not like a horse, like a flaw

Mariette in Ecstasy is 8 x 5.5 x 0.5 inches & 179 excruciating tense exquisite pages.

Welcome to Purse Book, a weekly newsletter about reading hot little books & being a gal on the go. If you haven’t already, you absolutely may: 

I know there are things you shouldn’t say about books or movies or other narrative projects, even in broad strokes. Announcing there’s a twist irons out the power of the twist. And yet, I am only human—unlike the spectral nuns that populate Ron Hansen’s 1991 novel Mariette in Ecstasy—and so I can’t resist telling you that this book has one of the most blindsiding final lines I’ve ever swept my little eyes over. 

In the novel, a hot young nun joins a convent in 1906 upstate New York, which is always overwhelmed by snow and tense competitions over who’s more devout. Soon, Mariette starts showing signs of stigmata. Sacerdotal chaos pours forth.

Rules are rules, doms are doms.

As the convent attempts to determine the veracity of Mariette’s experiences, belief systems start to shake, wither, and writhe in holy ecstasy. The characters’ faiths are unmoored by questions. How do we examine a conviction? What systems of proof do we value? Are some of these nuns in illegal love with each other? These are the questions that determine our very capacity for spirituality.

What a way to announce you’re a mauvaise fille!

I’d love to say this while, like, threatening to leave a party.

Mariette in Ecstasy is dominated by one theme I’m usually lukewarm about: the Catholic religion. It also bursts with themes that I’m fervent about: an insulated hothouse atmosphere, intellectual competition with ever-changing rules, cold weather, uncharitable New England faultfinding. And—I refuse to look up the religious context here—lots of daily Sexts.

I think the power of Mariette in Ecstasy’s last line accumulates force because of the novel’s compact nature. Plenty of slim manuscripts have a wispy, light touch (last week’s lusted-over Neotenica) ; some still manage to be baggy and repetitive (I’d never steer you so wrong, except once kinda, write back if you have a guess). Mariette in Ecstasy is a short novel that uses its length as a weapon. It sustains one thread of tension for just as long as it can, before the band snaps back to bite you on the hand, and you have to yelp: Oh, you got me!

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Also, in the spirit of all this consecration, this issue of Purse Book is devoted to dear Pemi Aguda, who recommended Mariette in Ecstasy over park beers and I didn’t know what was coming. I admire you for hinting nothing!