Mary Gaitskill
Author of Bad Behavior
About the Author
Mary Gaitskill was born in Lexington, Kentucky on November 11, 1954. She received a bachelor's degree from the University of Michigan. She is a novelist, essayist, and short story writer. Her novels include Veronica, The Mare, and Two Girls, Fat and Thin. Her collections of short stories include show more Bad Behavior, Because They Wanted To, and Don't Cry. (Bowker Author Biography) show less
Image credit: Joe Gaffney
Works by Mary Gaitskill
The Other Place 5 copies
The Little Boy: A free eBook short from Mary Gaitskill, author of THE MARE (2016) 2 copies, 1 review
Tiny, Smiling Daddy 1 copy
Associated Works
The Story and Its Writer: An Introduction to Short Fiction (1976) — Contributor — 1,218 copies, 3 reviews
The Vintage Book of Contemporary American Short Stories (1994) — Contributor — 549 copies, 2 reviews
Object Lessons: The Paris Review Presents the Art of the Short Story (2012) — Introduction — 255 copies, 9 reviews
Light the Dark: Writers on Creativity, Inspiration, and the Artistic Process (2017) — Contributor — 165 copies, 5 reviews
An American Album: One Hundred and Fifty Years of Harper's Magazine (2000) — Contributor — 145 copies, 1 review
The Ecco Anthology of Contemporary American Short Fiction (2008) — Contributor — 141 copies, 2 reviews
Tasting Life Twice: Literary Lesbian Fiction by New American Writers (1995) — Contributor — 129 copies
More Stories We Tell: The Best Contemporary Short Stories by North American Women (2004) — Contributor — 66 copies
The Literary Lover: Great Stories of Passion and Romance (1993) — Contributor — 55 copies, 2 reviews
Take My Advice: Letters to the Next Generation from People Who Know a Thing or Two (2002) — Contributor — 50 copies
The Second Gates of Paradise: The Anthology of Erotic Short Fiction (1997) — Contributor — 38 copies
Tagged
Common Knowledge
- Birthdate
- 1954-11-11
- Gender
- female
- Education
- University of Michigan (BA)
- Occupations
- essayist
short story writer
novelist - Awards and honors
- Hopwood Award
Guggenheim Fellowship (2002) - Relationships
- Trachtenberg, Peter (husband, separated)
- Nationality
- USA
- Birthplace
- Lexington, Kentucky, USA
- Places of residence
- Rhinebeck, New York, USA
New York, New York, USA
Toronto, Ontario, Canada
San Francisco, California, USA
Marin County, California, USA - Associated Place (for map)
- USA
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Reviews
I first read this one back in the nineties when Mary Gaitskill was a bright, shocking young thing and, perhaps unsurprisingly, what struck me most about it was these stories was the frankness with which they treated sex, the easy cruelty with which the characters treated each other, and the author's cool, ironic attitude toward these subjects. Re-reading them fifteen years later, other aspects of Gaitskill's work seem more prominent. Her writer's voice may seem somewhat detached, but show more Gaitskill's characters are capable of intense emotion and longing. Her characters may treat sex and relationships somewhat casually, but she describes their emotional states and deeply felt-emotions in preternatural detail. What many people consider to be "important relationship issues" are tossed off in a sentence or two, but the author's not afraid to linger for paragraphs on a telling personal detail or a meaningful anecdote. Gaitskill's the kind of writer who's willing to spend three sentences discussing the significance of a character's keychain or describing their crow's feet. I suppose that this may lose the sort reader who might pick this book up on the strength of its outré reputation, but although this may seem like fine work, Gaitskill is, at the same time, a remarkably economical writer. In these stories, every detail, every off-kilter feeling, and every social interaction counts. The woman knows how to construct a character.
