Power Play: Reading Kristen Roupenian’s ‘You Know You Want This’

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In the last decade, a small but mighty contingent of young female writers has been putting out novels and short story collections that examine what it’s like to be a young woman with all its messy nuances. Ottessa Moshfegh crafts weirdo protagonists looking to give up control of their lives in order to find themselves. Catherine Lacey writes of women that have lenses and expectations applied to them, personalities assumed and prescribed by suitors seeking solace in the fantasy of love, not its reality. Halle Butler’s office workers pretend to be excited about bettering themselves socially and financially when it actually withers them inside. Alexandra Kleeman writes about the surreality of being a modern woman, stitching her characters into works that are constantly threatened by unknown gothic menace, the unseen wolf at the door of life. While each writer is distinct in her depiction of being a 20- or 30-something woman in the age of polyamory and Instagram, they’re unified in their desire for a lack of control, or an inability to have it.

In January of this year, Simon & Schuster’s Scout Press released Kristen Roupenian’s You Know You Want This, a collection of stories that gained hype based on her popular New Yorker story, “Cat Person,” which focused on a bad date between a stock college girl and a stock mid-30s creep, complete with bad, erectile dysfunction-centric sex. The salacious details and disgusting dynamic of the story embedded themselves into the expectations of the collection, which offered some of that pulpy pleasure, but mostly investigated the ways in which we try to gain control of ourselves, our situations, and the lives of others. While the press surrounding the book lumped Roupenian in with other female heavy-hitters currently at work, it’d be a stretch to say her collection fits squarely into the exploratory space of her peers. Instead of writing about the search for the self via combustibility, Roupenian writes about the female perspective from a different vantage point: How do women control the lives of their friends, lovers, and selves not out of fear, but out of necessity—be it selfish or in the service of good? How do they take control of the stories they live, especially in a world where men threaten to dominate?

In some of the stories, the reader is treated to the “women behaving badly” narratives that populate the work of Ottessa Moshfegh, Catherine Lacey, and the like. However, unlike Moshfegh and Lacey, who inject their plotting with wild humor and existential loneliness, Roupenian makes her characters vicious, even if their intentions are to do no harm. In the story “Bad Boy,” an unnamed female protagonist describes the increasing amount of power she and her boyfriend exerted over their friend, a nameless sad-sack male with a great capacity for getting drunk, but no ability to stand up for himself. It’s never explained or implied what drives the need for control, but it moves from the realm of kink to deadly obsession in just 12 pages. At first, the pushover friend is harassed by the couple, who test his limits for abuse, partly out of boredom, but also as a means of taking control of their sex life. After the friend acquiesces and begins watching his friends in bed, they begin setting boundaries on his involvement, sometimes incorporating him as an ersatz third member of the relationship, and sometimes using his attention to reignite their monogamous expression.

When he tries to cut off contact, they hunt him down, enter his apartment, and force him to kill and rape the woman he’s in bed with. Roupenian’s narrator says “He was like some slippery thing we had caught in our fists, and the harder we squeezed the more of it bubbled up through our fingers. We were chasing something inside of him that revolted us, but we were driven mad as dogs by the scent.” While it’s suggested that this control was the only way for the couple to brook a stale patch in their relationship, the way the power dynamic works—the couple needs the friend to enjoy sex; the friend needs the couple to provide direction, even if it’s harmful—is nuanced, raising interesting questions about control and privilege. In “Bad Boy,” the narrator is disinterested in the feelings and concerns of her friend, but more importantly, seems to feel emboldened by his willingness to cower and bend to her and her partner’s demands. It would be easy to dismiss the story as one about two bad individuals taking advantage of a wayward friend, but Roupenian is getting at something more. Her narrators and protagonists don’t simply push or reckon with the boundaries of power, they delve into the murkiness of what it means to be in control, and how to be ethical when in that power position.

