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Mi alma en China
Kay, Martin y el australiano bien pudieran formar parte de un triángulo amoroso convencional. Kay abandona el hospital tras una grave crisis para enfrentarse a la ruptura con Martin, su marido, del que sigue prendida. Cuenta para ello con la ayuda del australiano que ha conocido casualmente a la salida de la clínica. Ante el desvalimiento y desequilibrio de Kay para afrontar las consecuencias de esta ruptura, el australiano promete prestar ayuda a la joven: ésta le acompañará a California, donde alquilarán una casa junto a la playa hasta que ella se reponga, momento en el que él volverá junto a su esposa e hijos en Nueva Zelanda. Pero tanto el cinismo del ex marido como la ingenuidad del australiano propician el caos. Anna Kavan traza una novela de amor que se transforma en lo contrario, la radiografía de un tormento incruento que lleva a la soledad más absoluta.
128 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1975
4 people are currently reading
234 people want to read
About the author
Anna Kavan
39 books484 followersAnna Kavan was born "Helen Woods" in France on April 10, 1901 to wealthy expatriate British parents.
Her initial six works were published under the name of Helen Ferguson, her first married name. These early novels gave little indication of the experimental and disturbing nature of her later work. I Am Lazarus (1945), a collection of short stories which explored the inner mindscape of the psychological explorer, heralded the new style and content of Kavan's writing. The change in her writing style and physical appearance coincided with a mental breakdown. During this time, Helen also renamed herself Anna Kavan after a character in her own novel Let Me Alone.
Around 1926 Anna became addicted to heroin. Her addiction has been described as an attempt to self-medicate rather than recreational. Kavan made no apologies for her heroin usage. She is popularly supposed to have died of a heroin overdose. In fact she died of heart failure, though she had attempted suicide several times during her life.
Her initial six works were published under the name of Helen Ferguson, her first married name. These early novels gave little indication of the experimental and disturbing nature of her later work. I Am Lazarus (1945), a collection of short stories which explored the inner mindscape of the psychological explorer, heralded the new style and content of Kavan's writing. The change in her writing style and physical appearance coincided with a mental breakdown. During this time, Helen also renamed herself Anna Kavan after a character in her own novel Let Me Alone.
Around 1926 Anna became addicted to heroin. Her addiction has been described as an attempt to self-medicate rather than recreational. Kavan made no apologies for her heroin usage. She is popularly supposed to have died of a heroin overdose. In fact she died of heart failure, though she had attempted suicide several times during her life.
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Displaying 1 - 14 of 14 reviews
July 13, 2025
Reread July 2025
I first read this collection 10 years ago during a very different time in my life. Rereading this and some of Kavan's other work now leads me to conclude that my experience of reading her has changed rather significantly. I respond differently to the essence of her writing, though it is hard to describe how, and I'd rather not expand on the particulars anyway. The titular novella is probably the most important piece here, since it fills in sections of her semi-autobiographical catalog, which is unified by its familiar themes. 'A Summer Evening' remains one of my favorite stories of hers and among my favorites of all time. The other stories are also all intriguing, as they showcase the different directions she was headed later in her career and are interesting to consider alongside Ice, as they toy with science fiction and fantasy. That said, I still would place this lower than Asylum Piece, I Am Lazarus, and A Bright Green Field, if I were to rank her collections by preference.
I first read this collection 10 years ago during a very different time in my life. Rereading this and some of Kavan's other work now leads me to conclude that my experience of reading her has changed rather significantly. I respond differently to the essence of her writing, though it is hard to describe how, and I'd rather not expand on the particulars anyway. The titular novella is probably the most important piece here, since it fills in sections of her semi-autobiographical catalog, which is unified by its familiar themes. 'A Summer Evening' remains one of my favorite stories of hers and among my favorites of all time. The other stories are also all intriguing, as they showcase the different directions she was headed later in her career and are interesting to consider alongside Ice, as they toy with science fiction and fantasy. That said, I still would place this lower than Asylum Piece, I Am Lazarus, and A Bright Green Field, if I were to rank her collections by preference.
These evenings are no-times, not day and not night. Just as I myself, the garden, the trees, are no-things, projections of nothingness, isolation...no reality except nothingness. I don't quite know myself any longer. I forget how to smile...how to squeeze words out of my mouth. Everything drains away. Nothing is left but an empty world, in which Karl's face will never again be seen.
