Ru: at what age does a woman become a person?

Posted on October 4, 2026 by kcauchon

Welcome back books I can read in one sitting! Funnily enough, I am currently reading another book for a Quebec lit class about a girl who has to leave her home country (Chile instead of Vietnam) at a young age and relocates to Quebec where she must grapple with her dual identity. I will try my hardest to not get these books confused but with such similar themes I’m already struggling. It’s called La où je me terre by Caroline Dawson if anyone’s interested. No idea what it’s called in English.

What first stood out to me about Ru was the writing structure. I personally love short chapters so this was heaven for me to read. The way one chapter bled into the next had such a natural flow to it. This flow wasn’t adhering to any chronology, but rather associations between characters, feelings, and events. It reminded me of the flow of memories. They don’t come to you in the order in which they happened. They come at random, brought on by feelings and associations. I think this whole book is about memory. The majority of it is spent reflecting on events of the narrator’s past and how it affects her present.

I also love the way this book discusses motherhood. The relation the narrator has to her mother, being “and extension of her” carries so much weight of responsibility and expectation. Especially given the mother’s description as an authority figure even among her own siblings. Her mother seems to bear the majority of the responsibility of their family, from ensuring the children learned English to making sure their teeth were straight. A line that really stuck with me was “My mother started to live, to let herself be carried away, to reinvent herself at the age of fifty-five” (p. 63). Young women have so many expectations put on them, to get married to have kids, to be a good wife and mother. And the narrator’s mother did that. She took after her kids AND her siblings. But now at an age where her kids are independent, she has the time and capacity to explore her own desires. And in the very next line, the narrator described how her father has not had to reinvent himself at all. Forgive me is this is slightly unrelated, but there is a freedom that comes to many middle aged women (often called menopause!) where you are unburdened by the societal expectations of womanhood. You are no longer expected to reproduce, and so there is no need to attractive to men. Generally, your kids are grown and independent, no longer needing your care. You are free in a way, from the ever-present identity of woman and mother. And you can begin to seek a new identity and pursue your desires. Men, in general, can simply be their whole lives. They don’t have a permanent attachment to their identity as man or father. They can shed these titles whenever they please without consequence.

Anyway, this is obviously not a universal truth of all middle aged women but my own theory based on this book and what I’ve observed from women in my life. If I wasn’t already over 500 words, I would try to cover a more global theme from the book. But this line about reinvention stuck out to me and really made me reflect so I went off. My question for the class is do you agree that middle aged women have this freedom? Or do the the same restraints of womanhood persist post-menopause?

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A Girl Returned: Translation and Birthday Cake

Posted on October 2, 2026 by parden

I think this week’s novel has been my least favourite so far. It took me the longest to read (I kept pausing to scroll Instagram reels) and I just couldn’t seem to want to continue.

I hadn’t realized that this was translated by the same translator as last week’s book. This has me wondering more about reading in translation, and whether you can tell, whether the translator leaves a mark on the work in some way (I know that people have favourite or preferred translators for classics or more historical texts, but what about for contemporary novels?) As I’m writing these parentheses, I think it’ll actually be my question for this week: what makes a good translator for contemporary romance language novels (should we be able to tell who translated the work?) and do you have certain translators where you would read anything they put out? (Ann Goldtein has 97 distinct works on Goodreads, for example, do reading these two texts make you want to go see what else she has to offer?).

My blog post is going to be a bit late (sorry!), so I’m going to do a short reflection on a scene within the book that  stood out to me (because it made me sad) (despite not being a huge or critical chapter).

The few pages where the narrator celebrated her birthday alone really had me remembering that she was just a kid who was placed in an unfortunate set of situations. It was after her brother’s death and following the news that she was to soon return to the city for school: “My birthday fell in the spring and no one was aware of it” (115). The parents had forgotten the date and her sister never knew. This whole page had me so sad for this child, who still cares and wants and lives despite her living situation / responsibilities, despite everyone’s grief, and despite how the people around her see her.

She walks to pick up a pastry for herself and gets gifted a candle by a cashier, then goes home and lights her desert with some matches she found in the garage. I was quite touched by the image of the wax melting down the side of the candle and onto the pastry, meaning she was sitting and just staring at this lit candle (during which time she should have had people around, with someone singing Happy Birthday to her): “Then I blew it out with a puff and solitary applause, and I sang ‘Happy Birthday,’ whispering in the darkness” (116).

