scribbled thoughts and messy writing
December 31, 2023
Categories:
books
Note: the books discussed contain descriptions of rape and sexual assault, and eating disorders.
It seems difficult to find reviews or critique of Emily Ratajkowski’s book, My Body, without becoming ensnared in opinions about Emily’s public life or image, whether or not she’s “smart” or a “good writer”, and whether she wrote the book herself. I first became interested in this book after reading her essay, Buying Myself Back. I found the essay collection somewhat disappointing — Ratajkowski’s thoughts seem to be heavily focused on attractiveness and desirability of women’s bodies, and don’t seem to challenge social structures beyond simplistic slogans like “fuck capitalism” (although she’s far from the only person guilty of this). Perhaps this reflects her life experiences thus far, but as a reader, we only see her analyze the experiences and lives of privileged people.
I think I found the essay about being paid to stay in a luxury resort in the Maldives in return for advertising (“BC Hello Halle Berry”) most thought provoking — in some ways what she doesn’t talk about in this book seems more illustrative than what she does. She seems to spend a lot of time and effort thinking about her body, and specifically the attractiveness of her body (she doesn’t really mention health or abilities) to the male gaze, which seems like an exhausting life. She is adamant that she only does modelling for the money and doesn’t enjoy it, and that capitalizing on her body is the best way she can have success in the capitalistic system. It feels like she operates with the mindset that it would be a waste to not capitalize on her (conventionally attractive) body as much as she can, but it feels a false dichotomy to think that this is the only way to survive — she gets close to this revelation sometimes. Similarly, she argues with her partner that since what she earns is a drop in the bucket compared to the wealth of the owners of the resort, it almost behooves them to “take advantage of” vacationing there, as though the expense of their stay wouldn’t just be part of the resort’s advertising budget (and expected to increase their revenue). While she’s there, she describes some Muslim women covered up while at the beach, and fleetingly wonders what they’re saying to each other. What she doesn’t discuss at all is that construction in the Maldives depends on migrant workers and has a significant human trafficking problem.
One of my favourite pieces of art is by a woman named Hannah Black. She's mostly a writer, but she occasionally creates work that is political, and the one that I love is an audio recording. [...] The whole piece is comprised of famous women singers, mainly black, singing the words "my body" over and over. Rihanna, Beyonce, Whitney. The two-second clips play on a loop: "My body! My body! My bow-day!"
"My body!" I sang out loud in my best Rihanna voice, thinking of Hannah Black's piece as I stepped into the water, adjusting my wet bikini bottom to wedge it farther up my ass. The image of Halle Berry emerging from the surf in Die Another Day came to mind. Halle Berry was hot, I thought, yet she only managed to win an Oscar by making herself look ugly, in Monster's Ball.
(BC Hello Halle Berry, pp. 92-93)
But did I have power? Did the women on the beach in their headscarves? Did Halle Berry have more power coming out of the water as the James Bond girl or when she took off her makeup and got ugly in the film that earned her an Oscar? And did my young actor friend have more power that she was wearing turtlenecks and tasteful diamond studs? Did Kim have more power going to the White House in her suit or when she capitalized on the release of her infamous sex tape, the one that made her the most googled woman on earth?
(BC Hello Halle Berry, pp. 97-98)
I think it would have been interesting to examine the body in the context of slavery, labour, reproduction (and reproduction as labour, literally production of new workers), and the politicization and violence against Black bodies today that can’t be allowed to simply exist. The extent to which she mentions bodies of people of colour (the Muslim women at the beach, the workers at a Korean spa) is fleeting and detached. Only being able to conceive of power through the lens of (conventional, white, male-gaze) attractiveness, and reducing that to “Halle Berry was hot” almost feels like parody.
One of my favourite things to do after a day of work was to pick up some Thai food from a takeout place close to my building and sit on my bed, complete with the quilt I'd bought from Urban Outfitters for sixty bucks and the bed frame I'd borrowed from my parents' house. Nights like these were what I lived for; I couldn't imagine anything more luxurious or enjoyable.
(Blurred Lines, p. 31)
The most endearing and relatable moment for me was when she described being early in her career and getting Thai food after work and going back to her apartment that she had decorated. There's an indelible feeling of freedom and possibility of having your own apartment and earning money, and the heightened and new enjoyment of luxuriating in small things like making your own decisions, even small decisions like buying household items and takeout food.