While he was here I felt safe, secure in his support and affection, in the supreme togetherness generated by cosmic rays. But now, of all that, nothing. Of all he gave so generously he has left me nothing. Nothing of himself, of his prestige, of his kindness. I am nothing to him. He is nothing. There is nothing in life any more. I try to find the way out, but people prevent me. Utterly heartless, they want to force upon me an unendurable existence, not seeing that I have already left their world.
I can never go back to the living world unless I am changed completely, not only in essence, but in outer aspect, transformed throughout the entire complex of body, brain, intellect, memory, feeling, the sum total of which is the individual being.
If this whole structure could be transmuted into something hard, cold, untouchable, unaffected by any emotion...if flesh became something like granite, burning with mineral fires, so that, if a limb was snapped off, there remained an icicle dazzle of sparkling beauty, not a disgusting mess, then and then only, indifferent to isolation and independent of time, I might endure the world.
Composed of some iridescent substance, smooth, hard, cold as ice, with a ruby from Mogok for a heart and a diamond brain, inexhaustible and impervious, I would stride all over the world, seeing everything, knowing everything, needing nothing and nobody...finally leaving the earth and the last human being behind me and turning away to the most remote galaxies and the unimaginable reaches of infinite space.
—from "A Summer Evening"
June 11, 2014
Posthumously published mid-period novella and late, late stories, among Kavan's last material from the Ice era. They're incredible, and inexplicably overlooked, even within Kavan's obscure oeuvre. Breakdown:
My Soul in China :: Originally intended as a full novel, Kavan's friend Rhys Davies (who also wrote the introduction here) cut this from 90,000 words to 30,000. Given how good many of the bits that remain are, and Rhys Davies' rather more conventional approach to his own writings, I have to wonder at what has been lost here. The opening pages are among Kavan's best: in contrast to the clinical chill of Asylum Piece, here breakdown and treatment are rendered in jabbing strokes of fever and halucination. Morbid confused tableaux play out, Kavan's protagonist detaches to observe herself from outside, images whirl like the best bits of Sleep Has His House. The story never hits quite that level again, as things turn first better, then begin an inevitable slide, but there's a creep of overwrought imagery and impending devastation throughout here that binds the whole to the start. In some ways, Kay is one of Kavan's least sympathetic protagonists, as Kavan also hovers around her effects on those around her (admittedly not so likeable themselves -- even Kay's temporary saviour is blindly naive and uncomprehending, and ultimately careless). Interesting, given how autobiographical bits of this seem to have been.
Five More Days to Countdown :: Absurd transfiguration of late-60s counter-culture observes a violent student revolt at a special school designed to cultivate pacifism and global peace. Well-intentioned naturally, but is the stylish, narcissistic headmaster really in touch enough with her world and cultural context to handle a such a thing? Or, rather, can any one but the new generation actually do this for them? Jammed with weird set-pieces, Kavan in vaguely sci-fi mode, and, though Kavan was a professed non-political, the closest she comes to a political analysis of the world of her final years.
Tiny Thing :: An indifferent facilitates a tragedy that she doesn't even bother to learn the terms of. Also, a cynical appraisal of the new shifts of the sexual revolution, via direct appropriation and detournement of a French surrealist sexual awakening novel from 1956, André Pieyre de Mandiargues' The Girl Beneath the Lion. Madiargues takes a much more positive approach to his source, but in Kavan's hands, his details (a whim, a mythic dog, a sentence that presents itself in the heroine's mind) take on a much more threatening aspect. It's a powerful story in its own right, made even better when I happened upon the context a day later in Mandiargue's novel. And seemingly unique in the Kavan catlague, pre-figuring the early-70s textual appropriations of Ann Quin and Kathy Acker (though they'd emerged on their own by the time this collection was published in 1975). Also, always interesting to see what favorite authors were reading and thinking about.
Master Stroke? :: A plan to solve the problem of the recent arrivals jamming up the roads.
All of the above, and most of the six stories that follow, seem to see Kavan adressing the swift changes she had experienced in the post-war years, spawning crazedly psychedelic sci-fi stories of fascist long-haired youths and strange attacks set to Beatles songs. Of all of her work, these are the pieces mostly easily placeable qwithin a specific era, really the only ones so timely at all. Is she reacting against new vistas she doesn't really understand (born in 1901, both Kavan and England had entered the 60s) or snatching up the gestalt of changing times? It's actually interesting to me that she even tried to update herself so drastically -- these are distinctly her works, yes, but they stand alone within her body of work, in subject and in manic tone, even from the much more controlled contemporaneous Ice. Anyway, they're insane, but I rather love them. "One of the Liberated?" "Traveler" and "Yellow Submarine" all seem pretty well of note.
