Voices carry: a "In the Dream House" review
Lately I've been in awe of Carmen Maria Machado. She seems to be an absolute tour de force; her debut short story collection was released to critical acclaim, and this experimental memoir rode on the coattails of that monumental success. I was sucked into the vortex like much of the literary world earlier this semester, reading Her Body and Other Parties ravenously, craving more of Machado's luscious prose, blunt sexuality, and vivid imagination. When I heard about In the Dream House not long after, an account of Machado's experience in an emotionally abusive relationship through literary lenses and allusions, I was immediately intrigued. I placed this book on hold at the library and eagerly awaited my copy. As soon as I had it in my hands, I greedily devoured its pages and was floored by what I discovered.
In the Dream House is one of the best books of 2019, the decade, and also the best memoir I've read. Machado puts a spotlight on queer abuse, showing the LGBTQ+ community can face something that only seems to receive prevalence in heteronormative narratives. Queer people don't exist in a utopia, as Machado points out herself; we can be victims and perpetrators of abuse like everyone else. Machado weaves her own experience through a memoir that jumps from past to present, fact to fiction, experience to story, essay to exposition. Each chapter is a new lens to view the story through, and Machado weaves between them with great finesse. With every folk tale motif footnote and citation, Machado broadens the world of her narrative even more, capturing the universality of her experience in a unique and challenging way. By explicitly pushing against the boundaries of a memoir, she crafts a book that goes beyond the limits of a previous definition. As such, In the Dream House is a transcendent piece of literature, one lush and multifaceted, another reminder of the extent of abuse and how it has been present in queer relationships throughout history.
In 2010, Carmen Maria Machado meets the Woman of the Dream House. They haven't arrived at the Dream House yet; Machado is merely an MFA creative writing student at the University of Iowa, the Woman the friend of a mutual acquaintance. They meet in a cafe with a wall full of windows, the Woman short, blond, and magnetic. Machado finds herself falling in love with this woman, someone wanting to be in a polyamorous relationship just to be with Machado. Things start out well; they have amazing sex, find the Dream House outside Bloomington, Indiana, and proceed to make a long-distance relationship work. But as Machado drives back-and-forth from the states, the walls start closing in. The Woman becomes hostile, manipulative, one minute having Machado list out all her flaws and the next loving her unconditionally. Machado finds herself lying to her friends about the psychological toll the relationship has on her. Since the abuse isn't physical, things must be fine, right? Why would her partner be doing this? Is it, in reality, all her own fault? Ghosts of pain fill in the cracks of a broken heart, broken foundation, and without hindsight, none of this seems to make sense. When will Machado escape the Dream House?
Machado's memoir opens with a note about The Archive, how abuse stories tend to be stifled by history if they don't fit the "battered woman" narrative (some examples: emotional abuse, female perpetrators, male victims). This is even more the case for queer abuse stories; straight people and even those within the community itself believe queer love is a utopia, free of the strife experienced out and about. But that's a lie. Anyone could unfortunately be involved in an abusive relationship; queer people are not excluded from the equation. Additionally, abuse doesn't have to be bruises. It can very well be a wobbly smile, dark circles, a twitch whenever a phone vibrates. Machado makes this abundantly clear throughout her experience, featuring the stories of queer women throughout history who were the abused and abusers. They've always existed throughout time, but with this excavation, that point is even starker. This means readers who have experienced what Machado writes about will feel seen, feel heard.
Machado approaches her experience, however, in unique and challenging ways chapter to chapter. Much of her story is told in second person, the reader becoming Machado throughout the tumultuous relationship. The book, as a result, is an intense and harrowing read, one that will trigger readers if they have gone through similar abuse. Even though I haven't been involved in a situation like that, my molecules rattled every time I sat down with this book. Machado holds nothing back in her cutting analysis of every moment, every curdle, every smile that fell into nothing. It's incredibly deft, and even more so with the lenses she puts on each chapter. The Dream House becomes a genre that frames an event, a short story segue with themes relating to Machado's experience, or a symbolic literary device. "Déjà Vu" repeats throughout the memoir as the Woman's behaviors shift during the relationship. "Erotica" highlights some particularly raunchy sex and the joy of it. "Choose Your Own Adventure" plays out exactly how it sounds. "Chekhov's Gun" uses a metaphorical image of a gun to showcase the moment Machado realizes she's in an abusive relationship with a volatile breakdown from the Woman, everything tying back into place. Each change is seamless and goes to show that memoirs don't have to be recitations. They can be molded in ways readers have never seen before. While the anchors of In the Dream House hold chapters and expected moments, there are references to folklore, Machado's hindsight, and analytical footnotes that add great depth to the reader, although I can see some readers getting lost in them. They are sparse, however, and what they do add is important and another part of this mythical but always intense journey.
But I would be neglectful if I didn't mention Machado's absolutely breathtaking prose. She has such a refreshing and frank way of writing that has never shied away from bleak or explicit moments. Tears are shed. Bodies are bare. Lust is primal. Pain is visible. But there's subtlety as well, something different from the fantastical tales spun in Her Body and Other Parties. While baring it all, there is some restraint, particularly in the sequencing of the psychological abuse. By jumping from narrative to narrative within the memoir (observing what a prehistoric animal could hear in the space where the Dream House would stand, for example), the tension alleviates, despite how tautly it's pulled. Machado ebbs and flows while maintaining a great writing quality throughout the book, and there are plenty of brilliant passages that may elicit gasps from throats. It's truly incredible work.
Needless to say, this should be popping up on most book lovers' holiday lists and will be talked about for years to come. Machado's unveiling of suppressed queer abuse literature through her own experience is horrifying and eye-opening, a visceral sting that will cut and shock but also serve as the nod of understanding some readers desperately need. It's truly remarkable, and I'm so happy to have read it.