Gaitskill's reputation as a writer who specializes in human cruelty is probably closer to the mark. There are a few happy endings here, but not many. In a sense, she's a writer that specializes in collision and impact, both emotional and sexual. It's not that her characters are dead to the world, although many of them certainly feel numbed, it's that their capacity to experience emotion tends mostly toward various flavors of pain and anguish. Emotionally, they exist mostly in terms of the negative. But that's different than being emotionally dead: raw and emotionally vulnerable, the events described here threaten to collapse the strategies they've painstakingly constructed to make it through their lives. When a bit of transcendence does creep in, it's hard earned and feels especially gratifying. This is especially true of the linked set of short stories that ends the book. After a typically chaotic series of events involving professional disappointment, miscommunication, awkward casual sexual encounters, and substance abuse, the story ends with four friends -- and apparently occasional lovers -- sitting together in a nighttime garden, in the dark but wonderfully conscious of each other's presence. The relief I felt upon reading this scene was enormous. Human connection in these stories is a rare, hard-won thing, but Gaitskill seems to be arguing that it might actually be worth the trouble, too. show less
Gaitskill's reputation as a writer who specializes in human cruelty is probably closer to the mark. There are a few happy endings here, but not many. In a sense, she's a writer that specializes in collision and impact, both emotional and sexual. It's not that her characters are dead to the world, although many of them certainly feel numbed, it's that their capacity to experience emotion tends mostly toward various flavors of pain and anguish. Emotionally, they exist mostly in terms of the negative. But that's different than being emotionally dead: raw and emotionally vulnerable, the events described here threaten to collapse the strategies they've painstakingly constructed to make it through their lives. When a bit of transcendence does creep in, it's hard earned and feels especially gratifying. This is especially true of the linked set of short stories that ends the book. After a typically chaotic series of events involving professional disappointment, miscommunication, awkward casual sexual encounters, and substance abuse, the story ends with four friends -- and apparently occasional lovers -- sitting together in a nighttime garden, in the dark but wonderfully conscious of each other's presence. The relief I felt upon reading this scene was enormous. Human connection in these stories is a rare, hard-won thing, but Gaitskill seems to be arguing that it might actually be worth the trouble, too. show less
Post 1
I picked up Mary Gaitskill's 2006 novel Veronica as part of my ongoing disgust project, and indeed it is a rich depository of fascinating uses of disgust. Yet I find I can't bear to write simply about the disgust in the book, without addressing its greater appeal. I consciously avoid pronouncements about the Canon, which books are Great and which merely Good, or anything of the kind—and yet, I am beset by a strong desire that Veronica be studied, written about, appreciated, show more revisited. It is not a book for everyone, and not an easy read, but it is a book that will be important to some. And although I haven't written fiction or even songs in years, Veronica is the kind of book I wish I could write: utterly unsentimental, yet deeply thoughtful and thought-provoking, harsh and even crass at times but finely crafted and never cynical to the point of hopelessness.
So this will be a discussion of those non-repulsive aspects of Veronica, to be followed in a few days by a discussion of Gaitskill's many and intriguing uses of disgust. This novel contains a cesspool, but I don't want to leave you with the impression that that's all it contains.
No indeed, there's so much more. The surface plot elements revolve around the narrator Alison, a former model and pretty-girl who has lost her looks and her health, and has washed up, sick and in pain, on the outskirts of Los Angeles. Now that she is ill and unattractive herself, she finds herself remembering a pivotal friendship—or at least, a friendship that has since become pivotal in her memory—from twenty years before, with a frumpy, provocative, and often obnoxious copy-editor named Veronica, who died in the early days of the HIV/AIDS epidemic.
But stop right there, because here are some things this novel is not "about." It is not "about" modeling, or the fashion industry, either to romanticize that world or to vilify it. The modeling world as Gaitskill portrays it is sleazy and destructive, sure, but not any more sleazy and destructive than Veronica's relationship with her boyfriend Duncan—and neither set of relationships is lacking in humanity, even faint appeal. Neither is the novel "about" HIV/AIDS, although it certainly evokes some of the terror and bigotry in the air as the first and second waves of infection were breaking. Veronica's setting, although in a sense specific—Gaitskill paints millennial Los Angeles and 1980s New York in visceral detail—doesn't come off as illustrating an exception, but instead as presenting a more universal picture. In other words, Alison is a sick and selfish person, not because she fell down the rabbit-hole of modeling and drug use, but because human beings are generally infirm and selfish, and despite this they go from day to day doing the best they can, occasionally making genuine yet flawed contact with other human beings.
