I’m curious about the distinction you imply between anglophone autofiction and, presumably, autofiction in other languages. Do you see a difference? And what texts are you thinking of when you mention anglophone autofiction (besides Cusk)?
Personally, I don’t really agree with the characterization of autofiction as fetishizing powerlessness and oppression, but I also wonder if we’re thinking of different texts. I’m thinking of Knausgaard, for example, which is pretty much the total opposite—recognizing that the world wants to oppress us but fighting back, struggling, to give meaning to our existence. But he’s not anglophone autofiction, so…
I think one of the most egregious examples - which I’ve mentioned here before and don’t want to dunk on it too many times - is Jenny Offill’s Weather, which is almost unreadable only five years after its publication. I haven’t read Karl, alas - but I do like Sheila Heti, Ben Lerner, and a few others. I think the most euro parallel to anglophone autofiction is Edouard Louis, and the experience varies wildly from book to book. In a phrase, I don’t know! It’s tough - but I do think there’s a significant difference between the empowerment you describe and the kind of “am I a bad person for buying a banana” novel that passes for profound.
That makes a lot of sense. I haven’t read Weather so can’t comment, but I see the distinction you’re drawing, and I would agree that that sort of “profundity” doesn’t hold up. I think sometimes the issue comes down to the term “autofiction” itself—it means different things when used by different people.
I’m curious about the distinction you imply between anglophone autofiction and, presumably, autofiction in other languages. Do you see a difference? And what texts are you thinking of when you mention anglophone autofiction (besides Cusk)?
Personally, I don’t really agree with the characterization of autofiction as fetishizing powerlessness and oppression, but I also wonder if we’re thinking of different texts. I’m thinking of Knausgaard, for example, which is pretty much the total opposite—recognizing that the world wants to oppress us but fighting back, struggling, to give meaning to our existence. But he’s not anglophone autofiction, so…
I think one of the most egregious examples - which I’ve mentioned here before and don’t want to dunk on it too many times - is Jenny Offill’s Weather, which is almost unreadable only five years after its publication. I haven’t read Karl, alas - but I do like Sheila Heti, Ben Lerner, and a few others. I think the most euro parallel to anglophone autofiction is Edouard Louis, and the experience varies wildly from book to book. In a phrase, I don’t know! It’s tough - but I do think there’s a significant difference between the empowerment you describe and the kind of “am I a bad person for buying a banana” novel that passes for profound.
That makes a lot of sense. I haven’t read Weather so can’t comment, but I see the distinction you’re drawing, and I would agree that that sort of “profundity” doesn’t hold up. I think sometimes the issue comes down to the term “autofiction” itself—it means different things when used by different people.
this is great