‘The Blindfold’ by Siri Hustvedt

Following a brief Tolstoy-related detour I am officially making it debut novel month here on my humble little blog. That’s right, throughout the whole of September (or what is left of it) I will be reading and discussing nothing but debut novels, old and new, and if it proves as inspiring as I hope I may well have to extend it into October. September is, after all, just thirty days long, whereas my pile of must-read debuts is getting pretty tall. And as work on my own debut novel ramps up after a prolonged period of static - I refuse to say writer’s block - I am now more curious than ever to find out what makes a successful debut, what pitfalls to avoid and, conversely, what risks to take. And as interested as I am in the kind of novels that are being published right now, E.L. James et al aside, I am also very eager to see how some of my favourite writers approached their own freshman efforts. This is precisely why I have chosen to begin with The Blindfold by Siri Hustvedt.

Back in July I read and was completely floored by Siri Hustvedt’s third novel What I Loved. Published in 2003 to widespread acclaim, What I Loved cemented Hustvedt’s reputation as one of our foremost storytellers and certainly cast one hell of a spell over me. In fact I ran back to the bookstore the very next day and left with two of her earlier works: The Enchantment of Lily Dahl, published in 1997, and her debut novel The Blindfold. First published in 1993, The Blindfold follows twenty-two-year-old graduate student Iris Vegan as she navigates both the dark side of New York City and the darker reaches of herself. The novel is split into four parts, all originally short stories, and although they are all narrated by Iris they are otherwise unconnected, concerned with different characters and events. It becomes clear early on that The Blindfold is a mostly autobiographical work - like Hustvedt, the protagonist is a student at Columbia University who comes from a small town in Minnesota and suffers with a debilitating seizure disorder. I am embarrassed to admit, however, that it took me until around page 100 to realise that Iris is an anagram of Siri, absolutely appalling for someone usually so adept at word games and suchlike. The part of the book in which Hustvedt recalls her stay at a New York psychiatric hospital is particularly compelling, even chilling at times, redolent with details such as the peculiar smell of hospital wards and the horror of being so inert that you can barely even wiggle your toes.

As far as debuts go, The Blindfold is undoubtedly a strong one. I found myself gripped from the get-go; I started reading the book at half past midnight and although I was utterly exhausted I quickly devoured fifty-plus pages and then wondered where the hell they had gone. Compared with What I Loved, for example, The Blindfold is far more visceral and direct. Short sentences and blunt exchanges reign supreme, while Hustvedt is refreshingly uncompromising in her portrayal of herself and her occasional madness. Through Iris she challenges traditional notions of femininity and what it means to be a woman, particularly a young woman surrounded - for the most part - by men. The Blindfold reminded me of The Bell Jar albeit sparer and more polished, purged of the irritating emotional exhibitionism to which Plath was often prone. My only real criticism is that the fourth and final part of the novel is overly long in comparison to the first three, and towards the end the meandering philosophical discussions between Iris and her professor do start to wear a tad thin. All in all, however, The Blindfold has given me a great deal to think about, particularly in relation to my own work-in-progress. But I may have to pass on making the protagonist’s name a play on my own. ‘Nosila’ doesn’t have much of a ring to it now, does it?

This piece was originally published on alisonlaurabell.tumblr.com in September 2012.