As opposed to so many meteoric-rise-and-fall stories which deal in "if only"s (if only she hadn't gotten hooked, if only he hadn't been drinking before getting in the car, if only their families had realized in time), Gaitskill presents struggle, compromise, and disintegration as inevitable, while at the same time according her characters total free will. There is nothing pre-ordained about Alison's choices to move to Paris or New York, to quit modeling or start up again, to ask Veronica to the movies. She suffers (and occasionally triumphs, and often slogs) because of her choices, but based on the evidence of the characters around her, she would have faced a similar ratio of suffering and triumph if she had made the opposite choices, as well.
Take Alison's sister Sara, who is locked in an uncommunicative battle with her suburban setting and probable mental illness. Or Alison's father, who attempts to communicate his regrets via music to which nobody listens anymore. Or Veronica, who decides that her semi-abusive relationship is so much a part of herself that she doesn't stop sleeping with her partner even when she knows he has AIDS. All these characters, however glamorous they may or may not look from the outside, struggle with similar levels of alienation and distress, similar levels of discomfort with the world around them, and a similarly inevitable downward trajectory. Veronica is one of the least moralistic novels I've ever read. Only you can decide your own trajectory, it seems to say; but whatever trajectory you choose, it will be difficult; and whatever trajectory you choose, you will stumble and fall. This is the problem with Alison's father's refusal to feel compassion for the early AIDS sufferers based on the argument that "they had choices." Everyone makes choices, and everyone suffers for them; and since suffering implies no sin or judgment but only the inevitable process of living a life, our imperfect treatment of each other is all we have.
And indeed that treatment will be imperfect, even if we are doing our best. Alison's relationship with Veronica is hardly a feel-good, Sex and the City version of female friendship. Alison is often self-congratulatory, often resentful; she often spews platitudes at Veronica and tells her what to do rather than listening to her. Her attempts at communication and communion often fall flat. Veronica, in turn, is often extremely grating, and only gets more so as she becomes ill. Gaitskill has much to say here about privilege—in this case, the privilege of the beautiful and the healthy person, to whom the experiences of the ill or unattractive are invisible until she too is sick or ugly. Looking back, Alison can see her own contempt and dismissiveness, her belief that she was in some way fundamentally different from Veronica—all things which were invisible to her at the time.
In one way, of course, all this is a huge downer. In another way, it's oddly reassuring. Because Gaitskill doesn't conclude, based on the suspect motives and often-unsuccessful results of attempts at human connection, that they are not worth making. Rather, despite Alison's recognition of her own bad behavior, of her own suspect agenda and Veronica's own obnoxiousness, her relationship with Veronica becomes a pivotal, and legitimately redemptive, experience. Even though most of the time she does a poor job at being Veronica's friend (and at general person-hood), her efforts to connect with Veronica still end up making a huge difference to both women—especially Alison herself.
One of the concepts that struck me most forcibly in Veronica was this combination of the invisibility of the habitual or privileged, and the rapidity with which the outward forms of privilege (and who possesses privilege) can change. These two themes are addressed frequently in fiction, but I'm not sure how often I've seen them together. So often we see the entrenched privilege of race or sex that perpetuates itself from generation to generation, and there is certainly some of that here, in the form of homophobia and sexual exploitation of women. Yet there is also an acknowledgment of how slippery privilege can be; how it can be founded on trivialities and superficialities that we nonetheless mistake for core realities. Early on in the novel, Alison introduces the concept of a "style suit," while looking at a series of photographs taken by her friend John:
This is more than just an observation about the fickleness of fashion. It's an examination of the ease with which people who have lucked into a well-fitting style suit assume that the privilege and ease they enjoy inheres naturally in their person-hood, and that as a result there must be something fundamentally wrong with those who don't fit into the dominant suit. And as Alison remarks above, it's similarly easy to believe that the suit reflects the way things substantively are—and that when those superficial elements change, it means a sea-change in peoples' inner beings as well. Yet even when the style suit favors looseness and naturalness, that preference itself can be very strict, and if any one suit actually does happen to fit someone's innate personality, the next, equally-strong suit is almost guaranteed to squeeze and discomfit them, transforming them into an outsider and even an object of pity or repulsion in the eyes of those who subconsciously believe the world to have progressed in a meaningful way. Together with the idea of invisibility, the style suit and the effects of seeing difference play into Gaitskill's many uses of disgust.