My Soul in China :: Originally intended as a full novel, Kavan's friend Rhys Davies (who also wrote the introduction here) cut this from 90,000 words to 30,000. Given how good many of the bits that remain are, and Rhys Davies' rather more conventional approach to his own writings, I have to wonder at what has been lost here. The opening pages are among Kavan's best: in contrast to the clinical chill of Asylum Piece, here breakdown and treatment are rendered in jabbing strokes of fever and halucination. Morbid confused tableaux play out, Kavan's protagonist detaches to observe herself from outside, images whirl like the best bits of Sleep Has His House. The story never hits quite that level again, as things turn first better, then begin an inevitable slide, but there's a creep of overwrought imagery and impending devastation throughout here that binds the whole to the start. In some ways, Kay is one of Kavan's least sympathetic protagonists, as Kavan also hovers around her effects on those around her (admittedly not so likeable themselves -- even Kay's temporary saviour is blindly naive and uncomprehending, and ultimately careless). Interesting, given how autobiographical bits of this seem to have been.
Five More Days to Countdown :: Absurd transfiguration of late-60s counter-culture observes a violent student revolt at a special school designed to cultivate pacifism and global peace. Well-intentioned naturally, but is the stylish, narcissistic headmaster really in touch enough with her world and cultural context to handle a such a thing? Or, rather, can any one but the new generation actually do this for them? Jammed with weird set-pieces, Kavan in vaguely sci-fi mode, and, though Kavan was a professed non-political, the closest she comes to a political analysis of the world of her final years.
Tiny Thing :: An indifferent facilitates a tragedy that she doesn't even bother to learn the terms of. Also, a cynical appraisal of the new shifts of the sexual revolution, via direct appropriation and detournement of a French surrealist sexual awakening novel from 1956, André Pieyre de Mandiargues' The Girl Beneath the Lion. Madiargues takes a much more positive approach to his source, but in Kavan's hands, his details (a whim, a mythic dog, a sentence that presents itself in the heroine's mind) take on a much more threatening aspect. It's a powerful story in its own right, made even better when I happened upon the context a day later in Mandiargue's novel. And seemingly unique in the Kavan catlague, pre-figuring the early-70s textual appropriations of Ann Quin and Kathy Acker (though they'd emerged on their own by the time this collection was published in 1975). Also, always interesting to see what favorite authors were reading and thinking about.
Master Stroke? :: A plan to solve the problem of the recent arrivals jamming up the roads.
All of the above, and most of the six stories that follow, seem to see Kavan adressing the swift changes she had experienced in the post-war years, spawning crazedly psychedelic sci-fi stories of fascist long-haired youths and strange attacks set to Beatles songs. Of all of her work, these are the pieces mostly easily placeable qwithin a specific era, really the only ones so timely at all. Is she reacting against new vistas she doesn't really understand (born in 1901, both Kavan and England had entered the 60s) or snatching up the gestalt of changing times? It's actually interesting to me that she even tried to update herself so drastically -- these are distinctly her works, yes, but they stand alone within her body of work, in subject and in manic tone, even from the much more controlled contemporaneous Ice. Anyway, they're insane, but I rather love them. "One of the Liberated?" "Traveler" and "Yellow Submarine" all seem pretty well of note.
October 18, 2022
This posthumous collection is comprised of the novella My Soul in China, which is so despairingly beautiful and, in my mind, among Kavan's best works, as well as nine short stories, noteworthy for being set in the modern era of the time (i.e. the 1960's). A few of these are good, but many, unfortunately, felt like drafts that had greater potential. Still, it was interesting to read Kavan's satires of counter-culture and the status quo; of anonymity in modernity; of dystopian advertising cleansing overpopulation; of generational trauma retaliating against authorities, thus causing more trauma without signs of growth; of the eerie dangers of the sexual revolution and communal apathy. Despite Kavan's foray into new territory by taking on the prevailing period, however, it was her last domestic stories I felt to be the strongest. One of these demonstrated the need for communication by showing how we vacillate between tension/hostility and the false hope that everything will naturally turn out right when nothing ever changes unless we speak about it. The other was a rather poignant story of coping with the death of a loved one.