I took this overall to represent the uncertainties and the isolation / loneliness of the in-between stage she’s in: in-between families, in-between two mothers who had each given her up, in-between lives (will she really leave her siblings for school?), not really fitting in anywhere (especially following the death of her brother). She is used to not being prioritized by the people around her.

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A girl for sale

Posted on October 2, 2026 by Amada Libertad

First impression: In an attempt to not say that I did not like the book, I will say, what the hell was that?

After a few second thoughts: okay, interesting? Maybe, I get the point?

My first question then is: Who are we blaming?

Are we blaming the poor family? The poor mother? Are we blaming the rich women? The girl herself? The new baby? The old dad (the carabiniere)? The new partner of Adalgisa (Guido)?

It is way easier to understand (at least for me) why the girl (our main character) was kind of taken away from her first family so easily. It reminds me a lot of those international adoptions in Latin America during a conflict, where rich people, usually from the Global North, easily adopt kids from Indigenous or war-torn communities. Under the cover of a “good deed,” rich people get away from the forced displacement that made a kid just go through, the usual lies, the erasure of their past, just for the kid to grow up and find out (most of the time) a tragic/terrible story that could be summarized as “kidnapping.”

But on the other hand, we could ask: what other life would this baby have lived had they weren’t taken away? Poverty? Lack of love? Death? Why are our answers always so negative? Well, because we know the reality of a lot of abandoned kids or orphans that had to face the realities of their communities after war/repression was over. But still, how can we be sure that the future of that kid would have been worse?

I believe it will be unfair to blame the biologial/poor family. Similar to how the girl at the end starts feeling guilt for rejecting some of the gifts from Adalgisa (because then she was denying these privileges to her little sister), I can see the mom thinking this same way when thinking how denying Adalgisa her own daughter would have been an act/decisions out of selfishness.

Can we blame Adalgisa (what a bi*c*)? I think we get at the end the vibes of “actually, if we are more critical of the situation, Adalgisa is just a victim of the horrible/angry/deceiving man.” I don’t buy it.

What about the assh*** of the carabiniere? What a joke that he can’t take care of the girl, why revenge Adalgisa’s affair with that little girl?

Second question: Was the secrecy necessary?

No

Third question: What does Adriana represent in the story?

Here is where the story is saved. The concept of motherhood gets distorted symbolically and textually throughout the novel, ending in maybe the idea that mothering is not an act done by someone who gives birth to you, and that it is unfair to see like that? I don’t know.

Extra general thought:

While I was trying to finish the novel yesterday, I understood why classes like this are necessary. Reading more women makes you more empathetic with other women, and with yourself if you identify as a woman. We tend to read mostly men writing (either literature or more academic writing). We could definitely pin point classes where most of our readings are just men, or even when all readings are just men. Is this the same case with other classes? No, unless they are specifically about feminism or (like this one) about women writers. I do not think enough women have read enough women, and (of course) I do not think enough men have read enough women.

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shockingly new; i dont hate it!

Posted on October 2, 2026 by qtoca

I was surprised at how different the themes and structure of this book was in comparison to the first two books that we read. While in those books we talked a lot about the emotions revolving around a relationship, or the usage of the body to affirm one’s identity, this book raises new ideas regarding class disparity, familial roles, and coming of age. It’s like a shift from just the individual to how the individual connects and relies on the connection with others. It’s a refreshing but shocking change after getting used to the personable style of writing from the authors prior.

The first thing I wanted to freak out and talk about was the narrator’s relationship with her brother, Vincenzo. It was disturbing due to the fact that they are as far as I know, biologically related and I was wracking my brain as to why their complicated relationship is an important idea that needed to be explored in this book. After some thought, I could only extrapolate that they could have found comfort in one another, which manifested in this odd sexual tension because they never grew up together, they dont know to see eachother as siblings (or at least havent been trained to see that).

Without proper parental figures to look up to as well, I thought their relationship was led by the instinct of maturation since both of them were more developed and the older ones; it made sense that in seeing someone new they’ve never seen, they would be tempted romantically. It was a core idea that shows that they are growing up and learning about their bodies and hormones.

