A review by owlette
In the Dream House by Carmen Maria Machado

5.0

1. I agree with this reader that the book isn't as experimental as the published reviews make it seem. Despite the second-person narration used in most of the chapters or the "Dream House as ..." chapter (section? vignette?) title format, the prose is straightforward and easy to follow, much more so than, say, Margo Jefferson's memoir, [b:Negroland|24040176|Negroland|Margo Jefferson|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1435846360l/24040176._SX50_.jpg|43446311], which uses none of these formal devices but tests your skill as a reader.

That is not to say that these elements aren't evidence of craft. To me, renaming the Dream House as "Creature feature," "Double Cross, and so on reminded me of how when you start making things from scratch (I'm not talking about assembling a piece of IKEA furniture where there are no words) whether it be woodworking or coding, you realize how everything has a name. This book has a dedication, three epitaphs, an overture ("Dream House as Overture"), a prologue ("Dream House as a Prologue"), an ending ("Dream House as Ending"), an epilogue ("Dream House as Epilogue"), an afterword, and an acknowledgment. Other than an appendix and image panels, she uses all the parts of a book. The chapter titles are exercises to naming parts to build a house. You don't need to name the things that construct a house to live in one, but you need to know them to build them up.

2. I keep reading other reviewers praising Machado's use of the second-person pronouns as immersive. Perhaps so, but I think Machado uses "you" instead of "I" for herself, a way for her to distance herself from a raw experience while keeping an account of it for others, particularly other queer women. Machado doesn't need you to relive her experience through her writing: she just needs you to believe what happened, the banality of the phenomenon, and do the same for others when they testify.

3. My favorite thing Machado does is make footnotes referencing Stith Thompson's [b:Motif-Index of Folk-Literature: A Classification of Narrative Elements in Folktales, Ballads, Myths, Fables, Mediaeval Romances, Exempla, Fabliaux, j|2302017|Motif-Index of Folk-Literature A Classification of Narrative Elements in Folktales, Ballads, Myths, Fables, Mediaeval Romances, Exempla, Fabliaux, j (Volume 1 of 6)|Stith Thompson|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1383167428l/2302017._SX50_.jpg|2308423]. I've never heard of this oeuvre, but the mere existence of such a catalogue warms my geeky heart. This is a playful (if that word can be used given the subject matter) element in this book; it's like she's leaving a trail for readers to cross-reference the index to find easter eggs. Footnotes that reference other works aren't meant to be just read as an aside; they're an invitation from the author to the reader to investigate more texts. My only complaint is that she didn't go full David Foster Wallace with this gimmick.

4. Machado's a good writer; I've heard other people falling in love with her writing just from her introduction to [b:Carmilla|48037|Carmilla|J. Sheridan Le Fanu|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1657795822l/48037._SY75_.jpg|47015]. My favorite in this book was the chapter, "Dream House as Proof," which comes right after "Dream House as Death Wish," both of which talk about how because her partner didn't physically batter her, she has no physical evidence to prove her partner's abuse. Here's one paragraph that is so good that it overshadows the whole book almost:
That ephemera: The recorded sound waves of her speech on one axis and a precise measurement of the flood of adrenaline and cortisol in my body on the other. Witness statements from the strangers who anxiously looked at us sideways in public places. A photograph of her grip on my arm in Florida, with measurements of the shadows to indicate depth of indentation; an equation to represent the likely pressure. A wire looped through my hair, ready to record her hiss. The rancid smell of anger. The metal tang of fear in the back of my throat.