The first time I read Vivian Gornick’sThe Odd Woman and the City I was desperate for fellowship. I wanted to read an account of a life lived alone, specifically the life of a woman older than me. I hoped that it would recast my own experience of living alone – largely without romantic love – and the potential for its ongoingness, as a desirable, even honourable way of life. I assumed I’d be able to enlist myself as one of the ‘Odd Women’ Gornick sees herself as.
But I’ve come to believe that if you read Gornick in search of such fellowship you will be reading her wrong. Early in the book Gornick says to her friend Leonard (a man ‘sophisticated about his own unhappiness’) ‘I’m not the right person for this life’ and this confusion and shock of being at odds with how she thought her life would turn out suffuses the text. Some years ago, as my contemporaries eagerly shared and wrote essays, books and poems about early motherhood, motherhood and madness, motherhood and creativity, marriage and divorce and the trials of heteronormative traditions, I was left wondering what there was for me – no partner, no kids, approaching middle age. Where was the literature that would help me feel seen? Where could I find the intellectual engagement with my situation and my story, that might enliven it? I freightedThe Odd Woman and the City with my concerns of loneliness and alienation, and because I so desperately wanted to find the canon of literature about women ‘like me’ I didn’t appreciate I’d inadvertently narrowed the scope ofThe Odd Woman and the City’s interests.
As someone who writes about how to make a life alone, a life where romantic love is not at the centre of my plan-making, I’ve occasionally worried I might make a reputation for myself as a patron saint of singledom. It occurs to me that despite myself I’ve made Gornick one. Take this