I picked up this book after much tossing and turning on the issue, to see if I could rationally justify my dislike of Lena Dunham. Conclusion: It’s justified. She admits she is self-involved and wears this as a badge of honour, something I have to say I do respect, but her memoir is far too self-obsessed even for me. It felt like a shameless list of tales of everyone she’s ever slept with, and forgive me, but I’m not sure I care enough to be either interested or impressed.
Her brand of feminism is white and privileged, and hey, that is also my background so I can’t really place blame on her for that. Although I think her HBO series Girls is a clever look into “real women’s lives” (an expression which makes me dry-wretch every time I hear it), it all feels like a bit of a ploy for Dunham to be the focus of attention and to be as outrageous as possible, without addressing any real indepth issues facing women.
This novel unfortunately solidified for me how little time I have for such close-minded and unabashedly exclusive narratives and brands of feminism. Is this harsh? Perhaps. I’m still open to being persuaded, but now I can at least sit happy in the knowledge that I’ve wholeheartedly tried to appreciate her work, and just, well, don’t.
In a nutshell: Not a fan. I’m very about the fact that she’s putting women’s issues onto the global stage, but I really struggle with the issues that arise from her style of confrontational feminism. Still open to being persuaded otherwise, so any suggestions of her other work are more than welcome.