Bastard out of Carolina
by Dorothy Allison
I’d heard nothing but praise of the modern American classic Bastard Out of Carolina, and since I usually enjoy Southern fiction, I bought a copy at my favorite used bookstore. Had I known what the subject matter was, or just how uneventful the story would be, I would never have cracked open the spine. So, to save future readers who don’t know the plot: the entire book is about a very young child being molested by her stepfather. She doesn’t grow up and deal with the abuse in therapy, there are no tie-ins to her teenage or adult life, and there are very few events that have to do with any other subjects. Written in extremely graphic detail, the “novel” is admittedly autobiographical. Such knowledge of the author’s personal life not only makes the book even more disturbing to read, but it also shows her life was completely ruined. She is not a functional person, and her professional career is entirely dedicated to writing and making speeches about her traumatic incest.
The opening chapter was fascinating, especially for those who enjoy Southern fiction. The family was so poor, they moved from place to place without paying rent, they didn’t have enough money for food, and they ran around the neighborhood without any shoes. The protagonist’s mother got pregnant at fifteen; the setting was perfectly set for what I thought was going to be a regular “white-trash” story. You might wonder why I continued to read the “novel” when it was so horrendously disturbing. I thought there had to be a message or tie-in later in the book that justified the terrible plot. It was only after I finished the book did I learn it was practically the author’s diary entries.
The author has my pity; she deserves everyone’s pity. But she does not deserve heaps of praise for writing this book. I don’t think anyone should read it. If a reader has not been molested, she should not pollute her brain and heart by reading about it. If a reader has been, she shouldn’t read such a graphic depiction that would trigger such memories. I can’t think of a single person who would benefit by reading this book.
The opening chapter was fascinating, especially for those who enjoy Southern fiction. The family was so poor, they moved from place to place without paying rent, they didn’t have enough money for food, and they ran around the neighborhood without any shoes. The protagonist’s mother got pregnant at fifteen; the setting was perfectly set for what I thought was going to be a regular “white-trash” story. You might wonder why I continued to read the “novel” when it was so horrendously disturbing. I thought there had to be a message or tie-in later in the book that justified the terrible plot. It was only after I finished the book did I learn it was practically the author’s diary entries.
The author has my pity; she deserves everyone’s pity. But she does not deserve heaps of praise for writing this book. I don’t think anyone should read it. If a reader has not been molested, she should not pollute her brain and heart by reading about it. If a reader has been, she shouldn’t read such a graphic depiction that would trigger such memories. I can’t think of a single person who would benefit by reading this book.