My Soul in China: 4-4.5 stars
The Nine Short Stories: ~2.5 stars.
My Soul in China: 4-4.5 stars
The Nine Short Stories: ~2.5 stars.
May 10, 2018
Strange and delightful/disturbing tales, like 'Yellow Submarine' where the Welsh have taken over, Celtic woodfolk infest clocks and corners of castles. In 'Traveller' the neighbouring country is inside a dome with floating cities. Druggy.
June 2, 2015
*love*
September 10, 2015
"My Soul In China" is composed of the title novela, and 9 short stories. The former is a reduced version of a longer manuscript dating from the 1930s, prepared by Kavan's friend Rhys Davies after her death. It is very bleak stuff, describing her mental illness and suicide attempt by alternating between subjective anxiety and social-phobia, and coldly detached impersonal narration. As another reviewer has noted, there is a description of an abortion which deserves a trigger warning as much as anything. The penultimate paragraph of the novela is something that Thomas Ligotti would dearly love to write, but he can't.
The 9 short stories in the 2nd half of the book date from the 60s and are quite surprising. They are much stronger than the ones in "Julia And The Bazooka", and show that although the author was now a recluse she had a sharp eye for how the world was changing. "Five Days To Countdown" and "Yellow Submarine" are superb surreal comedy (yes really, and in the same volume as her most distressing work) and several other tales could be called psychedelic, a term she has picked up on. "Tiny Thing" also shows an awareness of the dangers lurking within the new transgressive youth culture, foreshadowing Ian McEwan's early work by a decade. There is a remarkable portrayal of student revolt written by someone who was dead before it caught fire in 1968, and "Death To Traitors" taps in to the Red Guard mentality of Mao's Cultural Revolution.
The 9 short stories in the 2nd half of the book date from the 60s and are quite surprising. They are much stronger than the ones in "Julia And The Bazooka", and show that although the author was now a recluse she had a sharp eye for how the world was changing. "Five Days To Countdown" and "Yellow Submarine" are superb surreal comedy (yes really, and in the same volume as her most distressing work) and several other tales could be called psychedelic, a term she has picked up on. "Tiny Thing" also shows an awareness of the dangers lurking within the new transgressive youth culture, foreshadowing Ian McEwan's early work by a decade. There is a remarkable portrayal of student revolt written by someone who was dead before it caught fire in 1968, and "Death To Traitors" taps in to the Red Guard mentality of Mao's Cultural Revolution.
December 31, 2025
"De pronto se encontró, con la mente despejada, en la fresca oscuridad. Manchas de luz amarilla y una fangosa algarabía de voces llegaba desde el pub, una caja negra llena de brillos y ruidos y confusión... dentro de la cual estaba Martin. Se detuvo bruscamente, se dio la vuelta, quiso correr adentro para encontrarle. Pero una vez más la realidad le resbaló entre las manos. Alguien la estaba empujando con decisión. En una completa pasividad, se dejó envolver en un abrigo, como una inválida, y meter en un coche que se puso en marcha suavemente."
Ya ni me acuerdo de cuándo empecé esta novela corta, creo que en algún punto de 2024. Hoy fui a buscar un libro y completamente gagá por el calor me paré frente al vendedor, lo miré a los ojos y le dije "Hola. Vengo a buscar Pura de la razón crítica".
A Kavan la amo, pero una de las cosas que me fascina sobre esta novela es lo endocéntrico que es el manejo del punto de vista. En principio está en Kay, la protagonista, pero se reparte a sus dos amantes en segmentos muy específicos, como si el narrador sintiese cierta simpatía en a quién le da una voz, algún tipo de entendimiento; así y todo siempre recae en Kay, no importa que otro diga lo que siente o de dónde viene y etc., Kay es el centro. Varda hace exactamente lo mismo en Cléo de 5 à 7 al principio de cada subcapítulo ¿?, le pone de título el nombre del personaje al que pareciera que va a anclarse la cámara, escuchamos los pensamientos de él, pero el plano se abre y siempre siempre siempre vuelve a Cléo. Siempre siempre siempre es lindo ver el punto de vista ser revoleado, rudimentario. También mezcla instantes de tercera persona y primera, sin avisar, de acá lo debe haber sacado Ann Quin para sus novelas.