Roupenian’s story, “Scarred,” for example, features an unnamed female narrator that conjures up her literal dream man in her basement via magic. At first, she’s frightened, suspicious that it’s a demon she’s summoned. But as it becomes clearer that her conjuring is bound to the circle of salt she’s made, she slowly takes from him, bit by bit, until she has nothing left except his literal heart. Alexandra Kleeman and Ottessa Moshfegh both have stories that play with a sense of the fantastical or antiquated (“Fairy Tale” and “Brom” respectively), but while those stories are imbued with a sense of odd dread or foreboding, “Scarred” feels tragic and lamenting. Like the narrator of “Bad Boy,” the conjurer can’t help but destroy this person who has given some electricity to her life. Unlike that narrator, she struggles with the burden of yielding her power over him, saying, “I gave him a pillow to go with the blanket, a pair of shorts, one of those little camping latrines, as much water and good food as he wanted, as long as he cooperated. ‘Please don’t,’ he said when I came back, but what would you have done?” Here, the amenities are meant to distance the narrator from the pain she’s inflicting on her captive could-be soul mate. This is furthered by her proclamation that she eventually “stopped cutting up his arms,” taking instead to drawing “the knife as lightly as possible across his back and bandag[ing] him up afterward.”

These decisions are meant to reduce the physical harm being done, but they also allow the narrator to enter into a kind of caretaker relationship with her victim. While bandaging him up, the narrator promises her spells will make both of their lives better, and that she will take care of him and love him as he deserves. Initially, Roupenian’s narrator begins spellcasting to conjure an ideal mate that will worship her despite her flaws, but the author subverts the sexual captivity narrative by bringing into question the value of desire versus becoming desired. As the narrator puts it after becoming beautiful herself, “Given that I had myself fairly well convinced of his fundamental unreality, it came as a surprise, how much I enjoyed the look he gave me then —desired it, desired him. Now that I had my own beauty, my own set of tricks, I could let down my guard a bit.” As she accrues more power in her own life, her desire for her dream man dissipates, and when she eventually kills him to finish the last spell in the book, she notes, per the spell’s promise, “I would find some other love, my own heart’s true desire.”

While there are fantasy aspects to the parable, Roupenian is again writing about what control provides us, and the struggles that come with trying to justify it. Like the narrator in “Bad Boy,” there’s no deep exploration of the whys and wherefores of the protagonist’s desire for perfection. The reader is given no sense of how attractive or unattractive she is prior to the spells, nor of how bright and successful she may be. In the vagueness of these things, readers are able to project themselves onto the unnamed characters and speculate about what holes power can fill and the value of companionship and true love.

In “Boy in the Pool,” Roupenian explores the literal economics of power: how the raising of price points for increasingly degrading acts impacts control. For Taylor’s bachelorette party, her friend Kath hunts down Jared, an actor from an erotic B-movie they used to watch as teenagers. It’s suggested that Kath is in love with Taylor and believes she can win her friend’s heart by making her oldest fantasy—sex with Jared—a reality. Everything comes to a head when Jared initially refuses to go along with Kath’s idea: to recreate a swimming pool scene from the film with Taylor. In order to buy his compliance, Kath offers him more money. Immediately, Jared strips and jumps in the pool.

Here again, there’s admiration of the male body, but Roupenian quickly turns her narratives away from sex to get at something more eerie. While Jared is hamming it up, seducing Taylor and the rest of the bridal party with his long body and beautiful eyes, he’s unaware of his limitations. While Kath thinks she’s paying for sex, buying the actor in order to gain ground with her crush, what she’s really purchasing is power for her friend. Soon, Taylor pushes him underwater and holds him there until she’s satisfied. What the bride-to-be—who has suffered a series of bad relationships—really wants is to gain control of the actor who symbolizes her last potent and positive memory of a man. When she releases him, seeing him pearled with water and gasping for air, she says, “I think that’s enough for tonight.”

Always Roupenian starts with expectations and seemingly clear plotting before complicating the narrative with lenses of control. Often, the subject, almost always male, isn’t aware of those lenses, or is powerlessness to escape or turn away. In “Matchbox Sign,” the protagonists, a couple named Laura and David, are controlled by the same force—a parasite that may or may not be real, living inside of Laura. If nothing else, Roupenian should be applauded for tackling the subject of Morgelon’s Disease, a topic last written about by Leslie Jamison in “The Devil’s Bait.” The disease, a psychosomatic disorder that leads individuals to believe there’s something living inside of them when there’s not, allows Roupenian to write about the limitations of love, as well as the control it can exert when nothing else makes sense.

