We So Seldom Look on Love, Emily M. Keeler, Bookside Table

How come no one told me to read Babara Gowdy before now?

This story, oh God, this story. So, the narrator is a woman who gets off on cadavers, and death. She’s a necrophile, and it’s about the joy of extremes, heat and chill, life and death, and the primacy of blood as a thing that signifies both beginnings and ends, as a real thing that’s inside of us and inside of others, blood as intimacy–as elemental and animal and private and desirable.

While the subject matter may be affecting enough as it is, the little twists and structuring of “We so Seldom Look on Love” make this story into a small dark space, all weird angles and corners. The narrator reminds you occasionally that she’s pretty, blonde and everything, and that only dead men can break her heart. She talks to you like someone trying real hard to control what they reveal, but is too unsure of where they are on the sliding scale of human being<—->monster that she’s got to back track and defend and try to figure out how to tell her personal truth in a way that will be exactly the one and only way to tell you about it without you getting all freaked out and crying out ‘Oh god you’re a monster.’ That Gowdy could pull off this slippery feat is totally mind blowing. That I found myself oscillating between disgust and recognition probably says more about me than about this story. Oh God, this story.

She talks about her childhood fascination with dead things, and the scene that describes the moment of her menarche is absurdly powerful. Of course, here’s blood again, here made into that womanly thing, that potential to bear yet more life inside of your body. It happens to her while she’s whipped up into a fever over a dead thing, a chipmunk, and she’s been howling and dancing and rubbing the small dead animal all over her body, and she gets covered in blood, but it’s hers, this first time, this first time it’s her blood, and it’s extreme and compelling because what other way can you possibly describe the obsession, the compulsion, to be wild in your body and so morbid in your desire?

Oh God, this story.

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