Es muy cool que Kay se mencione como una muerta en vida y diga que su alma está en China. Cuasi literalizar el alma le permite a Kavan tensar el mundo físico y el espiritual —no esotérico, ni gurú, ni vudú, ni zen, solo de lo no material. Algunas cosas muy cerca y otras muy lejos y viceversa. Termina condensando todo en una depresión sublime —sublime de Kant o de los románticos, inconcebible.
No muestra una perla, apenas habla de ella, y es suficiente para que uno quiera sumergirse a buscarla. Es una de las mejores escritoras que trabaja con el tiempo y el espacio y disolverlos, y hasta encuentra fibras empatizables en personajes varones: "—No puedo aguantarte a ti ni un minuto más. Te agarras a mí todo el tiempo. Eres como una enredadera que se enrosca hasta asfixiar lo que la sostiene. He intentado enseñarte a valerte por ti misma. Pero cada vez estás más pegada a mí. Estás intentando estrangularme para que no tenga fuerzas para dejarte, para seguir apoyándote en mí eternamente". Igual los quiero muertword a todos. No more mutants, atte: a mutant.
En fin, las cúspides y los fondos de la experiencia humana: "Por un momento la angustió la presencia de los fantasmas: cada habitación estaba llena de sus fantasmagóricos actos de días pasados, de pequeñas intimidades que eran sólo de ellos. Esos espectros sonrientes eran todo lo que le quedaba; eso, por lo menos, podría llevárselo. No pedía mucho: solamente quedarse con los fantasmas, que no fueran exorcizados... pero era demasiado tarde: ya se habían disuelto, ya habían huido. Ya no quedaba nada, sólo esperar que la puerta se cerrara por última vez". A los dieciocho años la hubiese mantenido oculta de todos, pero viendo el panorama actual mejor que sea el caballote de batalla que es.
It shall be releída en un par de meses cuando tenga las neuronas más lúcidas.
Toda la lectura tuve en el café a una señora de ojos azules, muy pálida, en frente mío mirándome fijo en silencio. Antes estaba con el hijo y ahora él desapareció. No la escuché decir una sola palabra ni la vi consumir nada. Abstraidísima. Pasaron como 3 horas y ella sigue. Good for her y su alma en otro continente.
There's a deal that I made
There's a deal that I made
There's a deal that I made
There's a deal
Ya ni me acuerdo de cuándo empecé esta novela corta, creo que en algún punto de 2024. Hoy fui a buscar un libro y completamente gagá por el calor me paré frente al vendedor, lo miré a los ojos y le dije "Hola. Vengo a buscar Pura de la razón crítica".
A Kavan la amo, pero una de las cosas que me fascina sobre esta novela es lo endocéntrico que es el manejo del punto de vista. En principio está en Kay, la protagonista, pero se reparte a sus dos amantes en segmentos muy específicos, como si el narrador sintiese cierta simpatía en a quién le da una voz, algún tipo de entendimiento; así y todo siempre recae en Kay, no importa que otro diga lo que siente o de dónde viene y etc., Kay es el centro. Varda hace exactamente lo mismo en Cléo de 5 à 7 al principio de cada subcapítulo ¿?, le pone de título el nombre del personaje al que pareciera que va a anclarse la cámara, escuchamos los pensamientos de él, pero el plano se abre y siempre siempre siempre vuelve a Cléo. Siempre siempre siempre es lindo ver el punto de vista ser revoleado, rudimentario. También mezcla instantes de tercera persona y primera, sin avisar, de acá lo debe haber sacado Ann Quin para sus novelas.
Es muy cool que Kay se mencione como una muerta en vida y diga que su alma está en China. Cuasi literalizar el alma le permite a Kavan tensar el mundo físico y el espiritual —no esotérico, ni gurú, ni vudú, ni zen, solo de lo no material. Algunas cosas muy cerca y otras muy lejos y viceversa. Termina condensando todo en una depresión sublime —sublime de Kant o de los románticos, inconcebible.
No muestra una perla, apenas habla de ella, y es suficiente para que uno quiera sumergirse a buscarla. Es una de las mejores escritoras que trabaja con el tiempo y el espacio y disolverlos, y hasta encuentra fibras empatizables en personajes varones: "—No puedo aguantarte a ti ni un minuto más. Te agarras a mí todo el tiempo. Eres como una enredadera que se enrosca hasta asfixiar lo que la sostiene. He intentado enseñarte a valerte por ti misma. Pero cada vez estás más pegada a mí. Estás intentando estrangularme para que no tenga fuerzas para dejarte, para seguir apoyándote en mí eternamente". Igual los quiero muertword a todos. No more mutants, atte: a mutant.
