The girl who never read noam chomsky7/10/2023 ![]() ![]() (Her daughter will find it decades later, while sorting through her mother’s things after Leda’s death, and toss it into a donation box.) Readers follow Leda as she worries over her body, joins a gym and then cancels her membership days later, grows melancholy over having no one in her life to talk about light fixtures with, flirts and flounders, languishes in undergraduate writing workshops, worries over her body some more, buys an over-priced copy of Noam Chomsky’s Problems of Knowledge and Freedom with some vague notion of impressing a boy in a coffee shop who she’ll never see again, and then never, ever reads it. She should have thought more closely about cleaning out her microwave,” Casale writes. “At this point in her life she had a stack of books she kept by the bed and a splinter in her right hand. Out now from Knopf, The Girl Who Never Read Noam Chomsky tells the story of Leda, who we meet at college, in Boston. At least, that is, until I read a novel like Jana Casale’s debut, The Girl Who Never Read Noam Chomsky. It’s a privilege so prevalent throughout my book-loving life that sometimes I’m guilty of forgetting it’s a privilege at all that everyone doesn’t feel as well-represented by their bookshelves as I do by mine. ![]() My bookshelves have always looked like this - the privilege of being born in a particular type of body, at a particular time in history, in an artistically free society being that I’ve not often experienced that gap between the stories I want to read and the stories available to me, which women of other bodies, generations, and cultures have always been subject to. My bookshelves are filled with women: women writers and women’s stories women who look and live and love like me, and women who don’t fictional women and real women and women who fall somewhere in between.
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