lengthy review I’ve found anywhere on the internet is a glowing 5 star recommendation from one of my favorite booktwitterers who describes the novel as 

“a cosmic, existential, feminist masterpiece”

, which presents the highlights of this novel better than I will for the rest of this review. Genuinely, I think my opinion matters very little here. If the writing from this novel catches your eye, you really should just pick it up and try it yourself.

I’ll keep my thoughts brief and focused on what I do know. The cover of this novel labels Magda as “a Romanian Lispector”, and now that I’ve finished the novel, that is a very fitting comparison. The prose here is sensational, and reminded me a lot of some of the beautiful passages I found in 

; however, I’d like to throw in that I found a lot of similarities to Calvino as well. If you’re a fan of 

, you’ll find the introduction and overall structure of this novel like a home away from home.

I think that’s all I’ll say on this book for now. It was wonderful :)

smile

Because what is love but the supreme intelligence—fusional, alive, conscious—of the universe? If the universe is eternal and harmonious, then the universe is conscious; if the universe is conscious, then the universe means attraction, union, love, interpenetration. How could this world exist, how could it last without destroying itself, eroding itself, disappearing, if it were not encompassed moment by moment in an enormous torrent of love?

Here’s the truth of it: I feel ridiculous, performative, and severely underqualified writing a review for this book. Fem is entirely about the experience of being a woman: growing up, experiencing puberty, having a crush on a boy, sexual intercourse, experiencing specific emotions, being comfortable with your body and your place in existence. As an asexual man, it feels almost mocking to even think about throwing in my 2 cents about anything brought up in this novel. What makes matters worse is that there are no reviews ANYWHERE for Fem. The only moderately lengthy review I’ve found anywhere on the internet is a glowing 5 star recommendation from one of my favorite booktwitterers who describes the novel as “a cosmic, existential, feminist masterpiece”, which presents the highlights of this novel better than I will for the rest of this review. Genuinely, I think my opinion matters very little here. If the writing from this novel catches your eye, you really should just pick it up and try it yourself.

I’ll keep my thoughts brief and focused on what I do know. The cover of this novel labels Magda as “a Romanian Lispector”, and now that I’ve finished the novel, that is a very fitting comparison. The prose here is sensational, and reminded me a lot of some of the beautiful passages I found in The Passion According to G.H.; however, I’d like to throw in that I found a lot of similarities to Calvino as well. If you’re a fan of Inivisible Cities or especially If on a winter’s night a traveler, you’ll find the introduction and overall structure of this novel like a home away from home.

I think that’s all I’ll say on this book for now. It was wonderful :)

There is no time to waste with any preliminaries—you need to read this book. This is a sleeper five-star novel that I never expected to rate so highly, especially because I have hardly seen it mentioned, or, perhaps, it is mentioned far less than it rightfully deserves. I myself only originally discovered it watching a YouTube video on Mircea Cărtărescu’s “Solenoid” while I was writing my review for that—both were Romanian novels translated by the wonderfully talented Sean Cotter, the translation of FEM preceding Solenoid by 3 years. ‘Lispector-esque’ was the only information I had going into it, which, though I’m limited to the one Lispector collection I’ve read, is nothing short of a ringing endorsement. And so I brought this book with me and read it in the perfect, languorous sunshine we’ve been having in this country, in humid and lazy small town train stations and quaint, quiet, idyllic parks—soaking in the sun, soaking in this amazing piece of art.

Talking about the synopsis of the novel does it no justice, I fear, because it is really the execution of its plot that makes the book wonderful. But here it is: stylised as a long letter to a male lover, the narrator ‘tells stories’, alternating between direct, italicised words directly to her lover, and these semi-autobiographical stories, starting from the earliest stages of childhood, about certain ‘awakenings’ or ‘arousings’—moments of the narrator’s life which seem enchanted with some greater significance, something cosmically inspired, but always grounded in biology or the body. Through this heightened voice, the narrator tells a story of womanhood that is personal to her, that is deeply rooted in her own body and experiences, in the hope that her perspective can be transmitted, to distil her ‘eye’ into the page, to be, by this mechanical, brutish man, fully understood.

Magda Cârneci is a Romanian poet first and foremost, and this, to this date, is her only published novel. And this is the poet-turned-author novel done right. Every sentence (and, of course, props to Sean Cotter for maintaining this) has such a beautiful fluidity and rhythm that instantly grasps you and pulls you into its spell—vocabulary-wise things are not too difficult, and the way she chains metaphors and scenes together—it is genuinely a joy to read. Perhaps not as experimental and serpentine as Lispector’s prose, but she maintains the kind of feminine sensuousness and flirtatiousness of her Brazilian counterpart, with an added touch of Romanian surrealism. This surrealism blends beautifully into the realist sections in a magical way, with these grandiose, cosmic metaphors, sometimes straying into the psychedelic or Freudian with these monumental dream sequences. Every passage you read in this book is something special, nothing feels misplaced or superfluous. It is a ridiculously rare joy that everyone needs to experience.

The novel’s political and feminist dimension is also something to not be ignored. Drawing upon her own canonical experiences of girlhood and womanhood, Cârneci’s narrator builds up this totalising image of real personhood, a powerful, explanatory perspective—a person formed of pain, discrimination, alienation, and a unique sensitivity to the world. These issues of feminism are drawn from the immediate social to a wider, existential dimension, from a n early chapter the narrator feels that her life and femininity is just ‘playing a role’ as on a stage, and one must never think about what comes before or after the play, though we get meaningful, short glimpses of this throughout our life. The narrator’s first period, first crush, first time having sex, and first time witnessing tragedy are all deeply ingrained into her psyche. It should be remembered that Romania at the time was hardly the progressive haven—seeing two female lovers together, the narrator feels a sudden rush of opportunity—could loving women also be a possibility? Cârneci’s narrator, through all of this, grasps at her intended audience, her male lover, the reader, seemingly asking, don’t you see this pain? Don’t you see that I am a person?