David and Laura are at odds with one another, not over the validity of Laura’s poor health, but about the nature of her condition. While Laura believes she’s infested with a parasite, David isn’t sure what’s wrong, even as she crawls on the floor of their apartment to search for bugs; sees her body become marked with bites, welts, and scratches; and watches her bag small eggs to take to the doctor. Ultimately, Roupenian draws a parallel between the parasite inside of Laura and the feeling of love. For most of its 18-page run, the story’s focus is lenses of control in relationships, with Laura constrained by both the unknown creature inside her and her relationship: her decision to put her ambitions on hold for David’s career; the budget spreadsheet used to track their spending, her desire to both be happy and make David happy. In effort to find happiness, she begins taking Depakote, which causes the woman David fell in love with to disappear.

All relationships struggle to allow the individuals involved freedom and independence, but Roupenian takes this into the realm of body horror, with Laura’s parasite breaking through her arm as David tries to rip it from her and provide visible confirmation of her suffering. In the last sentences, the parasite hooks into his cheek, enters his skull, and, much like love, “pulses through his bloodstream, swimming with unerring instinct toward his heart.”

Unlike the jump into the great unknown her peers force their characters to make, Roupenian lets her creations vie for a control that will break their hearts. In her estimation, it’s not about what we want, but how often that blinds us to the powers we have, and to the powers acting upon us. It’s important to read characters who are burning down their lives and searching for answers to unknowable questions. But Roupenian reminds us that these things come with a cost. And that there’s a value in knowing oneself, even if that self isn’t a version you like or need.