Near the end of the book, she describes an afternoon when she was on a bike ride with her partner and a friend while she was pregnant, and she is initially self-conscious about looking sweaty or disheveled before realizing the joy of existing in her body and what it can do. I understand that as a model, she has been forced to spend an inordinate amount of time and effort thinking about her body, but I would propose that taking a page out of the body neutrality movement’s book would be both a healthier and more joyful way to live. Given this up-close look at the life of a model, I am convinced that no amount of money or adulation is worth it, and that I greatly prefer my peaceful middle-class office worker existence.
I read The Vegetarian by Han Kang after a few lackluster books, and it was refreshing in its brutality and the visceral horror and desperation I felt while reading it, as well as the confusion and ambivalence I was left with afterwards. Turning to the perplexed Goodreads reviews for solace and an attempt at clarity was also an enjoyable part of the experience.
The book is about a woman, Yeong-hye, who decides to become a vegetarian, and eventually forgoes food altogether to try to become a plant. The book is divided into three parts, each narrated in turn by Yeong-hye’s husband, brother-in-law, and sister.
Yeong-hye’s initial rejection of meat stems from recurring graphic nightmares she has about meat and blood (and not out of concern for animal welfare or environmentalism). As Yeong-hye continues to dare to refuse to eat or cook meat, her husband and family react with embarrassment, concern, contempt, and disgust — at one point, her family stages an intervention where her father tries to force-feed her meat, and physically assaults her when she refuses. Her husband and brother-in-law rape her, and eventually she is removed from society and committed to a psychiatric hospital for long-term care. The people around Yeong-hye react to her behaviour as though it is outrageous and unreasonable, but as an outside observer I couldn’t help but find her sensible and sympathize with her being stuck in a nightmarish environment.
Apparently Han is happy with the translation and Smith has gone on to translate her other books, as well as work by other high-profile authors such as Ahn Do-Hyun. I am obviously not a subject matter expert here so I don't have a strong opinion, but I can see both perspectives and appreciate the complexities of this situation. Although I do wish that there was also a more literal translation so I could reread the book closer to how the author wrote it. Also, I asked my Korean friend and they mentioned that as far as they were aware, the book wasn't controversial in Korea despite its vulgar and sexual content. This surprised me, as I am Chinese and I cannot imagine this book being allowed to exist, let alone lauded, in China.These embellishments highlight the difference in what appeals to readers abroad. A lack of agency, the ability to decide and make purposeful choices, presents a huge problem for Western readers of contemporary South Korean fiction. Most of the time, short stories and novels feature dazed and detached protagonists who are overwhelmed and buffeted by life.
But those passive “victim” qualities are precisely why many Western readers find so much contemporary Korean fiction to be unpalatable. We enjoy reading stories about characters who are active and rational, who fight to overcome obstacles, and who act and are not simply acted upon.
(Charse Yun's article)
This book isn’t really about vegetarianism, except as a metaphor for autonomy and femininity in a society that values conformity and obedience in women. We never hear Yeong-hye’s perspective — the first two sections of the book are narrated by men who describe her with crude sexual imagery and fully disregard her as an individual. The brother-in-law even realizes at one point that Yeong-hye, as a young woman, would be a conventional object of desire, but had renounced her body and what it symbolized altogether, “a body from which all desire had been eliminated,” yet he continues to fixate on her and develops a sexual obsession with her.
Though the ostensible reason for her not wanting Yeong-hye to be discharged, the reason that she gave the doctor, was this worry about a possible relapse, now she was able to admit to herself what had really been going on. She was no longer able to cope with all that her sister reminded her of. She'd been unable to forgive her for soaring alone over a boundary she herself could never bring herself to cross, unable to forgive that magnificent irresponsibility that had enabled Yeong-hye to shuck off social constraints and leave her behind, still a prisoner. And before Yeong-hye had broken those bars, she'd never even known they were there.
(p. 148)
Eventually, Yeong-hye stops eating altogether and believes she is becoming a plant, fully renouncing her femininity and no longer being consumed by men. Her sister cares about her (no crude or objectifying language from her), and has some misguided attempts to try to make her “normal” again, but eventually comes to understand her perspective and notice and resent the societal norms that she herself is constricted by. Frankly, I am wholly sympathetic to Yeong-hye by this point, and find it completely understandable that she would would feel alienated by existing in a body that is constantly being pinched and pecked at by vultures and flies.
What does it mean to exist in a body? As I write this, multiple genocides are happening in the world. Ultimately, our bodies allow us to experience life and spend time with our loved ones. It is not lost on me that all this fixation on one’s body is a luxury, and feels to some extent like self-indulgent nonsense. Maybe I should, as the kids say, go touch some grass?