But beyond the everpresent strand of feminism, there is something humanistic and egalitarian about the narrator’s struggle. Like in Cărtărescu’s Solenoid, there is a preoccupation in this novel about life and what we make of it, of all things beautiful having this inherent ‘death’ within them. Both narrators in both books seek to find a ‘way out’ of this life, through art and literature. Cârneci’s narrator believes in something omniscient, these ‘glimpses’ of life that come to us rarely but fleetingly, like a colour out of space, and it is our only duty to capture these moments, to internalise them, to share them with those we love, and to live them, completely.

I am absolutely floored by this book, and with the amount of people who I know who post about Clarice Lispector, or echo the sentiments and wording in the prose here, I know so many of my followers will love this too. It’s a masterpiece. A cosmic, existential, feminist masterpiece. I could not be happier about picking up this book on a whim. Completely life-altering. Read it now.

shain

There is no time to waste with any preliminaries—you need to read this book. This is a sleeper five-star novel that I never expected to rate so highly, especially because I have hardly seen it mentioned, or, perhaps, it is mentioned far less than it rightfully deserves. I myself only originally discovered it watching a YouTube video on Mircea Cărtărescu’s “Solenoid” while I was writing my review for that—both were Romanian novels translated by the wonderfully talented Sean Cotter, the translation of FEM preceding Solenoid by 3 years. ‘Lispector-esque’ was the only information I had going into it, which, though I’m limited to the one Lispector collection I’ve read, is nothing short of a ringing endorsement. And so I brought this book with me and read it in the perfect, languorous sunshine we’ve been having in this country, in humid and lazy small town train stations and quaint, quiet, idyllic parks—soaking in the sun, soaking in this amazing piece of art.

Talking about the synopsis of the novel does it no justice, I fear, because it is really the execution of its plot that makes the book wonderful. But here it is: stylised as a long letter to a male lover, the narrator ‘tells stories’, alternating between direct, italicised words directly to her lover, and these semi-autobiographical stories, starting from the earliest stages of childhood, about certain ‘awakenings’ or ‘arousings’—moments of the narrator’s life which seem enchanted with some greater significance, something cosmically inspired, but always grounded in biology or the body. Through this heightened voice, the narrator tells a story of womanhood that is personal to her, that is deeply rooted in her own body and experiences, in the hope that her perspective can be transmitted, to distil her ‘eye’ into the page, to be, by this mechanical, brutish man, fully understood.

Magda Cârneci is a Romanian poet first and foremost, and this, to this date, is her only published novel. And this is the poet-turned-author novel done right. Every sentence (and, of course, props to Sean Cotter for maintaining this) has such a beautiful fluidity and rhythm that instantly grasps you and pulls you into its spell—vocabulary-wise things are not too difficult, and the way she chains metaphors and scenes together—it is genuinely a joy to read. Perhaps not as experimental and serpentine as Lispector’s prose, but she maintains the kind of feminine sensuousness and flirtatiousness of her Brazilian counterpart, with an added touch of Romanian surrealism. This surrealism blends beautifully into the realist sections in a magical way, with these grandiose, cosmic metaphors, sometimes straying into the psychedelic or Freudian with these monumental dream sequences. Every passage you read in this book is something special, nothing feels misplaced or superfluous. It is a ridiculously rare joy that everyone needs to experience.

The novel’s political and feminist dimension is also something to not be ignored. Drawing upon her own canonical experiences of girlhood and womanhood, Cârneci’s narrator builds up this totalising image of real personhood, a powerful, explanatory perspective—a person formed of pain, discrimination, alienation, and a unique sensitivity to the world. These issues of feminism are drawn from the immediate social to a wider, existential dimension, from a n early chapter the narrator feels that her life and femininity is just ‘playing a role’ as on a stage, and one must never think about what comes before or after the play, though we get meaningful, short glimpses of this throughout our life. The narrator’s first period, first crush, first time having sex, and first time witnessing tragedy are all deeply ingrained into her psyche. It should be remembered that Romania at the time was hardly the progressive haven—seeing two female lovers together, the narrator feels a sudden rush of opportunity—could loving women also be a possibility? Cârneci’s narrator, through all of this, grasps at her intended audience, her male lover, the reader, seemingly asking, don’t you see this pain? Don’t you see that I am a person?

But beyond the everpresent strand of feminism, there is something humanistic and egalitarian about the narrator’s struggle. Like in Cărtărescu’s Solenoid, there is a preoccupation in this novel about life and what we make of it, of all things beautiful having this inherent ‘death’ within them. Both narrators in both books seek to find a ‘way out’ of this life, through art and literature. Cârneci’s narrator believes in something omniscient, these ‘glimpses’ of life that come to us rarely but fleetingly, like a colour out of space, and it is our only duty to capture these moments, to internalise them, to share them with those we love, and to live them, completely.

I am absolutely floored by this book, and with the amount of people who I know who post about Clarice Lispector, or echo the sentiments and wording in the prose here, I know so many of my followers will love this too. It’s a masterpiece. A cosmic, existential, feminist masterpiece. I could not be happier about picking up this book on a whim. Completely life-altering. Read it now.

FEM

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