We regularly revisit topics such as sexual liberty, polyamory, and unfaithfulness, which may indicate that I consort mainly with an overly conservative and middle-class crowd. This is because despite reading about these activities frequently, I’ve never encountered them in my day-to-day life. The discussion of these topics is mainly brought up by women, which could suggest a manifestation of newly acquired freedoms. However, the narrative comes across as chaotic and quite honestly, tiresome. Surely there are more exciting ways to stimulate the contemporary mind that do not entail passion and intercourse? Engaging in discourse about polyamory appears to be nothing more than a self-absorbed inspection of one’s own passing whims, although it admittedly shifts its gaze towards more intimate areas.
This conveniently leads me to Lauren Elkin’s latest work, Scaffolding. Characterised as a novel “reminiscent of Éric Rohmer” (presumably in D minor, the most melancholic of all keys), it resembles less of La Collectionneuse, and more of a Rohmer’s take on the #MeToo movement.
A significant part of the book is a flashback to a strikingly comparable couple from the past, who lived in the same flat in 1972. The narrative centralises on a woman named Anna. After suffering a miscarriage, Anna spends her time in deep thought inside her Parisian apartment. This introspection follows her morning runs, intermittent affairs with her neighbours, and pondering over her kitchen. Nothing occurs without being scrutinised – even waste thrown away in a channel is perceived to have a purpose. Understandably, there are obligatory narratives of Highly Significant and Profound Activism, without any mention of heating bills or homelessness. This acrylic-shielded privilege not only makes the characters hard to empathize with, it is outright monotonous. One can only imagine my exhaustion, considering even Anna’s counsellor is weary of her constant reflection on her floor tiles.
Moving on to another aspect of this thought-provoking, praiseworthy, pertinent and achieved piece of literature (it indisputably is all of these things). Why do writers like Elkin have the compulsion to validate or bolster their intellectual explorations by endlessly (one could argue persistently) citing influential male figures from the past? This book weaves its narrative around incessant references. It’s perfectly acceptable when these are subtly incorporated within the narrative or represent the thought process or experiences of characters. However, I implore authors not to recite from their knowledge bank. Refrain from specifying when Lacan stated what or details about Freud’s death or sharing the eccentricities of Satie. At times, it felt like I was grading a university project. These authors (women, indeed, because it is women) should have faith in their innate intellect and their capability to sustain their literary endeavours. As reflected by Elkin’s own main character: “It strikes me as tragic how we were, these two intelligent women in a gallery, negotiating the profound thoughts of influential men, substituting their perspective for ours.”