Genghis Khan + Three Women + Hello 2020

May the words be with us

Dear Reader,

It’s officially the last day of 2019 and thanks to this newsletter, I know I’ve read 76 books this year (not including the paperback romances that made life bearable even as the world fell apart). This number would have been significantly less if I hadn’t been on jury duty, but at the same time, the quality of my reading list would have been significantly better had I not been forced to read some truly dreadful writing. I may even have managed to end the year a little smarter instead of just angrier. Oh well.

Speaking of jury duty, to all those wondering where the books I promised you are: They’ll reach you. Eventually. I’ve sent one lot out and will try to send the rest over the next few weeks. Don’t make a grumpy face. It’s bad form to be demanding about free books.

My last two reads of this year are Genghis Khan and the Quest for God by Jack Weatherford, about the 13th century Mongolian conqueror who may take direct credit for 0.5% of the world’s male population, and Three Women by Lisa Taddeo, which is about three modern women and their uncomfortable desires. Talk about spectrums, right? As it turns out, the two books do have some things in common. Both are non-fiction subjects that the authors have decided to explore as though they’re writing novels. Both hope to make you reconsider their subjects and see there’s more to them than first impressions suggest.

Weatherford is a cultural anthropologist and an authors I would probably not have encountered if I relied on algorithms for reading recommendations. The Secret History of the Mongol Queens was an entirely random buy; one of those books you pick because you’re killing time at a bookshop. (If you don’t do this, please consider cultivating the habit. It’ll leave your wallet lighter and your heart fuller, I promise.) I was sure I’d be rolling my eyes at this American dude who had decided he was the authority on Mongolian history, but The Secret History of the Mongol Queens quickly proved to be both riveting and respectful. Weatherford is basically on a mission to make the world acknowledge that they’ve been doing Mongols a grave injustice by depicting their biggest hero, Genghis Khan (born Temujin) as only a bloodthirsty tyrant. Because as far as Weatherford is concerned, we can thank Mongol history for ideas like economic globalisation, universal paper money, a unified calendar and religious tolerance.

In Quest for God, Weatherford puts forward the theory that it was from writings about Genghis Khan that America’s founding fathers got the idea of religious freedom. The connection he tries to establish is hardly the most convincing, but the history of how Genghis Khan approached the fact that different religions were vying for power in his empire deserves re-upping in our present times. Depending on how much you know of Mongol history, Quest for God will range from interesting to eye-opening.

For instance, did you know that during Genghis’s time, Christianity had a thriving presence in the steppes? Or that the Chinese, in an effort to express their complete disgust towards Manicheans, described them as “vegetarian demon worshippers”? Or that Genghis wasn’t Muslim but Tengrist? Or that in 1216, his first international edict for his empire decreed “each should abide by his own religion and follow his own creed”? If this makes you wonder what on earth we’re banging on about when feel all high and mighty about our progressive values in the 21st century, don’t feel too bad. Young Temujin did kill his half-brother over an argument concerning a fish and in general, Mongols thought incest was an excellent option for a widow. So really, it’s not all bad in the present.

Along with a potted history of religions in 13th century Central Asia,Quest for God also has trivia like this, which finally made me understand why silk is considered a magic fabric in so many Asian cultures:

“Chinese weavers produced silk so tight that lice and other vermin could not penetrate it, and even on lesser qualities of silk, the strands were so slick that lice could not attach their eggs to it. … Silk had another, even more important, life-saving quality. When penetrated by an arrow, the strong, slick fibers wrapped around the arrowhead even as it sank into the flesh. The silk greatly reduced the severity of the would and, most importantly, allowed the arrowhead to be gently extracted without doing further damage and with decreased likelihood of infection.”

The problem with Quest for God is that Weatherford is such a fan of Genghis Khan that in large stretches of the book, the historical narrative is actually just disguised fan fiction. Because Weatherford is a good storyteller, the speculative bits are neatly woven into the history, but that doesn’t change the fact that they’re speculations. Repeatedly, Weatherford gives us a detailed psychology behind certain decisions as though Genghis had a tell-all with Weatherford.   

Unrelated to religious tolerance, one of the bits of Quest for God that stayed with me was the way memory and silence are used by those in power. Mongol tradition forbade uttering the name of those who had fallen. When Genghis Khan’s favourite grandson died unexpectedly, the Khan’s catharsis was through carnage.

“By the order of Genghis Khan, no Mongol could cry or scream, not even the boy’s father… Instead, he made the local people wail in horror, shriek in pain and beg vainly for mercy that never came.”

Centuries later, in the 1930s, Soviet Russia would do something similar to the Mongolians. Only this time, it was not in violent mourning, but to wipe out the memory of Genghis Khan because he inspired Mongolian nationalism.

So yes, Quest for God is a good (but not brilliant) read. The Secret History of Mongol Queens remains my favourite of Weatherford’s books on Mongol history. I’m sure some of you are rolling your eyes at this point and thinking that I’m saying this because it’s a book about the lives of women. If only it was that easy to appeal to this reader.

