Texts like Lucia invite us to reconsider Lucia as not simply an ruined and silenced woman, interesting only by virtue of being the daughter of James Joyce, but an artist who could have had an outlet, could have given herself and left us with more.
It doesn’t take a Janeite, however, to enjoy these stories, or to sense that Yamashita’s engagement with Austen runs somewhere between pastiche and parody.
Even as this text overtly laments the degree to which Marxist art criticism has focused too greatly upon the political underpinnings of the artwork (ideology critique), this study ultimately finds itself succumbing to its own third way politics.
My Art is Killing Me reflects what it’s like to intimately carry someone else’s exhale; Dawn’s work becomes like a release of the tension, a liturgy on the job.
The overall mood of the novel combines these two elements, of trauma and consumption, the trauma kept at arm’s length while the consumption is real, material, and close.