My Year in Paris with Gertrude Stein by Deborah Levy: book review
After picking up various different Deborah Levy books for about six months, thinking I should read that, and then never actually purchasing the book, I've finally finished my first—her latest novel, which is receiving quite a bit of buzz. I went in with no expectations, simply ready to hear about Paris and Gertrude Stein and whatever else Levy had in mind for me, and I'm glad I went in with a blank slate. Not in that there's any surprises to be spoiled here. Simply in that having no notions about what my reading experience would be, I was able to fully embrace the book because this is a unique novel.
For one, it doesn't read like a novel. To me, it has the voice and feel of nonfiction. Someone recounting the happenings of a life as they happen, rather than being particularly interested in building up rich, vivid characters or the world with a particular idea of something to say. They just all fall into place as they're needed. This also isn't a book about the main character, or, maybe, the better distinction is the "I" speaker. She instead provides a lens through which to examine her other friends. This was an interesting style that is incredibly different to most contemporary literature these days where being deep in one's head traverses both first and third person.
Instead, Levy blends a kind of narration of the happenings of a trio of friends in Paris in the modern day with excerpts of Gertrude Stein's work and thinking about Stein and her life with Alice B. Toklas and the many literary luminaries that made up their friend group. The personal narrative—which mostly revolves around a missing cat, previously named "it", renamed Bob to prevent confusion, seemingly a metaphor for other aspects of their lives—involves a thread of the main character writing an essay on Gertrude Stein, necessitating the thinking, talking about, and excerpting from Stein's work throughout the narrative. So we are experiencing the creation of the essay alongside the characters as they muddle through their artistic lives in Paris in their awkwardly assembled friend group of convenience.
This all sounds maybe a bit confusing to follow or like there's not much of a story. Both of these things are true. But I still blew through the book . The fact that the narrative is sparse and the plot points are repetitive is aided greatly by the fact that it's only 230 pages with big font and generally short chapters. The sense of accomplishment kept me going even when I wasn't entirely sure why I was reading. If there's any true testimonial I can give on the readability, it's that I started and finished the book in the midst of moving when I really had no time to read. I think I feel extra favorably towards it because it was a light enough book that I could hold it in my very cluttered brain and that it kept me reading through a time when I otherwise would not have been. When I closed the book, I felt blissfully content. I didn't have any huge revelations or things that were still needling my mind from the experience. Instead, I felt a bit reset.
I don't have the impression this is one of those books that will massively stick with me, but I am glad to have read it.
Overall: 4
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