This is controversial, but it made me think about what actually defines the relationship between two people; should they act purely off of their labels, or can they have the freedom to choose what defines their relationship? Made me uncomfortable to say, but with the fact that her family ties and attachment to everyone in this book except Adrianna are wonky and unclear, I thought it was sensible to think that the narrator would be the one to have to choose who her “biological” family was. I think the fact that he dies makes it easier for her to cope with whatever happened between them when she becomes older; imagine being in your 20s and remembering you were horny for your brother and hes still alive. omg, traumatising.

Another thing I wanted to bring up was the sisterhood between the narrator and Adrianna. I think this is something that we lacked in the other two books. Two female “protagonists” (idk if that’s fair to say cause technically the narrator is the main person, but the fact that Adrianna is by her side through most of the story makes me feel like its valid to say that) navigating through their teenage/childhood years together instead of social constructs breaking their womanhood apart.

It felt like they were a connecting body and shadow that had needed each other since the first time the narrator stepped foot in their house and shared a bed with her. I think their connection to one another stems from the fact that Adrianna lived with only boys at that time, and now had an older “womanly” figure to look up to. Both of them try to piece together what life abandoned the narrator, and even though they had their differences, they always came back to each other.

The scene in the water tied things together. Water always seems to appear as a symbol of connection (appears when she was with Vincenzo). The ending truly made me feel like she has made peace with why she was returned; that she no longer is “a girl returned” but can now build a new identity and path for herself moving forward.

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Arminuta

Posted on October 2, 2026 by dleoar

Even today, in a way, I’m still in that childhood summer: my soul ceaselessly spins and pulses around it, like an insect around a blinding light.

Elsa Morante, Lies and Sorcery

 

I MUST SAY, the epigraph immediately enthralled me. Donatella Di Pietranio’s novel, L’Arminuta (A Girl Returned), follows a narrator who shifts between her older self and memories of her younger self. This epigraph speaks to the narrator’s coming of age through her core memories. Even though these memories belong to her childhood, they continue to shape who she is as an adult.

Similar to previous novels we have read, such as Ernaux’s The Possession and Ferrante’s Days of Abandonment, there is an exploration of core memories and how they shape one’s current self. Hence Morannte’s epigraph at the beginning of the novel; it introduces the idea that the past never really leaves us. Certain memories stay with us and continue to influence how we understand ourselves and the world around us.

My initial thoughts on the novel were, what in the Judy Blume? In the Alice Munroe? I thought the novel would be a classic puberty story. Instead, we get a novel exploring kinship, memory, class division, and perception.

From the beginning, the narrator speculates about why she was returned to her biological family. After living a more lavish and luxurious lifestyle, she assumes there must be a serious reason behind her return. Adalgisa, the adoptive mother, must be sick. Or so the arminuta thinks. Throughout the novel, however, her perception begins to change. She learns that her mother, Adalgisa, has given her back to her biological family because she is having a child of her own with a different father than the carabiniere.

Many lifestyles are class markers. Language is a lightly touched upon; the arminuta asks Adriana to speak Italian when they visit the city.

Being returned creates a clear before and after in the arminuta’s life. It becomes one of her core memories. She is suddenly forced into a completely different lifestyle. She has to learn domestic chores and share a bed with her sister, Adriana. The life she once knew is completely different from the one she is now living.

I did not expect Vincenzo’s death, particularly given the scenes of incestuous affection between him and the arminuta. Maybe something would develop between them, I thought. His death caught me off guard, his life had given up, gave out. However, perhaps this was an important authorial choice to further develop the story and portray the different dynamics within the family. Vincenzo’s death allows for different dynamics within the family, particularly with “the mother” (biological) who falls into a mourning depression.

Overall, I think L’Arminuta is really about how childhood experiences stay with us and continue to shape our identities. The arminuta’s return to her biological family changes the way she understands family, class, and belonging. What initially feels like rejection eventually becomes an experience that gives her a different perspective on where she comes from. This connects back to Morante’s epigraph because, as an adult, the narrator is still emotionally connected to that period of her childhood. Her past continues to live within her and shape the person she becomes ♦

***

Lastly, this novel strangely feels very Pedro Almodovar-coded, Parallel Mothers, of babies exchanged. Just as previous week’s Days of Abandonment‘s atmosphere felt much like an Almodovar piece, perhaps The Flower of My Secret.

