10:04

Art has to offer something other than stylized despair. Something I hadn't really considered before reading 10:04: my experience with autofiction has been almost entirely dominated by women writers (Cusk, Offill, Lockwood, Nelson). There is probably something interesting to examine here — a continuation of A Room of One's Own, Woolf extended onto the present, a sort of rebellion by the feminine to allow (and demand) their inclusion in what is allowed to be fictionalized, which is to say what is allowed to be fiction. There's also probably something to be said about the inherent power dynamics of autofiction, and 10:04 spends time discussing this at length in a way characteristic of the rest of the book: circuitously, coyly, and in a manner I would otherwise find annoying if the author were not such a strong stylist and clever thinker: that part of what I loved about poetry was how the distinction between fiction and nonfiction didn't obtain, how the correspondence between text and…