More on Veronica in a few days; I'm far from done thinking and writing about this book. show less
I picked up Mary Gaitskill's 2006 novel Veronica as part of my ongoing disgust project, and indeed it is a rich depository of fascinating uses of disgust. Yet I find I can't bear to write simply about the disgust in the book, without addressing its greater appeal. I consciously avoid pronouncements about the Canon, which books are Great and which merely Good, or anything of the kind—and yet, I am beset by a strong desire that Veronica be studied, written about, appreciated, show more revisited. It is not a book for everyone, and not an easy read, but it is a book that will be important to some. And although I haven't written fiction or even songs in years, Veronica is the kind of book I wish I could write: utterly unsentimental, yet deeply thoughtful and thought-provoking, harsh and even crass at times but finely crafted and never cynical to the point of hopelessness.
So this will be a discussion of those non-repulsive aspects of Veronica, to be followed in a few days by a discussion of Gaitskill's many and intriguing uses of disgust. This novel contains a cesspool, but I don't want to leave you with the impression that that's all it contains.
No indeed, there's so much more. The surface plot elements revolve around the narrator Alison, a former model and pretty-girl who has lost her looks and her health, and has washed up, sick and in pain, on the outskirts of Los Angeles. Now that she is ill and unattractive herself, she finds herself remembering a pivotal friendship—or at least, a friendship that has since become pivotal in her memory—from twenty years before, with a frumpy, provocative, and often obnoxious copy-editor named Veronica, who died in the early days of the HIV/AIDS epidemic.
But stop right there, because here are some things this novel is not "about." It is not "about" modeling, or the fashion industry, either to romanticize that world or to vilify it. The modeling world as Gaitskill portrays it is sleazy and destructive, sure, but not any more sleazy and destructive than Veronica's relationship with her boyfriend Duncan—and neither set of relationships is lacking in humanity, even faint appeal. Neither is the novel "about" HIV/AIDS, although it certainly evokes some of the terror and bigotry in the air as the first and second waves of infection were breaking. Veronica's setting, although in a sense specific—Gaitskill paints millennial Los Angeles and 1980s New York in visceral detail—doesn't come off as illustrating an exception, but instead as presenting a more universal picture. In other words, Alison is a sick and selfish person, not because she fell down the rabbit-hole of modeling and drug use, but because human beings are generally infirm and selfish, and despite this they go from day to day doing the best they can, occasionally making genuine yet flawed contact with other human beings.
As opposed to so many meteoric-rise-and-fall stories which deal in "if only"s (if only she hadn't gotten hooked, if only he hadn't been drinking before getting in the car, if only their families had realized in time), Gaitskill presents struggle, compromise, and disintegration as inevitable, while at the same time according her characters total free will. There is nothing pre-ordained about Alison's choices to move to Paris or New York, to quit modeling or start up again, to ask Veronica to the movies. She suffers (and occasionally triumphs, and often slogs) because of her choices, but based on the evidence of the characters around her, she would have faced a similar ratio of suffering and triumph if she had made the opposite choices, as well.
Take Alison's sister Sara, who is locked in an uncommunicative battle with her suburban setting and probable mental illness. Or Alison's father, who attempts to communicate his regrets via music to which nobody listens anymore. Or Veronica, who decides that her semi-abusive relationship is so much a part of herself that she doesn't stop sleeping with her partner even when she knows he has AIDS. All these characters, however glamorous they may or may not look from the outside, struggle with similar levels of alienation and distress, similar levels of discomfort with the world around them, and a similarly inevitable downward trajectory. Veronica is one of the least moralistic novels I've ever read. Only you can decide your own trajectory, it seems to say; but whatever trajectory you choose, it will be difficult; and whatever trajectory you choose, you will stumble and fall. This is the problem with Alison's father's refusal to feel compassion for the early AIDS sufferers based on the argument that "they had choices." Everyone makes choices, and everyone suffers for them; and since suffering implies no sin or judgment but only the inevitable process of living a life, our imperfect treatment of each other is all we have.
And indeed that treatment will be imperfect, even if we are doing our best. Alison's relationship with Veronica is hardly a feel-good, Sex and the City version of female friendship. Alison is often self-congratulatory, often resentful; she often spews platitudes at Veronica and tells her what to do rather than listening to her. Her attempts at communication and communion often fall flat. Veronica, in turn, is often extremely grating, and only gets more so as she becomes ill. Gaitskill has much to say here about privilege—in this case, the privilege of the beautiful and the healthy person, to whom the experiences of the ill or unattractive are invisible until she too is sick or ugly. Looking back, Alison can see her own contempt and dismissiveness, her belief that she was in some way fundamentally different from Veronica—all things which were invisible to her at the time.
