On Reading Women

In this essay, Norwegian Author Kaja Kvernbakken reflects on why it’s so important to read women in a literary landscape often dominated by (often perceived) male superiority,

I make a point out of reading women. Preferably women with other backgrounds than my own white, heterosexual, cis and able-bodied one. It is not that I don’t read men. It is just that in my 36 years on this planet, I have already read so many men. And mainly white, able-bodied, heterosexual cis-men.

On my high school curriculum in world literature there was only one woman. Jane Austen. I love Jane Austen. And I loved my high school curriculum. But I think it is fair to say that if I only read books written by women from now on, I can go on at least until I reach my mid-forties without bringing balance into the equation.

I start here because a few weeks ago, I was asked about my favourite authors. Favourites is always a difficult game to play. What are the criteria you hold your favourites to? Recent books and authors will often make their way towards the top of the list, as they are top of mind. I can like one author and one book for the exact same reasons that I don’t like another. It is of course, subjective, ever changing and unfulfilling. But nevertheless, I try. Because I hope that others will find books and authors that can make an impact on their lives, as they have done on mine.

This time, that is to say, a few weeks ago, I started listing my favourite authors, instead of trying to land on just one. I had gotten to the second on my list, when the person who asked, interrupts me and says: "Only women?". I was baffled. "You only let me cite two", I wanted to say. But instead I said: "Yes". Not because there aren't men among my favourites, but because this is the exact reason why I'm focusing my reading on women: People expect men to be the most important, talented and groundbreaking. But after reading a lot of women, I have discovered that a lot of men reproduce the exact same texts over and over again. The new, the raw, the groundbreaking talent most often lies with voices that we haven't listened to before, and that many choose not to listen to for that exact reason.

When I tell people about my reading project, I often get hit with responses along the lines of: "Aren't you afraid you'll miss out?", "I can't read women for the sake of reading women, that is biased.", or even "I can't read women, because I have so little time to read that I need to know that what I read is good".

I am just going let that hang there for a second ...

The case I argue is that it's those who aren't reading women who are missing out, and that it is easy to miss out even if you read women, because often people who think that their reading is balanced really are more biased to the side of men.

An informal survey I did on the Instagram feed of the male bookstagrammers I know and who tell me that they read men and women alike, showed that 74 % of the books depicted had male authors. Almost three times as many men as women. And that is from people who actually think they are reading approximately the same number of books by men and women.

My reading project has brought me into literary realms that I didn't know existed. It has let me hear voices that still ring loud in my ears more than ten years after I read them. It has, of course, led me across the path of a book or ten that I don't like, but there are so many books out there, of course there will be books I don't like.

The one book I have chosen to call my favourite for this particular occasion, is La vie heuereuse (A Happy Life) by Nina Bouraoui. It is a book that has marked me not only as a human being and reader, but also as a writer. I picked it out at random in the French section at my local library, eager to practice my language skills. The vocabulary was made up of easy, everyday words and the sentence structure was seemingly straight forward. And it is. But it is not. The way the author piles words on top of each other, rattling off nouns or adjectives to insist on the reality her main character takes part of, will suck you in and block out your own world as you're reading. The rhythm will move from the page into your brain and then to your body, leaving you almost dancing the story as it unfolds. And the story itself is a beautiful coming of age story of a French-Algerian girl discovering love, loss, race, gender and queerness, moving from Algeria to the North of France and to Switzerland, and back again, not only piling words on top of each other, but the years and shifting experiences as well.

The seeming simplicity of the novel combined with the effect it had on me, dumbfounded me, and I couldn't see how the author did it. How could it be so simple and so complex at the same time? I had to understand it, and started deconstructing the story by translating parts into Norwegian. Time and again I have returned to it. Falling in love with new things. New nuances to the words Bouraoui has chosen to string together. Why this word instead of that? Why this particular sequence?

I have read many of Bouraoui's books through the years, and they all rank among my favourites, Garçon manqué (Tomboy) and Nos baisers sont des adieux (Our kisses are goodbyes), have some of the same simplicity as La vie heureuse, but are also radically different.

I feel bad towards Bouraoui for my lengthy guilt tripping introduction on why you should read women, because she has a body of work that is more than capable of standing on its own two feet. But then again, I feel happy, because even if you should choose to read Bouraoui out of guilt, my guess is that you will stay with her out of love and awe. And hopefully it will nudge you a few notches away from what you would read anyway and into something completely new. Because although literature has the magical power to validate our existences and expleriences through recognition, it has the even bigger power to let us live and understand lives that are very or even just slightly different from our own, expanding our humanity. And the world needs that.

**This essay is from 2019, but its publishing was delayed due to the magazine not launching as planned.

To see more of Kaja’s work check out her website.