How to capture that? The problem with dailiness—how to write the day when it escapes us. It was the problem at the center of the work I was trying to write, although I was unsure whether I was really trying to write it. Never have I felt more emptied of the possibility of writing but more full of it at the same time. When did I realize I was suffering not from writer’s block but from refusal?
Drifts shows its “refusal” from beginning to end: it is the record and the result of Kate Zambreno refusing the subtitle of the book, which is a novel. “Is it a novel, though?” I kept asking myself, as I read. I get it, that’s the point: Drifts asks (Zambreno asks) us to ask, what is a novel, anyway? what does it look like to refuse the artifice of form (and narration and coherence and plot and all the other usual constituent elements of fiction)? what if instead of seeking unity you settled for fragments, what if instead of momentum you embraced meandering, what if you turned always inward, never outward? For people who like this kind of book, Drifts is definitely the kind of book they will like. I didn’t much like it, which won’t surprise anyone who has followed this blog for long. Novels in fragments usually strike me as cop-outs. Yes, it’s hard to finish the thing: to complete the thoughts, find the form, shape the narrative, make something solid out of fleeting impressions, make art out of experience, rather than recreate it. That’s the novelist’s job! So do your job: don’t put the unfinished pieces out into the world and excuse them on the grounds that experience, too, is fragmented and incoherent and random. I live that way: must I read that way too? Other readers love such fictions, though, including many readers whose insights I value highly. That’s what keeps things interesting!
There were definitely things about Drifts I did like. I liked learning about Rilke (I would have liked, better, a unified essay about Rilke); I enjoyed May Sarton’s scattered presence (I would have liked, better, an essay focused on Zambreno’s interest in Sarton). I liked the sense of what it might be like to be in Zambreno’s head—until I got tired of it, since it’s not a particularly restful or happy or illuminating place and being in my own head is hard enough these days, thank you very much. I got tired of the insistence on how hard it is to write, to be a writer, to write a novel. It started to seem unbearably self-absorbed, self-indulgent, solipsistic, all this moping around and lamenting and oversharing. “Think of Trollope!” I wanted to say. “Get out of your head and just tell us a story!” But of course that is not the kind of novel Zambreno is interested in.
I’m sounding more negative than I felt about the book as I read it. There were many moments in Drifts that interested me and others that moved me and others that upset me (I wasn’t prepared for the discussion of and image from Sarah Charlesworth’s series Stills). I found myself wondering why Zambreno didn’t just write it Drifts as memoir, rather than autofiction. I find it distracting reading works that refuse (that word again) to decide or clarify what they are, and perhaps my expectations would have been different if the pitch itself had been different. Still, the title gave fair warning, even if, arguably, the subtitle misled. I’m glad I finally gave Zambreno a try: now I know that she’s not for me. I’m not absolutely refusing to read anything more by her, but unless her other books are of a wholly different sort, I’ll let them drift away.
Novel Readings 
I’m enjoying thinking about what you’ve posted here! Thinking about what I appreciate in her … I can imagine a future version of myself that doesn’t like being in Zambreno’s head, but for now it makes me feel less alone. As for novel/memoir, I think Zambreno is interested in creating space for narratorial slipperiness or unreliability and autofiction allows that. In my mind, memoir brings with it certain expectations of honesty as well as form, and the book just doesn’t fit those. Finally, I wonder if there’s a kind of shapeliness to the book that isn’t traditional novel form, but is form nonetheless? There’s a certain rhythm and repetition in it that makes it feel like one big whole that moves back and forth among its various pieces. And there’s the pregnancy development that feels like a movement forward — not a plot, but a development. But underlying all this is the matter of taste — she suits mine, and I get that she doesn’t suit everyone’s!
LikeLike
That’s a good point about the pregnancy: the second half of the book has much more direction to it, as a result of following that personal / narrative arc. I expect you are right too about patterns and the way the returns, especially to Rilke, create connections between the parts. Rereading and thoughtful tracking would probably help me discern these – although that also feeds my complaint that Zambreno is refusing to do that work herself.
I’m interested in your comment about honesty. I don’t know how to think about or assess honesty or truthfulness in autofiction. I know memoir, like history, is always creative, not simply representational, but the underlying premise is that it tracks the truth in some meaningful way, that it has (for want of better terms) references in reality that bear its weight. Drifts seems tied to Zambreno’s real life in a lot of ways but without knowing more about her biographically, I don’t know where the ‘auto’ parts end and the ‘fiction’ parts begin. Maybe I shouldn’t care!
LikeLike
I guess I’m trying to think about the “fragmentary” nature of books like these in a different way. Is it really made up of “fragments,” or is it more a kind of braiding or weaving of ideas, texts, stories, images? More patterns instead of pieces? But yes, Zambreno isn’t doing the work of bringing it all together for us. I’m thinking about reasons she might refuse to do this other than “to capture the fragmentary nature of experience.” I’m not sure, but I do enjoy thinking on my own about how the sections relate. It feels like an invitation to think along with her. I can absolutely see how that feels like she’s not doing her job, but to me it feels like an open, generative move, not a lazy one (generative of thought on my part).
As for honesty, I suppose I don’t care where the “auto” parts end and the “fiction” parts begin, and I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not, but it’s true! And it explains why autofiction can appeal to me, if it’s done well.
LikeLike
Your word “generative” feels like a productive one in this context. There’s a way in which my own response to writing like this is lazy, too, I am aware – or at any rate passive. If I were required to write “properly” about the novel, or, more pressingly, to teach it, I would dig in and see if I *can* find patterns or put the pieces together more effectively, although it is possible that this would actually run counter to what she is trying to get us to do! Hmmm.
LikeLike
Absolutely did not mean to imply your response is lazy in any way! Or passive. I’m reminded of reading Zambreno’s thoughts on how people responded to her earlier book, Heroines — she was annoyed that people said the book lacked structure because she had structured it very carefully. I’m not sure how to think about this — did her attempts at structure fail, or were readers missing it, or were they not attuned to it? If readers missed it, was it her fault (probably)? But maybe they wanted a different kind of structure from what she was offering? At any rate, it’s clear that Zambreno’s methods of structure do not work for everyone! I think they offer a particular kind of reading pleasure that not everyone is looking for.
LikeLike
I love the post and I love your exchange with Rebecca above. I just finished reading her newest, The Light Room, and I was writing one passage down after another. I think right now I’m on a wavelength where her grappling with form and life really appeals to me. I actually think I liked The Light Room more, and I think part of it is because it has more direction, while still grappling, if that makes sense.
Your post above makes me think about why I liked it so much while also having me question my response. Not doubt it, per se, but examine what worked for me. Thank you, as always!
LikeLiked by 1 person
I wrote out a passage from Drifts I really liked – evidence that despite my reservations about the book as a whole, it had something to offer me.
LikeLike
Rebecca, I definitely didn’t think you were calling me lazy! I am just always aware that I do less work on a book I’m reading “just” for myself and writing it up here than I would probably do in other circumstances. I let myself dislike, resist, or refuse, instead of digging in. As a teacher, I am really committed to the idea that you can learn to read books better.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Okay, good 🙂
LikeLike