![]() ![]() Pointing to anything made primarily by women- Girls, Bridesmaids, Swamplandia!-and declaring it a triumph for all women everywhere is an increasingly popular pastime. In “serious” fiction of the sort reviewed by “serious” people, the subjects discussed by women tend not to be so wide and abstract as the nature of “ life, the universe, and everything” (to steal a man’s phrase, because there are few others available). But the truth is that literature has its own line to tow here. The world of books, lacking the bombast imparted by the Hollywood machine, has largely been excused from such rigid measures. It is no accident that Sheila’s sexual affair with a lout named Israel is not of interest to Margaux, who is “made impatient by conversations about relationships or men.” That echo you hear is of the “ Bechdel test,” which applied to movies asks whether the film contains a conversation between two women about something other than a man. But a critic needs to pause, at least, before simply dismissing a writer’s unapologetic focus on the intellectual effects of female friendships. ![]() An author invites that critique by keeping the world of her book very small. You could call this navel-gazing-or, if you are James Wood, you can call the author’s emotional age into question. ![]()
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