Darcy Steinke, Suicide Blonde (Atlantic Monthly Press, 1992)

`ware the media event-book, film, whatever it may be-that is presented as something "in the tradition of." Robert Olmstead says on the back cover of Steinke's second novel that it is in the tradition of Djuna Barnes, Georges Bataille, and Marguerite Duras; certainly the kind of recommendationt hat is going to get under the skin of any connoisseur of enlightened pornography. Unfortunately, "in the tradition of" does not mean "comparable to."

Steinke gives us the life of Jesse, a woman who is, as she says, "attracted to people who make me feel inadequate." Her lover, Bell, is obsessed with a former schoolmate he hasn't seen in ten years. She realizes she's falling into the same routine to try and keep him interested that her mother used to do the same with her father, but is unable to break the cycle, just sit and watch it in a kind of disinterested existential horror. Such might be refreshing to someone who's never read a book of its ilk before, and to be fair, upon its publication ten years ago the dysfunctional-main-character novel had not become nearly as prevalent a theme as it is now. But it certainly doesn't rouse like Bataille or Duras does, and Steinke doesn't have the chops to pull off the world-weary existential crisis the way someone like Kathe Koja does. Even her sex scenes have the same detached feel. Duras used the mechanism, but created feeling in the reader underneath with pacing, sentence structure, and word choice, all things of which she was a master; none are in evidence here. Not worth the time. (zero)

I'd assumed this must be the book INXS' second-best song was named after, though if anything it was the other way around – and that temporal confusion was prophetic, because more than anything this novel kept reminding me how long ago the nineties was, with a mixture of casual debauchery and old-fashioned attitudes such that I more than once had to tell myself that no, this wasn't the seventies, but yes, it really was like that. There was a sort of low-rent lushness which even the skint could manage, a willingness to transgress without wanting to badge it as anything but transgressive, which is captured well here. Edgier than McInerney, but less so than Ellis, this feels like a book Rebel Inc. might have published. Hell, maybe it was; they're one of those things from that era which you'd think would have more Internet footprint than it has. The tone is "liquid and various" – the introduction bills it as "feminist camp", which sometimes feels right, but for all of the headiness, the sense of being narcotised sometimes tips over into affectlessness, or disaffectedness, or maybe both – the same strange distance from the extremities witnessed and undergone that you find in the weariest Interpol songs. I found the cover's billing of Suicide Blonde as a feminist classic curious; it's not the most obvious angle, though I suppose it fits the story of, by the protagonist's own description, a pretty girl who wants more without knowing what more is, but desperately hopes it's not just marrying money. And simply because this sort of long dark night of the soul, assuaged and/or exacerbated by sexual (mis)adventure, is something experienced much more often by male leads, written much more often by male authors. There are some fabulous lines, which at their best made me think of Kate Bush gone to the dark(er) side: "I followed, her scent rich like menstrual blood. I was curious, I still hadn’t felt that exquisite kick of perversity." But for all that, its jaded tone is communicated so effectively that I'm left glad I don't often give books a star rating, because by the end I was sufficiently numbed that I'm honestly not sure whether or not I liked this.

(Netgalley ARC)

My goodness, the prose. Steinke writes glorious sentences - flowing, elegant sentences, for page after page. At the same time, there's a lot in here that felt dated or uncomfortable to me: fatphobia, biphobia, a surprisingly loose engagement with the AIDS crisis for a queer San Francisco novel written and set in the early 90s. It's intriguing because this is a novel that revels in flaws, in the ways we fail to connect with and love each other. An imperfect book, intentionally or otherwise, but a powerful and memorable one for all that.

Very unsure how to feel about this one…It definitely wasn’t a great book but I did find myself unable to put it down. If you’re looking for a book that feels sort of empty, sad and grimy then you may appreciate this one.

Am I naive or just plain stupid because I did not realise this was erotica until maybe the second chapter. I went into this blind. The first chapter probably changed my life. Was immediately ready to give this 5 stars. Her melancholic contemplations and emotions give will to describe things I cannot express myself. Made me so eager to read the rest but the chapter's artistic fluency and promise of a story is deceptive.

The reminder of the novel carries underdeveloped ideas. What has been drafted as complex, riveting characters remain hollow. Perhaps the novel should be judged on its eroticism but those parts were repetitive and boring and mostly disgusting for shock factor that it failed to deliver. The ending was incredibly disappointing. But I guess there is nothing much to say anyway. Overall I think Steinke writes VERY VERY beautifully and her style may work better for short stories or vignettes. This did not feel complete.