 

These readings are very Durassian; fragmented, older-selves reflecting on younger selves *eye side emoji* let’s see how Thuy, clearly inspired by Duras, reads next week.

Question for the class: Do you think the arminuta’s return changed how she understood what family means? ♦

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"A Girl Returned" by Pietrantonio: Connection Amidst Chaoss

Posted on October 1, 2026 by Sydney Hyndman

While this story feels quite different from the previous two novels we have read, it also retains characteristics present in both The Possession and The Days of Abandonment. On the one hand, I found that A Girl Returned differs from the previous stories because it moves away from romantic jealousy and obsession and instead explores complex family dynamics. Importantly, these dynamics are experienced through the perspective of a child. Family relationships are also central to the former novels, but they are explored from the perspective of adults. Despite these differences, however, A Girl Returned retains the common themes of loss, abandonment, and confusion.

This poor young girl, her life has been swept out from beneath her feet. Not only does she have to cope with the fact that the family she understood to be her "real" one has left her, but she is also left wondering why?! The emotional toll at such a young age is incredible. On top of this, the lifestyle she encounters with her biological family is drastically different from the one she previously knew. Unlike the stability of her previous home, she is wrapped up in a household characterized by chaos, uncertainty, and poverty. This stark contrast is established through a series of different experiences, such as:

- When Adriana wet the bed, "Slowly the odor vanished, rising only now and again) (p.21)

- The messy brothers, "The boys had splashed water on the floor and had walked in it, imprints of bare feet and soles of shoes were superimposed on one another (p.22)

- The meat preparation, “Pluck the chicken,” she ordered me, handing me the dead bird she was holding by the claws, its head dangling" (p.23)

- The domestic abuse, "He huddled on the floor in self-defence and, eyes closed, waited for the father to finish" (p.27)

Overall, these instances demonstrate how abrupt, and even scary, this change in environment feels to the narrator. Amidst all of this, however, I believe the light in the story comes from the narrator's bond with her sister, Adriana. This aspect of the story is central to the image I chose for this blog post. The photo below depicts two girls sitting together and looking out over a busy city. To me, the image represents the narrator and Adriana, and the way they are together despite the noise and chaos surrounding them. While so much of the narrator's new life is characterized by pain and unfamiliarity, her relationship with Adriana provides her with a feeling of connection. 

In light of this, my question for the class is: What function does Adriana's character serve in the story?




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So, why did Vincenzo have to die?

Posted on October 1, 2026 by xuekun jiang

I got into the book thinking I really liked it. I finished it feeling a void. A faint taste of bitterness, accompanied by a slight sense of relief and unsatsifaction. I wish it lasted longer. I wish more things were accomplished in the end. I wish Di Pietrantonio generously showed me how the girls grew up and how they each ended up -as I believe they well derseve- nicely, quietly. A happy pair of gemini.

A Girl Returned feels retrospective. The tone of the protagonist resembles someone who is looking back at a distant past, reflecting or lamenting it without hostility or antagonism. However, it is precisely this retrospective tone that tricked me into thinking that the story will end differently than how it actually ends. The accumulating dramatic tension and the climax, which are quite condensely packed in the last third of the book, caught me off guard. I was all of a sudden hijacked by the Girl's rage, disappointment, desperation, and indifference. At one point I was very angry, and I had tears in my eyes. I wanted to, for one second, curse Adalgisa. I wanted to scream at her and ask her how could she. How could she, out of all bad things a woman is capable of, choose to take a girl at her willing only to return her 13 years later, like a piece of merchandise with a life-long warranty?

C'mon, even big name brands nowadays do not offer waranties that would last decades. I would say that with a cold scoff.

But I cannot in the end come to hate her. She is just a woman who wishes to be mother. And I am sorry for her, for that she is now bound to a man worse than the carabiniere. That being said, I am overwhelmingly sorry for the protagonist. The arminuta. What on earth did she do to deserve all this disaster? She lost her biological family upon being adopted; then her adopted family upon being returned. She lost Vincenzo before they could understand what they meant for each other. I would have killed myself if I were her.

