The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Tuesday, September 6, 2016 — 11A
BOOK REVIEW
Daily Book Review:
‘Joe Gould’s Teeth’
By RENNIE PASQUINELLI
For The Daily
It’s not too late to pick up
a short summer read. And if
you’re a fan of profiles on eccen-
tric historical
figures, this is
certainly
the
book for you.
Joe
Gould
was a nobody
with
connec-
tions.
His
family
name
carried him further than any
college degree could. Friends
with Ezra Pound, E.E. Cum-
mings and other contemporary
writers and artists of his time,
Gould was known for his odd-
ball mystique around the liter-
ary community — especially
around Harlem.
From the beginning of World
War I to the end of World War
II, Gould (supposedly) worked
vigorously on “The Oral History
of Our Time”: a history of the
world told through regular
people’s stories. His friends and
his work led to a spotlight in
The New Yorker, an infamous
profile entitled “Professor Sea
Gull” by Joseph Mitchell. “The
Oral History,” however, was
never published, even after
Gould’s death in 1957. Many
have tried to find “The Oral
History,” but many have failed.
Jill
Lepore,
a
Harvard
historian and author of “The
Secret
History
of
Wonder
Woman,” crafts a short and
sweet profile on Gould that is
not only a search for “The Oral
History,” but also a revealing
profile on a complete asshole.
“Joe Gould is not a lovable old
man,” reported The Harvard
Crimson in an interview with
Gould. This description of Gould
is truly an understatement. The
most difficult part of getting
through “Joe Gould’s Teeth”
is
the
protagonist’s
(and,
simultaneously,
antagonist’s)
racism, sexism and relentless
harassment towards a black
woman. Gould was a proponent
of eugenics, believed that the
black population tainted the
white population and often
approached women to ask them
if they were “gropable.” In a
“Breaking Bad” fashion, the
hero of the story became the
villain. Instead of a progression
that
happens
within
many
seasons,
however,
Gould
becomes the villain within a
matter of pages.
The saving grace of Gould’s
profile is the discovery and
inclusion of Augusta Savage, the
woman he incessantly stalked,
even when she requested him
to stop countless amounts of
times. Lepore’s astute research
into Savage’s life could have
been
another
book
itself.
Savage, an African American
single mother and well-known
sculptor, brings to light a
different kind of celebrity; one
vastly different from Gould.
The
dichotomy
between
the two brings diversity in
character and a break from the
general unpleasantness that is
Joe Gould.
“Joe Gould’s Teeth,” though
short, is difficult to get through.
Each page is filled with pull-
out-your-hair-worthy
details
surrounding
Gould’s
blatant
disrespect for women and black
people. Lepore is a fantastic
historian; her intimate details
make it possible to form a deep
hatred for the book’s subject.
This doesn’t necessarily make
for a bad read, but fair warning:
your eyes may get stuck in the
rolled-back position.
Joe Gould’s
Teeth
Jill Lepore
Knopf
F
emale friendship is
beautiful and entirely
terrifying. There are
expectations for friendships to
be some of the most important
relationships
in a woman’s
life — that
is, until
husbands
and children
typically take
over these
roles. Novels
and films
detailing
the plight of
the modern
woman often
list the dissolution of female
friendships after marriage
as concerning, but not overly
important. Only rarely do cir-
cumstances allow for friends to
continue to play as influential
a role as they may have in girl-
hood.
This intense lifelong connec-
tion between two women is the
center of the Neapolitan nov-
els, the acclaimed work of the
pseudonymous Italian novelist
Elena Ferrante. In the four-
part bildungsroman, Ferrante
details the evolution of a female
friendship between Elena and
Lila. Told from the first-person
perspective of Elena, the story
reads like the diary of a vicious
and vulnerable teenage girl.
After they grow into adulthood
as best friends, Lila disappears
without a trace and without
letting Elena know where
she’s going. Elena vengefully
writes their story, juxtaposing
the intense volatility of Lila’s
actions with her own normalcy.
Even when Lila is not physically
near her, Elena is inextricably
bound to her best friend, each
one struggling to define herself
outside the terms of the other.
The novel is electric, because
in between the strange instanc-
es specific to a low-income
neighborhood in Naples exists
the elements of life that makes
your heart race — sex, jealousy,
violence, fireworks. Reading
Ferrante feels eerily similar to
the moment when someone asks
if you can keep a secret. The
urgency of her words creates a
bond between reader and author
that is exceptional and infre-
quent. Ferrante’s description of
the female experience creates
an intimacy with the author
so vivid that the reader feels
like they know her, or that she
knows them.
“My Brilliant Friend” pres-
ents as almost confessional,
with Elena painting an incred-
ibly vivid picture of the life
of her best friend as an act of
revenge. But Elena is so deeply
entrenched in the story of their
upbringing that Ferrante dif-
ferentiates her work from the
simplicity of gossip. She puts
aside the pettiness of the social
currency that gossip and infor-
mation provide, eschewing the
values of works like Richard
Brinsley Sheridan’s 1777 play
“School for Scandal.” In the play,
the characters revel in the ten-
sions caused by knowledge and
scandalous divulgences. But in
the Neapolitan novels, Ferrante
concentrates on the substance of
her characters, watching them
grow and change rather than
simply forcing them into differ-
ent situations for reactions.
In a rare interview with
The New Yorker, Ferrante said
“writing is an act of pride.” She
explains that she always wanted
to hide her work, as writing
felt presumptuous and shame-
ful. The reader can clearly see
this reluctance for ostentation
in Ferrante’s novels — not only
because she literally hides her
identity, but because the exi-
gency of her words forces her
stories out into the open.
Stories like the Neapolitan
novels, with unafraid first-
person narration and a storyline
focused on transforming the
mundane into the extraordi-
nary, are inextricably linked to
women’s writing. Novels like
Ferrante’s feel like they conform
to a strictly gendered style of
writing. It’s fluid and fast-paced,
with subtle undertones of con-
flicting emotions. The distinctly
feminine writing of these books
lies in their imperative languid-
ness — these stories desperately
need to be told, but also want to
be coaxed with encouragement.
They are complex, unapologeti-
cally requiring the full attention
of their audience.
There’s been some discus-
sion recently of whether or not
we should be reading to make
friends with characters, and the
role that likability should play
in literature. Although wielding
expectations of friendship for
fictional characters is a flawed
approach, it is true that we read
for many of the same reasons as
the ones for which we pursue
friendship. We read to connect,
to recognize the other minds
that are constantly reverberat-
ing around us. Ferrante’s novels
especially reject solipsism as
we look into the lives of others
who exist with thoughts and
feelings strikingly similar to
our own. She takes the friend-
ship between women seriously,
which is unusual in a place like
Naples where societal norms
dictate the prioritization of
other relationships. Ferrante
gives space to the complex feel-
ings of these overlooked and
sometimes neglected relation-
ships, returning meaning and
power to the bearers of female
friendship.
Neapolitan novels or Nea-
politan ice cream? To settle the
debate, e-mail rebler@umich.edu
LITERATURE COLUMN
Ferrante’s feminism
REBECCA
LERNER
Arts
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