Not really a review of Spinster

Among English professors these days, there is a debate about world literature. What is the best way to teach literature from countries and cultures other than our own? How can we introduce students to different cultures without imposing our own values on them? This is a complex question, but I think it’s safe to say that Kate Bolick’s book offers a kind of limit case on moving too far in the direction of writing what you know.

If there are dangers in spreading your expertise too thin, in pretending to be able to teach a Mongolian short story, a Kenyan poem, a Uruguayan essay, surely the greater danger lies in thinking that red-headed women from New England who move to New York City to become writers is a meaningful category.

Still, with expectations low, I devoured Spinster. My mom did, too. And, judging by the publicity it received, we are not alone. Nor are we alone in finding that the book has left a bit of a sour taste, that its narrowness suggests a profound failure of imagination. The articles in Slate and the LA Review of Books offer a more thorough take-down of the book than I have the patience to compose. I wanted instead to write about the value that the book might continue to have, in spite of its flaws. So, I went flipping back through the pages I marked in the book, to see what there might be that’s worth sharing.

So disappointing to find nothing.