Poet Zoe Whittall has created a found poem “culled and adapted from Canadian Notes & Queries, The Globe & Mail, The National Post, The New York Times, The Guardian”:
Much of the novel seems held together with a kind of teary hormonal paste.
There’s been much recent parley about “men’s fiction” and the vaginal shadow it has been condemned to live in.
I can sniff out the ink of the men.
Ms. Whittall has taken literary reviews of female authors, assembled them, and switched the gender of subject. The result is quite interesting.
(H/T: Jon Paul Fiorentino.)