On the face of it Three Women is exactly the kind of book I should like. An author spent eight years researching and following women, talking to them about desire, to put together this portrait of contemporary, American femininity. This sounds like it’s worth a read, surely? The book then goes on to become a bestseller. That one of the most popular books of the year is about the longings and desires of women should be enough to make the feminist in me do a happy dance, right?

Leaving aside the minor detail that nothing ever makes me want to dance, I have so many problems with Three Books. Desire is a fascinating subject for a book and feminine desire, even more so because it’s so difficult to separate the visceral, authentic experience from the performance that is poked out of us through socialisation and pop culture. Our bodies and hormones tend to raise more complicated questions and offer nuanced answers. If you’re interested in the subject, I would highly recommend Daniel Bergner’s What Do Women Want: Adventures in the Science of Female Desire. Bonk by Mary Roach is also a decent read, but I liked Bergner’s book better. (Unrelated: Roach’s Stiff is ridiculously fun, despite being about cadavers.)

Back to Three Women, which was originally conceived as a book about “human desire” (dream big, y’all). As Taddeo started doing her research, she found herself losing interest in the men’s stories which seemed to all have the same trajectory. In contrast, the women’s stories felt more compelling and finally, she decided to tell three stories “that came to stand for the whole of what longing in America looks like.” From all humanity to all of America — at least she narrowed her focus.

So here is what embodies longing in America:

A woman who was preyed upon by her high school teacher (Maggie)
A housewife whose husband is unwilling to have sex with her (Lina)
A woman entrepreneur who has sex with other people because it turns her husband on (Sloane).

Apparently, longing in America is white, heterosexual and largely provincial. To either feel or inspire it, the woman must be thin and the experience of it leaves women feeling victimised and broken. Also, all men use women. Great.

It’s not as though Three Women is unreadable. Maggie’s story, for instance, drew me in easily because Taddeo was good at conveying the vulnerability and eagerness of a teenaged girl. Occasionally, there are lovely turns of phrase scattered in the prose that tries very hard to be poetic only to land somewhere between bizarre and clichéd. But because of the way Taddeo structures the three stories, there’s very little tension in Three Women. Even though it seems like there are decisions being made and emotional journeys being taken, ultimately not one of the women seems to evolve. They’re stagnating with their broken hearts and surging hormones.

On top of that, the women take navel gazing to a whole new level. Despite all of them battling certain psychological and physical ailments, there’s no reference to anything scientific and neither is there any consideration of how the scientific perspective on women’s bodies and needs has changed (because that plays a big part in how we see ourselves). We know Three Women is set in the present, but there isn’t much by way of cultural, social or political markers beyond two book titles: Twilight and Fifty Shades of Grey. If this is the whole of what longing in America looks like, then the nation and its women have my commiseration.

As you wade through Taddeo’s metaphors — “Men come to insert themselves, they turn a girl into a city. When they leave, their residue remains, the discoloration on the wood where the sun came through every day for many days, until one day it didn’t.” To quote my favourite Bandra aunties: Means? (pronounced: Mince) — it becomes obvious that beyond the increasingly atrocious prose, Three Women is pulling a con. Despite Taddeo’s insistence that the book is non-fiction, there’s a lot in here that’s being imagined rather than documented. The problem is not that Three Women feels deeply subjective. The question is — from whose point of view are we being told this story? Taddeo’s third person narrator is like a ghost possessing the bodies and lives of these women. It isn’t them we’re hearing, but Taddeo, who is only interested in certain aspects of their lives in order to tell the story she wants to present. Taddeo, who would rather pretend we’re hearing the women unfiltered.

While writing non-fiction, the narrator can either choose to remove all trace of themselves from the narrative or they can inhabit it. With the first method, you construct your story using only what your subject is ready to disclose and whatever is in the public domain. If the narrator chooses to be present, like in a personal essay or memoir, then it falls upon them to make clear to the reader what informs the narrator’s perspective. Taddeo doesn’t do this. She doesn’t tell us why she chose these three women. She doesn’t tell us in the prologue that no woman came forward to talk to her initially or that Taddeo set up a discussion group (which is the setting in which Lina tells her story) as part of her efforts to find subjects and stories. Neither does she consider the idea that those who do speak to her may be performing for the benefit of being presented a certain way.

I’m not sure what frustrated me more about Three Women — the overwrought prose, the lack of insight, or the narrative conceit that promised non-fiction and delivered speculation (which, as far as I’m concerned, is a genre within fiction). I don’t doubt that some people will find it relatable. The pastiche of feminine experience that Taddeo has compiled in Three Women contains sad bits of everyday life that are regrettably ‘normal’ for too many of us (blame it on patriarchy). However, I doubt reading this book will make anyone feel like they understand either themselves or anyone else any better.

After finishing Three Women, I immediately picked up a Mills and Boon, which was complete tripe and still managed to feel less disingenuous than Three Women. Plus, it was fun. And had a hero who said he was proud to be a feminist, an overweight heroine and a happy ending.

Before I go, here’s wishing all of you a wonderful year ahead. Here’s to 2020. May it bring us joy and make us stronger.

Thank you for reading. Dear Reader will be back soon.