Women’s Prize 2018: When I Hit You
Prepare yourselves for what may be the most sickeningly positive review of a book I have ever written. When I Hit You: Or, a Portrait of the Writer as a Young Wife by Meena Kandasamy was my second read from the Women’s Prize for Fiction shortlist and I LOVED it. This was the kind of book where I could’ve highlighted quotes that struck a chord every single page, it was so full of standout ideas.
“And the more familiar the strange becomes, the more and more strange the familiar appears. That’s how the once-upon-a-time fiery feminist becomes a battered wife. By observing, but not doing anything. By experiencing, but not understanding. By recording but not judging.”
There isn’t much of a plot to this book; most of it is set during the four-month long marriage of the young narrator to an older university professor. Both of whom are unnamed, reinforcing the idea that this story is one that belongs to many, many women. After falling in love with his revolutionary politics and impressive personality, this woman begins to realise the wealth of distance between who she thought this man was and who he truly is. But even though its plot centres around domestic violence, abuse, and control, When I Hit You is also about family ties and the ways we justify others’ acts. It’s a critical look at both communist politics and feminism, and goes way beyond typical representations of domestic violence victims and perpetrators.
In a similar vein to The Handmaid’s Tale, this is an extremely claustrophobic novel. Kandasamy’s writing style is at times poetic and polished, at others jarring and visceral. But throughout this all, she keeps the reader painfully close and forces you to feel her anger, loneliness, and strength as she does herself. The time frame feels much longer than the four months the novel spans, and reminds you of time’s relativity. I find it really hard to come up with words to describe great writing, as it all feels so cliché. And to call this book “important”, to call Kandasamy’s writing “accomplished”, does not set it apart. In my review of Sing, Unburied, Sing, I commented on how Ward’s prose was so beautiful yet described such bleak circumstances. I feel similarly about Kandasamy’s writing as well, despite their styles being fairly distinct. Where Ward’s writing found its beauty in more lengthy descriptions and character interactions, in When I Hit You, it feels like every single word was carefully chosen and constructed. Not just this, but some of the topics the narrator’s mind wanders upon are fascinating, but touched upon just for a couple of pages before she moves on. In one section, Kandasamy considers the relationship between language and identity, as she reflects on the isolation she faces by not knowing the dominant language in the part of India she now lives in:
“I think what you know in a language shows who you are in relation to that language. Not an instance of language shaping your worldview, but its obtuse inverse, where your worldview shapes what parts of the language you pick up. Not just: your language makes you, your language holds you prisoner to a particular way of looking at the world. But also: who you are determines what language you inhabit, the prison-house of your existence permits you only to access and wield some parts of a language.”
Clearly, I thought this book was incredible. It is both strong in its themes and its writing; it opens up a nuanced debate on domestic violence and victim-blaming that feels particularly relevant in the wake of #MeToo. So far, I think this might be my favourite from the shortlist. But I’ve still got The Mermaid and Mrs Hancock to go, so we will see.
