I Love Dick

I always judge a book by its cover, and this cover screams "gimmick." All the same, I went against my better judgement given the bold claims on the first page inside the book, describing itself as a "literary sensation," "the most important feminist novel of the past two decades," and "essential reading." I passed by it twice in the bookshop before taking the plunge. The first time was with an educated and well-read friend who works in publishing, who found the unread book intriguing. The second time was with an uneducated friend whose only book reading in his life has consisted of some poetry. Mr. poetry barely took any interest and immediately dismissed I Love Dick based on its flashy cover and titillating title as just a way to make show more shoppers buy something. The uneducated, as is usually the case, was the smarter of the two - and smarter than me. I'm a slow reader, so I usually read around books before taking the plunge, to make sure I invest my time wisely. With such claims made about the importance of this work, however, I didn't do my homework here. I paid the price for that negligence. Do not waste your time buying or reading this book. Even if I had happened upon the LRB's review of I Love Dick, which came out last November, I'm not sure it would have stopped me. The reviewer is too subtle and gentle about the whole thing ( http://www.lrb.co.uk/v37/n24/jenny-turner/thanks-for-being-called-dick ). So I won't be so kind here: I Love Dick is written by a well-connected name-dropping poor-little-rich-girl who has failed at launching a movie career and so, as a privileged insider, uses this book to stake claim to prestige, or - more accurately - to more prestige, recognition, social capital or whathaveyou from within her already self-appointed prestigious circle of friends. She exploits her connections to relaunch her social self as a writer (while living off her real estate holdings). She exploits her female identity to create circular theoretical traps of justification for this reality-tv-star-who-becomes-famous-for-being-famous strategy that make her impervious to critique, since anyone who would dare to oppose her validates themselves as a patriarchal sexist, as she has deftly and self-servingly crafted the definitions and arguments. How long will this wear in our new millenium, this victimised role-playing of insiders positioning themselves to speak for 'the excluded' while excluding those truly excluded? I could go on at much greater length and detail with specific examples but, quite frankly, I am upset at having been hoodwinked into wasting so much of my time already and, moreover, I am bored. show less

I've never read a novel like this before. A blending of the epistolary novel, feminist manifesto, art criticism, tell-all reality-memoir, critical theory, personal essay, and diary. Somehow it all works together, and I would even say that it is a Great Novel.

The first part, which establishes the narrative impetus (Chris, the author, falls in love/crush with an acquaintance (Dick) and, together with her husband, writes love letters to him but doesn't send them).

The conceit can only go so far (although conceit is the wrong word here, since I think this is pretty much non-fiction, or maybe slightly edited non-fiction), so after the first part, the rest of the "novel" is a slowly evolving amalgamation. The obsession for Dick continues and show more changes. Her relationship with her husband changes. Her life and relation to her art changes. Her view of feminism changes. She begins to see everything through the lens of Dick. Dick-lens.

It's really hard to describe, but it's super smart, very funny, and sad all at the same time. By the end, the letters get long, and ramble about all types of subjects, but they're written so well that it doesn't matter if it's about an obscure painter or performance artist, it somehow still fits into the book's unique structure. I still flipped the pages maddeningly because I started interpreting everything through the Dick-lens, through what she is discovering about her current situation. It's amazing that she was able to bring these different intellectual subjects so much into the sphere of the personal... where it actually feels like it matters.

Bonus: makes for great reading in the men's locker room. show less

Wonderful

Unlike anything else I’ve read, I Love Dick succinctly positions Kraus as both character and author, subject and object, and renders both completely obsolete. So very recommended

I picked up this book because I wanted to read it in public, but I guess it serves me right in selecting something to read performatively as the contents themselves were a sort of performative philosophy performance art. A fascinating read, just not one I think I shall be returning to (unless it is to display, cover-out- on my shelf.

I gave this book a review on Amazon that was harsh, and possibly more a reflection of my life and experience than of the author's. This book did frighten me, however, and that's the truth. Here is my review:

It's unfair of me - to review this before finishing it. Because Kraus makes the reader a collaborator in her voyeuristic crush. Wasn't your subject deeply disturbed by her attentions? He maintained dignified silence, I know, from having read other reviews of this work. That is the only sensible reaction to avoid being plastered as victim. Had Kraus been orchestrating this alone, it would have been less frightening. Had she been organizing this without the complicity of herr male partner, who got lustful thrills from your fantasy, it show more would have been less frightening. (It has to be pointed out that your partner in this activity is male - because male sex drive is different from the female, and because it then also becomes homoerotic sexual aggression). Had it been less of a piece of conceptual art it would have chilled a little less. Later, I read Torpor (a much better book), where the same partner keeps sado-masochistic gay male mags under his bed, and I suddenly realized that he, not she, is the leader of this pursuit.

It has been 20 years since these experiences were catalogued and displayed in diarist formula. But a lot can happen in 20 years. It may have been a harbinger of the exploitation of sexual aggression working alongside and collaboratively with an identity-swap monster that exploits religious and moral self-righteousness for power and gain.

I think Kraus probably did this legal crime in innocence, but she has probably inadvertantly flagged herself up, like a red rag to the bull of religious fundamentalism, as one of those who requires external control to behave.

Who will ever know if Russian whores urinated on Donald Trump? Certainly, Kraus and her boyfriend made it matter a lot less. show less

This is a very strange book, somewhere between fiction and autobiography, letters and essays. It starts out as a fairly straightforward account of an obsessive, one-sided relationship but morphs into a loosely linked set of essays on gender, identity, being taken seriously, art, and relationships. It is a bit uneven and I'm not sure it's entirely successful, but it's interesting and in places briliant. Discussing it at a book group was excellent as everyone reads something different into it.

A brilliantly complex piece of work, I was engaged mostly, until about midway at which point I lost the urgent interest. I still enjoyed it, and am intrigued to read more of Kraus' work.