Those suffering from infertility often feel like human lab rats, captive to repetitive, demeaning processes that turn a formerly trustworthy, familiar body into a strange, combative “other,” a husk of stubborn, disagreeable matter.
There are times where the real subject of [Muratov’s] description seems to be not examples of art, places, or even people, but the relatively fleeting moments in between these things, which appear here almost by accident, like bystanders in a Polaroid.
The conflict between realism and its alternatives may still be going strong, but when it comes to the centrality of the protagonist, there’s no conflict, only agreement.
Dundy’s novels fit our times well while also existing blissfully without any of this baggage. Her characters are often selfish and reckless, but there’s nothing forced in these stories.
In this sensitively observed collection, the freedom to define oneself is achieved not only through the rebellion against cultural constraints, but also the embrace of the provisional nature of identity.