Name: Written on the Body
Rating: 4.1 (60 reviews)
ISBN: 9780679744474

Jeanette Winterson

The most beguilingly seductive novel to date from the author of The Passion and Sexing the Cherry. Winterson chronicles the consuming affair between the narrator, who is given neither name nor gender, and the beloved, a complex and confused married woman.

“At once a love story and a philosophical meditation.” —New York Times Book Review.

Written on the Body

ended this one in tears. love hurts like nothing else.

jaya kohol

rory

Written on the Body is a secret code only visible in certain lights: the accumulation of a lifetime gather there. In places the palimpsest is so heavily worked that the letters feel like braille. I like to keep my body rolled away from prying eyes, never unfold too much, tell the whole story. I didn't know that Louise would have reading hands. She has translated me into her own book.

Katherine Yang

As a study of language use, the book is a wealth of incredibly beautiful passages and gems of sentences. However, in other aspects, I didn't connect personally to the narrator or their emotions, not to mention the plot.

a frenzied, awe-inspiring exploration of love as an act of salvation, consumption, and torturous sacrifice. i knew this novel was going to be insane from the moment winterson asked, ‘why is the measure of love loss?’ and i'm definitely gonna read it over and over again in the future ^^

kemi

Scritto sul corpo

Chiara Malaspina di Orezzoli

Perché è la perdita la misura dell'amore?
Non piove da tre mesi. Gli alberi scavano sonde sottoterra, inviano radici di riserva nel suolo arido, radici che aprono come fossero rasoi ogni vena gonfia d'acqua. I grappoli si sono appassiti sulle viti. Ciò che dovrebbe essere turgido e sodo, resistente al tatto per aprirsi in bocca, è spugnoso e piagato. Quest'anno non avrò il piacere di rigirare gli acini bluastri fra indice e pollice e di impregnarmi di muschio il palmo della mano. Perfino le vespe sdegnano quelle esili gocce marroni. perfino le vespe, quest'anno. Non è stato sempre così.
Penso a un certo settembre: Colombaccio Farfalla Rossa Messe Gialla Notte Arancio. Dicesti: «ti amo». Com'è che la cosa meno originale che sappiamo dirci è tuttavia la sola che desideriamo sentire? "Ti amo" è sempre una citazione. Non sei stata tu a dirlo per la prima volta e nemmeno io, eppure, quando lo dici tu e quando lo dico io, siamo come dei selvaggi che hanno scoperto due parole e le venerano. Io le ho venerate, ma adesso mi ritrovo nella solitudine di una roccia scavata dal mio stesso corpo.

I.m. ruzz

The opening paragraphs will stand in my mind as some of the finest written. Her love of the flesh and sense, and ability to connect ephemeral emotions with concretely physical experiences is refreshing. Having said that there is but one voice, one tone, and one energy to be found in the book. Every character is in some way her, and when not her, is defined by her judgment (or impression, or obsession) of them rather than who they are as characters. 

Moreover, I question if she has what it takes to be a novelist. She certainly has a gift for words and a powerful voice but that voice becomes fragmented and imprecise, as does the meandering structure of this short book (190 pages). Without more discipline she may better serve herself--and likely carve out a place in history-- as a poet, or short story author. Leonard Cohen stuck to song writing and poetry (after 2 short novels) and the format played to the strengths of his imagery without forcing him to give anything up for the sake of making it readable over a longer arc. 

the last thing worth noting is my complete confusion about the main characters sex. Was the narrator male? female? or neither? She's been praised for deftly sidestepping any obvious declaration but from my vantage this is not a feat but a cheap card trick. It kept a space the breadth and width of the lingering question between the narrator and I throughout. Perhaps that was the point. To speak in generalities, rather than specifics about one's sex, or experience. And if so I'm sure the critics swooned, but it doesn't make it more readable, more interesting or more relevant--it only makes me hyper-focus on any clues that may remain.

Written on the body is a secret code only visible in certain lights: the accumulation of a lifetime gather there. In places the palimpsest is so heavily worked that the letters feel like braille. I like to keep my body rolled away from prying eyes, never unfold too much, tell the whole story. I didn't know that Louise would have reading hands. She has translated me into her own book.

Written on the Body

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