A Story Made Purely of Feeling: The Millions Interviews Cynthia Ozick

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For most of her career, Cynthia Ozick has written challenging and brilliant fictions that examine the metaphysical aspects of Jewish culture, examining fabled belief systems, gender dynamics, and the walls culture might build with even-handedness and cautious interest. Novels and short stories like The Puttermesser Papers and “The Shawl” engage with cultural values and history in unique and dark ways, while several nonfiction books, including the forthcoming Critics, Monsters, Fanatics, and Other Literary Essays, examine the value of criticism and the state of the literary novel today. Erudite, intellectually rigorous, and brimming with generous insight, Ozick’s work as a critic and thinker demands a kind of attention from the reader, requires the reader to think along for the promise of revelation.
We corresponded about the new book via email. What follows is a conversation with someone just as interested in and excited about literature as they were when they first put pen to paper.
The Millions: In a Paris Review chat you did in 1985, you talked about having your routine consist of rising in the late afternoon and working through the night. Has anything changed since then in terms of how you approach the work?
Cynthia Ozick: Much blood has gone under the bridge since then. In the last half-dozen years, I’ve turned into a Snatcher: I read in desperate snatches in the interstices of the Quotidian, and dream of finding three uninterrupted quiet hours to think, moon, mentally maunder, and, above all, write. I am pursued by an anti-Muse; her name is Life. Her homely multisyllabic surname is often left unenunciated, but to certain initiates it may be whispered: Exigency.
TM: What’s your reading life like? Are you reading for, say, an hour or so, and then drafting/editing for a while? Is there urgency to write every day?
CO: Unlike in earlier years, I nowadays consume public information voluminously. I read both The New York Times and Wall Street Journal (one is the poison, the other the antidote, and make of that what you will!), and also many magazines, both the traditional kind and the digital. In terms of living wholly in one’s own allotted time, the world is not too much with us. Decades ago, though, it would have been inconceivable for me to acknowledge this. Whatever counted as “politics” was of no interest; nothing mattered but capital-L Literature and its inevitable sibling, History.
Still, writing, whether fiction or essays, is something apart from “information,” and rises out of the well of intuition: every human mind has its individuated “tone.” So when you ask about “the editing process,” and speak of “drafting/editing” — I find these reparative procedures foreign to me. I will not move on to the next sentence until the previous one is fully satisfactory.  Perhaps there are two species of writers: those who complete an entire manuscript provisionally, with permission to go back to “polish the verbal surface,” as one such writer once described it, and those who endlessly and obstinately fiddle in place. (As for writing every day, see above.)
TM: You’re a writer who develops both formative essays and novels and short stories in nearly equal measure. Since part of drafting fiction involves investigating certain aspects of life, I wonder what you see as being the overlap between scrutiny in your essays and scrutiny in your plot lines, or if they’re completely separate.
CO: The difference is crucial: it’s between knowing and unknowing (rather than not knowing). If you are going to write an essay on, say, twilight in Sweden, or on Henry James, you know that much: you have your subject already in hand. But if you set out to write a story, whether long or short, you begin with less than a glimpse: a shred of idea that once moved you, or the wisp of memory of a mother and daughter you encountered for seconds as you passed them in a train, or simply an inchoate feeling. Plotting, though, can be intellectual or serendipitous, a deliberate plan or a revelation or an insight, and this can apply also to the “plot” of an essay; but overall an essay is an assessment, or rearrangement, of given materials, while a story must discover what it is made of in the very course of its own making.
TM: I’m interested in how this differentiates from writing an essay or a piece of creative nonfiction.
CO: In writing fiction, one creates a character, but very often it’s the character who influences the trajectory of events and ultimately creates the story. This wouldn’t necessarily apply to certain types of genre fiction, such as the detective novel, where the writer is in full control and follows the design of a prepared plot.  But when the imagination is untethered and free, the writer may lose control of the character, and the character may stubbornly decide against the writer’s initial wish; or else the character reveals a motive that the writer never anticipated. This can hardly happen with what’s called “creative nonfiction,” despite the permissive adjective. The subject matter of non-fiction is fixed, chosen, unalterable. A nonfiction piece on the Civil War, say, can’t change the nature of the battles; both action and outcome remain today what they were then. The writer may play around a bit with the personalities of Grant or Lee, but the spine of the narrative is immovable. As for the “personal” essay, the writer, like a character in fiction, can assert whatever she desires; as in fiction, she is immune to the fact-checker.
TM: What do you think it might take in order for a writer to produce a “great American novel” in today’s literary landscape, or even one that has relevance and power beyond what it achieves in the insular writing community?