I said it with disdain—like I didn't have to be embarrassed or make up something nice, because Veronica was nobody—like why should I care if an ant could see up my dress? Except I didn't notice my disdain; it was habitual by then. She noticed it, though.
In one way, of course, all this is a huge downer. In another way, it's oddly reassuring. Because Gaitskill doesn't conclude, based on the suspect motives and often-unsuccessful results of attempts at human connection, that they are not worth making. Rather, despite Alison's recognition of her own bad behavior, of her own suspect agenda and Veronica's own obnoxiousness, her relationship with Veronica becomes a pivotal, and legitimately redemptive, experience. Even though most of the time she does a poor job at being Veronica's friend (and at general person-hood), her efforts to connect with Veronica still end up making a huge difference to both women—especially Alison herself.
One of the concepts that struck me most forcibly in Veronica was this combination of the invisibility of the habitual or privileged, and the rapidity with which the outward forms of privilege (and who possesses privilege) can change. These two themes are addressed frequently in fiction, but I'm not sure how often I've seen them together. So often we see the entrenched privilege of race or sex that perpetuates itself from generation to generation, and there is certainly some of that here, in the form of homophobia and sexual exploitation of women. Yet there is also an acknowledgment of how slippery privilege can be; how it can be founded on trivialities and superficialities that we nonetheless mistake for core realities. Early on in the novel, Alison introduces the concept of a "style suit," while looking at a series of photographs taken by her friend John:
Most of them don't have good bodies, but they are looking at the camera like they are happy to be naked, either just standing there or posing in the combination of relaxation and sexual nastiness that people had then. They all look like people whose time had given them a perfect style suit to wear: a set of postures and expressions that gave the right shape to what they had inside them, so that even naked, they felt clothed.
[...]
There is always a style suit, or suits. When I was young, I used to think these suits were just what people were. When styles changed dramatically—people going barefoot, men with long hair, women without bras—I thought the world had changed, that from then on everything would be different. It's understandable that I thought that; TV and newsmagazines acted like the world had changed, too. I was happy with it, but then five years later it changed again.
This is more than just an observation about the fickleness of fashion. It's an examination of the ease with which people who have lucked into a well-fitting style suit assume that the privilege and ease they enjoy inheres naturally in their person-hood, and that as a result there must be something fundamentally wrong with those who don't fit into the dominant suit. And as Alison remarks above, it's similarly easy to believe that the suit reflects the way things substantively are—and that when those superficial elements change, it means a sea-change in peoples' inner beings as well. Yet even when the style suit favors looseness and naturalness, that preference itself can be very strict, and if any one suit actually does happen to fit someone's innate personality, the next, equally-strong suit is almost guaranteed to squeeze and discomfit them, transforming them into an outsider and even an object of pity or repulsion in the eyes of those who subconsciously believe the world to have progressed in a meaningful way. Together with the idea of invisibility, the style suit and the effects of seeing difference play into Gaitskill's many uses of disgust.
More on Veronica in a few days; I'm far from done thinking and writing about this book. show less
Gaitskill's first novel is dense, dark, and fiercely evocative. It depicts two very different yet similar women who eventually bond in a way neither one has experienced. Both have endured abusive childhoods, and are connected by their mutual interest in a once influential novelist. The story is simple enough, but Gaitskill's writing is sophisticated and precise; she has a talent for fully submerging her audience into the internal lives of her characters. This book is not for everybody, and I show more mean that in a good way. show less
The phrase ‘bad girls have all the fun’ was coined by the first woman who recognized her power to weaponize sex.
Reputations are residual depictions of distorted control, because they are based on portrayed undercurrents and cemented by the dull edges of brutal dishonesty. Women gain respectability by maintaining situationally compliant social and emotional stability. But some push beyond convention, and others do not take issue with sitting in discomfort.
Written by Mary Gaitskill and show more set in and around the Lower East Side, the stories in the Bad Behavior collection are classic portrayals of women using intimacy to reclaim and redefine personal agency. Initially published in 1988, it includes nine disjointed sketches that highlight profound moments of isolation during intimacy, a recurring theme throughout.
