In these rooms--which liberate, when they are their own, and which enclose, when they belong to others--live Virginia Woolf, Adrienne Rich and Sylvia Plath, but also fictional women--Ophelia, Pythia--who construct reality, and others who existed as long as those of the imagination, and who do not have names but do have stories. In The Room of the Drowned Women, Alana S. Portero traces a cosmogony of the women who were so that we might be: a furiously feminist claim, from the display of baroque writing, of extremely fine lyrical intensity, which bets on beauty as a celebration and refuge.
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