CO: How vast is the invisible infrastructure of this proposal! It puts in question an entire culture, and how a civilization expresses itself.   Some say that the Great American Novel has already come into being, in The Great Gatsby, or in Moby-Dick, and a good case can be made for each of these. Dreiser’s Sister Carrie might be another candidate, or The Scarlet Letter, or The Adventures of Augie March.  Your query, though, speaks of the current literary landscape, confirming that “what it might take” still isn’t clear. One answer might be that the day is young — but can we see any inkling of a presumptive heir to Bellow or Updike or Nabokov, or to so many others of the previous generation (the list would be long and impressive) who have left a formative mark on American experience? One sign, or omen, would be the presence of a writer of formidable language power, willing to use all the sources and resources of American prose; instead, we swim in a welter of the slipshod easy vernacular. Also absent, so far, is some overriding feeling or idea, or, at the least, something larger than pipsqueak cynicism. Finally, given that the country is roiling and boiling toward some unknown new dispensation grounded in narrow competing triumphalist claims, where is the bold and necessary ironist who will write our Death of Ivan Ilyich?
Or else, and why not? Maybe what we are waiting for will be the Great American Comic Novel! And a final caveat: the lineaments of a sublime work of the imagination can’t, after all, be prescribed, and one is guilty (mea culpa!) of tendentious theorizing if one dares to do it.
TM: Is technology perhaps counterintuitive to to serious literary debate, analysis, and scholarship, or do you feel that it marks a sort of natural progression and provides a platform to showcase what writing has come to in the age of the iPhone?
CO: Last year I finally surrendered my pen. I could not conceive of writing seriously on a keyboard facing an illuminated rectangle, and used the computer mainly as a means of transcribing a completed work (as was the typewriter in the past). The keyboard and the monitor struck me as enemies of the freedom of language, since it seemed that the words could come only through the pressure of one’s fingers on the narrow neck of a pen. Or to say it otherwise, the ink flowed directly out of the hand; and what was ink if not language? Yet now, as you see, I’ve learned (to my amazement) that one can actually think on a computer!
TM: In a culture of writers that either embrace the concept of direct narrative or a fractured storytelling structure, would the middle ground between the two extremes be something new to emerge, and if so, where does it lie?
CO: Either-or has never been storytelling’s only available way; from early on, there has always been that “middle ground.” Mostly it has been a companionship between fiction and an interpolated essay, side by side in the same novel. We see this in George Eliot and in E.M. Forster, where we hear the author’s reflecting voice; it might be called the “intelligence” of the novel: intelligence in both senses, the writer spying on her characters, and the writer’s mind exposed. The “fractured” novel (Ulysses is the great modernist instance, but think also of Zadie Smith’s NW and Joshua Cohen’s Book of Numbers) has so far not permitted amalgamation with any other form. Accretion, fragment by fragment, replaces logical chronology Yet despite its jagged unexpectedness, what fragmentation has in common with direct narrative is a paradoxical coherence: we know and feel what we are meant to know and feel. And if there is no middle ground between fragment and form, so be it: why should fiction, the ultimate territory of genuine freedom, eschew extremes? In life we are rightly persuaded to pursue the middle way. But in literature (three cheers for extremes!), what we want is what Kafka relentlessly demanded: A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us.
TM: David Foster Wallace was an ardent fan of your work, citing The Puttermesser Papers as one of his favorite books. As a critic, writer, and cultural anthropologist, I wanted to know if you’ve considered the relevance of his work, and whether or not he shifted the direction of post-modern fiction yet again.
CO: It was an astonishment to be told not long ago that David Foster Wallace was even aware of my work, let alone had read any small part of it. It was even more startling to see a photo of the flyeaf of his copy of The Puttermesser Papers, on which appears a long list of words transcribed from the book, ostensibly because they were new to him. How could this be? If I hadn’t with my own eyes seen that list, I would have thought the rumor of his affinity was no more than a hoax. After all, Infinite Jest is a free-wheeling and exuberantly abundant novel with a fervently reverent and always growing readership, and not only is my own experience as a writer lightyears from his, but in subject matter and in literary temperament Wallace and I have nothing in common. His mind is encyclopedic and digressive; my scope is far more limited and my reach into the world definitively tamer. His novels are termed postmodern, and so they are, but in their appetite for overflowing tangential inclusiveness they also resemble the all-devouring 18th-century novel (Richardson, Fielding, Sterne). And finally: Wallace’s most original gesture is the art of the note — footnote and endnote, but especially footnote. Whether this alone (the seductive power of the asterisk) will “shift the direction of postmodern fiction” is doubtful. Once it has been done, and done so lavishly, it may seem superfluous to do it again.
TM: It seems that [The Puttermesser Papers] has a certain staying power, particularly among men. What do you think it is about the work that stands out, be it the brutality of the plot or the force of the prose?
CO: I’m afraid that I am unable to address this generous assessment of “staying power.” Time will, as they say, tell; and in some cases — though certainly not in mine — Time has already told. (See David Foster Wallace above.) Most writers and their books quickly fall into posthumous eclipse, and I don’t doubt that I will be among them.
TM: You said that fiction is the ultimate territory for genuine freedom, but is fiction not without rules? The novel can take many shapes, as can short stories, but there’s still something familiar within each mutation. Would you argue that genuine freedom works best with some sort of familiarity to constrain or guide its line of thinking?
CO: I agree that familiarity of form is most conducive to the reader’s comfort, and that feeling at home with its “rules” increases readerly enjoyment. Joyce’s Ulysses, which (after, say, Dickens and George Eliot and Trollope) seemed to have no rules at all, was hard going for its earliest readers, though certainly not nowadays, when stream of consciousness has become commonplace. Eliot’s The Waste Land was once dauntingly impenetrable; today its technique is ho-hum. The very concept of “rules” means familiarity, knowing what to expect; but even revolutions eventually evolve into the humdrum. As for constraining or guiding a line of thinking, isn’t that for sermons and tracts?