Still, coming back to the book itself. I have seen many stories of stolen motherhood. This is the first time ever I have read something about a stolen daughterhood. A child who keeps losing the construction she has of her world. It is captivating in this sense. The language of Di Pietrantonio is rather soft, tender and even suave. I feel immersed when I read her text, as if the l'arminuta was sitting in front of me. Soft, skinny, pale and well-washed. The young damsel in distress. I just cannot stop saying how much I like her. Oh the child of woe... Oh l'arminuta, you are not even described by a name... She is the amateur to her own family, the stranger in a house full of her kins. What was important to her was lost in the faded ages that she recalls on these pages. L'arminuta is a girl on exile.

Right, exile. This one novel brings me back to the essay of Edward Said and what he wrote on exile. I recall something vaguely -forgive me for not pulling out the original quote, it is late at night and I only have less than an hour to finish this before the deadline- to be exiled is to feel lost for both the existence of the place of origin and your love for this place. Our girl loves her home with all her heart: the house beside the sea, her father the carabiniere, her mother the gentle teacher. But that place of her dream is a no-place now. As much as she loves them, she is an exile, forever outcasted from those 13 years of sunshine. But she deserves so much more, that is why I was eager to find out the finale of the novel, only to be slightly disappointed in the end. The ending seems abrupt to me. I get that the sisterhood is beautiful, and that though they will differ in their looks and perhaps paths. The two little girls who slept on the same bed head to toe would always be together. The promise is not to be broken. But, why stop here? Is it necessary that everything else must be left to our imagination? I just in general feel like things are not well-taken care of. Especially with Vincenzo. He die too quickly, I could not even cry for him longer. His thread with the gypsies also broke off suddenly. What is the use of mentioning him again in the very last few lines of the novel? I cannot even be sure if l'arminuta loved him in which ways. 

What is the function of his death? Why on earth did he have to die? That can be my question for this blog.

Oh I think I will go to sleep with a sorrowful heart tonight.

The song to go with this novel, which is also my best wishes for l'arminuta:



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Divided Identity in “A Girl Returned”

Posted on October 1, 2026 by Heba

This might be hilarious, but I am going to say it. From the first pages of this novel until approximately Vincenzo’s death, I kept remembering the novels written by Charles Dickens that I used to read when I was in school. The same poverty, misery, disorientation, and, of course, the same social differences and emotional distance between some of the characters, regardless of the temporal and spatial contexts. English is the language I read the least in, but I have never read novels or stories in my other two languages that gave me the same feelings of Dickens. Maybe if I were reading this novel in Italian, I wouldn’t have had the same impression. Perhaps if I had read those novels written by Dickens more recently, I could have written a comparative essay now, exploring the unexpected connection and the effect of the authors’ and protagonists’ different genders.

For me, A Girl Returned is about a journey to form and reform identity, in this case, female identity. One of the major differences between this protagonist and those of our previous novels is that, while they lose themselves at a particular time, this protagonist seems to have been lost from the beginning. The self-construction is not an easy process. But what happens if you end up missing that identity you have always known, or even a dimension of it? What if you end up discovering that the identity you have always known was fake? I interpret the protagonist’s lack of a name as a reflection of this sense of “misplacement”. I also read the gradual changes in the terms used by the narrator to describe people around the protagonist, such as: “my mother”, “the mother”, “aunt”, etc., as a reflection of a changing understanding of her relationships and consequently of herself.

I disliked the relationships between the characters, except for Adriana, who is my favorite in this novel: the alternative parents, especially Adalgisa, the biological parents, and, of course, the sexual encounters with Vincenzo, who “(…) paid for his own funeral” (p. 103). I found this phrase very painful, and it provoked my compassion for Vincenzo, especially when I think about the scenes in which his father hit him and the way he always endured humiliation. The narrator commented on this: “He didn’t defend himself, he didn’t hit me; he laughed again, exaggerating a little to show that I couldn’t hurt him” (p. 47).

Finally, I keep wondering if we can really consider the protagonist a “returned girl”. Perhaps she is a returned girl only in the literal sense, as she returned somewhere, but did she ever really know who she was?

