I Who Have Never Known Men seems to have a renaissance right now and it did not disappoint. I am left with an oppressive feeling of loneliness that I cannot seem to shake, was pulled back and forth between hope and resignation, ever wondering about the whys, wheres and what ifs. I was deeply immersed, which made this book challenging for me. I feel touch-starved and lonely, just from reading, and I’ve been pondering over dignity a lot–in captivity, in acceptance of one’s fate, in death. A gruesome but brilliant piece of fiction.

Sex is a prominent theme in the book, and I’d like to elaborate on two sex-related things that bothered me (CN for genitalia and sex):

The myth of the hymen as an actual seal is being perpetuated. Unless the narrator has an extremely rare condition, she should be able to insert her finger into her vagina. Based on what Anthea has told her, the narrator thinks of the hymen as “that barrier that only a man can break with his penis”. I think that’s a pity, given that the author thus contributes to the myth of the hymen as a marker of virginity, reinforcing patriarchal norms and customs.

Furthermore, the story very much focuses on cis-heterosexuality with penile-vaginal penetration as the epitome of sex. Sapphic cis women are represented but their romantic and sexual relationships are relegated to the margins and treated as second-best: “… they gave each other what they could” (89). Cis-heterosexual intercourse however is this great, awe-inspiring secret at first, that the other women are reluctant to impart. I don’t understand that decision–then again, neither does the narrator, which might make my observation pointless. My criticism of the depiction of sapphic love as a Plan B, as it were, still stands though.

That aside, I Who Have Never Known Men is an excellent book that hopefully inspires lively discussions.