I read this when I was in my late teens and I remember highlighting it all over the place. I was depressed and miserable and this book was my only friend. My rating is based on what this book meant to me then, not so sure how I'd feel about it now.

“The problem with being a modern woman, I thought, as the front door swung wide, is that you have to pretend to be stronger than you are.”

i picked this book up on a whim at Half Price Books, basically going into it blind. i thought it was a bit slow at times but after getting through the beginning i really liked it. i’ve seen many people talk about how the narrator is unlikeable. unreliable, sure, but i found her to be quite relatable at times. this book is supposed to make you uncomfortable at certain points because that’s how womanhood is. uncomfortable. i thought this book did a pretty damn good job at that aspect.

This book broke my heart, and parts made me sob big, ugly tears.

Would highly recommend (and can't wait to read more of Darcey Steinke's work) but proceed with caution. TW for depression, suicide, sexual assault, ptsd and drug abuse.

The beautiful prose wonderfully supports the deviant behavior of these characters. Some scenes are still a shock to read. But must have been even more shocking when the novel was released 30 years ago. Overal this is a highly recommended novel, especially to those interested in how great prose works.

Suicide Blond’s first sentence “Was it the bourbon or the dye fumes that made the pink walls quiver like vaginal lips?” threw me off immediately. I like a little foreplay at least in the first paragraph, and the introductory sentence left me feeling like the victim of a literary drive by. This is not to say that I am prudish, especially in my reading, but this sentence was crafted just to shock the reader. It left a bad taste in my brain, but not as much as the main character. Jesse is self involved and shallow, as far as characters go. She blames those in her life for making her feel inadequate, but I believe she is projecting. Normally, this would not bother me, but we are supposed to identify with her and pity her, something I cannot bring myself to do. She moves from Bell to Pig to Madison, seeking someone who will ultimately take care of her and give her meaning. Jesse thinks she can punish Bell for not loving her enough by running off to live like a bad girl only to return and tell him all of the horrible things she is doing, further showing that it was not out of self discovery but to snub someone who already doesn’t care what she does. I found the rest of her characters fascinating and lifelike, albeit somewhat stereotypical. It is the protagonist that falls short and contributes to the novel’s wanting.

It would be easier to enjoy this novel were it not for the dreamy way you meander through the pages. Reading it feels ephemeral; I found myself striving towards a plot that tried to evade me at every turn. The structure is labyrinthine, and I do not mean that to be complimentary. Occasionally there is a beautiful gem of a sentence that you go back over and digest before moving on to the next random plot contrivance. It is obvious that underneath the indifference that Steinke possesses talent, she is just doing too good of a job hiding it under a boring plot.

Steinke wishes to take the reader to a place that she believes is dark and cutting edge. She wants you to see how troubled Jesse is and pity her in her own self involvement. I came away believing Jesse to be responsible for her own problems and experiencing a sense of lost time; I know I read it and I know time has passed, but there isn’t much to show or remember what happened between the covers. It was not that I found myself lost in the literary world but that I found myself in limbo just outside of it. I finished with indifference. Even Suicide Blond’s ending is anticlimactic and failed to draw me in enough to feel any kind of closure. Then again, it also failed to invest me in the story so I figure I didn’t lose out. It reads like a first novel for someone who shows great promise but just doesn’t know how to show it yet; the only problem with Suicide Blond is that Steinke has published before, which I find regretful.

By far it is not the best novel I have ever read, but Suicide Blond is also not the worst (you should hear what I have to say about House of Sand and Fog). I doubt I’ll ever pick it up again to read in its entirety, but there are a few sentences there that I, even now, want to read over again. This gives me a glimmer of hope that Steinke may put something else out that is really worth reading one day and gets across the beauty of prose that ghosts throughout the novel. I wanted to like this book. I really did. I tried, and I failed.

What i learned: sometimes, even a not-that-great book can break your heart. It wasn't very satisfying, but i kept reading thinking that there would be something profound in there, but mostly, it was just very sad and empty.

Found this gem in a second-hand bookshop from my hometown in Manila. I was intrigued by the cover that’s why I got it, and I was in my rebellious phase at the time. When I first read it back (I was around 15), it made little sense to me. Then, I just found myself coming back to it, year by year. When I have re-read it for the second time, I remember the feeling I had, when I finally understood the story. This book became a part of me no one else will ever understand.