Beyond its powerful ability to highlight the differences in desire, romance, and seduction, this work portrays relationships as spaces where people attempt to communicate unspoken needs by playing roles that blur boundaries. Filled with the designer drugs, fashions, and hedonism of the era, it depicts the unpredictability of loneliness. It uses economic instability to symbolize the internal decay caused by living in big cities, and it will not appeal to readers who prefer tidy moral judgments.
A timeless exploration of the boundaries between passion, emotional investment, and decency, this collection features numerous female protagonists as they pursue self-discovery with varying degrees of submission. A sophisticated depiction of nooky as an experiment aimed at achieving psychological intimacy, it offers an ambiguous look at sex as a form of self-protection.
Published by the Vintage Contemporaries division of Penguin Random House, this title delivers sexually liberated truth on steroids. Bursting with stylistically layered yet straightforward dialogue, this book will force readers with a low threshold for relations based on cruelty, financial transactions, or misinterpreted longing to seek refuge.
With openly candid stories filled with vague yet artistically bold references to the nature of sexual power dynamics to evolve into a detached survival mechanism, this work profoundly acknowledges the inertia that drives humans to use intimacy to form superficial connections.
A textured and intense read, it remains as fresh today as it was during its initial release. At its core, each story explores longing and the idea that sex and romance are not necessarily mutually exclusive. Bibliophiles who appreciate erotically charged writing will see the connection between female empowerment and the hidden resentment that surfaces when intercourse is reduced to or sustained by fantasy.
A unique mix of shock value, eroding homeostasis, symbolic chaos, and emotional drifting, it is an honest depiction of the alienation that accompanies intelligent addicts, fast-track professionals, partygoers, and urban inhabitants. Rooted in adult dysfunction and weighing in at 205 pages, it is the perfect favor to include in bachelorette party gift bags! show less
Reputations are residual depictions of distorted control, because they are based on portrayed undercurrents and cemented by the dull edges of brutal dishonesty. Women gain respectability by maintaining situationally compliant social and emotional stability. But some push beyond convention, and others do not take issue with sitting in discomfort.
Written by Mary Gaitskill and show more set in and around the Lower East Side, the stories in the Bad Behavior collection are classic portrayals of women using intimacy to reclaim and redefine personal agency. Initially published in 1988, it includes nine disjointed sketches that highlight profound moments of isolation during intimacy, a recurring theme throughout.
Beyond its powerful ability to highlight the differences in desire, romance, and seduction, this work portrays relationships as spaces where people attempt to communicate unspoken needs by playing roles that blur boundaries. Filled with the designer drugs, fashions, and hedonism of the era, it depicts the unpredictability of loneliness. It uses economic instability to symbolize the internal decay caused by living in big cities, and it will not appeal to readers who prefer tidy moral judgments.
A timeless exploration of the boundaries between passion, emotional investment, and decency, this collection features numerous female protagonists as they pursue self-discovery with varying degrees of submission. A sophisticated depiction of nooky as an experiment aimed at achieving psychological intimacy, it offers an ambiguous look at sex as a form of self-protection.
Published by the Vintage Contemporaries division of Penguin Random House, this title delivers sexually liberated truth on steroids. Bursting with stylistically layered yet straightforward dialogue, this book will force readers with a low threshold for relations based on cruelty, financial transactions, or misinterpreted longing to seek refuge.
With openly candid stories filled with vague yet artistically bold references to the nature of sexual power dynamics to evolve into a detached survival mechanism, this work profoundly acknowledges the inertia that drives humans to use intimacy to form superficial connections.
A textured and intense read, it remains as fresh today as it was during its initial release. At its core, each story explores longing and the idea that sex and romance are not necessarily mutually exclusive. Bibliophiles who appreciate erotically charged writing will see the connection between female empowerment and the hidden resentment that surfaces when intercourse is reduced to or sustained by fantasy.
A unique mix of shock value, eroding homeostasis, symbolic chaos, and emotional drifting, it is an honest depiction of the alienation that accompanies intelligent addicts, fast-track professionals, partygoers, and urban inhabitants. Rooted in adult dysfunction and weighing in at 205 pages, it is the perfect favor to include in bachelorette party gift bags! show less
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