En fin, las cúspides y los fondos de la experiencia humana: "Por un momento la angustió la presencia de los fantasmas: cada habitación estaba llena de sus fantasmagóricos actos de días pasados, de pequeñas intimidades que eran sólo de ellos. Esos espectros sonrientes eran todo lo que le quedaba; eso, por lo menos, podría llevárselo. No pedía mucho: solamente quedarse con los fantasmas, que no fueran exorcizados... pero era demasiado tarde: ya se habían disuelto, ya habían huido. Ya no quedaba nada, sólo esperar que la puerta se cerrara por última vez". A los dieciocho años la hubiese mantenido oculta de todos, pero viendo el panorama actual mejor que sea el caballote de batalla que es.
It shall be releída en un par de meses cuando tenga las neuronas más lúcidas.
Toda la lectura tuve en el café a una señora de ojos azules, muy pálida, en frente mío mirándome fijo en silencio. Antes estaba con el hijo y ahora él desapareció. No la escuché decir una sola palabra ni la vi consumir nada. Abstraidísima. Pasaron como 3 horas y ella sigue. Good for her y su alma en otro continente.
There's a deal that I made
There's a deal that I made
There's a deal that I made
There's a deal
September 7, 2022
After reading Ice, I had been debating which of her other books to read next, not wanting the fever dream to end, but also curious of her breadth. After perusing her catalog, I stumbled on this curiously out of print collection from her Ice period, and I was immediately intrigued.
Having now completed the book, I can say with certainty that Anna has crept her way into my favorite authors. Her style is so intense and psychedelic, while also being dark and bitter. It is surely a shame so much of this novella was cut, as most of what was saved seems to be the more straight forward plot, save for the wonderfully intense opening chapter, and a few bits and bobs of surreal malaise scattered throughout the rest. The novella is still worthwhile, if only for the stylish bits and it’s attempt at playing out a savior fantasy.
The rest of the short stories here were just the sort of breadth I was looking for. As do most short story collections, the nine included here vary in quality, but not as wildly as other collections I’ve read. They lean mostly in the good territory with a few falling in the excellent category. Particularly the final two which really send this collection home.
I have no idea why this has not been reissued, but if you can find a copy, used or online, I strongly encourage anyone who’s enjoyed Ice to pick this up, if only to see a bit more of Anna Kavan’s charms in all their wicked glory.
Having now completed the book, I can say with certainty that Anna has crept her way into my favorite authors. Her style is so intense and psychedelic, while also being dark and bitter. It is surely a shame so much of this novella was cut, as most of what was saved seems to be the more straight forward plot, save for the wonderfully intense opening chapter, and a few bits and bobs of surreal malaise scattered throughout the rest. The novella is still worthwhile, if only for the stylish bits and it’s attempt at playing out a savior fantasy.
The rest of the short stories here were just the sort of breadth I was looking for. As do most short story collections, the nine included here vary in quality, but not as wildly as other collections I’ve read. They lean mostly in the good territory with a few falling in the excellent category. Particularly the final two which really send this collection home.
I have no idea why this has not been reissued, but if you can find a copy, used or online, I strongly encourage anyone who’s enjoyed Ice to pick this up, if only to see a bit more of Anna Kavan’s charms in all their wicked glory.
January 6, 2021
"Anna" es una autentica montaña rusa y el lector su pasajero...necesito toda su obra!!!
VEINTE años después de su muerte, se está descubriendo ahora, en su país y fuera de él, la obra de esta singular inglesa, que pasó gran parte de su vida en el extranjero (Birmania, Francia, Suiza, Estados Unidos…) y otra buena parte en el manicomio. La locura es el tema de esta breve y tremenda novela que es Mi alma en China\ algunos relatos, incluidos en esta edición, completan su visión del mundo, cruel y desesperanzada a la vez que impregnada de una espléndida, inquietante, visionaria belleza.