Illustration of a scene from the novel Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens.
Illustration of a scene from the novel Little Dorrit by Charles Dickens.
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A Girl Returned: There is autofiction everywhere for those with eyes to see

Posted on October 1, 2026 by kcauchon

I honestly feel so lukewarm about this book. It was a relatively easy read, in both writing and content. But I fear it didn’t really move me. My first thought after finishing the book was “that’s it?”. I definitely found myself sympathizing with the narrator (I’m just now realizing I don’t think they ever say her name aside from arminuta), her struggles of feeling out of place and torn between two worlds are definitely valid. However I struggled with her “I hate these expensive gifts from my mom” attitude. I can say I did appreciate the writing. I found that it truly felt like being in the mind of a 13 year old girl. Even though the narrator was technically describing a past event, you can tell she was really in the head of her past self. But here I am confusing narrator and writer which is actually something that kept coming up during my reading.

Somewhere throughout my reading of this book, I decided subconsciously that the writer, Di Pietrantonio, was telling the story of her own life. I think this was due to the autofiction we have read thus far (I’m assuming Ferrante’s book had aspects of autofiction in it) and also based on the intimate way the story was written. Somewhere along my reading, I realized there is a chance this story was completely fictitious, but I have a hard time believing it. I’m avoiding looking it up until I’ve finished writing this blog so I can accurately describe my reading experience. There was one line in particular that I thought “surely no one could make this up”.

I was an orphan with two living mothers. One had given me up with her milk still on my tongue, the other had given me back at the age of thirteen. I was a child of separations, false or unspoken kinships, distances. I no longer knew who I came from. In my heart I don’t know even now (p. 115)

To me, this is superb writing. Even though I wasn’t particularly moved by the sentiment, these sentences perfectly described how the narrator was feeling. This is what had me doubting that the author just made this up. This level of intimacy in the mind surely had to come from personal experience. That or Di Pietrantonio is simply a very good writer (which I think is true either way). This leads to my question to the class: did you assume this book was a work of fiction or autofiction and why?

As for me, I’m now going to look up the answer.

Spoilers I guess: I was wrong and this was not based on the author’s real life but rather a dramatized account of stories of families she knew growing up. I am honestly shocked! However this does make me believe that Di Pietrantonio is an even better author than I previously thought.

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Arminuta

Posted on October 1, 2026 by ava

Reading this novel made me think of what my mom always says when I complain that she cares a bit too much about my affairs: “You’ll understand when you become a mother yourself.” What is motherhood? According to my mom, I wouldn’t know, at least not just yet.

I wish the novel was longer. I feel like I wasn’t ready to let go. I wanted to hear more.

Aside from motherhood, sisterhood was another theme floating in the novel. Oh how darling. They were strangers, not knowing of each other’s existence for so long and yet life brought them together. On the last page, the narrator (why does she not have a name???) so poignantly writes “In our alliance, we survived”. Once again, my mom told me she was sorry I never had a sister because I didn’t experience sisterhood uhhhh. But are motherhood and sisterhood defined by blood? I don’t think so necessarily; it depends. I think? Maybe this is something we could discuss.

Though yes, I think carrying a baby in your womb for 9 months, a human being from your own flesh is a feeling and attachment that only someone who gives birth can experience/understand. But how could she give her child away? In hopes of a better future for the baby? I should say that I liked her real parents. She was a mom; although she had her issues, she grieved for her son and worried for her children all the time. She knew it was her little girl at that wedding, even though she had not seen her (She was the mother, she would know her child). There is this famous story in the Shahnameh (Persian Book of Kings), Rostam and Sohrab. Long story short, the dad (Rostam) kills his son (Sohrab), not knowing that it was his son because he wasn’t there when he was born. And so that got me to think that if the roles were reversed and it was the mother (Tahmineh in the story), she would know that it was their son and she would have recognized him even if she had never seen him after giving birth to him. I want to believe that a mother would know.

I also wanted to comment on how the book was written. It was vivid. As if I were there with them, at the house, in the garage, at the beach, at the bus stop. It’s a delight when that happens while reading. I think the book dragged on a bit on certain things and felt repetitive at times. As I said earlier, I was expecting a different ending. With this book, unlike the others, I didn’t want it to end and wished it was longer.

 

TGI(A)F. Cheers!

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