TM: A large part of your fiction writing has involved chronicling the Jewish-American experience…
CO: Here I hope you will allow me to demur. This is certainly true of other Jewish writers, at least those who are inclined to contemplate their heritage; call it, though without denigrating its art, sociological fiction. I am altogether without interest in the Jewish-American “experience,” if this term is intended, as you phrase it, to scrutinize and investigate the meaning of that identity, both how it plays out in conventional society and [the writers’] own personal heartbreak over legacy and fractured tradition. Again, all that is sociology, particularly the concern with identity and the deeper roots of the self. I am drawn elsewhere: to the Jewish metaphysic and its long and steadfast history. It is these grains of perception, I believe, that sustain my thinking and kindle imagination. (A recent story in this mode is “A Hebrew Sibyl,” which appeared in Granta.)
As for the sociological: Irving Howe, a stellar critic who was part of the group of literary luminaries who came to be known as The New York Intellectuals (all of them now nearly forgotten), once commented that after the generation of the immigrants, the American Jewish novel would die of lack of subject matter. And then — beware definitive declarations! — came the influx of those remarkable young writers who as children fled both the Soviet Union and Iran. For such embattled lives, having endured restriction and calumny in their earliest years, personal heartbreaks over legacy and fractured tradition may be vitally pertinent themes; or may not. But for American Jews, who for the first time in two millennia have the inconceivable good fortune of living freely and without overt fear, and who have rarely known an ounce of oppression or indignity, and who for the most part are now four or five generations distant from the immigrant period…for these, the identity question is simply another floating particle in the egalitarian multicultural movement. (Recall Irving Kristol’s quip: “They used to want to kill us, now they want to marry us.” And they have: 70 percent of American Jews are intermarried.) Those deeper roots of the self are more superficial than felt.  When roots are genuinely deep, they are not scrutinized or investigated; they are as intrinsic and unremarked on as breathing. Self-knowledge in the Socratic sense is indifferent to roots, and Jewish self-knowledge can only mean knowledge, and what is knowledge in the absence of historical and textual and linguistic awareness? Which is why most novels by American Jewish writers are a branch of social studies. Nor would I quarrel with this: stories are free to be whatever they are.
TM: Writers who are conscious of coming from rich national and historical backgrounds tend to have their work characterized as being “haunted” by those important works of national or cultural identity that came before….Do you think it’s appropriate to draw those comparisons on the basis of legacy and cultural background, or do you think there should be a distinction between what a writer of a certain background is looking to achieve, and how a critic or academic might group them based on previous works of a certain genre?”
CO: Well, we know what Saul Bellow thought of how critics and academics grouped him! He retorted with his famous quip — Hart, Schaffner & Marx, mocking how he and Roth and Malamud were, in effect, regarded as a kind of Jewish-owned haberdashery. But your question is serious and important, and we’ve had two elegant answers from two significant Jewish writers. Isaac Bashevis Singer: “Every writer needs to have an address.” Harold Bloom: “The anxiety of influence.” Both these succinct insights acknowledge that origins not only count, but continue to carry their force. (The term “haunted” confused and misled me because of its baleful resonances.) Criticism would be blind and deaf if it failed to recognize affinities and legacies, as it always has: in America, Transcendentalism, the Harlem Renaissance, naturalism, and so many other literary movements and groupings, whether conscious and voluntary or critically observed. But this doesn’t make writers into pawns! Or turn Hawthorne and Melville, with their similar Anglo heritage, into Siamese twins! Or Bellow, Roth, and Malamud into Jewish clothiers. It’s a sublime paradox, sublime because the seeming contradiction fortifies rather than diminishes: every writer is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; and yet, contra Donne, every writer is at the same time an island entire of itself. The continent is humanity; but every continent contains someone’s own home address.
TM: At this point in your career…do you feel any differently about your work, either the work you’re developing or the work you’ve done? Do you feel that your role as a writer has taken on any sort of prominence?
CO: My diary with its innate depression contains the felt truth of any answer I might give. I have been driven to write — to be a writer — from a very early age, but have never been able to think of it as a “career,” a schemer’s word that suggests aggrandizing hot pursuit.  And for a very long time I was unpublished, a failure in my own literary generation: a circumstance that has left its mark. I am always surprised to discover a reader, and when I do, it is usually in the context of  “I never heard of her before.” As for what I feel about past work, I wish I had done more. And I begin to wonder whether reviewers who have found my novels unsympathetic may be right. I still hope to write a story made purely of feeling.
TM: Are you working on anything now that you’re hoping to release?
CO: Yes. On a story made purely of feeling.
TM: Can you elaborate on what you mean by this?
CO: This brings us instantly back to Tolstoy, though I am thinking here not of a novel, but  rather of a story: The Death of Ivan Ilych, wherein ultimate aloneness in the face of imminent dying leads to a kind of catharsis, and revelation overcomes dread. Or the haying scene in Anna Karenina, which envelops the reader in bodily joy and the intense companionship of laborious achievement. On second thought, an entire novel can’t be made purely of feeling, since such sublime moments are exactly that: moments. Pure feeling mostly occurs at the extremes of life: terror and joy.