VEINTE años después de su muerte, se está descubriendo ahora, en su país y fuera de él, la obra de esta singular inglesa, que pasó gran parte de su vida en el extranjero (Birmania, Francia, Suiza, Estados Unidos…) y otra buena parte en el manicomio. La locura es el tema de esta breve y tremenda novela que es Mi alma en China\ algunos relatos, incluidos en esta edición, completan su visión del mundo, cruel y desesperanzada a la vez que impregnada de una espléndida, inquietante, visionaria belleza.
November 23, 2023
¿No es impresionante como todo cambia en un instante?
Es una obra que sigue de cerca a un alma atormentada, una mujer que intenta sentirse segura y explora la rara felicidad que experimenta gracias a un hombre. Aunque ella siente no merecer nada de eso, porque ella no existe... (?)
😭
Es una obra que sigue de cerca a un alma atormentada, una mujer que intenta sentirse segura y explora la rara felicidad que experimenta gracias a un hombre. Aunque ella siente no merecer nada de eso, porque ella no existe... (?)
😭
October 8, 2020
This book has the hallmarks of many posthumously-published works. It is clearly comprised of pieces that were either discarded by the author or may have benefited from more drafts to reach their full potential. Anna Kavan excels at creating surreal imagery, but here the foundations are not always there to imbue the imagery with meaning. The title novella, especially, feels like it is missing something. It alternates with surreal passages (which occur when the protagonist's mental status deteriorates, i.e., her "soul in China") and realist passages reminiscent of Jean Rhys. But the central metaphor is never really complete. It makes for an underwhelming reading experience, easily dwarfed by Kavan's best works, Sleep Has His House, Asylum Piece, and of course her masterpiece Ice
The stories are better, but again, many of them feel like they are missing something. My favorites easily were "Tiny Thing," "One of the Liberated?," and "A Summer Evening." The others have potential, but feel like drafts. "Traveller," for example, has a lot of vibrant imagery, but at the end it fizzles out into something trite, as if Kavan didn't know where to take it.
The trajectory of Anna Kavan's career is fascinating, and this book certainly helps shed light on it. To me it seems like Kavan was gearing up her entire career to write Ice, and everything else was a building block that did not quite reach those heights. Her mid-career works are about abused and traumatized women from the women's perspective, but by the end she wrote about the women from the perspective of their male abusers, evident in Ice and in many of the later stories in this book. It seems counter-intuitive, but it is not; there is something powerful about seeing inside the mind of a disturbed man. Refreshingly, some of the women in the stories have more agency than the "ice woman" in Ice.
It is also interesting to track the "ice woman," who appears in most of these pieces in some capacity or another. She might be called a self-insert character, were "Anna Kavan" not a fictional character that the author modeled herself after, as opposed to the reverse. She is not always the fragile waif she appears as in Ice, though since we only ever see her from the narrator's perspective, perhaps the woman in Ice is not as she appears, either.
I also think, while most of her earlier works contain lengthy realist passages, Kavan's true calling was surrealism and, perhaps, sci-fi which she dabbled in later in her career. Unfortunately she died before she could perfect many of the sci-fi ideas that appear here.
The stories are better, but again, many of them feel like they are missing something. My favorites easily were "Tiny Thing," "One of the Liberated?," and "A Summer Evening." The others have potential, but feel like drafts. "Traveller," for example, has a lot of vibrant imagery, but at the end it fizzles out into something trite, as if Kavan didn't know where to take it.
The trajectory of Anna Kavan's career is fascinating, and this book certainly helps shed light on it. To me it seems like Kavan was gearing up her entire career to write Ice, and everything else was a building block that did not quite reach those heights. Her mid-career works are about abused and traumatized women from the women's perspective, but by the end she wrote about the women from the perspective of their male abusers, evident in Ice and in many of the later stories in this book. It seems counter-intuitive, but it is not; there is something powerful about seeing inside the mind of a disturbed man. Refreshingly, some of the women in the stories have more agency than the "ice woman" in Ice.
It is also interesting to track the "ice woman," who appears in most of these pieces in some capacity or another. She might be called a self-insert character, were "Anna Kavan" not a fictional character that the author modeled herself after, as opposed to the reverse. She is not always the fragile waif she appears as in Ice, though since we only ever see her from the narrator's perspective, perhaps the woman in Ice is not as she appears, either.
I also think, while most of her earlier works contain lengthy realist passages, Kavan's true calling was surrealism and, perhaps, sci-fi which she dabbled in later in her career. Unfortunately she died before she could perfect many of the sci-fi ideas that appear here.
