This was written in the 1930s about a gaggle of pretentious, ineffectual lefties who struggle to master their delusions that their lives might be more than they are. The plot is not exciting, but the depiction of the relationships is pointed and the characterizations are merciless. I enjoyed this very much for the writing and the wit iat times eviscerates its subjects. ( )

I can't rate [The Unpossessed] but I have decided to stop reading -- the book makes me uncomfortable as a writer and as a reader. As a writer I loathe it when someone says to me, 'This was a very ambitious effort' because it is a kind way of saying 'You didn't succeed in your aim, no matter how worthy etc. the effort.' Margaret Flinders is married to a New Englander (a parody of one, I might add, intentionally or un) and lives in NYC, one of a group of 'intellectuals' devoted to exploring ideas and living truthfully meaningfully or whatever, only none of them do. There is the brilliant Jewish guy who wants to start a Magazine (or does he?), a handsome rake, and so on -- all of them self-absorbed to a degree that is painful and just . . . not authentic-feeling to me. There is a (sorry) hysterical (Freud influence?) edge to all the thoughts of the women, except one, Norah (the rake's wife is a 'real' woman, peaceful and devoted to her husband despite his habits, and obviously sexually satisfied (because so tranquil? Really?). All with the effect to make me long more than ever for Elizabeth Bennett who would have found these people ridiculous and rightly so. As to the Joyce homage, I'm surprised that in the forward by the eminent Eliz. Hardwick, she doesn't mention this feature. The language and the thoughts tumble and jumble and try to sparkle in a Joycean way, but alas. What can I say, it just doesn't work for me. Probably has value as an example/attempt of some kind of feminist-slanted (but somehow not really) work. A valiant attempt.

I just didn't like this book--too bitter and too dated. Neither of those qualities are faults, necessarily, but I still didn't like it. ( )

I just didn't like this book--too bitter and too dated. Neither of those qualities are faults, necessarily, but I still didn't like it. ( )