 |
|
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
|
Emma Donoghue 1997, Joanna Cotler Books, Harper Collins paperback, 228 pages. $11.00US, $16.50 Canadian. *** *** *** An insert in this book states that Kissing the Witch is Donoghue's third novel. The Irish born, Canadian residing author's first two novels, Stir-fry and Hood, discuss comtemporary issues facing lesbians; Kissing the Witch is a delicious departure from that reality. Kissing... is a collection of thirteen fairy tales, reworked from a feminist perspective. This isn't Politically Correct Fairy Tales which is more humorous; this collection is a seductive cross of Jeanette Winterson and Francesca Lia Block. Cinderella is bulimic and runs off with her fairy godmother; Snow White's wicked stepmother is actually a maid who bullies her patron into changing places with her. Donoghue doesn't indicate to the reader which fairy tale she's retelling; some, like Cinderella or Rapunzel are easy to sense, but others are more obscure. Each tale slides into the other, connected by a character or a sentiment. The language is sensual and rich; there is no direct dialogue, but the vague sense of communication. The stories feel like a dream, and are vibrant in their imagery. I devoured this book in a few hours, but I had to reread it at least three more times to sift through all the layers. Clarissa Pinkola Estes, author of Women Who Run With the Wolves, describes myths and fairy tales as "all the instruction a woman needs for her current psychic development" (p. 13). Donoghue's book is a brilliant tome to be included in this category of wisdom; her stories ring with 'morals' about being true to one's self, one's sexuality, one's past, and one's future. Excerpt from Kissing the Witch "The Tale of the Shoe" (p. 1-2): "Till she came it was all cold. Ever since my mother died the feather bed felt as hard as a stone floor. Every word that came out of my mouth limped away like a toad. Whatever I put on my back now turned to sackcloth and chafed my skin. I heard a knocking in my skull, and kept running to the door, but there was never anyone there. The days passed like dust brushed from my fingers. I scrubbed and swept because there was nothing else to do. I raked out the hearth with my fingernails, and scoured the floor until my knees bled. I counted grains of rice and divided brown beans from black. Nobody made me do the things I did, nobody scolded me, nobody punished me but me. The shrill voices were all inside. They knew every question and answer, the voices in my head. Some days they asked me why I was still alive. I listened out for my mother, but I couldn't hear here among their clamor." *** *** *** Recommendation: I can't rave about this book enough. Buy it, read it, give it to every woman you know. (Please support your local independent bookstore! Click here for resources.) *** *** *** For more information... Emma Donoghue's Official Web Site
|
 |