August 30, 2019
Whenever I'm lonely,isolated, and buried in the sludge of life, I just imagine Anna is there, to, well, you know.
June 22, 2021
Curious read. On to her novels.
April 26, 2013
The book contains the most interesting description of an abortion I ever came across:
"Взбираясь по бесконечной лестнице, склоняю голову перед последним этажом, откуда доносится плач маленькой девочки. Девочка стонет с каждым вздохом. Я открываю двери ее палаты и вижу ее: вот она на кровати, слезы бегут по ее щекам. Простыни, подушка, матрас, все пропитано ее слезами. В комнате влажно от ее слез. Если бы ее лицо было выразительнее, если бы она не была дрыгающейся задыхающейся на смерть рыбиной, я бы подумала, что эта девочка - я, или моя сестра. Но у меня нет сестры.
Вдруг эта девочка задирает платье и показывает мне катетеры, не два и не пять, десятки катетеров украшают ее ножки под полами ее кукольного платья. Каждый раз когда она захлебывается от своих слез, катетеры двигаются все враз, и по трубкам из капельниц спускаются новые порции желтой жидкости. Я наклоняюсь, чтобы прочитать состав содержимого капельниц. Это духи Шанель # 5. Я смеюсь в истерике. Присаживаюсь к ней на кроватку и смеюсь, от смеха начинают слезится глаза, смеюсь до коликов, до припадка, смеюсь пока в палату не заходит доктор.
Вскоре мы готовы начать операцию, инструменты стерилизованы, пациентка лежит на столе. Это круглый операционный стол, не очень большой, ее ноги все время соскальзывают. Моя работа - согнуть ее ножки в коленях и широко их развести. Девочка под анестезией; она все равно стонет. Доктор вынимает все ее катетеры, и вводит в нее инструмент, похожий на диковинные ножницы. Пока доктор совершает операцию за моей спиной, я наклоняюсь чтобы посмотреть внутрь. Я смотрю в глубокую морскую пещеру, усеянную морскими анемонами, их чувствительные щупальца ощупывают пустоту вокруг и волнуются взад-вперед. В глубине пещеры светятся пурпурные водоросли, похожие на невиданное алое цветение английских папоротников. И в самом темном углу что-то неуклюжее шевелится. Кажется, это маленькая свинья, роющаяся наугад в кромешной темноте."
"Взбираясь по бесконечной лестнице, склоняю голову перед последним этажом, откуда доносится плач маленькой девочки. Девочка стонет с каждым вздохом. Я открываю двери ее палаты и вижу ее: вот она на кровати, слезы бегут по ее щекам. Простыни, подушка, матрас, все пропитано ее слезами. В комнате влажно от ее слез. Если бы ее лицо было выразительнее, если бы она не была дрыгающейся задыхающейся на смерть рыбиной, я бы подумала, что эта девочка - я, или моя сестра. Но у меня нет сестры.
Вдруг эта девочка задирает платье и показывает мне катетеры, не два и не пять, десятки катетеров украшают ее ножки под полами ее кукольного платья. Каждый раз когда она захлебывается от своих слез, катетеры двигаются все враз, и по трубкам из капельниц спускаются новые порции желтой жидкости. Я наклоняюсь, чтобы прочитать состав содержимого капельниц. Это духи Шанель # 5. Я смеюсь в истерике. Присаживаюсь к ней на кроватку и смеюсь, от смеха начинают слезится глаза, смеюсь до коликов, до припадка, смеюсь пока в палату не заходит доктор.
Вскоре мы готовы начать операцию, инструменты стерилизованы, пациентка лежит на столе. Это круглый операционный стол, не очень большой, ее ноги все время соскальзывают. Моя работа - согнуть ее ножки в коленях и широко их развести. Девочка под анестезией; она все равно стонет. Доктор вынимает все ее катетеры, и вводит в нее инструмент, похожий на диковинные ножницы. Пока доктор совершает операцию за моей спиной, я наклоняюсь чтобы посмотреть внутрь. Я смотрю в глубокую морскую пещеру, усеянную морскими анемонами, их чувствительные щупальца ощупывают пустоту вокруг и волнуются взад-вперед. В глубине пещеры светятся пурпурные водоросли, похожие на невиданное алое цветение английских папоротников. И в самом темном углу что-то неуклюжее шевелится. Кажется, это маленькая свинья, роющаяся наугад в кромешной темноте."
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